SOC #40: Olavi's paper scars

Olavi: "I don't have any visible scars on my skin. I've never been stabbed, but I've had a knife pulled on me. I've never been shot, but I've had a gun drawn on me. I've done plenty of drugs, but never got to a point where I fell down stairs, crashed my car, ran into a glass wall, jumped off a building with the thought I could fly, or have been beaten to a bloody pulp by a fool. My hearts been broken, shattered to pieces, but there's never a scar for any us who have suffered such travesty. My scars are within my own mind, memories which triggered my last great horror, faded by the passing of time - many years, in fact - for me to regurgitate into words a prolonged experience I hopefully will never live again. I say 'regurgitate' for I feel it's the healthiest way to relieve what I consider an aggravation of silence. Of course I could tell a completely fictional tale that has nothing to do with what I'm about to tell, but lets face it, every fiction was inspired by truth in some for or another. I looked at the stories I had written and saw myself in them, like pieces of a puzzle I stole from a box and reshaped for selfish reasons. When I finally had come to this realization, I said, 'What the Hell. I'll simply write about myself, get it all off my chest. All those times on drugs. The sex, the booze, the parties, the field of weed, the house of weed, the trip to Vegas and Comic-con, the two psychosis', and the suicide attempt in one epic of an autobiography.' What it really took was a painting I had someone make of myself with my shirt off, my devilock down over my face, and a cigarette hanging from my lips - also my beer gut sticking out in front of me. I looked upon this image, and asked aloud to myself, 'Am I Here?' And like that one chef use to say, BAM! I had another novel in mind with all my good and bad memories inside it. It would be like James Frey's Million Little Pieces, but without all the heroin use, and the fact he called it a memoir when it really was semi-autobiographical fiction. 'Fuck it,' I said to myself, still looking down at the painted image of my fat-ass, 'It will be fictional, because I want the story to be more entertaining than what happened in reality, more intense, more drugs, more sexual content, and... a lot more drugs, like shrooms laced with acid, and.... more cocaine. I mean, there's no other drug that makes a story about drug abuse better than cocaine. And the psychosis parts will be each FIFTY PAGES LONG! No paragraph breaks.' Okay, it's not Olavi talking right now, it's actually the writer of these words. Don't worry, the author is not suffering a mental breakdown, or some kind of split personality kind of thing. But you'd find that more interesting if that were really happening, wouldn't you, you reader? For you love the dramatic over the mundane sanity. Moving on. I want to show off my scars in the form of words to whoever will read them. Will the story be entertaining? Yes, I think so. Will it be any good? How the Hell should I know? Honestly, I don't even care. I don't even care how this blog post will be perceived by others. I think it's gone too far out to sea, pulled by the tide to be honest, because I had some idea on how this would go, like I'd get into something about how the consequence of losing ones own mind - no matter how innocent the circumstances - will be the fact that some of the people you care about will avoid you at all costs, never saying a word to you for years. Or if you don't cry when your heart is broken by a woman you'd thought would be in your life until death, the bitch wasn't worth it, and you tell everyone if she ever called you back, you'd tell her, 'FUCK OFF! YOU CUNT!' Then after two years, she sends you an e-mail telling you how much she missed you and regrets not calling you, she feels bad about it and all that shit, then inside you cry with joy like a Star Wars fanboy meeting Mark Hamill for the first time at the airport. Or the fact I didn't end up in jail a few times doesn't mean it was worth it. Anyways, where was I? Fuck. I always get lost in these little insignificant tirades I find myself doing. Kind of like the times I'd smoke weed and talk philosophically for hours. I'm done doing that mundane horse-shit anymore. I don't even care if weed's legalized. I ain't touching it. By the way, none of this is ending up in Am I Here? So don't think this is some special sample. Damn, this post has really gone off the deep end, hasn't it? Okay then, I'll give you a sample: 'In Vegas, my friend Mario and I were invited to a penthouse suite at the MGM Grand by this rich guy (I forgot his name, so don't ask) where we witnessed his wife and four hookers stand in a circle, taking turns (Warning: adult content)... peeing inside an empty pitcher. When they were done, the rich man picked it up and began drinking the piss in large, unwavering gulps. We screamed in disgust, horror, and genuine shock, then ran the fuck out of there.' Did you like that? If you didn't, go read squeaky clean fucking Twilight, or some other escapist bullshit. There be only truth and honesty in the stories I tell, whether fictional, or inspired by fact. The next chapter of Am I Here? coming soon. It's the best part, where I fell in love with Summer. No, not the season, the person, a real kind and beautiful woman. She took my virginity, you know. Olavi OUT!" \m/

Am I Here?(Oh, Really)

"Why the Hell would that be the first thing you'd tell me about?" she asked. "Your suicide attempt. Really? Why would you open up with something so dark?"
     I finished my glass of beer with a sigh of total satisfaction.
     "I swear, this has got to be the greatest beer on the planet," I said, refilling my glass from the pitcher. "If not, at least the country."
     "Hey, you gonna answer my question?" Her brow raised, irritated.
     "Oh, yes, of course," I said. "Sorry about that. Um, that's just my style. When I tell a long story, I like to start with the beginning-of-the-end, then rewind to the beginning where I choose to begin telling the story leading up to where I truly began telling the story to begin with."
     There was a long moment of silence. I sipped some of my beer, about ready to continue telling her my story. Instead, she broke the silence.
     "What the fuck did you just say?" she asked, bemused. "I can't figure -- what the -- are you too drunk, or something?"
     "Well, yeah," I replied. "Anyways -- look, I understand you lack of understanding. You expected something you didn't get, because I'm not the type to give those like you what they expect."
     Her hands covered her eyes as she grimaced in frustration, baring her pearly white teeth.
     "You're talking to me in circles," she said, hands still over her eyes. "I get your type of character."
     "What type would that be?" I inquired.
     "The poetic type, always speaking as if everything at all times is the most beautiful it can be, and every word coming out of your mouth makes perfect sense, but only to you."
     "What?" I said. "I don't get what you mean. I'm not a poet."
     Her hands dropped from over her eyes. She said, "All I'm trying to say is that the impact of what you just told me was rather uneventful to me as a listener. You treated the worst moment of your life as if it were equivalent to locking your keys in the car right in front of your locked house."
     I burst out laughing a little too loud, startling the bartender bringing us our burgers and fries. When I noticed he almost dropped the plates of food, I covered my mouth.
     "Sorry about that, man," I struggled to say. "It's just what she said was the best simile I've ever heard in my life."
     "Whatever, dude," the bartender said. "Do you need anything else?"
     "No. I'm good, man. Thank you."
     Eyeing me for a second, he turned, and walked back inside the bar.
     "Your criticism is illegibly noted in my brain," I said to her, "because I'm now too drunk to care about what you think of me. Why are you even complaining? You bought the damn beer. Remember, you said that thing about 'liquid courage.'"
     "I know, I know," she said, "but it's just nice to start from the beginning. It's better to be linear when it comes to telling the story of your life, Olavi."
     "Like the day I was born? Don't you think that's a bit of a cliche, as if I'm dictating some kind of manifesto. I hate manifestos."
     "No," she said, a little frustrated again. "I just want to hear where you choose to begin telling your life story. It could be when you were a teenager, or when you were in college."
     "I never went to college," I informed.
     "Really?" she asked, surprised. "Then what was with that C.S. Lewis quote?"
     "I, uh, read a lot, do some internet research on occasion, and -- not that I'm boasting to impress you -- I have a pretty good memory."
     "All I'm trying to say, Olavi, is that I want to hear your words straight from your heart and soul. And since you do as you please: no inhibition, and no restraint."
     I sat back in my chair, rubbed my chin, and considered what she had just said. It was the first time in my life I decided to heed someone's advice.
     But first I said: "Look how black the sky is, the writer said. I made it that way."
     "I thought you weren't a poet," she said.
     "It's from Bret Easton Ellis' novel Lunar Park," I told her.
     She sighed.
     "Look, my suicide attempt was not the darkest moment in my life. What happened two years later was truly dark, where I couldn't see the world around me."
     "What possibly could be worse than an attempted suicide?" she asked. "Did you... lose someone close to you?"
     I lit myself another cigarette. For a moment I averted her eyes, looking at the ashtray on the table.
     "Well, you'll just have to be patient, being that you want me to work my way to that point in my story."
     I looked back up at her.
     "Good," she said, visibly pleased, grinning and nodding her head in approval. "I can't wait."
     "Give the people what they want, as the saying goes. I won't begin when I was in high school. Nothing much happened to me there of any significance anyway. Just went to school, then back home to do homework, and then play video games. And after I graduated, spent a semester at a city college, dropped out, then got a job with a shipping company where I threw -- I mean, handled customer's packages inside a warehouse."
     I stopped talking for a moment to give her a smile and wink.
     Then I said, "I know what a girl like you wants."
     "And what's that, boy?" she asked.
     I leaned forward in my chair, and said, "The day I fell in love with Summer."
     "Doesn't everyone love Summer?" she said.
     "No, not the season," I said. "Her name was Summer."

Am I Here?(In This Room)

                                                              Devilock 1

 
                    "Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain, but it is
                      more common and also more hard to bear."
                                                             - C. S. Lewis


Everything about the room was basically the same compared to my two previous 51/50's: two beds for two patients, two beside tables with two drawers for cloths, and a window. The only difference this time was my roommate and I had our own bathroom with a shower. The one thing I hated most about the mental hospital was there were no locks on the bathroom doors, because I later walked in on my roommate right after he had gotten out of the shower, and I got myself a perfect view of his hairy fat ass. I mean, I understand that there can't be locked doors for us mental patients to be behind, other than the doors which keep us from leaving the building, but, shit, I saw the man's ass. It ain't that hard for the orderlies to carry keys for the bathroom door. The only way a suicide-case could kill themselves in those particular bathrooms was to drown themselves in the toilet. And I've never heard of anyone committing suicide by shoving their head in a toilet bowl.
     There was also something else different about the room. Not what was inside, but the fact that on this third 51/50 I was on the third floor, and the view outside was actually decent. The first two times in the hospital my room was in a one-story building with view outside the window being nothing more than green leaves from a large bush behind a chainlink fence. This time I could see blue sky with meek looking clouds sprawled all around on a sunny day. But that was only half of it, literally. The lower half was the top of the building next door made of brown brick.
     The first morning of my third 51/50 I sat on my bed staring at this view thinking how comparable, yet opposite, the image before me was to the infamous phrase: Glass half full, half empty.
     I remember thinking, Half blue sky, half brick wall. What's good is on top. What's bad is on bottom.
     My roommate was behind me in his half of the room, pacing back and forth around his bed, stomping his feet on the hardwood floor with each step. Every once in a while he'd raise his forearms in front of his face in a kind of defensive manner. He mumbled things, but I couldn't understand a word he was saying. I felt bad for him, and I also felt bad for those who would never try to empathize with him -- if they ever could, that is. I definitely could, because I was as bad as him the two previous times, but at least, other people could understand the words I was saying.
     I stared at the decent view outside, remembering everything which led me to that room -- every detail of each day, every second of each hour -- but I forgot the most important thing of all: how great it felt to be alive.
     What got me in that room on that particular occasion was simple: I attempted suicide and failed. The person who saved me simply wanted a residence to smoke weed at instead of in a public place. My best friend, Mario, called me to make sure I was home alone because he wanted to get high and watch a movie with me.
     "Yeah, okay," I said, "but I don't think I'll be conscious to answer the door when you knock on it. If I no longer can walk by the time you arrive I want to apologize to you now. You'll have to find a good hidden spot to park your car and smoke a blunt in the hope no Pig will smell you."
     There was a long pause that must've lasted almost two minutes. I could tell he was high already.
     "What?" he uttered finally in the receiver.
     "Look, man," I began to explain, "I swallowed a bunch of pills with the intent to overdose and die. So if I can't answer the fucking door by the time you get here, you'll have to find somewhere else to get high. Is that registering in your brain, Mario?"
     "Olavi, you did what?!" he yelled into his cell phone, causing static on my end.
     For a second I thought my hearing was going bad, and wondered if that was the first to go before the body began shutting down.
     "I'm already on my way," Mario said, breathing heavily. "Stop swallowing pills. Unlock your front door. We're going to the hospital soon as I get there."
     "Okay," I said, then hung up.
     I walked to the front door, unlocked it as my friend commanded. I then stood still, looking out the living room window, waiting for Mario's arrival like an obedient dog waits for the master of the house.
     I don't really remember the moment I decided I was going to kill myself. People would say I decided when I began swallowing a pill one at a time that very morning, not stopping until pill number twenty-five, because the bottle was empty, but that would not be the actual truth. I believe I made the decision way before I was truly happy, back when I was a teenager, way before I was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder.
     In my younger years I always seemed unhappy, always would stress and worry about things with no reasonable justification in doing so. What brought joy to others seemed to be a weight on my shoulders, holding me down emotionally, and spiritually. Sometimes I'd be alone in my bedroom crying, hoping I wouldn't wake up the next morning. Dreams were my safe-space -- mental disorder seemed not to effect me in dreams, even if it were a nightmare.
     Even after recovering from my suicide attempt, it took me years to realize, and accept, I didn't have to live behind bars to be in a prison. This is what most people don't understand about manic depression: on a beautiful spring day the sun burned, the wind stabbed, and when I looked down, all I could see was dirt.
     To be honest, in my experience with being Bipolar, being depressed wasn't the worst part of it. Yeah, I eventually tried to kill myself when I was at the lowest in the spectrum of Bipolar emotions, but it was when I was on the highest end, the manic experiences which had me at my most self-destructive. When a cokehead aims a loaded gun right at you, and you laugh at the idiot, you got problems you definitely need to rectify.
     Anyways. Mario's car pulled up on the curb in front of my house. Before he could make his way to the door I was already outside, locking the front door.
     "What are you doing, man?" he said, raising his hands over his head. "You fuckin' with me, or what?"
     "No," I replied, turning away from the door, put my keys inside my pocket, and started walking to the car. "I'm starting to feel like my head got an elephant sitting on it."
     "How many pills you fucking take, Olavi?"
     "Twenty-five." I went to open the door, but it was locked. "I ran out." I pulled the car door's lever again to no avail. "You gonna unlock the fucking door, man. If I pass out, you're gonna have to carry my fat ass."
     Mario sat back in his car and unlocked the passenger door for me. I sat in the carseat, noticing my butt seemed heavier. I pondered if slow death felt like being pulled into the ground, maybe into Hell, even though there wasn't such a place.
     "Why is your engine off?" I asked.
     "Cause I thought you were fucking making a cruel joke," Mario said. "I mean, you of all people killing yourself. I wouldn't have ever fathomed such a thing. Why? Why the fuck you doing this?" He  was shocked, angry, and didn't seem to believe what was happening.
     "Just drive me to the emergency room. Third times a fucking charm."
     He started the car and took off, tires screeching through the streets of my neighborhood. If we weren't pulled over by the cops, it would be a miracle.
     "What happened to your hair?" He asked. He must have wanted to keep me awake and talking.
     "I cut off my devilock so my parents would maybe put it in a picture frame, cause I want to be cremated."
     "What's wrong with you, man?" he asked, shaking his head and staring down the road.
     I began crying, and said, "I just felt ashamed."
     "Ashamed of what?......"

Am I Here?(Oh, Lovely)

                 

                               "My story is of such marvel that if it were written with a needle
                                on the corner of an eye, it would yet serve as a lesson to those
                                who seek wisdom."
                                                                   - One Thousand and One Nights


It had been almost seven hours since my last cigarette when I finally lit one in the back patio of the bar. The longest timespan I had gone without one during the day was eight hours, and that was when I was eating marijuana cookies on a regular basis, and I'd forget the fact I was a smoker eager for a routine nicotine hit.
     She aloud me to do this after we got our drinks at the bar -- more like encouraged me to do so after noticing I was a bit on edge and fidgety during our conversation. The thing was I didn't want to have a cigarette while we were hanging out, because she was a non-smoker, and on top of that, a workout freak -- the complete opposite of me. Though I knew there was really no chance of us ever seeing each other after that day, I still held onto the hope that maybe -- even if it truly was an imaginary daydream -- she'd want to keep in contact, and see me again. Even though I've matured over the years, I still believe in attaining the impossible: the true love I want the most. I honestly prefer it over the winning lottery ticket. But such an idea was thwarted when she asked me what was wrong.
     I didn't want to lie to her, so I admitted: "I haven't had a cigarette since this morning."
     I remember thinking that if she suggested I go out to the patio and light up while she sat inside at the bar by herself, I wouldn't have moved from the barstool, not even if she insisted to the fullest extent. There was no way in Hell I was leaving her side in the short timespan we had left being in each other's company; I aimed to take up every second that was left, before we made our separate ways -- most likely for good as I already said.
     Then, like being struck by lightening, she said, "Let's go out to the patio. There's tables and chairs we can sit at."
     "You don't mind me smoking?" I asked.
     "No," she replied, getting of the barstool, and making her way to the entrance leading to the patio. "I prefer being outside when I drink beer, anyway. Just don't blow the smoke in my face."
     So there we were, sitting in the back patio section of the bar, our beers on the table, and me enjoying a natural tobacco cigarette. Old school rock 'n roll played on the speakers bolted to the walls, as well as a flatscreen television with no sound tuned to some sports event. A familiar scene I had not been in for quite some time.
     "Do you feel better now?" she inquired.
     I took a nice, long drag, inhaled the mouthful of smoke in one big breath, leaned my head back, then blew it from my lungs with the feeling of ultimate relief.
     "Never mind," she said. "You've just answered the question." She took a sip of her beer.
     "You know," I began to say, "non-smokers will never truly understand what we smokers go through on a daily basis, especially in this era where the only hip thing to do is try to live long enough to see the next century."
     "I had a cigarette once," she admitted.
     "Really?" I was a bit shocked; she didn't seem the type to even consider experimenting with unhealthy substances.
     She nodded. "Yep. When I was in college."
     "How did that go for you? Let me guess, you threw up after one drag."
     "How'd you know?" she asked, genuinely surprised.
     "I usually can tell, because a girl your size, who most likely was drunk at the time, will barf right after the smoke passes the throat. So, you ever try cocaine?"
     "No," she said. "That was never appealing to me. You?"
     I leaned my head up in thought. "Hmm, once, twice, ten times maybe." I looked at her, grinning. "You could say I learned the hard way it was appealing."
     Before taking another sip of her beer, she asked, "You ever think about quitting cigarettes?"
     "Living in a state mostly run by hippies I'm asked that question every other week. I usually ignore the question, but I'll tell you there are three types of tobacco smokers: one loves it, but always says to people they want to quit; the second eventually quits -- hopefully before it's too late; the third hates the question you just asked."
     "Which one are you?" She had this grin on her face that put a spell on me, and I loved the feeling it had on my spirit; I wanted to tell the truth.
     "I'd say two out of the three," I said.
     "Which two?" she asked.
     "Um, the first and third, I guess."
     "So you love to smoke tobacco, tell people you'll quit, and hate when asked if you'll ever quit."
     "Correct," I affirmed, exhaling smoke. "Maybe we shouldn't get into a discussion of lifestyle choices. It --"
     "No, no," she interrupted, "I mean no disrespect. I'm just trying to get to know you better."
     "Okay, okay," I said. "No restrictions, continue on ahead."
     "I'm genuinely curious to know what it would take to get you to stop smoking cigarettes," she said, her head tilting to the side a little.
     I found her looking cute, causing me to have no desire to speak lies, or half-truths. As if being controlled by a puppet master, I put up three fingers.
     "It would take three things, I guess."
     "What would they be?" she inquired.
     I sat silent for a moment, taking the final puffs of the cigarette before dubbing it out in the ashtray on the table.
     I said, "Love. Raising a child. And maybe a cancer scare, or getting cancer."
     She nodded her head slightly, then finished her beer.
     "Hopefully only two out of three," she said. "Love, and having a child."
     "I prefer the former over the latter," I admitted. "The stress of raising a kid for eighteen years might make me relapse." I chuckled at my own comment, then took a bug gulp of my beer.
     "What kind of a name is Olavi?" she asked. "I've never heard the name before."
     "It's Finnish," I informed. "It's my father's middle-name, as well as my grandfather's, his brother, and my great-grandfather before them. Obviously it was passed down to me, but instead of it being my middle, it's my first."
     "What's your middle-name then?" she asked.
     "I, uh, actually don't have one."
     "That's kind of unusual," she said, making this facial expression where she raised her eyebrows, and one side of her lips.
     I smiled at the site of the look she gave me. It had been three years since I had a really good conversation like this with a woman -- a real woman, I'd like to add, not some numbskull eager to itch her crotch with a man's dick, or stupefied by drug use. Being with this particular lady was the ultimate relief, comparable to a cold shower after working a double-shift at a steel factory. I honestly wouldn't know such a feeling, because I've never worked that hard.
     "Actually," I began to say, "one of my closest friends doesn't have a middle-name either. You see, he's Mexican, and I think it's a Latino cultural thing to not give their kids middle-names, because it was my mother's decision to just give me a first and last only, not my father's. My father agreed cause he thought it was cool, and the fact I'm first-generation Finnish-American."
     "So your mother got the idea from your friend's parents," she stated. "That's how you two are such good friends, eh. Both your parents were good friends before you two were even born."
     "No," I corrected. "I've known Mario since the third grade. I'm thinking it's a Latino thing because my mother's Mexican. Well, point in fact, Mexican-American. She was born in San Francisco. My father was born in Finland. He came to America when he was thirteen years old."
     "Whoa," she uttered. "Usually it's the other way around."
     "Yep, that's usually the stereotype people assume when I tell them that about my heritage. Even when I tell Latinos I'm half-mexican, they ask when my mother hopped the border." I couldn't help but giggle when I finished the sentence, saying, "Mario hates it when I remind him of that fact. I mean, not everyone makes such an assumption, but it's most people who do."
     "I couldn't even tell you were half-mexican," she confessed in a tone which contained a slight hint of guilt.
     "No one can, really," I said. "With us mixed race people it's a flip of the coin -- or, as some others would say, a roll of the dice -- on whether we're born pale, or with darker skin. I got brown eyes, pale skin. I actually have a cousin who's Mexican-Irish, skin a shade darker than most of the Latinos I know, and has blue eyes. Both his parents have brown eyes. Did you know the chance of my cousin getting blue eyes is only like six percent. It kind of makes me hopeful in a way. No matter how small the possibilities of a certain outcome, doesn't mean it can't happen."
     "Interesting," she said, smiling. "I mean, that's cool."
     "Thanks," I said, raising my glass. "To the great melting pot that is the United States." I then began to finish my beer.
     She leaned back in the chair, staring at me as I poured the beer down my throat. I expected, at most, to be with her no more than maybe thirty minutes before she decided to part ways with me. We had come to the point where anything could have happened, positive or negative. I leaned toward the negative, because I no longer believed my personal desire could be achieved at that point in my life, since my heart was broken three years earlier, leaving me alone in a dark place, and feeling as if stuck at the center of a black whole in space, remembering I was once a bright star surrounded by lifeforms I failed to keep alive due to my self-destructive behavior.
     I breathed a sigh of relief after finishing my beer, admitting to myself that merely being in that place was a first step back into the light out of the void.
     "You know," she began to say, "originally I decided on not meeting up with you when you e-mailed me you were coming to town."
     "Oh," I uttered.
     This was it, I thought. She's about to leave.
     At least it was better to hang out with someone you admired for a short while than to have never met them at all.
     A little hesitantly I asked her, "What made you change your mind?"
     She crossed her arms, grinning. I loved that grin, the way she lifted one eyebrow, and how her biceps flexed by the simple motion of crossing her arms over her chest. The mere sight of it made my dark, dormant soul light up like a Roman candle.
     "My friends convinced me otherwise," she replied. "They looked you up on all your social media accounts, and then told me you seemed friendly, innocent, and most of important of all, harmless."
     "Any naysayers amongst your friends, or was it unanimous?" I asked.
     She leaned her head back a bit, raising her eyes overhead in thought.
     "Um," she uttered. "No. Not one said to proceed with caution either."
     "I'm just being curious, but do you always seek approval from your friends before meeting new people?"
     Leaning forward in her seat, looking closer into my eyes, she said, "Only if they're men I've met through the internet."
     "I was just kidding by asking that question," I said, putting up my hands in civil surrender. "Of course you'd do such a thing. I mean, I'm basically a stranger to you."
     "Yes, of course," she said, leaning back in her chair, uncrossing her arms, and laying her hands on the table. "I made another decision when we were having lunch earlier today. One I made myself. Do you want to know what it is?"
     "Sure," I said.
     So far I had been lucky to be in an intimate only once in my life with a beautiful woman which had lasted nearly seven years; being with this particular woman for most of that day made me feel even luckier, even though we were most likely to separate in just a few minutes. One day I would tell people, I met her once. Not only that, we had lunch, had a cool conversation about this and that, then we went to a bar, and I got her a --
     "I'm gonna get us more beer," she said. "Does a pitcher sound nice to you?" She stood up, and moved around the table, then stopped before she went passed me. "When I get back I want you to tell me about yourself. Like everything about yourself, so by the time we leave this bar later you won't be a stranger to me, you'll be a guy I know, and then I'll come to a third decision whether we'll end up being friends or not." She then continued on walking toward the inside of the bar.
     Somewhat awestruck, I half-turned in my chair.
     "Haven't I said enough about myself?" I queried. "What else do you want to know?"
     She stopped walking, and turned around.
     "When two people first meet there's always some restraint from one or the other. I want to learn everything about you, because I know you know a lot about me. Give me an autobiography, Olavi Pijnen, not a simple synopsis. Just don't start with the day you were born, or the first memory you ever had. Have another cigarette so you won't be smoking while you're talking." She turned back around and went into the bar to get the pitcher of beer.
     Sitting alone at the table, I lit another cigarette as she requested, and as I inhaled the first fresh drag of tobacco smoke, I became a bit overwhelmingly nervous. For a moment I had no clue what to tell her, or even where to begin. After a few more drags I began rummaging through my memories as if I were looking for my favorite toy in the attic with the intention to simply look at it, only to realize I had thrown it away when I felt it was useless to me. All I had was the image of that particular toy in my mind, and only the words to describe it.
     There are things in my past I hadn't mentioned to anybody, but since I wanted her to make a sound assessment of my character, I decided to tell all without shame or restraint. Why not? The probability of her choosing to remain present in my life in any capacity was minuscule anyway. I accepted a long time ago that the occurrence of miracles are imaginative for people like me.
     She came back outside to the patio with a pitcher filled with beer in one hand, and two empty glasses in the other.
     "I ordered us burger and fries, if you don't mind," she said, placing the pitcher and glasses on the table.
     "No, I don't mind," I said. "As you can already tell by my size, I don't mind food."
     I moved to pour her and myself a glass of beer. She put up her hand to stop me.
     "No, please allow me, Olavi," she said, then began filling the glasses.
     "Thank you," I said.
     I sat silent for a moment, staring at her hand as it gripped the pitcher's handle, the other holding the glass at a certain angle so the beer foam would not overflow. If she asked me what my favorite part of her body was, it would be her hands. It wasn't because of how they looked to me, but all the talented things she did with them: the way they moved and touched the strings on a guitar; when they created a painting; played the piano; even when they clapped.
     The sound of the glass of beer clanking on the table as she placed it near me woke me out of the little reverie regarding her hands.
     "Before I begin I just want to say something," I said. "When I drink and talk I tend to rant more than I should. So, warning, we may be here a lot longer than you might expect."
     "I don't mind," she said. "There's nothing wrong with liquid courage to remove shyness from the mind."
     "And one more thing." I finished my cigarette, dubbing it out in the ashtray. "I ask you not to judge me too harshly, for one must not be defined by their past mistakes and bad choices. The past is bordered by the eternal present, and the future only comes when I finish telling you my story."
     "Alright," she said. "But before you start, I want to know something. What kind of haircut is that? I know it's not a Mohawk."
     "It's called a Devilock," I informed. "This is my third one. And like the saying goes, third times a charm, because I've been letting it grow for six years. I cut the first two off for reasons which will be explained as I tell the story you want to hear."
                               

Am I Here? (An Author's Note)

                                      "If you make a mistake, you should enjoy it."

                                                                                 - Adam Ant

I am a fool. I say that because I am writing this at approximately 12:58am, and the date is April the first, April Fool's Day. A day celebrating pranks, hoaxes, and playful frauds. But I'm not doing such juvenile things - not that I'm an iconoclast, or a misanthrope. At this moment, at this point in time, I am thirty-one years old, overweight by about thirty pounds - maybe more if I were so obsessive with such perfect health - and have recently found out I have high blood pressure. I know why. It's because I don't workout, don't go for hikes, or even walks longer than the times I walk down the street to my corner liquor store to buy a six or twelve pack of beer for the weekend. The only thing I do that is close to working out is moving boxes at my part-time job, and I've done it long enough to where my body is all around use to the routine of the same goddamn movements - pick up, push, drop, or (when I fucking feel like it) throw. Keep that to yourselves. Point in fact, I'll never tell you where I work, so forget I ever mentioned I move boxes. 

     On top of not pushing my body's physical capabilities to it's limit and progressing, I smoke cigarettes, eat shitty American food, and every weekend, as I've already mentioned, drink too many servings of booze - beer, and occasionally a whole bottle of whisky. God, that shit's good, especially with Root Beer. Most people find it weird I prefer that soda over a Cocoa Cola, but I got to say, "Yummy!" And there's nothing like an extra-large pizza, and finishing it with a lovely IPA six pack. Yummy, yummy, that shit tastes good, and makes you feel good. The unfortunate outcome these days - the fact being that I'm now in the dawn of my third decade of living, and remaining somewhat stagnant physically, as well as spiritually - is the fucking hangovers are now a terrible, horrific weight on my mind and body. In my twenties it was the complete opposite: wake up the next morning, jump out of bed, eager to go outside, smell the air, feel the sun on my face as I smoked a cig, excited and ready to experience what was next. But not anymore! Fuck NO!

     Now I wake up in the morning after a night of swallowing down a six pack - let's face it, it's basically past noon - and I seriously do not want to move. My head hurts. I've awakened from a lovely dream, but I cannot for the life of me remember what happened in it. If I do somehow manage to remember the dream - for fuck sake - I was at work, the building was bigger, and there were an endless amount of boxes everywhere. It was literally a nightmare where I was in Hell, and unbelievably I had a smile on my face. Then I lay there in my bed after awakening with a headache so bad my head might as well be in a vice with Joe Pesci at the handle. And just like in the movie Casino he'd be looking down at me, his face contorted by seemingly permanent rage and madness. 

     Hey, dog, look at me, he'd say. Do you want to keep feeling like this on your days off? 

     Obviously I'd be too scared to answer his question. That, and the fact my head was in a vice, and I couldn't hear him. 

     Hey, you little shit-stain, this is your imagination fucking talking to you. Now, I don't like to repeat myself. Answer my fucking question. Do it, or I'll pop that fucking eye out of your head like that fat Irish fuck in the movie.

     Sorry, I'd say. Just give me a moment. I feel sleepy. 

     Joe Pesci makes a move to turn the handle. 

     I was just kidding, man. No. No. I don't want to feel like this every fucking weekend. 

     Don't kid me, motherfucker, Pesci would say. I'm not a fucking apparition to amuse you. Do I look like fucking Casper to you, MOTHERFUCKER?!
     Shit, I'm babbling like some fucking wino in Times Square just before the cops come and beat the shit out of him because they're bored, and the Mayor allows it.
     I would like to repeat: I am a fool. I declare I am a fool because I not only admit it, I accept it with open arms. I utter a sigh of relief to proclaim such a thing. Yes, it is true, I am a fool. I want to run onto the set of some major news network in a few hours as the anchors begin reading from a teleprompter, get right in front of those cameras as everyone around the United States sits down in their pajamas and bathrobes before their televisions, drinking coffee, eager to hear what the fuck is going on in the world - if they even care, that is - and I want to scream these words just before security tackles me, then drags my fat ass out of the building: "I AM A FOOL! I am a fool. And I'm not lying. I ask you all to admit this to yourselves when you look in the mirror after you watch this, and say, 'I am a fool, and I know it.'"
     Very much like the film Network. You know, the one where a news anchor in the 70's yells: "I'm mad as Hell, and I'm..." No?
     Anyways, what I'm attempting to do here, person-who-is-actually-reading-this (thank you so much, by the way... I love you) is helping myself acknowledge that I'm an idiot who has made mistakes, bad ones, and now I have high blood pressure at thirty-one years old.
     To better ourselves in the long run, we must first admit our own faults. People who are true assholes, who live miserable lives, and exploit the faults in others, do not accept the faults within themselves. I've witnessed this with my own eyes and ears for years, and it sickens me to the point of suicide.
     So it is with great trepidation I tell this story that is my life - or was my life to be more specific - and certain events which transpired due to the fault of my bipolar disorder. Some events have been embellished, because I want to have fun pouring my heart and soul out to you fools as you eat it all up gleefully. I even changed my name, because I had to change the names of certain people involved in certain events, because what will be depicted in great and exciting detail may lead me to end up being served a subpoena. Even so, I'm honestly going to have a hard time with my telling of this tale of quasi-debauchery. I had a hard enough time admitting I suffer from bipolar disorder, because I know certain assumptions people would have. Such as: "He probably would shoot a lot of people." I know such a notion is crass, but I've heard it said about people who simply see a therapist on a monthly basis.
     There will be moments as I write this story where I will cry. Tears will fall onto the paper. Ernest Hemingway said it was easy, that all I have to do is sit and bleed, but I will find myself looking through tears. Fortunately, I'll be able to see the words I write down on the page, because, honestly it doesn't take sacrifice to tell a story; it requires an understanding of the complexity and simplicity of human nature which I've experienced myself.
     By the way, if you're expecting something deep and profound - some kind of existential explanation on the meaning of life, or perhaps an uplifting adventure - by this semi-autobiographical work, just stop reading this shit right fucking now, and go find something else, because - as you've read already - I'm an admitted fool destined for failure. Then again, I'm fucking bipolar; of course I'd say weird shit like that.
     Though I've never put my hand down a toilet to retrieve drugs I had stuck up my ass, some of you might see certain life choices I made to be a tad comparable. 

SOC #39: Purple Blue

It was the day after the third anniversary of her death when I came to visit her tombstone, and I didn't find what I had expected. This was the third - and maybe - last time I had come to visit her resting place. When I came upon her tombstone the previous two times there were roses laid at the base of it, left there by her family the previous day, the day of her death. There were no roses this time. Maybe they didn't feel like coming on her death day anymore, I thought. Coming to visit her on the day of her birth seemed more appropriate to me. I wanted to come to the cemetery on her birthday, but then there'd be a chance I would meet any one of her family members, and I wanted to avoid such a thing, at any cost. So I chose to come the day after the anniversary of her death rather than the day of. I figured people didn't visit their loved ones the day after, because they'd most likely remember their days of mourning too much rather than remember the beautiful life the departed had. But then again, why visit the grave on the day of their death? People do such things; it simply is the way of human nature, I guess. I don't want to explain to anyone my nature and the reason why I visit -- not to her family, let alone to any of mine. It was my secret. I hadn't told anyone I visited her grave to pay my respects, and tape two hearts carved from paper -- one purple, the other blue -- to the top corners of her tombstone. I didn't say anything as I did so, and I wouldn't stay too long. Her and I hardly talked when she was alive, so I didn't speak to her when she was dead. It seemed to morbid to do so. On this day I did talk though, I had to. On this third -- I decided right then and there -- and last visit I taped the purple and blue hearts to the upper corners of the tombstone, then stood there before her, thinking about the reasons why I did this. I thought about the ways she looked when she was happy, her smile, when she was sad, when she cried, and the sound of her voice. I still remember everything, even if I wasn't apart of her life. I wanted to cry, but I held back the tears with all the effort I could muster, because I had no right to cry. I wasn't the love of her life, and honestly, I didn't know who was. Most likely it was a handsome man, a healthy man who made her happy until she died. I hoped she died in her deathbed with a smile. It was a good twenty minutes before I finally decided to leave. I turned and saw someone standing a few feet behind me. It was her father. I froze, panicking a little bit, and basically stopped breathing. I didn't know what to do, or what to say. I wanted to leave, move my feet, and go around him. Say I had the wrong tombstone, and look stupid. He said, "Hello. Who are you?" I took a deep breath, still unable to form words with my mouth. I took another deep breath. Shit, don't panic, I thought. Be as cool as you can be and simply leave. Her father asked, "You alright?" I managed a nod. He said, "Seem like you're about to faint." I finally said something: "I'm in the wrong place. Sorry. I thought--" He interrupted me, "You're lying, young man. You were standing in front of my daughter's tombstone for nearly half an hour. Now, there are only two reasons you'd be doing such a thing: you either were an obsessed stalker of hers; or you were an old flame none in our family knew about. So, which one is it?" I replied, "Neither." He said, "Then why, for the past three years, have you been putting hearts on her tombstone?" I said, "I didn't know anyone in your family knew." He said, "Last year her brother didn't make it here on the anniversary of her death, so he came the day after. He told me later that night the hearts taped to her tombstone were a nice touch. I told him I didn't leave any hearts, just the roses. And for a whole year the hearts were a mystery to us -- the person who left them anyways. Now today I find out it's you. Would you like some red wine?" He held up a paper bag I didn't even notice he was holding. I said, "Okay, sure. Just a little." He reached inside the paper bag, took out two plastic cups, and handed them to me. Then he took out the bottle of red wine, removing the already uncorked cork from the top of the bottle. Before pouring the wine into each cup I held in each hand, he said, "We're gonna finish the entire bottle." Then he proceeded to fill each cup to the brim. I said, "I don't know. I don't feel like getting buzzed at the moment." He asked, "Do you have to drive home?" I said, "No. I don't live too far. I walked." He said, "Then help me finish the damn bottle." I handed him one of the cups. For a second, I assumed he'd hold it up so we'd drink in honor of his daughter, but he put it right to his mouth and proceeded to drink all the wine in the cup. While he did so, he shifted his eyes towards me and saw I wasn't drinking yet, just staring at him, a bit astonished. He gestured with his other arm for me to drink. So I did, but I drank only half the wine in the cup. When he finished, he said, "If she were alive to see me drinking over her grave, she'd slap the shit out of me. Excuse my language. So, please do tell me why you leave these hearts." I remained silent. I didn't know what to say. Obviously I knew the reason, but I didn't know how I'd explain it. He asked, "Is it a long story?" I said, "No. It's a short one, I guess." He said, seeming to demand it, "Then tell it to me." I drank the rest of the wine in my cup, then told him. "I didn't know she died until almost six months after. My friend told me at a pool party he was having at his place. The thing is I've known your daughter since kindergarten, we basically went to the same schools until we graduated high school. Over the years we talked, but hardly. We were more acquaintances than friends in actuality. The night before I found out she was dead I had a dream which made me remember something that happened in the second grade. Something she did for me." For a moment I stopped speaking. I was going to cry, and because I hadn't told anyone this story for years -- and of all people to tell it to, her father -- I had no energy to stop the tears from flowing. My eyes began welling as I went on. "I came in from recess to find a piece of white paper on my table. On it, drawn with crayon, were three hearts. I didn't know who it was from. But of course children will be children, and someone hollered it was your daughter who drew those hearts for me. She sat right in front of me in second grade." Tears began rolling down my cheeks. Her father said, "So that is why you leave these paper hearts." I said, "Sort of. No, it's not the real reason. People question why they are alive. What's the meaning of life, blah, blah, blah. I don't ask such questions. They are simply unanswerable. But I have an unanswerable question which is what color were the hearts she drew on that piece of paper. I will never know now. Were the hearts purple, or were they blue? I wish she were alive to tell me." My eyes closed. I put my hand on my forehead. I was about to weep, but I felt her father's hand on my shoulder, and he asked, "Do you remember the color of the roses I leave here every year?" I opened my eyes, wiped away my tears, and looked at him. I said, "Yes." He informed, "Her favorite color is what the roses are of. The color of the hearts she drew for you." Her father then reached over, and removed the heart that wasn't the color of the roses. "Now you know."

SOC #38[redacted]: Bloody Screaming Ants

Just when I thought I had attained success, safety, and comfort, I found myself in the patio section of a five star restaurant on the sixth floor, wearing a suit I hated, and surrounded by uppity shit-heads babbling on and on about the same shit I've heard again, and again from humans in lower classes, and all I could do as their idiotic words entered my ears was damn myself for even going out that evening. I mean, I had to admit, no matter where I found myself, no matter how much money I made, these fucking hypocrites, these opinionated hawks, these fucking sheep, these goddamn, flesh eating zombies...I can go on, and on folks with these damn figurative descriptions, but like these well dressed, overly educated morons are doing to me, I'd bore you, the reader, to death. So there I was - waiting for my supposedly exquisite meal (which, by the way, ain't worth two hundred a fucking plate, believe me) - wanting desperately to scream at the couples on either side of me to shut the fuck up. The rich husband and wife to my left were complaining about the lobster we had as a President, while the lesbians on my right were bitching how the loser didn't suck enough cock to win the election. I wanted - or needed, to keep my brain sane - to pick up my one hundred and fifty dollar red wine bottle, which was basically still full, smash it on the husband's head, then hold up the broken bottle to the two lesbos, and inform them, "Look, the Nazi won, but you're still able to be at this fancy restaurant, wasting your fucking money!" But I had to keep my cool. In my mind I wished I was back working at the docks, in the lunchroom, listening to my coworkers bitch about sports. Though I found the subject uninteresting, it was exceedingly more tolerable than hearing about political bullshit none of us truly had control of, other than the pathetic attempt at voting. My opinion: it don't fucking work. If anyone tells me otherwise, I tell them to FUCK OFF! I earned my way to that five star restaurant, and none of it had to do with politics. "Do as you please," is what I live by. "Good or ill, live with the consequences," is another. "Go with the flow, and roll with the punches," was another, just like that night. I was meant to be on a date, and my date had stood me up, and I ordered my food without the bitch. Then my cellphone rang, and it was her, telling me she was late due to the fact the freeway was blocked by lunatics who had chained themselves together across all the lanes, both ways. I said, "Oh. Well, I ordered food for myself. And I apologize for thinking some negative thoughts just before you called." Why should I lie to her? I liked her, and wanted our relationship to go further than this date. She said, "No need to apologize. I'm sorry. I could've been there sooner if I were more astute, I guess." I said, "How were you to know maniacs were going to block the freeway?" She said, "They're protesters, dude. They're just expressing themselves." I finally noticed the blabbers weren't at their tables beside me, but with everyone else at the railing, looking down at the large courtyard six floors below us. One fellow patron said, "Look at that. I can't believe his supporters would have a march at this hour of the day." One of the lesbians stretched out her arm and pointed, saying, "Look, it's their opposition." Her wife said, "How can you tell?" And her wife replied, "You can tell by how they dress." I said to my date on the phone, "Sounds like there's gonna be a dog fight down in the courtyard. Maybe we should postpone. Next week perhaps?" She said, "No." I closed my eyes, expecting she would never see me again. She then said, "I'll just wait until the pigs unlock the idiots, and I'll meet you somewhere else we can eat. I know a place open twenty-four hours. It's a diner. We can chill, and you can tell me how the dogfight went. You got a good view, right?" I went up to the railing with the other fools, and looked down at the courtyard. Hearing the distant cries and screams from those peasant idiots as they made their way toward each other for the showdown on the green grass and between trees, ready to pound each other bloody, I thought to myself how lucky I was to be among weak idiots, and how much I miss being with the grunts back when I worked on the docks. Those people were dumb, but not dumb enough to be like those I saw below me, or those beside me. I said to my date, "I'll preface my recollection of what is about to happen down there with this: it's about to go all Braveheart down in that shit." She replied, "Cool. I was told you weren't as boring as James Franco." I asked, "Who would say that about me? James Franco? You dated that old stoner?"
She said, "I'll tell you about it later, after you tell me about your life. Okay?" We ended the phone conversation. The fight in the courtyard had begun, and I started feeling sick at the sight of the chaos, not in my stomach, but in my mind. I turned around, went to my table, downed the rest of my glass of wine, then picked up the bottle before going back to the "show" down below. (I noticed my food still wasn't there on the table yet, but I immediately didn't fucking care) It was a fascinating sight, I must admit. It was like this: there was a large group in the middle, and only about three to four pockets of them were fighting. Those on the edges of the pockets were not staring at those fighting, but were staring at those not fighting, sizing each other up, stepping forward, then stepping back. All the while the people on the furthest edges of the fights were really doing nothing. Well, the supporter of the lobster President were drinking beer, then throwing their empty cans at the opposition, while the other side threw full cans of soda back at the drunks, some were smoking weed from a bong, or joints and blunts. It was strange, and all I could do was drink the rest of the one hundred fifty dollar red wine, and end up feeling dissatisfied. When I got back to my table, I found my food waiting for me. The portion of the meal was so small I still had an immense appetite when I paid the bill, leaving the robotic waiter a thirty percent tip, hoping he was working his way through college. On my way out of that hawk den of a restaurant my date text my phone the location of the diner. She ended the text with the words: Can't wait to hear about what happened over there. I thought to myself, "Maybe she won't end up being the one."