He’s Still On My Shitlist Tho

Blogging continues to be rewarding over time.

I sent a message to some shitheaded kid who I gave 20 bucks to back in highschool cause he said he was hungry. Later on some chick had lost her 20 bucks (which she later found) and everyone had blamed me for it. Including the shitheaded kid, who I never talked to again.

I got your message and I read your LJ.
First and foremost, I apologize. I wish I could say so much more than that, but we both know that scars like that are eternal. I never wished that horrible memory onto you. I was young, naive, and VERY immature. I am sorry Autumn.

I often look back into the past and think of why I did some of the things I have done. I can’t come up with any reasons that weren’t motivated by lack of attention. I was a shithead for a large portion of my life. I hope that I have changed.

Although I did that to you, I always thought you were a very cool person. I never understood why we stopped talking, until now of course…

You know the more that that memory resurfaces.. I remember that when I got word that someone had lost $20, I panicked thinking that everyone knew that I was poor and there was NO way that I would have $20 so I told them that I got it from you. I was selfish and I should have stuck up for you, you were always very kind to me.

Well I do hope that today will help the memory RIP.

And just like that, one crooked vexation started to wither away.



If someone wanted to do a snail-mail cd trade with you and they had several titles you were really interested in, would you take them on? Hardly a stranger to the game, I set something up with a fellow Michigander. Interestingly enough, this guy also DJed around the area and had about eight thousand albums in his collection. We began bargaining.

Second thoughts began creeping in, however, once music discussions turned to:

“Wow, I can’t believe it! You’re like the female version of me, only younger!”, and,
“Are you seeing anyone? Whereabouts do you live? Can I get your digits?

Foolishly, my opportunist side advanced and gave him the house number, figuring it didn’t matter because I’m nearly impossible to reach. If he needed to talk and ever got through, it wouldn’t be a big deal. I could always ask him for an update on the status of our transaction, right?

Eventually, there was a definite catch; he wanted to hand me the cds in person. Yes, it was the typical “you’re a girl and I’m a guy/let’s” shitting up my ideal exchange. I just wanted some cds, but was it worth putting up with this guy’s nagging proposals? There was only one way out of that scenario – The Boyfriend Lie.

“Gee, I dunno. I’m gonna be with my boyfriend on that weekend, but maybe we could swing by…”

His reply, I shit you not, was an all caps “DAMMIT”.

Disappointed though he was, he managed to get ahold of me several times. Before I could think of excuses for why I had to hang up he would dish about his undying obsession with the Muppets and leave more clues suggesting that Matt the DJ was actually Crazy Matt.

“Now there’s this new girl who I’ve totally blown it with because I’m really friendly and wanted to cuddle on the first date. She was fine talking about it on the internet but she freaked out in person. Now I’m the psycho guy. I’m sure no one wants to meet a ‘crazed psycho maniac’, either. My luck with women is the worst and I think that Green Day said it best, about where nice guys finish.”

I groaned. There was a long silence.

“..you know where they finish, don’t-”

Yes. Last. Nice Guys Finish Last.”

No Sob Stories Here

Though old news at this point, Hunter’s note to his wife.

My brother said recently, just as isolated and complete as I’m writing it, “I think that all unicorns should have mandatory wings, by design.”


I asked him how fair that was, to judge the unicorns without wings, and asked him how he’d like it if someone told him that he required something more to be himself. Brifely, I tried to find comparisons to see if I was actually drawing from intellect. Then I started to wonder the advantages and disadvantages the unicorn would have as a target, if it took to the skies vs. being plundered on land. Then I realized that I really needed something to do.

I decided to invite Julie from the past, over to my house. Her visit went well – we were both humbled and well behaved – and we went through the politics of high school before playing basic catch-up until both of us felt somewhere familiar.

“Let me buy you a pizza. It’s the least I can do for ruining your life,” I offered.

I don’t know if the jokes were very funny or if it was wise to forgive me, but I sided with what seemed honest and natural. Reality amuses me.

“If I hurt like this in the morning, I’m definitely seeing a doctor,” Brad groaned, having stayed behind me the entire length of the Green Day concert, giving elbows to anyone who tried to get in front of us. I don’t think I would have lasted twenty minutes in the crush down front, had he not absorbed most of the shock. As if that wasn’t a tough enough weekend for him, he’d also taken his turn at several Mai Tais to the toilet, the night before.

There were a few times, searching deep inside for the air required to stand, when I considered asking if we should move out the sides and back, but then Billie would run up the catwalk and I’d get too lost in black eyeliner to call it quits.

“I hope you don’t get anyone sick with your strep!” one short girl said to her ugly friend, shortly before having to be lifted out of the merciless crowd.

Big Nose replied, “Oh, it’s not contagious unless they have, like, a weak immune system.”

As my shirt began collecting several pounds of communal sweat, I knew I’d be in the doctor’s office a few days later.

Detroit’s 9/11 show was incredible; the band fooled around with a few covers while Billie used Chuck Berry’s duckwalk, sported a cape like James Brown and demonstrated Townshed’s windmill. Being up front, I felt the heat from the fire explosions, got a face full of water from their hose gun and was covered in encore confetti. Well worth the fight for life and thick, yellow drainage in my nose and chest.

I’ve been watching the Girls Next Door, an unscripted program on what life is like for Hugh Hefner’s three live-in girlfriends. The psychology wracks my brain, because it’s so unorthodox – so new age – such a twisted concept of my ideal playground. I could never pick out enough kitties and puppies to make up for the void from having to dress like a bunny for an 80 year old man. Three girls’ heaven is another girls’ heaven with a side of unbearable hell. When the show isn’t reminding me of the precious things in my life, it’s parading quirky little tarts in front of me – what’s not to like?

Reality amuses me.

Atta Boy

I take Zack to the fair.

“Are you gonna get in the white truck at the front?” I ask, feeding pina colada ice cream through the entrance railing.
“So you can be the leader.”

A few onlookers turn to their parents and whine about wanting ice cream at this exact same moment in time, the chain unhooks and I watch Zack bolt for the head cart.

Eventually, I’m carrying around an inflatable Sponge Bob and Zack is getting sluggish, clinging to me with surrendering eyes even after having been pumped full of caffeinated pop. He has just spent 20 minutes walking through a funhouse after I called it a less-threatening “playscape” because it took him half that time to face his fear of the revolving pipe at the exit before wanting to race through it another dozen times after that. We’re crunching over the loose gravel in the parking lot and I’m still turning around, trying to size up everything around us. Equally fried and mesmerized, I understand that we’re two kids somewhere good in Detroit.