Whatever Happens, Happens

A true story about coming to grips with reality.

An Intentionally Arranged
Series of Words
By Zachary Kyle Elmblad
With excerpts from the Diary of Stanley L. Slavin
C 2009 The New Scum Productions

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 This Book is dedicated to

everyone that helped me carry my

burdens, and you all know who you

are. I will never forget you.

Thank you.

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Whatever Happens, Happens

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4
 Table of Contents

Part One – “On Becoming a Man in the New Millennium (or

at least how to put up a good front)”

00 – Preface “Leave the party for a joyride” – CircleSquare, Seven Minutes

01 – Genesis - “I’m Eighteen, I’ve got to Get Away!” – Alice Cooper, Eighteen

02 – Success - “That’s why they Call me the Working Man” – Rush, Working Man

03 – Wisdom - “Well I’ll Go to College and I’ll Learn Some Big Words” –
Modest Mouse, Bankrupt on Selling

04 – Experience - “Walk Like an Egyptian” – The Bangles, Walk Like an

Egyptian

05 – Paradigm Shift - “Everything you believed is a lie” – Opeth, The Baying

of the Hounds

06 – Redundancy -“Gotta Go to Work, Gotta Go to Work, Gotta Have a Job” –

Modest Mouse, Custom Concern

07 – Hope - “People Seemed to like our songs, They got up and danced and made
a lot of noise” – Frank Zappa, Joe’s Garage

08 – Escape -“The Road, It’s Home” – Devin Townsend, Canada

09 – Indifference - “Cuz Rockin’ and Rollin’ is only Howlin’ at the Moon” –

Kansas, Opus

10 – Peril -“I Met a Girl, I Met a Girl, At Random!” – Devin Townsend, Random

11 – Catharsis -“And in the End, The Love you Take is Equal to the Love you
Make” – The Beatles, The End

12 – Consequence -“And I’ll Carry on, the best that I can without you here
beside me” – Dream Theater, Disappear

13 – Aftermath - “Carry On, Our Wayward Son, for there’ll be peace when you
are done” – Kansas, Carry on, Wayward Son

Part Two – “On Apathy (The Ravings of a Madman)”

01 – Prologue – (veni)”Testimonial”

02 – Body – (vidi)”The Diary Of a Sinner”

03 – Epilogue – (vici)”The End”

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 Preface

Objectively, what do we have to say for ourselves in this third

millennium of the Common Era? Man has reached the Moon. You can watch T.V.

on a cell phone. We have machines specifically made for toasting bread

sliced by machines specifically made for slicing bread specifically baked for

slicing. There is still poverty, there is still famine. There are still

taxes. It’s just a shame you can’t E-Mail sliced bread to a starving nation

from the Moon.

This book was not written for people that have trotted along merrily

through existence loving every step and whim. This book was written for

rational, thinking human beings that have struggled through the constant

turmoil we call life. Turmoil here, I stress, has many faces. Be it the

turmoil of working for a living, the turmoil of a fast paced technological

society, the turmoil of a relationship, the turmoil of a hopeless romantic

stuck in a world of ad campaigns and fast food, or the turmoil of waking up

every day with the desire to drink heavily. For some, turmoil is simply

thinking.

To a grammatical purist, this book will seem abstract and error ridden.

To a linguist, the terms vulgar and irreverent will probably serve mighty

importance in reviews. To an academic, the story will bring an ache to the

frontal lobe. But to my friends the modern culture, this is written for you.

What need have we for stuffy colleges with their forced curriculums when any

information we seek is available without cost on the internet? College is

for learning, not for paid parking spaces and recalcitrant activism. What

need have we for grammar when all manner of speech these days is

intentionally misspelled in ad campaigns, or corrected with spell-check?

Grammar is for people who need to be told what to do. What need have we for

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linguists with their noses stuck in nineteenth century literature, when we

have a global economy embracing all manner of language and everyone writing

in a blog for the world to see? Language is the most fluid and subjective

concept that man knows and has ever known. How can you make a standardized

language in a world with six billion people in it? Who decides what’s

obscene? The people who are offended, or the people who are scared of

offending?

What I’m getting at here, is that people in the past have scrutinized

every letter of every word that is pressed into a bound set of pages for you

to ponder at, worrying about how many times someone says “Fuck,” or whether

the words are depicting a deliberate crime. We see these “anti-social”

behaviors being attacked as irreverent or whatever politically correct term

used by antiseptic journalists waiting for their off-camera bottle of mixed

prescription medications and Vodka. This is not written for children. This

is not an advice column. This story is about a person stuck in a world he

was barely capable of understanding, launched into life without ever being

told how terrifying it actually was to be stuck in a sea of stupid, blank

faces that pass you by at the street corner afraid to look you in the eyes

with some sort of dread that you might actually have a thought in your head.

If you don’t like the word fuck, and you cannot accept that the fields

of sex, drugs, boring jobs, sarcasm, and religious cynicism are viable

literary subjects; I would suggest that you find your receipt, and pray the

store will take this back, because I don’t advise you to read any of this

trash.

However, if you don’t mind a bit of wit, some crazy situations, and a

big dose of reality; read on, brother, for you will surely find something you

like here.

This is a true story. That means it actually happened. Everyone you

will read about is an actual person that I talked to and had these

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experiences with. Not many stories of this type are written anymore. In order

to avoid problems in the future, I have eliminated all last names, but have

left all first names the same. For the sake of avoiding possible problems

with the giant corporation I was employed by, whenever you see the word

“Work” capitalized, it’s in reference to the actual place of work, and when

it is lower cased, it’s only a verb. There’s a lot of changing between past

and present tense. If you can’t figure out what’s going on, fuck you.

This is not an autobiography. I left a lot out. Nothing important to

the story, but those memories are mine and you can’t have them. I’m not

trying to tell you my life story, that would be pretty boring, and look

something like this: “I was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I did a lot of

shit, and now I’m older, still alive, and don’t live in Grand Rapids.” I’m

just trying to show you how it happened. I am drawing parallels between what

I experienced, and what I feel every person experiences in their own way.

This is a story about growing up and learning about the world.

If you think you can handle it, turn the page. It’s only someone

else’s life- give the voyeur inside you a treat and maybe you just might

learn something. Then again, you probably won’t- but at least give it a

shot.

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 Part One

Becoming a man in the new millennium

(or at least how to put up a good front)

By Zach Elmblad

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 Chapter One – Genesis

“I’m eighteen, I’ve got to get away” – Alice Cooper

I find there’s a beginning and an end to every story. Life is nothing

but a bunch of stories. Some stories last longer than others, some stories

don’t last long at all. Some stories occur in series, some follow a genre.

Some stories are sad, others happy. Some stories are never told, most of

them come out eventually. Sometimes we forget stories. Sometimes we try to

forget stories. Everyone gets the story a bit different, and everyone’s

stories are mixed together. There can even be stories within stories. I

look at things like I look at history. Everything you know is part of what

“we” know, and it’s always up for a re-appraisal. Rethinking what actually

happened. It’s up for interpretation. As time passes by, things start to

become a bit more clear. Pieces start to fit together. Everyone’s stories

start looking the same. Large groups of people, all over the world, with all

sorts of stories to tell. Large groups of people, all over the world, ready

to listen to them.

This is the beginning of my story about growing up. This is when I

started writing that journal we all keep in the rarest trodden depths of our

minds, the journal of life. This is when I woke up, eyes widened, and said

“Oh shit! Here it comes!” Maybe I was ready, maybe I wasn’t.

My story begins in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and it ends there, too. Just

to let you know from the beginning, this story does not have a happy ending.

Did you ever read the Iliad? You know, the one written by Homer? (As in

Ancient Greece, not the Simpsons) Well, if you haven’t, it’s kind of set

smack dab in the middle of the Trojan War. A bunch of stuff has already

happened, and a bunch of stuff has yet to happen. We just see a small

snapshot of time, mostly about a guy named Achilles. His girlfriend gets

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taken away by his buddy, he gets pretty pissed about it. He sits at home and

stews about it for a while, then he chooses to meet his fate.

I am Achilles. This story will take you around the Earth and to the

depths of humanity’s plight. I am not really Achilles, because I don’t have

nearly the glory of our hero, but it’s convenient to draw some parallels. I

like to do that. This is my epic poem. Not to mention the obvious lack of

dactylic hexameter, I’ve always found poetry to be a constrained and

pretentious way of expressing yourself and your ideas. Meter and structure

is only a limitation.

For a while there, I got really into Buddhism. I meditated every

morning, after school, and every night. I worked out, I ate healthy. I knew

my body. Every muscle, every artery, I could feel it all. I did tai chi and

kung fu and I read every book about Zen cultivation I could get my mitts on.

I wanted to be at peace, I wanted to grow up and become a man. I was alive,

and I was totally in control. I knew where I was going to be at any minute

of any given day, and it was great. I thought about taking a couple months

off at a Buddhist monastery in Illinois or something, but decided against it

because I thought my Catholic family would freak out. People used to say to

me, “Once a Catholic, always a Catholic.” I’ve never been a fan of absolute

permanency either.

I just wanted to finish high school with good grades, take the ACT,

graduate, make some money, go to college, keep making money, and start a

music career. There was a lot of things I wanted to do. Most importantly,

I wanted to get out of Kalamazoo.

I had just quit this punk band I had played in for most of High School,

called at various points “Mexem”, “Chapstick”, “Kerplunk”, and “Sex with a

Kitten.” The lead singer was a complete and total egomaniac, which I’m sure

anyone who’s been in a punk band could probably tell you as well. I have to

point out, however, that I never did, do not, and never will associate myself

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with punk music, or the punk rock scene. Punk is for recalcitrant idiots.

This must also be made clear. I’ve always taken music really seriously.

I went to school half an hour away, because I had randomly decided to

switch schools two days into my junior year. I woke up at six thirty every

morning. Then I was on the road by seven fifteen, in the parking lot by

seven forty five, and in my seat by eight. I got out at two thirty, with

precisely enough time to get home, munch a bit, and get to work. I’d get out

at midnight, do my homework and watch TV till two, sleep and repeat the

process. Saturday nights I would go out to a show, and Sunday I would sleep

all day. Sunday was recovery day. Sit around. If I didn’t go out Saturday,

I would get up and record all Sunday.

School continued, and I was on top. I had my little art studio in the

loft of the high school art room. I was doing giant ‘neoclassical

surrealist’ oil paintings, as I called them, and I was attempting a full size

statue made of polyurethane foam block that was six feet tall (which is still

in my parent’s garage, half complete.) I had my old friend’s ex girlfriend

modeling for me. I was a real artist. I was writing music, I was painting

my paintings, I was working a steady job and I was set to start at KVCC, the

local community college, in the fall. I got accepted, I registered for

classes, snagged a scholarship to pay the way for two years and I was set.

All I had to do was get good grades, snag another scholarship or two and

graduate with a degree in Comparative Religion with a concentration in

Buddhism and Asian religion. Then I would get a job studying in a museum.

Some major city. It didn’t really matter where. Chicago, Detroit, New York,

I didn’t care. Somewhere far away from Kalamazoo, that’s what I wanted. I

wanted to see the world. I wanted to learn about religion, and experience

life. I would take art classes on the side, and pursue that while

concentrating on analyzing scripture in the back of some museum somewhere.

That’s what I wanted. I had my plan; I just had to get there.

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 The last day of high school, two weeks before graduation, there was a

ceremony at the end of the day. It was one of the biggest events of the

year. It was called “swing out.” It was the final goodbye to the seniors,

and their collective “thank god, it’s over.” After the ceremony, Ashley

came running up to me. She jumped on me, wrapped her arms around my head,

legs around my waist and said “I am going to miss you SO MUCH!” Ashley was

that girl in your circle of high school friends that everybody always wanted

and nobody ever got. The brunette bombshell with the soft white skin and

glowing eyes that just screamed “look at me, I’m gonna fuck up your life!” I

didn’t really see those sorts of things back then. She was always sitting at

the landing on the staircase to the glass ceiling above your relationship

reach. Ashley had gone out with Vince, the lead singer in the band I had

been in for three years or something. She was the girl of my dreams, as far

as an eighteen year old kid can dream. She was also, as fate would have it,

blessed with perfect Greek proportions, and had provided a perfect model for

much of the work I was doing artistically. Sweet.

So there she was, with her legs wrapped around me like you’d see on a

cartoon, feet crossed in the small of my back. Bringing her face closer to

mine, but moving it ever so slightly to the left as if to signify I’m getting

a whisper and not a kiss, she says softly, “You still owe me lunch.” I

hadn’t forgotten.

So, we decided that soon we would get together for lunch when she had a

spare day. We hung out a day or two, she visited me at work, and we hung out

right before graduation. All the guys had planned on meeting up at my buddy

Alex’s place for a bonfire and a night of reflection. After the hoopla, and

after all the family crap, I skipped town and went to Alex’s house. We sat

around a bonfire on second hand couches to be burned later, ate potato chips

and picked at some melons hacked up with a machete.

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 Ashley showed up and was sitting on the couch in between me and my

friend Brian. Next thing I know, she’s all over me. I had always wanted it,

but had never seen it coming. As if confirming the strange circumstances, a

distant clap of thunder cued the rain that began to fall.

We moved the couch under a tarp, and there we were. Soaking wet,

huddled together on this couch. Nothing good can come of this situation.

She gets up, says she wants to go change her clothes, and grabs my arm.

Apparently I am coming with her. We go out to my car, and she changes into a

pair of my pants and a sweatshirt of mine that were in my trunk (by this

time, I was pretty much living out of my car. I always had a laundry basket

with clothes, a bunch of books, all my CDs, a guitar, a tent, a sleeping bag,

pillow, all that crap. I was ready to go wherever the wind took me.) I

changed into my “pajamas” (track pants and a hoodie.) And we went back to

our couch. Brian got disgusted and disappeared into the woods. Drama.

Ashley starts having a high school girl panic attack, so I go over to Brian’s

friend Mike and ask what the deal is. Mike says “You know Brian likes Ashley,

right?” At this point I knew any hopes of ending this night with a sordid

sex-capade were surely at a loss.

I didn’t care. I had my plan, and I had my mission, and no one was

gonna stop me. I lost a lot of friends that night by choosing to go with

Ashley, and I’ll never get them back. I don’t know if it’s just because

we’ve all gone our separate ways, or if it’s because I got everyone’s dream

girl. It’s irrelevant, as always, because everything got mucked up a bit

later on- but it was great at the time. I had to make a choice, I made it,

and that choice will stand with me through the test if time like all the

others I’ve made.

As far as I could tell, I had won. I had completed Life: Phase one.

It was over. I graduated from High School, I had just been promoted to

Manager at Work, and I was getting ready to start real school in the fall. I

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had my girl, and I had all summer long to work, stay out late, and spend lots

of money.

I started talking to my old buddy Jared online. I hadn’t talked to him

much in the last year. He was doing the college thing and drinking all the

time. I used to get phone calls from him at four in the morning on a school

night and he’d be squawking belligerently. I, eyes full of sleep, would moan

into the telephone “Recall; friend, for a moment, that I am still in high

school, and I have class in four hours after a half an hour drive! Fuck

off!”

I invited him to my Graduation party, apologized profusely for blowing

him off for months, and we decided we’d start hanging out. After watching

movies with Ashley till her mom kicked me out, I would go over to Jared’s

house to complain about this chick and what a tease she was.

One particular evening, I took Ashley out to the middle of nowhere for

a night of star gazing and making out. That precise course of action played

out into another drama. The girl says she wants space. I, the sad sappy

sucker, say “but why?” like a shmuck. She says she doesn’t trust herself

with me. Ok. Slow, then, right? That’s the gig?

Basically, we cut out the bullshit. I was on top of my game, right? A

strapping young lad, virile to the last. I had everything going for me. It

was great, right? Right. So we decided we weren’t going out, we were just

“enjoying each other’s company,” or whatever bullshit phrase to appease the

“masses”. Seemed reasonable enough to me, I guess. Brian disagreed. But

then Brian left to go on a cruise in Greece for a month. This left me with

Ashley and us without a reason not to be together. We reveled in it for a

while; we did the “couple” thing a few times- out to dinner, out to lunch,

out to the movie, concert, and festival, whatever. Then she left for summer

camp.

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 Let me pause here, for a moment, and reflect on the concept of

“Summer camp.” The prospect of this has always disturbed me. Let’s send a

bunch of prepubescent annoyances away for 2 weeks during the summer for some

peace and quiet. We’ll stick some right wing Christian “we love God and

ourselves” chastity bullshit while the kids sneak out at night into the woods

to fuck, drink Jack Daniels, and smoke pot. I think it’s ridiculous. I

could be doing the same shit at home, why waste my time at summer camp with

people I see two weeks out of every year. I can dig it for your formative

years, but once you get a car and a job, it’s time to be done with the happy

camper bullshit routine and grow the fuck up.

Anyway, she falls off the face of the earth for two weeks, and comes

back and calls me the day before my grad party. She says “I can’t be with

you anymore. Forget this ever happened.” I’m like “You are going to have to

present a much better case than that.” She complies. We talk on the phone

for, literally, just short of twelve hours. Eventually, one of us says to

the other “let’s just get some sleep and whatever happens, happens.”

Something to that effect. Either way, I solved it the same way I had gotten

myself into the whole mess.

I used to say “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?” It was a

quote from this book, “Who moved my cheese?” It’s supposed to be a

metaphorical managerial mantra from a motivational book for middle management

mongoloids that need to put some sort of thought into their dull existence.

Love that alliteration. Delicious. I decided to take it literally, of

course. What would I do if I weren’t afraid? Where would that motto take

me? I thought about it a lot.

It was a lot like the Mantra, “Buddha Nature is the Nature of Man.”

That was another one I used to think about a lot. Dwell on it. The nature

of being complete and awakened is the actual nature of man. It outlines the

basic tenets of Buddhism in a severely condensed form. That’s what

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Buddhism’s all about, in the literary department anyway. Profundity in

simplicity. It talks about the cycle of life. Everything is a cycle. The

cycle ends with enlightenment. The big cycle. The cycle that spans ages and

millennia. I didn’t get too into the re-incarnation thing, but I think it’s

relevant. I think it shows us how to measure life. By our deeds. Sadly,

however, nothing but a contrite literary metaphor. Just like “Who moved my

cheese?”

A major facet of Buddhism is this idea of the Golden Mean, the way to

live your life. The Golden Mean is achieved by following the eightfold path.

This is the moral code part, similar to the Ten Commandments of Judeo-

Christian religion. This is where interpretation comes in. This is where

the “everything in moderation” attitude can take over. That’s where I got

stuck. I decided that Buddhism was essentially a no bullshit answer for a

good question. That question isn’t “where will I go when I die” like it is

in Christianity. Or “What will I do when I get there.” That shit wasn’t

important to me at the time, nor will it ever be. The question I needed

answered was “Ok, so now that I am beginning to see the world around me, what

is my place in it?”

I wanted to tap into life. I wanted to understand what it was all

about. I wanted to know. I had to know. I didn’t want to be one of the

people that just went with the flow. I didn’t want to sit around lazily

watching American Idol eating potato chips and fast food. I wanted to take

an active role in my existence. I had to move on from Ashley just like I

moved on from Mexem.

It was hard to say goodbye to Ashley. We faded away from one another,

and have found quite rare opportunities to talk, but generally always in the

company of others. While I spent time bumming about how I didn’t have a girl

anymore, I began to really start reading about Buddhism. I figured I may

find an answer there.

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 The question Buddhism ended up answering for me was “How should I react

to the constantly changing environment surrounding me?” The answer was

separate myself from it by eliminating the suffering. What is the root of

the suffering? Is it attachment to material possession like Buddhism said to

me, or is the attachment to my personal ethics that I needed to rid myself

of? This was my stalwart. I didn’t feel like my attachments to the material

possessions I had worked so hard to obtain were the root of my suffering. I

could do without them. No car? Walk. No phone? Knock on a door. No CDs?

Sing to yourself. No house? Take a nice hitchhike to Kentucky. There’s

hundreds of acres of wilderness there just asking to be habited. I don’t

feel attached to my surroundings, I feel like I benefit from having them

around. They aren’t necessary. I could go stone-age and live in a cave and

probably do just fine. The world is much bigger now, and much more advanced-

and there is no reason not to revel in it. I knew then that I needed to stop

trying to ask religious communities to answer a personal question, and find

the answer within myself.

This is how I decided to approach it: “What would I do if I weren’t

afraid?” Why not? If everyone needs a mantra, I already had it. That

mindset has taken me around the world, and it has taken me to the bottom of

many bad mental depths. It’s taken me through winds of change, and it’s

taken me through wide varieties of opportunities, most of which I ignored,

but several of which I embraced.

Ashley was my first step on the road to self understanding. I learned

that there are moments in life where a fundamental change has occurred that

you haven’t picked up on. Ashley was changing, my friends were changing, the

season was changing, and it was time for me to start changing right along

with them all. But did anyone ever stop to think about embracing the change

instead of fearing it? What if you were to just jump into it, ready to go,

without any care as to where it would lead?

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 Chapter Two - Success

“That’s why they call me the working man” – Rush

I had been promoted to “shift manager” at Work. I had a real business

meeting with the Regional Director. We talked at that table for three hours

about my future with the company. I was eighteen, and he filled my head with

all sorts of bullshit to keep me around for a while. I fell for it hook,

line, and sinker. It turns out that place did take me a lot of places, it’s

just that sometimes I have to wonder if I really wanted to go to those

places.

There was this kid at work, Ken Jeff. That was his name. Have you

ever heard the old superstition, never trust a guy with three first names?

His last name was a first name, too. Despite my best judgment, I started

becoming friends with his friends, et cetera. I started to network.

Jared was also a crucial player in my networking. His archetype was

the lovable, yet tragically dimwitted movie buff department store oaf. You

can’t hate him out of general circumstance, seeing as how he’s an idiot and

all, but you still get annoyed at the problems caused by his ineptitude. The

way I saw it, personality handicaps aside, Jared was a good guy. He was

always there for you in the pinch, and as long as you were a friend to him,

he was a friend to you. That’s all I ever asked for in a friend.

Through Jared, I met Steph, a waitress at TGI Friday’s, Tarek and

Anwar, Two imports from the “Saudi Arabian American School System,” as they

called it. I also met Wes, a catholic prep school jock designer clothes

wearing rich kid. Almost entirely out of character, I liked Wes. He was the

first of their kind to ever cross my path that was intelligent enough to

carry on a civilized conversation. I liked my friends. I liked the fact

19
that I had friends again. I had my job, I had my friends, I had a life, I

had a future, and I had a plan. I had everything. It was great, right?

All summer long, we hung out at Ali Baba’s hookah lounge, this

ramshackle of a place in the strange part of town where the college scene

fades into the urban crime sprawl like a Venn diagram gone terribly wrong.

We’d always end up there. Almost every day, at least for a cup of coffee.

We knew everyone by name; we got free hookahs all the time because the owner

had taken a liking to Tarek. I started eating Arabic food and learning more

and more about Islam, and how severely fucked up and pretentious it was.

Tarek and I would have hours long conversations in his apartment and in

Jared’s backyard about religion. I was interested. After all, I was going

to be studying comparative religion; I might as well take this golden

opportunity to learn. I had already decided I wasn’t looking at religion as

an answer any longer, it was more out of trying to understand the world

around me more than anything else.

I had money to burn, and I burnt it well. I bought a hookah the day I

graduated from high school. I had a fully functional recording setup so I

could make music whenever and wherever I wanted. I had Tarek, a new musician

friend, who was an aspiring rapper. He loved Metallica, Linkin Park, and

Tupac. I figured one out of three wasn’t bad, so we talked about Metallica.

Then he started talking about Hash.

I was out of high school. I had sex, I smoked cigarettes, I smoked pot

every once in a while, I drank beers with the guys. Sometimes I got cooked

off a bottle of rum and danced around in a pirate hat. I had a good time.

Everything in moderation. Live life to the fullest. What would you do if

you weren’t afraid? Embrace your mantras! Whatever happens, happens.

I was introduced to the world of marijuana by Ken Jeff. I had dabbled

with the Insane Clown Posse gang back in high school, and I had smoked my

fair share of chronic by then, but this was different. This was a group of

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kids my age, all working, living at their parent’s houses, trying to grow up,

getting ready for college, getting ready to jump into the fire. Then one of

them got his own place, and got a job in the kitchen working for me and Ken

Jeff. His name was Bill.

Bill invited me over for a night of smoking, provided I would throw in

ten bucks for the bag and the supplies. I complied, and so did four other

guys. We bought a quarter of mids and rolled up some blunts. We went down

to Bill’s bedroom, sealed up the doors and windows, and started smoking. I

got so fucking high. Oh man, it was amazing. I felt so good. It was like I

found a new state of mind to operate in. A new place in my mind, and a new

set of eyes. It made me see things in a different light. The most important

thing is that it made me relax. Growing up, my parents always said “take a

chill pill, Zach, calm down.” I finally found the fabled chill pill. I

loved it. I liked smoking weed. Mom, I like to smoke pot.

For the first time in my life I was doing something that I thought was

totally logical, totally safe, totally controlled, and totally ok, but I knew

my parents; and, moreover, society as a whole, wouldn’t agree with me. Yeah,

it was illegal, but for fuck’s sake it’s just pot. I decided to cover it up.

I was just hanging out with friends. Watching TV, movies, Etc. It wasn’t

really a lie. I just happened to be smoking pot while doing so. I just

always left that detail out. Sometimes it gets hard to hide when your

friends start going to jail and dying. Sometimes it gets hard to hide when

your life falls apart around you. Everyone likes to blame the drugs. I like

to blame society. It’s a shame that something so harmless, yet capable of

making you relax so efficiently be made illegal. I must establish here that

I don’t recognize Marijuana as a Schedule 1 controlled substance. I

completely disagree with the mitigating factor that it has no medical purpose

whatsoever. I can name three other things that don’t either – tobacco,

caffeine, and alcohol.

21
 That was the, truth be told, only god damned lie I ever told my parents

in my life. I’ve come clean with them on everything else, but I’d never been

able to break the weed thing to them. For some reason I thought they’d be

ashamed of me. I have absolute respect for my parents. It was really hard

for me to do something I thought they would disapprove of. Not because I was

afraid of making them angry or disappointed, but because I thought

differently than them, yet still highly valued their opinion and didn’t want

them to classify me as what they saw as a person who took drugs.

For all they –“they”, not my parents - said, I managed to work seventy

hours a week and go to school for thirteen credit hours a semester and get

good grades. The whole time, I was smoking weed. I’ve been high since about

October of 2003.

I discovered a new world when I smoked marijuana. I found a group of

people; all bound by pretty much the same ideals. Smoke to get rid of the

annoying factor of life. When you smoke pot on a regular basis, its normal

life. It doesn’t really interfere with your job or anything if you smoke a

bowl every night. You get up the same the next morning, you do the same job,

you think the same thoughts, but it just kind of takes the edge away. You

know that it’s not all bad. You know life isn’t always bad. There will

always be good times at work, and good times at play. You have to take the

good with the bad.

Smoke weed, smoke cigarettes, and drink alcohol. It’s fun. Life is

way too short and stressful not to take advantage of naturally occurring

things that make you feel better. Substances never served as a crutch to me,

rationalization and critical thinking worked just fine. I don’t solve

problems by placing my frustration into a vice.

I extrapolated my views on drugs to my view on just about anything. If

I could rationally determine that something I enjoyed doing wasn’t affecting

my life and my goals in an adverse way, then I did it. I wasn’t afraid.

22
23
 Chapter Three - Wisdom

“Well I’ll go to college and I’ll learn some big words” – Modest Mouse

At the end of the summer after high school, I decided I wanted to not

only start out fresh and new in college with my new friends, and my new job

title, and my newly found independence, but I wanted more. I wanted to move

out of my parents’ house. I talked with Jared about it, and we started

apartment shopping. Jared didn’t really make enough money because he was too

lazy to work a full time job, so he couldn’t really afford to go half with me

on an apartment, so I had to sit around and wait for a while before I could

find a roommate with a work ethic, or at least access to some cash.

I didn’t want to move out because I hated my parents, which is the

normal reason for people moving out of their parent’s house when they turn

eighteen. I wanted to become a man. I wanted to take life by the throat and

fuck the breath out of it. I wanted to confront life on my own terms, and I

wanted to become Zach Elmblad. I wanted to start my story. The story about

me and no one else. I wanted to go, go, go. I never wanted to feed off of

my parents like all my peers did. I wanted to pay my own way. They had

already spent enough money and personal time preparing me to be myself, and I

was ready to take care of myself. I figured they could then focus on getting

my brothers ready for life and not have to worry about me all the time. I’ve

never been one to just sit around and wait for things to happen. I actively

pursued the future, and took it facing forward. I have never been one to sit

around idly and watch life pass me by. I am an active participant in life.

I ask questions all the time, I don’t believe things I learn right away. I

am always testing things and ideas. Always learning, always thinking.

I started at KVCC that fall, I wrote down “comparative religion” as my

major, which was some obtuse category of liberal arts. The classes that

24
semester were comparative religion, intro to philosophy, college writing, and

intro to political science.

Tarek had been living with two guys, each named Hussein. One was a

nerdy, 25 credit hours a semester book rat. He had halitosis and severe

acne. He wore thick glasses, and even had a nasal twinge to his already

thick Arabic accent. A classic nerd, of screech-like proportion. The other

was the absolute odd-couple antithesis. He had supple tanned skin, glossy

black hair, and was a classical european-paradigm wanna-be soccer jock.

Tarek slept on a futon mattress propped up against the living room wall. We

called the Jock Hussein One, because we’d be damned to let that nerdy fucker

be number one, and the nerd was usually just referred to as “that nerdy

fucker.”

At the end of August, that nerdy fucker told Tarek that his sister was

coming from Lebanon, and he was going to move in with her a few apartments

down the building. That meant Tarek had a room. Days later, Hussein One

told Tarek that he would be living with his girlfriend because she was rich

and had a nice apartment, so that left another room free, ripe for the

taking. Guess who took it.

Jared slept on the futon in the living room, and Hussein 1 paid us 75

bucks a month to have a key and sleep on the couch whenever he was fighting

with his girlfriend. Four guys, one run-down apartment in a run-down complex

in the middle of run-down fraternity row on a campus of a run-down major

university. At any time you could hear the drunken screams of a random

college fucker taking that last shot and suspiciously eyeing his next rape

victim.

If you stood on the balcony, you could throw a bag of garbage into the

dumpster if it was open. This was key, you see, because we were all too lazy

to actually take the trash down the stairs and put it into the dumpster.

Sometimes we would just let the trash sit on the balcony after we cleaned,

25
because we were too lazy to throw it. What did it matter? There were no

parents there to say “take out the god damn trash.” We did it when we felt

like it. I woke up when I felt like it. If I wanted to pass out drunk in my

car outside a kegger, I did. Mom wasn’t there at the door asking where I’d

been when I came home at ten the next morning. There was only Jared, asking

if I had gotten any pussy. The answer was usually no, but it was a far

better greeting than trying to cover up my debauchery to my mom with an

incriminating “ummmmmmmm….” It was awesome. I worked hard, studied hard,

and played hard. We would go out drinking late into the night, walk home

from whatever party, and pass out. I’d wake up late for class, skip, do my

homework and still get the grade. I’d do my papers at the last minute, but I

still got my A’s. I thought I was invincible. I worked ridiculous hours at

work, but had lots of money to burn. School was easy; I was learning totally

basic shit. I didn’t have to think at all. So why pay attention? Why go to

class when you’re not graded on attendance, only the material? I paid for

the hours (the state paid for the hours), not the classes. As long as it

says “credit” on that piece of paper, it’s all good. I maintained this

philosophy. I worked 50-60 hours a week throughout fall, winter, and spring.

I started hanging out with people from work, especially Bill, and these guys

named Stan and Dennis. Ilyse, Tarek’s girlfriend, who had coincidentally

moved in with us about 2 days after we settled in had known Stan from high

school, and Dennis and I found out that we were related through distant

family ties. I thought that was fairly interesting, and Stan and Dennis were

there with me every day slaving away at Work trying to make ends meet.

That February, I went to see Mushroomhead. Mushroomhead was some band

my cousin Eric was always talking about. About a week beforehand, I had

bought the two CDs the band released, and I was digging it. I was

complaining at work about how I didn’t have anyone to go with, so Stan said

he’d go with me, since it was on payday.

26
 It was the first real concert I had been to since high school, and I

didn’t feel like moshing and so on and so forth like I used to do at the punk

shows when I was in high school. There was more to this music. Each song

has eight parts, each doing something completely separate, but at the same

time it all made sense. I had already started listening to progressive music

like Opeth and Dream Theater, but this was the first time I had ever

witnessed anything like this live. I stood in the back of a crappy bar in

Kalamazoo, and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes watching in astonishment.

The only time I had ever seen anything that amazing had been when I saw

Lansing’s Summer Dying in high school a few years back.

Stan and I went to McDonalds on the way home, and then I brought him

back to his apartment. It was the weekend before my birthday. I was about

to turn nineteen.

Another year, the cycle begins anew. I always liked to retreat on my

birthday. I didn’t work, I didn’t do anything. I liked to roam around until

I ran into someone I know, hide from them, and laugh about it. It’s there

when it starts. The year comes full swing. All the prior connections are

plugged in for the new set, and all those that are faulty are discarded to

leave space for new connections.

I had been in this whirlwind of fall that was school and work and not

much else, then partied all Christmas break, and now it was about time for me

to be turning a year older and it was about time for something crazy to

happen. The preceding spring I had quit Mexem, the band I was in for most of

high school, so what was next? I couldn’t have ever imagined what it was,

but I knew it was coming, call it a premonition, or whatever you want, but I

knew it was coming. Some sort of upheaval, some sort of paradigm shift,

something. It was gonna be big. I decided, again, to take life by the

throat. I didn’t care what was coming, I was fucking ready.

27
 Stan and I were becoming good friends by now. We used to talk all day

long about materia combinations in Final Fantasy VII. We both had the same

desire to crank Slayer at ungodly hours of the morning to anger his

neighbors.

My birthday came and went, pretty much without incidence. I know Tarek

and Ilyse and Jared and I all hung out after I had dinner with my parents.

They got me cards and the new Final Fantasy game for the Game Cube. By then,

I was pretty much done with video games. No time anymore. Work, School,

Work, Work, School. That was my life.

A few days after my birthday, Tarek comes into Work to visit me. I sit

down at the table and he says “Seriously, man, my buddy Moe wants you to come

down to Egypt with me when I visit him in May. He says he’ll make you higher

than you’ve ever been before. He’ll smoke so much hash with you, that you’ll

forget the whole fucking trip. We’ll go to the pyramids and everything, man-

we can stay with him. Just come, dude.”

I called my parents and asked if they’d front me a loan on the credit

card so I could go to Egypt. I figured I’d take notes and sketches of the

pyramids, smoke a little hash, visit some hookah lounges, and see the sights.

After all, if I was going to go all over the world, why not start with Egypt?

It’s as good a destination as any, I figured. What happened to me in Egypt

and closely thereafter was, without a doubt, the defining moment of my life.

I grew up. I had finally done it.

By March of 2004, I had booked my flights and applied for my passport.

I got the pictures taken, I filled out the paperwork, and it was on. I was

seriously going to Egypt. Everybody was electric with anticipation. It all

happened so fast. I got the time off at Work, and decided I needed to

hightail it if I wanted to have any cash to burn while I was there.

Almost every day, it seemed, Tarek would visit me at work and tells me

about some new thing we could do if we felt like it. He would tell me about

28
these resorts on the Mediterranean Sea and the Red Sea. He told me about

Dirt biking in the Sinai Mountains. He told me about the pyramids. Then he

told me how much it would all cost us, and that was the best news of all. It

was going to be low down dirt-ass fucking cheap, apparently. Cheap beer,

cheap drugs, cheap food, cheap swag, cheap vacation. Sounded right up my

alley. I did all the prep work. I Checked out all the Terrorist warnings

and crap. I figured it would be fairly safe to travel at that time in

history. I figured, after all, that I would be with an Arab the whole way,

living with his friends, and meeting other Arabs. This wasn’t tourist shit.

We were living in the ghetto. It was fucking crazy.

At the end of it all, May was coming near. I knew once I got on that

plane, something was finally going to happen. I used to talk to Stan and

Dennis intermittently, whilst making burritos at my un-named Mexican

restaurant hell, about how I kept having this re-occurring day dream while I

was zoned out on food service. We had to ask “Cheese or Sour Cream?” at the

end of the service line, and I always had this thought of a giant sphinx with

a huge ladle of sour cream making a giant Egyptian burrito. I had Egypt on

the brain. I worked and lived solely for May 8th, 2004. That was the day it

was all gonna start. I knew it, and I couldn’t have been more right.

On the last day of April, Stan got an eviction notice from his

Apartment. I was going to be gone for two weeks anyway, so I figured I’d let

him crash in my room for a while. We were pretty good friends, and I

couldn’t imagine he would do anything but use the internet connection, so I

gave him a key to the place and told him to move in whenever he had to get

out of his own apartment.

By the time May 5th rolled around, it had been something like 40 days I

had worked in a row. It was horrific. We’re talking ten hour days, usually

seven days a week, and on my days off I had deliveries and meetings. It was

Cinco de Mayo in a Mexican Restaurant Hell. Terrible.

29
 Stan and Dennis were working right along with me for these days. We

ended up making up something like a quarter of the labor cost for the entire

store that week between the three of us. Not one of us had less than 75

hours that week. It was terrible. There’s a certain kind of bond that is

formed between people when they are forced to perform in such an environment.

After work, Dennis and I would meet up at Stan’s apartment down the road from

Work. Even though he had just closed with us, he always seemed to have

managed to get drunk from the time it took him to run home until we were done

doing paperwork.

Stan’s apartment was a trash pit. There was no furniture, only stacks

of computer part catalogs and books. There was no decoration except the

random half smoked cigar butt sticking up from a black spot in the carpet

like a finger pointed at the food stains on the ceiling. The refrigerator

contained a single half eaten tub of microwave macaroni and cheese, which had

developed a complex system of life which Dennis swore had talked to him.

The hours ticked by throughout the last day of work before my

adventure. I remember it was like winning a war for me. I’m pretty sure I

just stuck around the kitchen, picking seeds out of jalapenos. I had some

beer that I had snuck in inside my briefcase. One of the cooks had a bowl

packed in his van, and we would go out and smoke periodically throughout the

night during cigarette breaks and slow times. Someone had, for some reason

or another, brought in one of those folding camping chairs into work. I

figured I had executive privilege, so I popped a squat in the chair while I

de-seeded my jalapenos.

Finally, we closed. I went out for the celebratory cigarette. It was

finally over. All I had to do was count money, forge my checklists, enter

some crap in the computer, and watch the children play. Dennis came out with

me; at this point he was glued to me. I had to teach him how to run the

store in my absence in like three days because the idiot in charge didn’t

30
bother. We were finishing up some discussion, and this dumb register girl-

we’re talking sixteen year old total fucking airhead- comes out and says,

“why do you get to smoke a cigarette while we’re in here busting our asses?”

By this time, I’ve had it. I can’t fucking take it any more. I turn around.

“Listen directly to me, you stupid little miscreant, I’ve been working

the last three months in a fucking row, and I didn’t bust MY ass this long to

take shit from a fucking moron. Fuck off, go back inside, and mop the god

damn floor. Fuck!”

She complied. I went back inside and finished my work with blessed

silence. I went home, and we began the final preparations pre-flight. Tarek

and Ilyse fucked, and I went to Bill’s. What a shitty day, time to smoke. I

met up with Him, his roomie, a couple other guys from work, and we all threw

down some cash on a quarter ounce of the best shit we could find. We rolled

three giant blunts. Down to Bill’s room, seal up the door, shut the window,

and commence clam-baking the living fuck out of his bedroom. You couldn’t

see in that room when we were done with it. We sat there for two hours and

smoked blunts. For those of you that are un-initiated in the ways of

marijuana culture, a blunt is pot wrapped up in the outer layer of a cigar.

I tried Salvia Divinorum that night, too. I had never tried it before.

This crazy kid sold me a bowl’s worth of the extract- the good shit. Five

bucks. I torched it. Salvia is one of those “legal hallucinogens.” You can

buy it at Wicca shops, head shops, and hippie shops. You have to cook it

really hot with one of those cheap gas station butane torch lighters. Really

fucking hot, man- and you gotta take it all in really quick. Apparently, if

you do this all correctly, you have an out of body experience that lasts

about twenty minutes, and for about five of it you’re totally incapable of

movement. Just totally lost in your mind. It didn’t work. I spent fifteen

bucks trying to get high off that shit, and I’ll never try it again. I only

like to smoke weed. Other shit sucks.

31
 So I left Bill’s. I hit up the local seven eleven for a giant slurpee

and some candy. My thoughts were meandering endlessly while I just lulled

around in this excited anxiety, about to go to fucking Egypt and see the

pyramids. I was on a different level of existence at this point. It felt

like I was dreaming. I was totally lucid, but it was all just a bit fuzzy

and ethereal. It was the feeling of being alive. The feeling of taking on

the world.

The next morning, the feeling of displacement was far more powerful. I

woke up around 10 AM, or so, and figured it was about time to pack. After

all, we had to clear the entire living room of all furniture so that the

landlord could put new carpet in there. We had a bunch of burns in the

carpet from hookah coals, and we figured we would blame it on the Hussein’s.

It was subtracted out of the other Hussein’s security deposit. Haha,

asshole.

I stood up, and after a long night of smoking and drinking and staying

up late, I fell immediately backwards. Rush of blood to the head, blacked

out really fast, and then got up- only this time, a bit more slowly. I ran

down the hall, most likely bare-assed naked, and took my morning piss.

I then looked out the still open door through the mirror above the

sink, and I could see fog. In the house. It was the beginning of May; I

guess it wasn’t that bizarre. But it was in the house. Everywhere. My

room, the hallway, the living room. The light was peeking in from between

the venetian blinds, and you could see each individual beam dancing across

the apartment. I instantly harkened back to a thought I had about camera

obscura, and wished I had a way to seal off the whole room I wanted to have

a scene throughout our apartment of the trees and shit outside our window. I

always thought it would have been cool to have one of those. I’ve never seen

one, only read about them. Supposedly, if you get a room dark enough and

then poke a tiny hole exposed to the outside, the light rays will somehow

32
project an image in the building of what is outside. I always kind of

thought that was like what it was to act out a metaphor like in Plato’s cave

myth.

I shook my head, thinking this fog had to have been my sensitive night

crawler eyes and not the impending sense of doom it was beginning to rouse in

me. It was fucked up. I turned on some lights, took a shower, and it had

dissipated. I started throwing together my stuff, and cleaning up for the

big furniture move that was about to ensue. By three, Tarek and Ilyse and I

had successfully moved everything, and we were ready to relax. In less than

24 hours, I’d be thousands of miles away from home, thousands of feet in the

air- and D-R-U-N-K.

We waited till about 6 or 7, checking our bags over and over again. We

threw everything into Tarek’s Explorer, and we headed off to my parents house

to say the final goodbye’s and drop off my car. I hopped up to Work real

quick to bullshit with everyone and waste some time. We didn’t have to be in

Detroit until like 7PM or something, so we had the time. We probably got out

there about 4, and checked in for our flights, got our visas checked and

shit- and Ilyse and I went to the gate to wait for Tarek to drop off his

Explorer at his uncle’s house in Dearborn. He came back with some baklava

from Shatila, which was my favorite snack at the time. We bullshitted and

looked for a place I could smoke a cig before our transatlantic flight. We

sat in a bar, and I figured we were in the international wing so I’d chance

it for a beer. I grabbed a Heineken. Yummy!

I smoked a couple cigs, thought about life, and picked through a

Kerouac novel to try to get myself into the mood to travel. It had been a

while since I’d been gone, and I was literally going to butt fucking Egypt.

We all met up back at the gate, and boarded. We took off, and I threw on

some Ayreon and popped a couple unisom. About 45 minutes after we took off,

33
a stewardess nudges me awake. I look up at her with unisom eyes, world all

spinning tipsy turvy, and say “the fuck do you want?”

I apologize, when I realize what I’ve said. She laughs, says it

happens all the time. She asks me for my beverage preference. Let me clue

you into my appearance for a moment here. I’m a 19 year old kid, but I have

a full beard I’d been growing “to blend in with the surroundings, you know”

and I grew out my hair to about neck length. I’ve got two hollow gauges in

each ear, chains around my neck, cowboy hat on my head, a dark blue Acapulco

shirt, and I look like a 40 year old man. Not only that, but I look

American. I freaked. This is a KLM flight. This is a Swedish chick. I’m

Swedish. I look like a fucking 40 year old republican. All I was missing

was the camera strapped around my neck, and the bad sunburn. I was

embarrassed as hell, and I just look her dead in the eye and say “Jack and

Pepsi.” She smirks, and pours me the drink. For the next seven hours, she

came every 45 minutes with a Jack and Pepsi for me. She also ended up giving

me a tiny bottle of champagne, and a beer. I slept like a baby.

We touched down in France at like 9 in the morning or something, and I

looked out the windows to see nothing but clouds, rain, and unhappy people.

I headed to the nearest store in the airport and bought a bottle of wine and

chugged it in the bathroom shortly after changing a fifty into euros. I’m

thinking “man, I need a T-shirt or something.”

I find Ilyse, because Tarek had to take a different flight to meet up

with us in Amsterdam. I go to wander, as I always do, because we had two

hours to burn. I check out a bar, finally get the chick to give me a beer,

chug it, pay, smoke, and sit. Everyone looked unhappy. Every last one of

them. The floor was just bare concrete. The ceiling had wires and all sorts

of ancient looking cooling apparatus hanging from it. The people walked

around listlessly throughout these raunchy looking alleyway stores and dirty

1960’s furniture with gross stains all over. I picked up a candy bar, a tiny

34
Eiffel tower model, and a French Pepsi at a little corner kiosk. I went back

to the gate, boarded, and decided that I had enough of France. I never want

to go back there. I was there for two hours, and I don’t think I’ve ever

been more uncomfortable in my life. It was horrible. Dirty, falling apart,

foggy, rainy, and gross. Everyone was ugly, and it looked like something out

of a horror film in that place. But, on the other hand, I was pretty fucking

drunk at this point.

Somehow I managed to get through baggage check with my drunken

stumbling ass, and pop a squat next to a spicy smelling Indian woman. We

look at each other, nod, and never speak for the flight to Amsterdam. I open

the book, and find myself unable to read another word. I flip through the

catalogue of swag you can purchase through the airline on the flight, and

read a bit about Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport city.

I pounded a few more drinks, ate a really good roll with some weird

cheese on it for breakfast, and woke up in Amsterdam. When most people think

of Amsterdam, they think of one of three things: 1. Windmills, 2. Weed, 3.

Prostitutes. I saw none of these things in Schipol Airport City. What I

did see, however, was a fucking metropolis inside a building. There were

multiple floors, multiple wings, cigarette machines all over the place with

cigs you can’t find anywhere in the states for a quarter of the price, bars

at every few gates, and every type of restaurant and no duty store you could

ever want to find. That means gifts, candy, and booze, all tax free for

international customers. I browsed the porn section of a magazine shop for a

while, and found Dutch porn to be equally as irritating and boring as

American porn. I left without a purchase, mostly disappointed. There was a

bar every hundred feet or so, and you could even get a bottle of Heineken at

McDonald’s (which I did, you can be damn sure of that.)

I’m thinking there’s gotta be a wicked Euro Metal section in the CD

shop, but all I see is Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera. I was

35
disgusted. Here I was across the Atlantic Ocean, and still I can go ten

steps and find a Simpson’s T-shirt, a Britney Spears CD, or a copy of Sports

Illustrated. That’s the world we live in today. It’s the same no matter

where you go. I hit up the bar for a couple glasses of Heineken straight

from the draught. I smoked a few cigs, grabbed a bite, and met up with Tarek

and Ilyse at our Gate. We sat for a while, talked about how we’re only four

hours away from the best trip of our lives, and took a quick nap. I woke up

about 20 minutes before boarding. Just enough time for one last beer.

We boarded the plane, and watched an Arabic language episode of

“Everybody loves Raymond,” with Dutch subtitles. I watched the entire

goddamned thing. I was amazed that I was here on this airplane, and things

weren’t written in English. They didn’t speak English when they announced

things over the P.A. It was Dutch and Arabic. Tarek translated, but I

pretty much knew what they were saying. If we crash, grab the oxygen masks.

Liquor’s on the house- drink up. The seat floats, the stewardess will be

around, put on your seatbelts, etc. I drank another Jack and Pepsi.

36
 Chapter Four – Experience

“Walk like an Egyptian” –the bangles

We arrived at 2:30AM local time. We started to lose altitude, and I

see nothing but black. Endless black. Then I see lights. Then we land, and

then we stop. My heart is beating. The chick next to me is an

Anthropologist. She speaks English, and we talk briefly about some resort

spot I should check out about a seven hour bus ride from Cairo. She tells me

it’s the secret vacation spot of all the European businessmen, but especially

the Arabs. Jewel of the Red Sea. I should check it out. Whatever, I was a

nineteen year old Michigander in Egypt. As long as I saw a pyramid and a

camel, I was totally satisfied just to be there.

We stepped off the plane and the heat hits me like a hammer to the

chest. It’s dry, almost no humidity detectable, and about 85 degrees. Keep

in mind; it’s about three in the morning. We stepped into the airport, and

it’s deserted. It looks like a war zone. We pass a strip of stores. I buy

nothing. We are to meet Moe and some guy called Mustafa at the exit nearest

our gate. We turn a corner, and the building just opens in front of a cheap

looking gate, and there’s a bunch of guys just standing at these knee high

barriers with AK-47s pulled up tight to their chests. I’m thinking “What in

the living fuck have I gotten myself into?”

All of a sudden, I just hear two men chanting “2-ROK, 2-ROK, 2-ROK.”

Naturally, I follow the clamor to find Tarek with his best friend, Moe. He

hugs Ilyse, and comes to me and says, “My Friend, welcome to Egypt.” He

grabbed my bag, and led us to the tiniest fucking car I’ve ever seen in my

life. At this point, I’m pushing 230 and Tarek and Ilyse both weigh damn

near 300, and we’re all three crammed in the backseat of a fucking Honda

37
Civic from like 1990 in the Desert heat with all of our luggage strewn about

the car.

We get out of the airport, and hit the expressway. Everything about

this is fundamentally different in terms of appearance. There are no trees

here. There are no rivers, no animals, and no nothing- just sand. For miles

and miles and miles. Or kilometers, I guess. Just sand. We get into what

appears to be town, and Moe says we just have to get to his neighborhood. He

leans back and speaks to me, in somewhat perfect Ebonics, “Yo, nigga, I’m

Moe. 2Rok says you like to get high.” I laugh, and say “I’ve heard a lot

about you, and yes, I like to get high.” He holds up his fist and motions

like he’s got something for me. He hands me two cone shaped joints. He says

“we’ve got a two hour drive, spark it up.”

I smile, and it hits me. Here I am, in the middle of nowhere, and I

just saw a sign in the airport that said “Possession of illegal substances

can result in public hanging.” I mention this to him, and he laughs. He

says “You are from America. In America, there are rules. In America there

is money. Here, we are all poor. Here, money makes rules. And that means

you make the rules. You are a king here, my friend. Smoke that hash.”

I spark it up, and go to pass it. He says “no, man- I’ve got one for

myself, those are for you to catch up. We’ve got more at the house and we’ll

show you how to smoke for real. You’re gonna be higher than you’ve ever been

in your life, man- we’re not ever gonna stop smoking hash!” He wasn’t

kidding. Ten minutes later, I was the highest I had ever been in my life.

It didn’t stop. For the next ten days, I was high. We smoked at least every

two hours we were awake the entire trip. Before we did anything, we smoked

hash. Just me and Moe. While Tarek and Ilyse fought, and while Tarek dealt

with her stupid bitchy tendencies, I smoked hash with Moe and talked about

life. We watched Arabic TV, and porn.

38
 When we finally stopped, I got out of the car, and looked up at the

building we were about to enter. I said “is this it?” Tarek nods. We climb

up like 10 flights of fucking stairs with all our luggage and we finally get

to Moe’s apartment. It was beautiful inside, architecturally. The walls

were all done with plaster, and every port and window had intricate wood

paneled shutters. There was a balcony overlooking “6 October Avenue,” and a

great expanse of urban sprawl intermixed with construction, destruction,

abandoned buildings, new buildings, old buildings, and sand. No trees, no

animals, no bushes, no grass. Just sand and road.

Moe showed us to our room, where there was a mattress in the corner for

me and a big bed for Tarek and Ilyse to share. We decided we would order

some shawarma from the deli down the street, who apparently delivered 24

hours a day, seven days a week. Everyone did. Pizza hut, mc Donald’s,

subway, hardees, KFC, they all delivered on bicycle. There was a fast food

joint on every corner, but it was nothing like driving down westnedge back

home. It was mixed in-between pure squalor, random statues, a college, and

the ghetto. It was unreal. The apartment was constructed completely of

concrete, with plaster millwork, brown ceramic floor tile, and dull yellow

wall paint. The furniture was hardwood with brightly colored gold and blue

pads. It was obviously Arabic. I kept forgetting I was actually there.

I sat down in a chair; Moe sits down and starts heating a giant razor

blade with his lighter. I go out on the balcony to smoke a cig, and Moe

comes up behind me with an ashtray. He says “you are my guest, and I smoke.

You will smoke in my house.” I comply. I sit back down, and he gives me the

weirdest looking Pepsi bottle I had ever seen. It was long, easily a foot

and a half, and it was a 1.5 liter bottle. Egyptian Pepsi tasted completely

different than the Pepsi back home, and the Pepsi on the flights. It

attacked my mouth, and quenched my thirst in a way that no other liquid had

39
ever done. I loved it. We went across the street to the market and bought

six more. From that moment on, I always had one with me in that apartment.

Moe sits back down and gets back to work with his giant razor blade.

He takes a piece of hash out of a cigarette cellophane, and smashes it on the

glass table with the razor blade. He says “You are about to blow your head.”

He gets it into a long, thin sheet and chops it into what could be equated to

about 10 toothpicks of hash. He asks me for a cigarette, I toss him my pack.

He grabs the smoke, and picks up a glass from the table. He sticks the

cigarette in the cup, and then pokes three holes into the paper with a

paperclip. He takes three of the toothpicks of hash, and sticks them into

the cigarette, so they are hanging down towards the bottom of the glass.

Then he lights them on fire, and sets a cd case on top, and hands it to me.

I look at him with, I’m sure, the dumbest fucking look he ever saw. Then I

figured it out. The hash was burning like incense! It just stayed lit by

itself, and the smoke filled up the cup. I let it go for a while, then moved

the cd case off and sucked in a bit.

My lungs felt like they were going to burst, come out of my mouth,

reconstitute, and slap me across the face. He said “breathe it through your

nose!” I did it, and fell over. He grabbed the cup and says “2Rok. You

tell me your friend knows how to smoke and you bring him here to Egypt with

you and he falls over on my floor coughing!” Then we all start laughing.

The hash hits, and it’s nothing like smoking weed. I felt completely clear

minded, but my body felt like it was floating above the chair I sat in. I

felt completely relaxed and calm. Like I had just smoked a blunt of the

cleanest chronic. He tells me that every toothpick of hash is like smoking a

joint of chronic. We proceed to smoke one more each, and then we go to bed.

We wake up around noon, and all hit the showers one after another. The

bathroom was weird. The shower was about knee high, and just enough room to

stand, with no curtain. Just a box in the corner with a removable head. The

40
toilet was right next to the shower, and it was square rather than round.

Quite bizarre, if you ask me. I hop in the shower, just in time to turn it

on and have water go all over the floor. I look up and rest assured when I

see a squeegee in the corner. I clean myself off, and go to take a shit. I

do it, and all of a sudden, I start looking around and I’m like “Fuck!

There’s no toilet paper?!” I look over to the showerhead, turn it on jet and

squirt away. I figure it’s better than nothing, and I’ve got a towel to dry

up with, and if I stayed quiet, no one would know. I would pick up some TP

the next time we went to the store.

Ilyse hopped in the shower after me. All of a sudden I hear her

screaming “Tarek! Tarek! There’s no fucking toilet paper in here, get me

some!” He starts laughing, and says “We’re in Arab land, honey, we don’t use

toilet paper!” She yells back “well what do I use then?” He says “Your

hand!” She screams, he laughs again, and he yells “That’s why the shower

head is detachable, Ilyse.” I slide back into my chair and breathe easy. I

laugh and say “What a dumb bitch,” and Moe just busts out laughing. Tarek

looks at me and cracks a smile and says “We’re in Egypt!”

Moe and I smoke some hash, and he starts rolling joints for while we’re

out. He says we’re going to the market, so we’ll need to smoke on the way,

and we can go back to the car whenever we want. I bum around the apartment

while Ilyse does her makeup. Then she puts on a scarf to cover her face, and

we head out to the market.

We hit the road, and it was late afternoon. Rush hour, or so I

thought. Later I would find out that Cairo is a fucking gigantic metropolis.

Moe called the people on the street “Chickens.” “All Egyptians are chickens.

They walk around and around and around and they never go anywhere but to get

some food. They all dress in white and they just walk around like chickens.”

Not only are there people all over walking everywhere coming from every

place, but the streets make no sense. They curve all over, and they have

41
alleys and multiple lanes, no markings whatsoever, barely any signs, no

societal rules of courtesy, no traffic lights, and no fear. Driving in Egypt

was a religious experience, especially while smoking Afghani hash.

We arrived at “the market,” which is really more of a neighborhood of

merchants than anything else. It’s below the city, in the middle of

everything. The buildings rise stories above you as you navigate through

poorly lit alleyways and are bombarded with the smell of good things cooking,

of strange perfumes, of hookah bars, of hashish, of Egyptian shop keeps, and

money. There are people everywhere, all around you. There were shops set up

outside shops, and vendors walking down the street trying to bring you to

their store. They grab you, and show you a little wooden camel. They hand

it to you, and then they put their hand on your shoulder and say “Come,

friend, many statue.” Everyone in Egypt sells little miniature copies of

famous statues and monuments. Egyptians, for obvious tourism reasons, have

monuments all over their country. There are random statues ALL OVER Cairo.

It’s all over the place. You’ll be driving down the highway, and there’s a

Mt. Rushmore looking thing of noble Egyptians. Noble or Rich, who knows, I

can’t read Arabic.

So we’re in the marketplace, and I know damn well that I am not going

to rest until I have a hookah and a shit ton of shisha in a bag. I had spent

so much time at the hookah lounge in Kalamazoo while it lasted, and living

with Tarek meant living with hookah. And we were hookah aficionados. I knew

every brand that was imported into the USA. I had tried it all. But the

shit we got in Egypt made it look like cheap ‘roll your own’ cigarette

tobacco in comparison to fine European whole leaf premium cigarette tobacco.

This stuff was dripping in molasses, smelling of whatever flavor I wanted. I

picked Cola, Pomegranate, Coconut, and Melon. I figured that’d be a good

start. I picked a blue hookah up off of the ground, and Moe began the

bartering process.

42
 A brief note on economics in a third world country overrun by tourism.

American dollar = instant orgasm. The going exchange rate in Egypt was about

6.8 Egyptian Pounds per American Dollar. We had someone that was willing to

pay us 7.4 because of the street value of an American dollar bill. We

injected our money into the black market of Cairo, the street bank. We had

wads of cash, and everything was dirt cheap. Marlboros were 8 pounds a pack,

Hash was 10 pounds a gram, and Pepsi was a pound per liter. I lived like a

fucking king. One hundred pound notes were worth less than twenty bucks. I

bought my hookah for 25 Egyptian Pounds, and I bought a kilogram of shisha

for 10. All in all, it cost me about 5 bucks. Sweet. Even the McDonalds

was cheap. It was more expensive than, say; a 5 pound shawarma from a street

vendor, but it would only cost about 40 pounds to get a Big Mac, some fries,

and a coke.

We’d get a giant block of hash, and it’d be the price of an eighth of

the shittiest weed ever. We’d get high for two days straight off of that one

block. We ate several times a day, and gas was like 10 pounds per liter.

Dirt-ass cheap gas. After all, we were across the red sea from Saudi Arabia.

We stopped at a National City bank in Cairo to cash my Traveler’s checks, and

then we converted the American Bills into Egyptian Pounds, and we were rich.

I kept three hundred dollar American Bills for when we were gonna go on

vacation. When I say “go on vacation,” people usually ask “weren’t you

already on vacation?” The answer is yes. That night we stopped at a travel

agency on a corner in Cairo. That night, I learned about Sharm el Sheik.

Sharm el Sheik is a resort city nestled at the top of the Red sea. In

the middle of the Sinai mountains on the Sinai Peninsula. This is the land

of the bible, folks. This is where Moses received the Ten Commandments, and

this is where he parted the Red Sea. Yeah, it’s that Red Sea. The one Moses

parted. Seriously, I went there. I swam in the fucker. That’s fucking

cool, man!

43
 Moe came out to the car, where Ilyse and I were sitting. He comes up

to the window. He says, “We want to buy a package. It’s 130 American each.

We stay 3 days, 2 nights in Sharm. Private beach, open bar, three free meals

a day, it’s right on the ocean. We can party all night and swim in the ocean

all day. It includes a bus ride there and back with a meal each way. What

do you think?”

I don’t think I’ve ever taken that short of an amount of time to get

130 dollars in my entire life. It was unreal. Three days in paradise for

130 American dollars. I couldn’t believe it. We were staying in a European

owned 5-star hotel. We got two rooms at that price. One for Tarek and

Ilyse, and one for Moe and me. We left in 3 days, so we had a bit of

sightseeing and experiencing to do before we went to Sharm, but we all knew

that it was going to be Great!

That night, we took another stop back at the marketplace. This time, I

wanted to buy some little statues. I know. I had to do the tourist thing,

but I needed a statue of Horus. I had to have it! Also, I wanted an

Obelisk, and some papyrus, and some incense. I found it all, along with a

bit more hash, and some Egyptian vodka. We went to a bar, and I quickly

found out that Jack Daniels, even though it was given out on the plane as if

it were water (trust me), was a rather rare commodity in good ‘ol Cairo. It

was seriously top shelf liquor. Apparently they don’t have much of an

alcohol import per se, because alcohol was relatively hard to come by. We

settled for some Egyptian beer at a local market, and Moe and I drank some

beers while we smoked some hash and watched a call in porn channel from

Russia. Callers would tell the girls what to do to each other, or what

they’d like to do to them. It was worth a good laugh to hear the “sexy”

Russian replies.

We woke up the next morning, or afternoon to be more specific, ready to

go do the Egypt thing. That is, we went to go see the pyramids. Moe didn’t

44
know how to get there, so we brought along a guide. The “guide” was Moe’s

friend. I don’t remember his name, but I know it started with a Q. He was

really skinny, and looked like the quintessential “creepy, greased hair

Arab.” He was a really nice guy, but we called him the creep. He thought it

was funny. He spent his days talking to his online girlfriend at “the

Heartbeat internet café.”

He showed up, and we all piled into the car. I recognized the drive

into old Cairo. It was, again, something like a three hour drive. The first

question people always ask when I tell this story is “Aren’t the pyramids in

the middle of the desert? The answer is an emphatic and disappointing “No.”

As we crossed the Nile, we could see the monsters materializing in the Cairo

haze of thousands of years of civilization. They were right at the horizon.

First one silhouette, then another, and then a third. We got closer and

closer, and then they disappeared behind the buildings. All of a sudden, we

were on a road headed straight for the Great Pyramid. To our right, a small

drive with a parking lot not unlike a public lake access here in the states.

To our left, a swanky golf course. Directly in front of us was the Great

Pyramid, behind us was the sprawling mass of Cairo. Between us and the

Pyramids there was a giant mound of dirt with a manned camel perched atop it.

The man on the camel had a now familiar looking white police officer’s

uniform on, and clutched his AK-47 tightly to his chest. At the break in the

mound there was a ticket booth.

We approached the ticket booth, and Moe started speaking Arabic to the

man behind the desk, who points to Ilyse and I, and says “American, 100

pounds.” He points to Moe, Tarek, and The Creep and says “Egyptian, 5

pounds.” We argue for a second, and I decide that paying something like 15

bucks to see the Pyramids was totally and completely worth it, and I didn’t

care that I was being charged 20 times the ticket price. I didn’t give two

45
shits, the only surviving wonder of the world was towering nearly 500 feet

above me, and I was going to go inside it come hell or high water.

We paid for our tickets, and walked up to the pyramid. We noticed that

there was a marked path leading to a break in the face where people were

walking in and out. We climbed the blocks and talked to the uniformed man at

the opening. He told us we would all have to pay an additional 20 pounds to

enter. We obliged, and he took our cameras. The Creep had been to the

pyramids before, so he stayed out to make sure the man didn’t disappear with

our cameras. For whatever reason, you’re not allowed to bring a camera into

the actual Pyramid. I didn’t speak Arabic, so I didn’t bother arguing.

We entered the path cut into the pyramid, which ended at a tiny mine-

shaft looking excuse for a staircase. We climbed up the stair case, which

led to a chamber about 200 feet up. When you get to the chamber, you can

finally take a breath and stretch out your legs, and then it’s up another

(and steeper yet) set of “stairs.” The “stairs” were more like flat pieces

of wood that resembled stairs. It was a difficult climb, especially when

you’re a pack a day smoker and cigs cost you less than a buck a pack.

The tunnel leads to another smaller chamber and an open doorway into

the burial chamber. Ilyse instantly noticed the natural reverb of the giant

granite slabs, and started singing a haunting tune. Moe chimed in, and soon

we were all standing around the sarcophagus singing in low voices, and it

sounded like there was a choir in every corner of the room. It seemed like

the walls were singing to us. We stayed in there for damn near 45 minutes.

We were all alone, and no one was coming up the stairs. Moe and I decide it

was more than an excuse to smoke a joint, and he pulls one out of his pocket

and sparks it up. Not only did I visit the Great Pyramid of Kufu, but I also

smoked a celebratory joint while sitting in his giant stone coffin. Kufu,

consider your eternal resting place defiled.

46
 We left the pyramid, and decided to check out some of the other minor

temples and such on the Giza plateau. I imagined I was Zahi Hawass. I

imagined I was Howard Carter. I imagined I was Bob Brier. I decided I

needed to study Egyptology. We saw hieroglyphics, we saw tombs, we saw

granaries, and then we saw a man standing by a camel. We knew damn well what

he was standing there for, too, so we walked up to him and asked him how much

the grand tour would set us back. We got 4 ponies and a camel for 250

pounds, and two smelly Egyptian guys led us around the pyramids. The trip

lasted about three hours, and I weaseled my way onto the camel.

The “tour guide” spoke broken English, and I shot the shit with him a

bit about selling tours, and asked him how long he had been doing it. I’m

sure he’d heard it a million times, but on the other hand I had heard “What

do you mean guacamole costs extra?” every day for years, and this was his

job- so I bullshitted away. After we came around the Pyramids, we got the

familiar desert-side view. There’s a dune a few hundred yards away from the

plateau, which has the quintessential “Egyptian Pyramid” photo opportunity.

We snapped our photos, and then headed around the other side to see the

Sphinx.

Contrary, again, to popular belief; the Sphinx is very small, very

underneath the ground, and very run down. It is on the Giza plateau, but

does not sit in front of the Pyramids like a guard dog. It is quite far

away, actually, and the only thing that sticks above ground level is the head

of the thing. Beyond the sphinx lies an old Muslim graveyard, and beyond

that lays a giant pit of garbage. We were led through this literal sea of

garbage to the horse stables, where we were urged to tip our generous guides-

supposedly feeling bad for the squalor they lived and worked in. We walked

through Old Cairo for a while, and bought some melons from a guy on a wooden

cart. We made our way back to the car amazed that we had just seen something

47
that has stood as a reminder of humans and the silly things we do for

thousands of years.

By this time, I was having mixed feelings about my trip. It was a once

in a lifetime experience, without a doubt, but I was coming to the sudden

realization that there was still everything that existed back home over here.

There was suffering; we could see it all over the place. We took a cab ride

once, when we were having troubles with our car rental agent. He wanted the

passports of the Americans as collateral for lending his car to a bunch of 19

and 20 year old college kids. The problem was, we couldn’t get to Sharm

without our passports, so we couldn’t give them to him. We ended up slipping

him a few pounds to change his mind, and left our driver’s licenses with him.

While we were in the cab, however, we chanced by a traffic jam and were

approached by a small girl, easily less than five. She is obviously begging,

and I hand her an American one dollar bill. Looking this little girl in the

eye, I see tears welling and she shyly backs away saying “Thank You” in

Arabic. I later found out that there is a good chance I fed her entire house

for a week on that dollar. That’s poverty, man.

For the next two days, we bummed around the apartment and enjoyed one

another’s company. Moe and I smoked ridiculous amounts of hash, and Tarek

and Ilyse did the couple on Vacation thing. They took walks and stuff as Moe

and I acted like burnouts. For those days, it was like being back at home.

I met all of Moe’s friends including his neighbors Hani and Sara. They made

us dinner one night, which consisted of a monumental sized pile of seasoned

rice with all sorts of bits of meat and vegetables in it. We ate it by

dipping a clump of the mess in yogurt and wrapping it in pieces of pita

bread. It was delicious.

We got ready to leave for Sharm, and made our preparations. We left

for downtown Cairo to catch our bus. Moe and I stopped to pick up our hunk

of hash for the trip, and a pack of papers and some cigs so we could roll

48
joints. We hopped on the bus, and prepared for the hot and uncomfortable

ride to Sharm. We stopped every hour and a half or so for a passport check,

performed by an armed set of guards at various checkpoints along the road. I

kept forgetting that this was a post 9-11 world in an Arab country. This

wasn’t America. I was a guest in this place, it was obvious.

Our meal was hot dogs and potato chips, and we were served bottled

water for drink along with it. We munched between sleeping and watching the

crappy Arabic B-movies. I found it fun to imagine they were singing along

with whatever was in my CD player.

We arrived in Sharm before sunrise and checked into our hotel. We re-

convened in my room, which was now to be referred to as the smoker’s lounge,

and Moe and I rolled three perfect joints to watch the sunrise with. The

four of us sat out on the balcony and watched the sun rise over the Red Sea.

It was gorgeous, with the mountains to the left and right, the Sea to our

front, and the city behind us. After taking some pictures of our balcony

view, Moe and I decided to go pick up some cigs and stroll along the city

streets before the mad house of resort life began. We hit up our first free

meal of the day around 9, and Moe and I went back up to the hotel with full

stomachs and the full intention of smoking a few more joints and taking a

nap. Tarek, unfortunately, had to go sunbathing with the chick, so he

grabbed his sunglasses and they hit the beach. Around two or three, Moe and I

woke up and flipped on the tube. Here we were in paradise, with the most

beautiful view from our balcony, and we were inside with the curtains closed

watching TV and smoking hash.

We ate lunch and then headed out to the beach to meet up with Tarek.

We found him poolside with Ilyse collecting the Sun’s rays across her white

as cotton expanse. Moe and I decided that we wanted some good looking girls

to check out, so we walked along the beaches, each sectioned off by whatever

resort owned that particular chunk. We hit up some bars, and did some

49
swimming, and then we all decided we would have an early dinner at the Hotel

before we went out shopping.

That hotel had so much food set out. It was like a giant buffet of

everything you could ever want to feed a group of international travelers

with different palates. In the morning, there was an omelet buffet, every

kind of pastry and bread item you could imagine, a fruit and salad bar, and

an impressive collection of cereal. At lunch, there was the standard cheese

and crackers faire, and even some warm entrees as well. But dinner totally

whooped ass on all other meals. They had everything. You could make tacos,

you could make a burger, you could munch on a steak, you could nab some fried

chicken, and there was a giant table full of dinner rolls of all shapes,

sizes, and colors. There was a full bar. There was so much food that no

matter how many people showed up in the dining room, it never seemed like any

was missing. The wait-staff just kept bringing more and more out.

We headed back up to our rooms to change and smoke, and then met up in

the Lobby. We walked down the road to the shopping area, which was about 3

city blocks away. We browsed the shops, cruised the malls, and scoped out

the club scene. We went to a couple clubs, drank a bit, and ended up at an

open air hookah lounge. We sat there for a couple hours and sampled the

house flavors and took advantage of the comfy seats and the complimentary tea

and biscuits.

It hit midnight, and we were pooped. We headed back to the hotel to

get some sleep, and register for ATV-ing in the desert. We decided to do one

thing in the morning of three: Snorkeling, ATV-ing in the mountains, or

parasailing. The ATV was the longest and cheapest, so we went with that. We

figured we’d get a bit more out of jumping dunes on ATVs than we would

jumping off a boat with a bunch of rich Arab businessmen. We drove a few

miles out of town and hopped on some ATVs. We got the quick broken English

50
safety lesson, which consisted of “if you die, we leave you, and if you break

it you bought it.”

We took off. We had guides, but it was very loose, and we were allowed

to move at whatever pace we wanted. Ilyse freaked out, and made Tarek get a

two seater so she didn’t have to drive the thing. Moe and I entertained

ourselves for the better part of an hour doing circles around them and

kicking up dust and making Ilyse cry. Tarek was pissed. He wanted to jump

rocks and go way too fast, not throttle down to keep his girlfriend from

crying. Can’t really say as I blamed him.

We ended up in a little mountain retreat of some Bedouin, and drank his

tea. We sat in a valley between some mountains, and soaked up the experience

as we sat on Persian rugs inside a Bedouin lean-to and drank mountain man

tea. Moe and I snuck off to go smoke a joint and then we headed out to do

some more riding.

We finished the day as the sun set, and we headed back to take a

twilight swim in the Red Sea. We (or I, for that matter) had a few cocktails

and headed in for a late dinner at a Lebanese restaurant in the shopping

district. I started off with a glass of wine and a hookah. When they

brought out my hookah, it literally sat higher than I did in my chair. When

I was looking over at the thing, I had to look up at it. I smoked away as

we browsed the menu. We figured it was cheap, so we may as well gorge

ourselves. We ended up buying 3 baskets of bread with a giant plate of

hummus, and a four foot plate of meat. I’m not kidding when I say a plate of

meat. On the menu, it was called “Meat Plate Sampler.” It basically

consisted of every piece of meat that could possibly be marinated and

grilled. Lamb, Beef, Chicken, it was all there (No pig, however, we were in

the Middle East) Piled high. It was set in a bed of French fries and

surrounded by salad implements. It was, quite likely, another one of the

greatest meals I had ever had. You’ll notice a growing trend here of my

51
appreciation for Mediterranean food. Shortly thereafter, I convinced Moe to

come back and smoke with me in the hotel room while Tarek and Ilyse went

shopping. We would meet back at what had become our favorite hookah lounge

in Sharm. I don’t think I’ve ever ran so fast. I had to get back to the

hotel and back to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, all of this local food and drink I had been enjoying was

beginning to take a toll on my stomach. When I was getting ready to leave,

everyone told me not to eat local food because there was a good chance I’d

get sick. I knew they were right, but there was no way in hell that I was

going to travel across the world and eat McDonald’s everyday, so I packed my

suitcase full of Imodium AD and Tums. I had run out of Imodium around the

time we left for Sharm. I won’t get into gross detail about exactly what

happened to me every time I tried to complete the digestive cycle, but let’s

just say it hurt, took a long time, and left me wishing I hadn’t eaten

anything at all- and worse yet, it didn’t stop until about two months after I

got home.

That night, I decided I wanted to buy another hookah. After my

lavatory adventure, and a refreshing shower, Moe and I rolled a few and then

went out to meet up with Tarek and Ilyse. We smoked a few bowls of hookah,

and then hit the streets. Moe and I kept talking about hitting up the clubs,

but the music never sounded too appealing. We ended up wandering into a shop

a little below street level, where we started browsing the hookah selection

when a man came out and quietly asked if we had any hash. We said we had a

joint, and we smoked it with him.

The shopkeeper began telling us this story about how a just a few

minutes ago, a drunk Russian had come out of the bar across the way and

knocked over a bunch of things. The man was apparently with the Russian

Mafia or something, because shortly after his outburst, some suited men came

in and paid the shopkeeper for his broken wares. He said he could recognize

52
who was in the Mafia because he had spent some time in Russia and could make

out the language. I never decided if I believed him or not, but it was good

conversation nevertheless. I liked the guy, so I got a picture taken with

him and we headed back with all our tourist goods.

I had a bit of trouble sleeping that night, for the first time the

entire trip. I rigged up the hookah, rolled a joint, and sat out on the

balcony for a while. Moe was passed out cold, so I was alone. I sat on the

balcony, watching the couples making out in the garden below. I guess the

reason I couldn’t sleep was that I finally realized that the trip was more

than half over, we would be leaving paradise in a few short hours, and I

would have to go back to Kalamazoo and rejoin the normal world. I was

terrified. Stan was there, Tarek wouldn’t be back until a month later

because he was going to Saudi Arabia hours after Ilyse and I hopped the plane

home. I knew I would probably never see Moe again, even though we had

already begun plans to come back the next summer. For some reason, I knew

this was it. I knew I was never going to be the same after this, and I

didn’t really care for the life I had left behind back in Kalamazoo. I

wasn’t happy, still. Nothing had changed. I was the same person. I knew

something major was happening to me, I could feel the change. Here I was, in

paradise, and all I could think about was having to go back home. I woke up

to the sun rising over the sea, and a cool fog resting along the beach. I

headed down, alone, for breakfast. Moe was still asleep, and I didn’t want

to see Ilyse after a long night of sweaty sleep anyway- so I stayed away from

their room.

I quietly ate my breakfast, and went out for an early morning stroll.

I pulled out a joint, smoked it, and walked out to the beach. It was like

eight in the morning, so no one was out but the fishermen. I could see them

all on the horizon, casting lines and bullshitting amongst themselves. I sat

down on a chair near the waterline, and just stared for a while. I wandered

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back to the room around ten or eleven, and Moe was busy rolling the last of

the hash into joints for the ride home. Tarek and Ilyse stopped by and said

they were hitting the beach one last time before we had to catch our bus back

to Cairo. Moe and I did the usual (smoke, then eat), and then we went out to

join them.

The hotties were out that morning. This was the first time Moe and I

had been up and around early enough to see the hot chicks getting their base

tans before lunch. It was great. I had a few drinks, and Moe and I walked

around the beach looking at nude sun bathers. It was juvenile and cheap, but

we still did it, and I am not sorry. Some of the hottest women on the planet

were on the beach in Sharm that day, I swear to God.

We got back to the hotel, cashed in our last meal ticket for a second

lunch (we paid for it, dammit!), and then we checked out. We hailed a taxi

and headed to the bus station that served our charter company. It was a few

minutes out of Sharm. It was a little Oasis in the desert. Some palm trees,

a little stream, and a shop. I bought a pack of cigs and a Pepsi, and we

waited for the bus to get there. The trip home was much like the trip there,

except everyone was awake and the bus was hotter than hell. Kids screaming,

parents chatting, everyone whining about their sunburns, windows won’t open,

air conditioning is broken, and someone kept succumbing to motion sickness

just short of the bathroom. About two hours into the seven hour ride, my CD

player batteries died. Oh fucking fuck did that suck. Worst bus ride of my

entire life.

We were all suffering some major sunburn, and some major lack of sleep,

so we headed back to Moe’s place and cranked the AC for a nice cold nap. We

woke up the next morning, and it was going to be our last full day and night

in Egypt. We decided we would hit the market for a little while longer, and

then head to the suburbs to go to the mall and eat a cinnabon. We drove

around for hours, just talking about the trip. We started making plans for

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Moe to visit us over the winter, and for us to come back to Egypt next

summer. Moe was going to look into renting a house in Sharm with his brother

so we could all chill out there, just fly straight to Sharm and stay there

the whole time. We talked about how much money we could save up for hash and

about what we’d do. We finally ended up at cinnabon and had a nice cinnamon

roll.

We decided to do something cool that night. We brainstormed, and came

to one of the best decisions we came to that whole trip. We’re in Cairo, its

dark out, why the hell shouldn’t we take a cruise on the Nile? It was our

last night here, and we hadn’t even had a chance to enjoy the river that

started it all!

We pulled into some alley, and walked down to the shore of the river.

Apparently, a lot of people thought it would be a good Idea to cruise the

Nile that evening. There were hundreds of boats, all about 15 feet long and

about 6 feet wide. They sat about thirty people, and each one had a stereo

and flashing lights. We watched for a while, and we realized we wanted

nothing to do with sitting on a boat full of chickens and started to leave.

Moe hopped on to one of the boats and started talking to the Capitan. A few

minutes later, he came back and told us we had just rented the whole boat for

two hours on one hundred pounds and a joint. We climbed into the boat, and

backed off shore.

Cruising the Nile isn’t quite as romantic as it sounds. The Nile

River, after being the anchor of civilization for thousands of years, is

quite disgusting. It smells horribly, and has the general color and

consistency of day old coffee. You get used to the smell after a while, and

I even got adventurous enough to dip my hand in the wake from the boat.

Along the river bed, the urban sprawl climbs around you. There are

floating river boat casinos, hotels, and malls. There’s the Nile Hilton, and

several other fancy American and European restaurants and shops. Colored

55
lights from the boats danced along the rippling Nile, and cast an aura on the

banks. It was surreal. We cruised, gently, up and down the river for two

hours, and then went back to Moe’s. It was a silent drive home.

Moe and I sat quietly and smoked a few toothpicks of hash and watched

porn for the last time after Tarek and Ilyse went to bed. I made sure to

thank him over and over again for his hospitality, and expressed the fact

that I considered him one of my best friends. I couldn’t have asked someone

to make me feel more at home, even though I was thousands of miles away. Moe

was one of the nicest and most genuine people I had ever met in my life. I

don’t think I’ve ever had a better friend after two weeks, and I don’t think

I ever will.

We woke up to the sound of early Morning Prayer call echoing through

the open balcony door. This was it. It was time to go home. We packed up

all our shit, and called in some Pizza Hut for breakfast. We had our last

meal together, and we climbed into the car. Moe and I smoked our last four

joints on the way. I snuffed the last one out in the ashtray outside the

airport, and exhaled inside. I made a point of it. I wanted to be able to

say that I had been high from the moment I got there until the moment I left,

and it was true.

We checked our baggage, and got our passports stamped. It was over.

We had about two hours of waiting time before we had to get on our flight, so

I went and changed my pounds into euros so I could get some beer in

Amsterdam. I made my hourly appointment with the bathroom a little early,

and tipped the grungy chicken that opened the door for me. Afterward, I hit

up the gift shop for some more Imodium and a Pepsi. I found Ilyse napping,

as usual, with a bag of chips in the crook of her arm. I didn’t wake her. I

figured the more time she spent sleeping over the next eleven hours of

flight, the better.

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 We boarded our flight, and I said one last goodbye to Egypt. I took a

deep breath and sat down in my seat. I watched the runway blur past me, and

as we rose I watched the rocks turn into mountains, and the desert turn to

clouds. We touched down in Amsterdam with just enough time for me to run to

the bar on the way to our gate. By the transatlantic flight, I had already

got my schedule down. I would listen to one CD and read my book, which at

the time was Kurt Vonnegut’s “Cat’s Cradle.” By the time my CD was over, it

was usually time for another Jack and Pepsi, and then a bathroom break. I

continued this until we touched down back in Detroit. We went through

customs, and took the elevator up to the International Arrivals area, where

my Dad was waiting for us. I looked at him, he looked at me, and then Ilyse

started talking. She didn’t stop until we dropped her off at her parent’s

house.

My Dad asked if I wanted to come and sit at home for a while, and I

told him I wanted to go back to my house and take a nap. I said I’d stop

back later with all the presents for my brothers. Truth is I was still

drunk. On top of that, I was still pretty high, too. I was surprised,

because I hadn’t smoked in well over twelve hours, but it wasn’t going away.

I hopped in my car and headed home.

I pulled up to my apartment, and mustered the courage to go in. I knew

Jared wasn’t home, but I didn’t know if Stan would be there. I walked up the

stairs and put my key in the door. I opened it up, and couldn’t believe what

I saw. I looked up and the first thing that caught my eye was a giant

scrawling of the word “Fuck” burnt into my ceiling. I don’t know what I saw

next. Maybe it was the sea of garbage covering my obviously not new carpet.

Maybe it was the spent keg in the hallway. Maybe it was the pile of clothes

in the corner that started to move. I darted around to see an arm come out

from underneath the pile. It grabbed a beer, and then slowly revealed the

body that was attached to it. It was Stan. He sat up, with clothes falling

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all over, and rubbed his eyes. He looks at me and says “Oh hey, what’s up

dude? I think Jared’s at work. Thanks for letting me crash at your place,

man, but Jared is annoying as fuck! All he does it watch friends and eat ice

cream all day.” It was a pretty accurate appraisal of Jared’s character.

I went into my bedroom, and threw my backpack on the bed. I changed

out of my clothes and into some shorts and a T-shirt. Stan and I unloaded my

car, and I started rifling through shit and telling stories. Jared showed up

a couple hours later, said hello, and retreated back to his little cave. I

took a shower, assembled myself, and went over to my parent’s house to give

my brothers their presents, and give my parents the basic rundown of how it

had gone. I didn’t stay for too long, because I had some serious sleeping to

do. I went home and went straight to bed.

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 Chapter Five – Paradigm Shift

“Everything you believed is a lie” – Opeth

I woke up the next morning and figured I should head into work to get

my schedule and my paycheck. I threw on some clothes, and then went out to

Work. I walked in, and headed straight for the schedule. I took it off the

corkboard, and looked at it for a second. My name wasn’t on it. One of the

managers from the one across town was written in on my space. The manager,

Danielle, came up behind me and says “we’ve gotta have a talk.” My heart

sank.

She gives me my paycheck, and she motions for me to follow her out to

the patio. We sit down, and she pulls some sheets of paper out of a folder.

She looks at me, and says “how was your trip?” I looked right at her and

said “Cut the fucking bullshit, Danielle, why aren’t I on the schedule?”

She sets down the paper and hands it to me. One detail I failed to

mention about my final night at Work was that the particular little girl I

yelled at happened to be the little sister of the Vice President of

Marketing. Oops. I had gone and lost my job. I couldn’t believe it. I

signed my papers, and walked out to my car completely dejected. What was I

going to do now? I had just gotten back from this great trip, with all sorts

of stories to tell all my friends, and I just lost my job. I hadn’t even

been back in the country for twenty four hours before it was gone. I

couldn’t believe it. I got all the way to my car, and then just broke down

in the parking lot. It was one of the worst feelings I had felt in years.

Not since my eighteenth birthday when I was wandering around downtown

Kalamazoo in a daze. I called my dad, and while I was telling him what had

happened, the West Main store (the one across town) rang in on my call

waiting. I finished the conversation with my dad, and listened to the voice

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mail. It was Bruce, the General Manager from that store asking me if I’d

give him a call.

I called him back, and he said something to the effect of, “I think

they made a big mistake letting you go. I don’t have any management

positions available right now, but I will take you on as a cook and I won’t

cut your wage. My assistant manager is leaving in July, and I’m going to

need someone to take his place. Will you transfer over here, or are you done

with this company?”

I figured I may as well. It made no sense to give up a new job just

minutes after I had lost mine, even if it was for the same company. I was

going to need the money either way, so I may as well just do what I do best.

I wouldn’t be able to start for two weeks, which meant it’d be three till I

got anything close to a paycheck. All my bills were cleared since before I

left for Egypt, and I had a seven hundred dollar paycheck. It took me about

five minutes to realize I needed to buy a case of beer and a bag of weed as

soon as humanly possible.

I went home, told Stan what had happened, and finished reading my book.

I didn’t think about Work for a good long time. I called up Brian and his

buddy Mike, who had moved in down the street from us a bit before we moved

into our apartment. The wounds of Ashley were still fairly fresh, so Brian

and I weren’t exactly the best of friends, but we were willing to put the

past behind us. I told him to head over in about two hours after I ran some

errands.

I recruited Stan to buy me some beers, and headed over to Bill’s to

score. I bullshitted with him for a while, and then we went back to my

place. I was still getting used to the garbage pit that had erupted in our

living room, but I couldn’t get used to the smell emanating from the kitchen.

I decided to investigate and found it to be a big mistake. While I was gone,

all food stores had been completely liquidated by Jared’s gargantuan ass and

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Stan’s alcoholic munching tendencies. In the wake of the buffet preparation,

all of our dishes and silverware had been completely ruined, broken, covered

in mold, or lost. If it wasn’t one of those four things, it was in Jared’s

room (but still most likely in one of those states.) I didn’t know what had

happened in my absence, but I sure as hell was pissed off. Not only had I

not received my new carpet because of their debauchery, but now my entire

apartment was trashed as hell. My shit was broken, the place smelled of

rotting beer and food, someone was living in my living room, Jared’s alcohol

abuse and stupid friends were starting to grow on my nerves, I had lost my

job, and just two days before I had been living like a King halfway around

the world. I couldn’t believe it.

For those three jobless weeks, I managed to consume almost my entire

paycheck on weed and beer. I spent my days lying on the living room floor

watching the History Channel and drinking beers with whoever was nice enough

to stop by and sit on the floor with me. Around this time, I also took my

nicotine addiction to the next level and officially graduated to “Pack a day

smoker.” I pushed a bunch of refuse into a corner and made a little chair

there for myself, and I would sit there and fuck around on the internet for

hours and hours. I discovered the ease of Amazon.com, and found out that all

the CDs that I couldn’t find anywhere were not only on Amazon, but cheap as

fuck used. Same with any book that I wanted. I spent a great deal of that

money on expanding my music and literature libraries, but I most certainly

spent the majority of it on beers and weed.

A week, to the day, after we had left Egypt, I awoke to my phone

ringing. I saw it was Ilyse, and debated answering it. I decided not to. I

hated that girl. She annoyed the living fuck out of me, and I had to see her

every day. While Tarek was gone, I was enjoying not having to put up with

her, and the last thing in the world that I wanted to do was talk to her.

She called right back, though, and usually she got the point. This time I

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answered, only to hear her crying hysterically. I was instantly awake. I

thought to myself, oh my god, what has happened to Tarek? I’m just saying

“Ilyse, what’s wrong?” over and over again. After about ten minutes, she

finally mustered the courage to speak through her tears – “Moe is dead.”

What? How could this have happened? He was coming to visit us after

Christmas, and we were going to visit him next summer. What do you mean he’s

dead? This is what was going on in my head while I listened to Ilyse cry.

This was a big shock. One of the nicest people I had ever met, and the

person that had made it possible for me to visit Egypt at 19 with a

restaurant manager’s income was dead. I started crying too.

Ilyse came over to calm down and tell me what happened. Apparently,

the night before, Tarek had gotten a call from Moe’s cell phone. It was the

creep. He told Tarek that Moe had been hit by a car and was in the hospital,

but doing alright. The next morning, Tarek got a second phone call from the

creep telling him that he had lied last night. He wanted to give Tarek one

last night of good sleep before telling him that his best friend in the

world, literally, had been hit by a car going 45 miles an hour in reverse

only steps from his apartment. He was walking back from the market across

the street. That same market I had walked to every day to buy Pepsi. The

same market we bought our razor blades in for hash, and the same alleyway I

had walked down to get to the apartment every day for two weeks. Moe was

dead, Tarek was in Saudi (and almost assuredly upset beyond words), Ilyse was

hysterical, Jared was growing on my last nerve, Stan was drinking all of my

money away, and I had just lost my job. I was in dire straights, and I

didn’t know where to look to next. I decided then and there that it didn’t

matter anymore. There was no reason that I shouldn’t be on top of the world

at that point. I had just taken the trip of a lifetime, only to watch my

entire life unravel in front of my eyes. There was no reason I should have

been upset. There was no reason for my stomach to be churning with emotion.

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There was no reason for me to be crying. There was no reason for any of this

to happen. Who loses their job after working a minimum of fifty hours a week

for almost an entire year? Who gets run over by a car going ridiculously

fast, in reverse, just steps away from their home? Who makes these things

happen? God? If so, I had some serious issues to discuss with him. I was

extremely unhappy at what had happened over the course of the last couple

weeks, and I wanted a fucking answer. I wanted to know why all these bad

things were happening to me for no reason, and I wanted to know what I could

do about it. I decided God didn’t care, and he wasn’t going to answer me

when I screamed at the sky. I decided I didn’t give two shits or a fuck what

God had to say about anything. If he had a plan for me, I was going to do

everything in my power to do the exact opposite. I had no interest

whatsoever in what that asshole had planned for me, because it was definitely

not what I wanted. I knew that. The only thing I knew how to do was work,

so I figured I’d work.

I started at West Main on a Monday. I figured that I cooked for two

years, and I’d been managing for damn near another. It’d be a breeze. Like

a paid vacation. I was wrong. Cooks at West Main worked three times as hard

as cooks at Westnedge. The store was bigger, there were fewer people working

there, and it was much busier at the time. I didn’t know what the hell to

do. Here I was, Ace Workhisassoff, completely falling behind on what would

have been a simple job for me just a month ago. I didn’t know where anything

was, I didn’t know who anyone was, and everyone thought I knew my shit inside

and out. I had never been more embarrassed in my life. Luckily, however, I

was taken under the wing of a couple guys that had transferred over there

from Westnedge, and a guy named Seth who was dating one of my old employees

at Westnedge.

Before I knew it, I had been thrust into a circle of friends I would

have never voluntarily joined. It all centered on this girl, Kim, and her

63
boyfriend, Paul. Paul was one of the guys that had transferred to the West

Main Work after he left for the summer from Westnedge. It was quite obvious

after working there for a week or so that if you didn’t hang out with the

group; you were instantly ostracized at work. I decided I’d find a way to

weasel myself in. They were all about 3-5 years older than me, and each one

of them knew I’d be their boss in less than two months. It was tough, but

I’m good at stuff like that.

By the time July came around, I wasn’t just hanging out with them. I

was selling every member of their group weed on a daily basis. Bill knew

this guy that was getting the best prices on chronic in town. I was getting

volume discounts, jacking up the price, and picking out of their bags to

smoke for free and make a bit of cash on the deals. After a while, I decided

they were my friends and I stopped ripping them off. I started hanging out

with Kim, Paul, and all of their friends. Networking again, I suppose. In

the meantime, I was still trying to preserve relationships will all of my old

friends. Every day, I had plenty of shit to do. I never had to go home if I

didn’t want to, drugs were only a phone call away, and there was a constant

stream of people coming in and out of my apartment with alcohol and drugs in

tow. This is where I entered what I like to call a transition period. Every

few months I go through a phase of “social cleansing.” It’s hard for me to

explain without a sociology degree, but it seems like an unstable time where

friends come and go without much discussion. Faces and names fade in and out

like a fog on the horizon. How’s that for simile? Eat your bleeding heart

out, poets of the ages!

One day, my old friend Mary came over to get Stan to buy her and her

friends some liquor. I had just gotten home from work, and there were a

bunch of little girls in my apartment, and Stan comes walking in with three

half gallons of cheap vodka. We bullshit for a while, and Mary asks if Stan

and I would like to come out to go camping with them in South Haven. I

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didn’t have to work the next day, so we grabbed my two hookahs from Egypt and

headed out to South Haven.

We got there and Stan started going shot for shot with my old Mexem

buddy Dallas. Everybody’s getting drunk, I’m smoking hookah, and these two

people go off wandering. They’d been gone for a couple hours by the time we

decided to go look for them, and I took a shot and we headed out.

I got lost on the way back to the campsite, and I got back about an

hour later only to find all of my friends in handcuffs. The cops came up to

me and said “you must be Zach.” I said yes, and soon I had handcuffs on as

well. I asked the cops if I could get my phone and wallet out of my car so I

could call someone when I got out of jail, and they said no. Befittingly, I

have since held quite a grudge towards the Van Buren County Department of

Public Saftey. They took us to Paw Paw, which is roughly halfway between

Kalamazoo and South Haven. When we got to the station, they let me go

because I blew clean (I had taken that one shot, and Michigan has a zero

tolerance policy for minors in the possession of alcohol, and so I blew

positive when they picked us up.)

I walked the streets of Paw Paw until I found a payphone, and begged

some soccer mom for fifty cents. I dropped my quarters in the gas station

phone and called Jared. I let it ring four times and hung up so I could get

my quarters. I figured he was probably asleep, so it would take a couple

times before he picked it up. After twenty tries, I gave up. Jared’s number

was the only one I knew by heart, because everyone else that would have been

more than willing to come rescue me was programmed into my phone. I went

back to the Jail and waited for one of my friends with a phone got out. A

couple hours later, Mary got out and negotiated a ride for us.

Our ride showed up and it was none other than Dave, my ex girlfriend

Jennie’s younger brother. I hadn’t seen him since Jennie and I parted ways

so many years ago, and I was quite embarrassed that the first time I had seen

65
him in years was to pick me up from Jail. He took me back to my car in South

Haven, and we went back to Paw Paw to pick everyone else up again. Stan was

the last to get out, because he was by far the most drunk (which, you’ll find

out, was a common outcome with Stan.) He finally got out, with a court date

and PR Bond in his hand and we went home. We went home and slept away the

rest of the day. We decided that, in retrospect, it was a very bad idea to

accompany a bunch of sixteen year olds that we had purchased alcohol for

camping in a public place. Hindsight, as they say, is always 20/20.

I got back to work the next day telling stories of my very first M.I.P.

and listened to everyone else tell me how they had got theirs. Just about

everybody gets an M.I.P. from the time they graduate from high school until

they turn 21, especially if you’re living a couple blocks from a major

university. I wasn’t afraid. My court date was in a month, and I figured

I’d get out of it with a small fine and a figurative slap on the wrist. I

was right. The whole affair took about five minutes, just long enough for

the judge to say “how do you plea?” and for me to write a check. Democracy

in action.

I had been home for about three weeks at this point, and it was

becoming very obvious that Jared didn’t like Stan, Stan didn’t like Jared,

and I had to deal with it. See, the problem was that Jared pissed me off by

simply being alive. I was poor. I haven’t forgotten that it was my own damn

fault that I was poor, mind you, but the fact of the matter is that I was

looking out for me. I had spent my last bit of money on some groceries, and

had hidden them away from the bottomless pit that lived across the hall. It

all ended for Jared and I when I got home from work later that day only to

find that my stores had been raided and mostly depleted just a few short

hours after purchasing them. Jared’s friendship was no longer worth anything

to me, and I erased him. I stopped talking to him, deleted his number from

my phone, and pretended he didn’t exist. He finally got the picture, and

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followed suit. Tarek was days away from coming home, and I didn’t know what

was going to happen. Jared said he wasn’t going to give Tarek his room back,

and I knew damn well there was going to be a scuffle if Jared even mentioned

that outcome.

Tarek came home, and there was no fuss. He called me and said “I’m

leaving Detroit; I’ll see you in two hours.” That meant I should probably

clean Jared’s room so that Tarek could move all his stuff back in. I

recruited Stan, and we went to work clearing the wreckage of broken beer

bottles and moldy Ben and Jerry’s containers. Before Jared even got home,

all his stuff was in our living room just the way it had been before. He

didn’t even have a chance to argue, he was busy drinking with his work

friends when Tarek got back. Jared didn’t care about us anymore, and we

didn’t care about him. It was time to start over again, and it was time to

change. See that fog disappear. I wasn’t afraid.

Jared finally wandered home around midnight, only to find his shit

strewn about the living room. He was not happy. He looked at Tarek, and

said “Hey, man, I wanted to talk to you about working something out so I

could have a room.” Tarek simply said “No,” and that was that. The issue

was never discussed again. It took about a week of Jared and Stan both

sleeping in the living room for Jared to buckle and move out. He moved in

with some chicks from work, and thought he was the shit because he was living

with chicks. The only thing I could think while he was gloating is, “You sit

naked in your bedroom and watch friends with a beer in one hand, spoon in the

other, and a bucket of ice cream resting on your cock. You smell terrible

all the time, you weigh well in excess of three hundred pounds, and you’re

dumb as a fucking rock. These chicks are going to hate you. You haven’t

cleaned once since you moved in with us, and you broke more dishes than you

washed. You’re a moron, dude, and all those chicks are going to hate you.”

Less than two months later, he was living with his parents. I visited Jared

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once after he moved out, and left after he started acting like a piece of

shit. I’ve spoken with him since on fewer occasions than I can count on two

hands.

June and July passed without much incidence. Every week was

essentially the same. Five out of Seven days I spent eight to ten hours at

work, and seven out of seven days I was drunk and high. This continued,

pretty much without a break until the end of the summer. At the end of July,

I was promoted to Assistant Manager. I still hung out with Bill, but I spent

most of my time marinating in our apartment with Stan, Dennis, whoever else

happened to be there, and a big bag of weed. Dennis never smoked with us, he

was totally clean throughout the whole thing, but Stan and I weren’t ever

without some kind of smoke coming out of our mouths for months. On the

weekends, we would hit up whatever random kegger and try to find girls to

bring home with us. We’d always end up getting drunk, causing a scene, and

leaving with fewer friends than we had when we showed up. I spent countless

nights passed out in my car waiting for my buzz to wear off so I could drive

home and take a shower before work. I would stay up for days in a row just

because I could. We would drink until we passed out, and then just start

drinking again when we woke up, wherever we woke up. Stan and I became

partners in crime. We were like a posse. We went everywhere together, we

did everything together, and everyone knew us as “Zach and Stan.” We had a

name for ourselves as the craziest, most drunk, most stoned, and most

audacious duo in Kalamazoo. Wherever we went, craziness ensued. Everyone

wanted to hang out with us so they could be the ones telling stories the next

day. We loved it. We called ourselves “The New Scum,” after the name of a

body politic in a comic book we loved named “Transmetropolitan.”

Being the Assistant Manager at work meant I had to stay late every

Sunday night to do inventory and paperwork. This became a weekly ritual of

bogging out the employee bathroom (there was no smoke detector) with whatever

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employee was nice enough to bring in the weed to smoke out their manager

with. I wasn’t stingy, I always shared, but I seriously think some people

just wanted to come and smoke with their boss. Now, for those of you that

wonder, I didn’t stay clocked in for these late night smoke outs, and I

always finished my work completely and accurately. I was never paid for more

time than I worked, and I never left anything unaccomplished. As I already

said, it is quite possible to hold a normal life, career, and family while

smoking marijuana intermittently. Thousands of people all over the world do

it every day.

By the time August hit, it was time to register for classes and start

my life back over again after the chemical haze of the summer.

Unfortunately, it never really happened. Dennis and I had become pretty good

friends, and except for the drugs, he agreed with a lot of what Stan and I

were talking about while he was around. We used to have the longest

conversations about the most obtuse and random philosophical arguments and

logic patterns. We used to go to Meijer, the 24 hour grocery/department

store and just wander around buying stuff. One night we bought some black

spray paint that held chalk, so that we could make our living room table into

a giant chalkboard. We would map out arguments and draw graphs and stuff,

but that lasted about a week before Ilyse started drawing giant penises, and

after that it was covered with trash all the time anyway, so it didn’t matter

what was written on it.

Shortly after Jared moved out, I was awoken one day by Tarek screaming

in my face. He’s saying “WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP” over and over

again. Naturally, I got up as quickly as possible to stop the noise. He

says “Open your hand!” I do, and in falls a key. He says “This is the key

to our new apartment.” I said “What are you talking about, man?” He goes,

“Just now, well, about 15 minutes ago now, I was on my computer and Ilyse was

asleep on the bed. I looked over at her just in time to see a giant rat

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crawl out of the heat register, walk around the room, and then disappear back

into the register. So I went down to the landlord and demanded a new

apartment. We’re moving to building C and it’s ours right now, we can start

moving today!”

I figured, why do all of this for a fucking rat? Was anyone surprised

there was a rat in our apartment? All you had to do was walk inside to

surmise there were creatures living there. I wasn’t surprised, in fact, I

wasn’t even phased. I was pretty pissed about having to move all of my

stuff, though. Moving was a bitch, and I wanted nothing to do with it. I

waited until the last possible minute and recruited as many people as

possible as to get it all done in one day. It pretty much was. We left all

the trash.

Our landlord was a complete and total fucking Idiot, let me just say

this. There were thousands of dollars of damage done to that apartment, and

we told him it was all Hussein’s fault. We told him that we were still on

that lease, so it was Hussein’s problem, not ours. He said “well give me a

security deposit on your new unit,” Tarek starts screaming at the guy in

Arabic (the guy was an Arab, by the way), and then turns around and says

“there’s no fucking way I’m paying a security deposit on that new fucking

place, this isn’t even a new lease.” We didn’t. Never paid a dime more than

our rent, which was always late. We even managed to fuck them out of 70

dollars a month by complaining about how they were offering new lease’s rent

discounts and not us. They grudgingly complied, and we got our deal. Our

apartment was wrecked because we were living lives like pirates, and we got

away with everything completely and totally free! We even saved some money

on renting our next apartment, which we would undoubtedly trash all over

again.

We tried, at first, to make a new start of things. Stan had gotten a

job at Wendy’s, Tarek was getting ready to go back to school, so was I, and

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so was everyone else. It was time to work, learn, and party on the weekends.

It was time to become a human again. Time to grow up for another semester

until Christmas break. Do the college thing. I was at KVCC, but I still

lived on campus at Western, so I partied like I was there.

We kept the place clean for about a month. We cooked dinner once or

twice, went grocery shopping, and sat on our clean couch and entertained

guests with tea and coffee service. I was back, being a man on my own.

Dennis came over one day to sign up for classes on our internet connection,

and we decided to take a couple together. I started with a fairly ambitious

class schedule, considering I was pulling 50-60 hour weeks out of Work at the

time, and I had signed up for more credits than ever. I wanted to get out of

college, get out of Work, and get the fuck out of Dodge. I knew damn well

that I wanted to be anywhere but West Michigan. It’s not exactly a

spectacular life here in Michigan, or it wasn’t at the time at least. Most

of Michigan works in the Auto Trade, and Most of the Auto Trade in Michigan

is leaving. Outsourcing, labor unions, and fragile non-super power

international economies have completely ruined life in Michigan. Not only

just the Auto Industry. Since I moved to Kalamazoo, I’ve watched it climb

from a shitty town south of Grand Rapids known for Checker Cabs, Gibson

Guitars, and Upjohn (the people who made Rogain) to a fairly successful

little town. Then I watched Upjohn merge with Pharmacia, a Scandinavian

medical conglomerate, and then I saw Upjohn/Pharmacia get bought out by

Pfizer, who immediately started slashing its Kalamazoo offices and downsizing

to the point that Kalamazoo is damn near total economic meltdown. They’re

trying really hard by “beautifying downtown Kalamazoo,” and adding different

districts to the downtown area making it sound like a Chicago suburb or

something. Needless to say, Kalamazoo sucks, and I needed to be somewhere

else.

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 The fall got off to a good start. I was attending classes, working my

ass off, and trying to patch up my relationship with Tarek; which was

severely damaged by his month absence, my hatred of his stupid girlfriend,

and the new roommate. Stan had finally nailed a job at Wendy’s, I was making

a fortune working countless hours at Work (and then selling Weed to everyone

that worked there,) I was back in school, and I was ready to take on the

world. I had a good group of friends, even though I was ripping them off

quite tremendously at times, and I liked them. I actually liked my friends,

rather than being constantly annoyed with them.

Around the turn of the season, Kim had just moved into a house with

Alena (a server at Work,) Liz (Alena’s old roommate,) Amanda (a manger at

Work,) and Kurt, some guy they all knew that got a killer deal on a house.

Soon enough, I was spending just about every day there. I remember their

housewarming party, and Alena fell down the stairs and Stan knocked over

their makeshift bar in the basement and broke one of Liz’s favorite glasses.

Alena’s boyfriend, Rob (a cook at Work, and a friend of mine for years), was

making these T-shirts that had a silhouette picture of a curvaceous woman

reclining on a Tank with a caption that said “Slut on a tank industries.”

The party they were throwing as a housewarming party (which was just an

excuse to get drunk, mind you) was called the “Slut on a Tank party,” and Rob

was selling T-shirts out of the back of his car betwixt running to the

backyard behind the garage to vomit.

Halloween came, and I decided that this year I was going to weasel my

way into this group of incredibly hot girls and dress up as Al Jourgensen

from Ministry. I found all the black clothes I could muster and layered them

on. I found some black leather gloves and a black leather trench coat. I

looked like a hitman or something, and wore really dark glasses with a purple

top hat. I thought I was the shit. I had three hot chicks in my little

clique, and we were ready to hit the town. I got to Kim’s house, and she was

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putting make-up on Paul. They were sitting in the bathroom, Kim having a

great time emasculating Paul by calling him ‘Paula,’ and reminding him how

good he looked wearing make up whilst he shot her angry pride-instilling

looks. Liz was dressed up as a playboy bunny, Alena as a fairy. This was

actually the first time I had gotten a chance to meet Liz without me being on

my way out the door. The first thing she ever said to me other than hello,

and I’ll never forget this, was “You look like a rock star. Please take off

your sunglasses because I have this haunting feeling that you’re staring at

my Ass in these garters.”

I was.

I took off my sunglasses (which didn’t stop me from checking out that

Ass, by the way), and Dennis arrived shortly thereafter dressed up in full

cowboy regalia left over from his horse-showing days. Dennis collected our

keys, and we all hopped in his car to make our party rounds. We ended up at

some crazy party in the student ghetto, an area near the east side of campus

where there was cheap student housing. After raping the keg for a few cups,

I started to wander around until an Ape-mask wearing motherfucker in a suit

came up and shoved me. I wheeled around, ready for a fight, and he took off

the mask and it was Seth with his roommate Eric, who was wearing a suit as

well, with a wire in the tie that made it look like he was falling. He said

his costume was a “Disgruntled middle management guy jumping from a third

story window cuz he’s had enough.” I thought it was pretty funny, but I

don’t think anyone else really understood. I put my sunglasses back on and

took my familiar spot leaning in the corner and avoiding social interaction.

I got several compliments on my costume, which no one really knew was

assembled from clothes I wear on a daily basis, and the party turned lame so

we headed out to Kim’s buddy Travis’ house.

There, Alena and I began drinking beers by the pitcher as opposed to

the cup, and I got shit-faced drunk. Rob, Kim, Alena, Kim’s ‘bestest friend’

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Will, Dennis, and I all headed back to my apartment for some after-party

smoking fun. I ran in ahead of everyone and made a mad dash to attempt at

concealing the squalor and filth I lived in, and it actually worked for a

while. We all sat there, bullshitting amongst ourselves, when Kim went into

the bathroom. Several minutes later, I hear a shout “Zachus, get me some

fucking toilet paper!” My heart sank. I knew I had forgotten to get

something that morning. I told her to give me five minutes to go grab some

at 7-11, which I did, and they all left shortly after that. I don’t know if

it was the smell of the place, or Tarek’s crazy Arab ass coming home

interrogating everyone and acting weird. Or maybe it was Ilyse’s annoying

face, who knows. I passed out cold and got ready for whatever the next day

would throw at me. Besides, I didn’t need to impress them- I don’t need to

impress anyone. With me, you get what you get. At the time, you got good

weed at a “fair price,” a loyal friend, and a confidante. I’m a good person,

but if you can’t let me be who I am, fuck you. That’s all I ever had to say-

Fuck You. That’s my phrase, it belongs to me. Fuck you.

By the end of fall, my debauchery was becoming legendary. People would

line up at work to hear the latest and greatest story about my life. It was

around this time I decided I needed to write a book. People always used to

tell me I told good stories. The thing is, the only stories I can ever tell

are about what happens to me. My life has been pretty fucked up, I think,

and people generally like to hear about fucked up shit. Most people watch

movies to see day to day life drama, all I ever had to do was wake up in the

morning and it all came to me. I never asked for this shit to happen to me.

I never asked to work 70 hours a week in a shitty Mexican restaurant. I

never asked to go to the Pyramids. I never asked to get involved with

anything; it’s always just dropped right in my lap. Someone asked me the

other day what my goals in life were. I told them that around my eighteenth

birthday, I stopped making goals for myself. Up until then, all my goals had

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pretty much been provided for my by various role models. I accepted my

goals, and I accepted my means. Get out of High School, Go to college, get a

job, start a family. These were my goals. After the massive upheaval that

was the three years immediately following my eighteenth birthday, I’ll be

damned if I ever set a goal again. Goals are for dreamers, and action is for

reality. Why set a goal and strive to achieve it, when you can draw on

personal experience to roll with the punches and enjoy your life? I could

set my goals if I wanted. I could make it a goal to finish college and sit

at a desk for the rest of my life, and you know what? It probably wouldn’t

be too bad. The problem is that every time I make a plan and start to follow

it, it never turns out the way I intended it to anyway. Instead of planning

and making goals, I like to live. I like to take each day and suck it dry.

Like I said before, I wanna grab life by the balls and pull as hard as I

possibly can. One day, I’m gonna rip the balls right off the body of life,

and then I’m the one in control. I call the shots. We’re talking about Zach

Elmblad here, not everyone else in my life. I’m in this solely for myself.

The prospect of living another 60 or so years on this godforsaken planet is

frightening. If the next 75% of my life turns out to be like the last 25%,

you can count me the fuck out. I’m gonna work my hourly jobs to pay the

bills and die a happy man that spent time with himself, his friends, and his

family- not slaving away at some fruitless job where I work my ass off and

get no credit for all my hard work. Fuck that. I have no desire to be a

rich man, I want to be happy. Money isn’t real, and it causes a hell of a

lot more problems than it solves, and I wish I could do away with it

entirely. Unfortunately, this is not possible, so I’m gonna do the next best

thing and just try to stay living under my means. If I turn out to be a rich

man, it won’t matter- because I know money doesn’t buy you happiness. I

tried to buy happiness and all I got out of it was more misery. I grabbed

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life by the balls and contracted a sexually transmitted infection all over my

hand. Oops, my bad.

Thanksgiving that year was a little strange around here. Normally, in

Michigan, Thanksgiving is the last holiday we have before the major snow

starts. It usually starts snowing in November, but I don’t remember if ever

being that bad before. Stan and I had bought tickets to see Ministry the

evening before Thanksgiving, and then we would drive up to my Uncle Dave’s

house north of Grand Rapids for the feast. Around noon that Wednesday, it

began to snow. Then, it began to snow harder- a lot harder. By the time I

got out of work at four, the entire city was covered in a six inch blanket of

white. I started hearing news reports advising people not to travel that

evening due to the inclement weather. I drove home as quickly as possible,

and when I got there Stan was ready but said “Dude, are you sure we’re gonna

do this?” I said “You’ve gotta be out of your mind if you think we’re gonna

miss Ministry tonight.”

So, on we drove, for the sixty or so mile stretch to Grand Rapids. It

generally takes about 45 minutes to get to Grand Rapids from Kalamazoo. US

131 goes straight up. This time, however, it took us three hours because we

were going an average of 20 miles an hour in a single file line. I don’t

remember how many cars we counted in the ditch, but I know damn well it was

over thirty. The snow was blowing so bad that you couldn’t see ten feet in

front of you, but there was no way in hell I was going to miss that show.

We got there in plenty of time, plenty enough to go grab some krispy

kremes and smoke pot in a dark corner of the parking lot. We finished our

donuts and then we locked up the car and walked in to see one of the best

shows of our lives.

By the time winter rolled around for real, Work was starting to slow

down (mostly due to the fact that it was on campus, and the entire population

of that area of Kalamazoo virtually disappears for an entire month in the

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middle of the winter.) That meant I was getting my hours slashed, being the

highest paid hourly employee in the entire franchise at the time.

Consequently, this meant it was slim pickings at our apartment. Between rent

and utilities, there was hardly any room for anything else in the budget. We

started hanging out with Stan’s Wendy’s crew and I started hooking them up

with weed, too. By this time I had a veritable network of stoners calling me

for bags.

Winter meant quiet time. Time to reflect, time to heal, and time to

spend endless sleepless nights thinking about how fucking screwed I was. I

was careening down a spiral, and there was no stopping it. Little did I know

exactly how long it would last. Winter means depression for me. Winter

means self examination for me. Winter means cold, wet, snow. Winter means

loneliness.

For me, winter that year also meant something else. When I graduated

from high school, I had gotten a laptop so that I could continue my

production of music and keep working on that solo album I had been talking

about for years. By this time, I had enough material written for three

albums. I had also started writing a philosophical thesis about a theory I

had developed called “The unlocked knowledge theory.” I was really into

cognitive processes at the time, and I childishly thought I was breaking

ground with my arguments.

At that point, as well, I had a nearly complete, yet still primitive in

scope, version of this book that you’re reading right now. All of these

things, plus every paper I had ever written, were stolen from me shortly

before Christmas that winter. Someone came into our apartment (we didn’t

lock the door at that time) and unplugged my laptop from the wall, then they

found Stan’s wallet and jacked 200 bucks in cold cash. We filed a police

report, but we never did figure out who did it. Stan was there the whole

time, which means it had to have been someone we knew, because our apartment

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was a sea of trash. No one could have found our shit inside that apartment

without knowing how the place was laid out. When we cleaned (which happened

about three times over the course of one and a half years), it meant 24 solid

hours of work, and about 20-30 garbage bags – even with five or six people

doing the cleaning. Needless to say, our lives had caught up with us, and

one of the thugs we associated ourselves with must have walked in and taken

my laptop. It wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I had backups of all the

music and writing.

I was dejected at the loss of my laptop. So much information and hard

work had just been stolen from me. My parents and I decided we would wait a

week or two until they would float me the cash to get a new one. After all,

Christmas was coming up and I wasn’t going to be home to see it anyway.

Christmas morning 2004, I woke up around six in the morning and hopped

in the shower. I got out, and Stan was dressed and ready. I loaded up all

the presents for my family into the car, and we made our final preparations.

We sat in the car, turned the key, and nothing happened. My car had been on

its last legs for a while, but apparently it was dead now. Damn. In one

week, I had lost my laptop and my car. I called my dad to bring over some

jumper cables and help me get it over there. That didn’t work, so we hopped

in his car and took off for breakfast.

Later that afternoon, my dad and I drove back to the apartment to see

if we couldn’t get my car working again. We didn’t. I ended up driving my

mom’s jeep until we could find a suitable car for me that I could afford.

Kim and I started spending a lot of time together that week, shortly

after Christmas. Stan had been in the hospital twice already for staph

infections, one in his armpit caused by deodorant blocking his sweat glands

(which filled up and looked like a rancid fist on his underarm), and one in

his finger that made it swell up to the size of a banana. While he was in

the hospital, I was at Kim’s getting shit faced drunk every day of my life

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trying to forget the fact that my best friend was in the hospital. During

the course of this, Kim and I became very close friends. We hung out every

single day. Dennis and I used to go over there and play super Nintendo with

Kim and her friend Alex, who was a high school friend of Alena’s. Since they

had all moved into that house, Alena was quickly turning into a black sheep.

Everyone turned against her. I never really had a problem with her, but she

didn’t care about anyone because shortly after the New Year, she’d be heading

to Mexico to study abroad with her Spanish major.

I had to work New Year’s Eve. For most people, New Year’s signifies

the end of the year. For people in the restaurant business, that’s the end

of the month. I had to do month ending inventory and paperwork. The shift

didn’t end until 11:30, so I had a very small window of time. While the

closers were finishing up mopping and stuff, I changed into my purple tuxedo

and top hat. Finally, we were done. I had exactly 30 minutes to get to a

party. I raced home to grab Stan and called Kim to say “Get me to a party-

as soon as fucking possible.” She was in the student ghetto with Liz, so

that’s where we headed. I got there with about fifteen minutes to spare-

just enough time to have a beer or two and get acquainted with whatever new

friends of Kim’s that were there. Kim and Liz decided we needed a motto for

2005, and we decided it would be “Anything goes in 2005,” and it turned out

to be pretty accurate. We watched the ball drop, I got my New Year’s kiss,

and we all chugged a glass of champagne- and then it was time for me to get

back to work for paperwork and inventory. This was about the time I realized

Work was beginning to destroy my life.

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 Chapter Six - Redundancy

6 - “Gotta go to work, Gotta go to work, Gotta have a job” – Modest

Mouse

Shit was beginning to get hairy at the job. Bottom line, they hated me

and I knew it. I decided that instead of bitch and complain; I would do my

job, and stay in the office. I was becoming a paperwork rat. Every day, to

me, meant another day at the office. I dreaded going to work. I would

usually get there about 20 minutes early so everyone that needed to talk to

me about their schedule/hours/problems/boyfriends could talk to me. Then

from about three pm to seven pm I took and made phone calls. These could be

as simple as “Zach, what’s the price on a case of cheese? <”because I’m too

fucking stupid to look it up on the invoice” >,” To “Zach, we’re gonna need

you to come up to grand rapids this weekend.” I’m thinking “This is

absolutely fucking ridiculous,” but I needed the cash because I had

unemployed Stan back at home, and my own ass to worry about to boot. So I

worked, and I worked my ass off. Long fucking hours, ass hole customers, and

stupid administrative personnel. Most people have had that job at one time

or another. That job where you’d swear to God you were the only person who

paid attention in training, and where the job you’re doing is so

inconceivably easy that you can’t comprehend why these idiots can’t just get

it done. The only solace was working every day with my friends betwixt the

idiots. Kim was there, Faye was there, Katie was there, John was there, and

all my friends were still around. It wasn’t so bad. Every night after work

I would head over to Kim’s house. Sometimes Dennis would join me, sometimes

he wouldn’t.

Seeing as how Stan had developed this awful tendency of getting staph

infections, and he was in and out of the hospital on four separate occasions

over the next few months- once for his finger, once for his toe, once for his

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eye, and once for his arm. Seeing as how Tarek spent his time sequestered in

his room with that dumb bitch, and Dennis was working crazy hours at work, I

was left to find a way to socialize. I found it in Kim and her group of

frat-boy friends. Most of them were, as I had always imagined, total idiot

fucks. Surprisingly enough, however, I was completely wrong about some of

them. Don’t get me wrong. I was a metal head social reject. I had huge

piercing in my ears, tattoos, and I always wore black. Again, don’t get me

wrong, because I know god damn well that people like me can be total idiot

fucks as well. I’m not about to say that every metal head kid I hung out

with was cool and insightful, but that was much more prevalent in my circle

of social stratification. I spent most of my time being uncomfortable and

self-conscious at Kim’s, but she was a very good friend to me, and more like

the older sister I never had than anything else.

My memories of January 2005 bleed into a mass of Sunday night

inventories, smoking pot, and playing beer pong. There were many late nights

at Kim’s house, and just as many hanging out in my apartment with Faye, my

friend from Amsterdam. Faye was a good friend of ours at the time. She was

one of the only girls Stan and I ever met that wasn’t completely disgusted by

our general demeanor, raw sensibility, and disgusting home. After a while,

Faye was annexed into the same circle of friends, so we would see each other

more often than not in passing without knowing the other would be there. I

also saw her at school a lot those days as well.

That winter, the winter of “Anything goes in 2005” started out a year

that would exemplify that very pathos. I shaved my hair to a close to non-

existant length in symbolic reverence towards starting anew. It had been

about two years since I had cut my hair, and it was a quite a shift from

having long hair to having almost none.

Perhaps the only real event in that period of time was about a week

after New Year’s when I heard Liz’s birthday was coming up. They were

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talking about throwing a huge party, and I decided that my cousin and I

should DJ the event. Eric, my cousin, and I had been talking for years

online almost every day, and we were looking for a good excuse to spend some

time together. Around December, he had come down a few times to try to write

some electronic music with his new toys (a Roland MC303 and a microKORG

synthesizer for you gear heads out there.) Bearing this in mind, I offered

our services knowing damn well that he and I didn’t know dick about being

DJs.

Two weeks later, Eric and I showed up at the house with three crappy CD

players, my shitty mixer, a bunch of cables, two packs of batteries, and a

smattering of rap CDs I had downloaded off of the internet. We started at 5

PM, tapped the keg at 7, and quit around 5 AM. We had created a monster.

Even though we were using gear that any real DJ would laugh at and shit on,

we had that party entranced by the simple fact that there was a DJ there.

Around ten, Kim and I woke up and went out into the living room. We all got

breakfast, and then Eric and I headed back to my place talking about the

night before like high school football players after homecoming. We thought

we were the shit, and the only thing we could think about was buying more

gear, and becoming DJ’s. The only thing was, we didn’t want to listen to Rap

for an entire twelve hour set. You can only hear “get krunk nigga” repeated

so many times before you become enraged to the point of homicide, especially

when you primarily listen to death metal.

As the depression of winter grew, my discontent with life did as well.

I’ve always hated the winter, as do most, but it’s not because of the

Michigan lake effect snow. It just seems like I always get thrown in the

trash around that time. This winter was different, and I knew it. I had all

these friends, and I was making a shit ton of cash for a 19 year old kid- and

that meant I was having a good time. In retrospect, I know what people mean

when they say that money can’t buy happiness, but money meant happiness for

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me back then. Money meant a full stomach, a new batch of CDs every two

weeks, and bong slide full of weed every day. Sure I had bills to pay and

shit, but I was living in a college town. College towns are designed to be

conducive to college student incomes. That meant you could afford an

apartment and the internet, cable, and electricity on a cook’s salary. But

for two years now, I had been the college kid making twice as much as

everyone else. That meant that I could not only live comfortably with my

income, but I could afford my drinking, smoking, and drug habits while

maintaining the facade of a normal, functional member of society.

That January, I got a new car- a nice one this time. It was a 2002

Pontiac Grand Am, with a sunroof. I’ve never been a car guy, so I didn’t now

jack shit about the performance of the thing, but I knew it was black and had

a sunroof. But of all, though, I could afford it. I put faux lamb seat

covers on the front seats, and got some black fuzzy dice for the rearview

mirror and I was set. That same day I got a new cell phone and a new laptop.

I must say that I have this insatiable greed for creature comfort. That’s

why I quit the Buddhism studies. Buddhism’s main facets are a set of four

universal truths: People suffer, attachment causes suffering, removing

attachment ends suffering, and you can remove attachment by living according

to the eightfold path. I disagreed, again, with the religion I had found to

closely match my ideals. I like my stuff, damnit. I work my ass off for it.

Reality sunk in. How in the fuck was I going to pay for all this, and

what would happen to me if I lost my job? I did illegal things on a daily

basis, often at work. I mouthed off to people of authority on a pretty much

daily basis, and I hated my job- but at the same time, I was damn good at it

and there was no one who was going to argue with me. I started partying more

and more, drinking more and more, smoking more pot, more cigarettes, working

more, sleeping less, and eating less. It became known as the Zachus diet:

“70 hour, 7 day work week, one meal a day (usually with 2 or less basic food

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groups), three hours of sleep a night, and a pack of camel lights every day.”

I may not have been healthy, but I sure as fuck had a lot of time on my hands

and more money than I really knew what to do with. I wasn’t afraid.

That February, I finally stopped being a damn teenager and turned my

ass 20. I had made it for two straight decades now, and I was ready to do

the prep work for 21. I spent my birthday at Kim’s because they bought me a

fifth of Jack Daniels and made me a cake. After going out to eat with my

family as per custom, I headed up to Kim’s. Dennis drove me home, and I was

set for some birthday shut eye. Kim called me up crying hysterically around

four AM to tell me that three different guys had just all randomly called her

up and expressed their “undying love” for her. I thought it was pretty

funny, but she was genuinely upset, so I headed over there. While I was

there, another drunk ass motherfucker came over and sat at the bottom of the

stairs and did the same thing. By the end of the night, we were laughing

about it, she made her decision, and we passed out on the couch around six.

At seven thirty, my phone alarm went off because it was time for work.

Somehow I dragged my half drunk sleepless ass to Work and brewed the

strongest pot of coffee in history.

This was pretty much the pattern of how my day began. Day in, day out.

Whatever time I had left after work was set aside for friends. I never spent

a moment alone until I went to sleep. There was always someone there, even

if it was only Stan or Tarek. I wasn’t lonely, and there was always someone

to talk to. I guess that’s why I didn’t realize I was burning my candle at

both ends. I never really had any time to think about it, I was always on

the run picking up this bag or driving this drunk person home.

I did my first new store open for Work that march. Seven straight days

of working 7 Am to 11 Pm with no breaks, and teaching cooks at the same time.

After completing that hellish nightmare of a work situation, I fell

disgustingly ill. I walked in to work that Friday night looking like death

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warmed over, and one of the other managers was like “oh man, you’d better go

home,” so I did. I went to sleep around seven PM Friday night and woke up at

Ten PM Sunday to go do paperwork and inventory. I literally slept for 50

hours consecutively. The next Friday, I had my paycheck from that week doing

the open. It was one of the biggest I had ever gotten from Work. I can’t

remember specifically what I bought, but I guarantee you some of it was the

best weed money could buy in Kalamazoo.

Also, strangely enough, I hadn’t heard from Kim for a while. I called

her a few times, to no avail, and I decided it was time for us to part ways.

I never sang a bad song about Kim, and I always felt that at any time I could

resume my friendship with her. She’s one of the only people that haven’t

left my life on bad terms, and I’ll forever have her to remember for that.

March also meant Dennis turned 21, and we were all determined to make

him love alcohol. We skipped our life drawing class and headed out to the

strip club his sister worked at because she could get me in without being 21.

In Michigan, strip clubs are set up weird. If it’s a full nude club, there’s

no alcohol. If it’s a topless bar, you can have alcohol. We sat down at a

giant velvet lined booth and I sat amazed as we were surrounded by gorgeous

strippers referring to Dennis and I as their little brothers. I hear the DJ

saying Dennis’ name as I see him getting dragged up the stairs to the stage

by a pack of strippers wearing vinyl stiletto boots. Next thing you know,

they’re all going at him. They put a chair down leaning up against the pole,

and they are coming up to him one by one doing the stripper thing. One of

our “closer” (I use the term loosely, if you’ve ever been involved with

strippers you’d understand) friends actually climbed up this twenty foot pole

and slid down full speed onto his lap. It was fucking hilarious until they

said I was gonna be there for mine, and then I started making plans to get

the fuck out of dodge for my birthday. If they did this in strip clubs in

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Michigan, I could only imagine what Vegas would be like on my 21st, so I

started making plans.

It’s time for another sidebar, or digression, this time on the subject

of the employees of Strip Clubs. Never get involved with the inner workings

of a strip club. The only possible result is a cocaine addiction, sexually

transmitted disease, anorexia, bulimia, or a nasty combination of all four.

For a few weeks there, Dennis and I were veritable V.I.P.s at a local strip

joint. The problem with being the “little brother” of a stripper is that you

become the “little brother” of a bunch of strippers, which means this: You

will be awake at three in the morning, if you like it or not, to give someone

a ride home or to a “afterhours client’s” house. You got no ass from said

stripper because of your surrogate brother status, yet were still held to the

same “Cart my drunk bitching ass around because if you don’t I’m going to nag

you to death and complain until you do what I say because I’m a prima donna

stripper bitch” attitude. If you can get past the raunchy smell of body

spray, cigarette smoke, and vomit; hanging out in the dressing room of a

strip club is kind of like being inside soddom and gommorrah combined,

without the salt pillars and fire. All manner of debauchery happens before

your eyes. Rampant and blatant use of all manner of mind altering

substances, and sordid sex acts abound. Yet at the same time you see these

idealistic women (depraved, naked, and good looking,) you see these shattered

wrecks of human beings. The last thing they want to do is be harassed by

drunks, or groped by the poor, all while strutting their nude bodies about on

the stage. You can see it. Some of them pretend, and talk about how much

they love stripping and all the attention they get, but at the heart of any

stripper’s faraway gaze is the burning desire to get the fuck out of that

lifestyle no matter how hard the road may be. It’s quite sad.

Returning to the story… On our first dive into the wacky world of strip

club culture, Dennis drank something like two beers, which is a disappointing

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track record for your 21st birthday, but he was never really into the chemical

thing so we didn’t bug him that much (or at least we tried not to.)

Between Kim quitting her job where I worked, both our class schedules,

and life itself; Kim seemed to just disappear off the face of the earth.

Following the first new store open I did, I only talked to her a handful of

times ever again. It was about this time that our friend Katie came of Age.

She was finishing up her last year of high school, and her personality and

intellect were in line with Stan and I. This meant there was much revelry in

the apartment with Katie, and also a new circle of friends that brought me

back to a place I never thought I’d visit again: Hackett Catholic Central.

Katie was a tall, cute brunette. She was a stoner jam band groupie

through and through. The new age “Hippie” movement makes me laugh sometimes.

Although I get along well with hippies, the recalcitrant ideology that

resounds in punk echoes in the hippie movement as well. Fuck the

establishment that allows you to freely express yourself. Want to talk about

biting the hand that feeds?

Katie, barring her Senior year, went to the High School I went to

before Otsego, for my freshman and sophomore years. I left that place on bad

terms, and hadn’t really kept in touch with anyone there except Brian, which

was who had convinced me to go to Otsego High School. In fact, I had even

found out that Katie was dating one of my old nemeses from those days. His

name was Tommy. He used to throw shit at me in the hallways, but he’s a good

friend of mine now. You can’t let what happened in the past completely

affect your decision making. People change. I had changed a lot from those

years to where I was when Tommy crossed my path again. There’s no sense in

holding five year grudges. I guess Tommy embodies this little thought I had

that all people have some sort of good in them, even though I never saw it.

I’m sure he was always a pretty good guy, it’s just I never saw that side of

him. I think about things like that a lot when I think about the people I

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know on a sub-personal level. You never know when someone unexpected from

your past is going to creep up on you and totally change your opinion of

them.

On the other hand, I’m sure the fact that Tommy was commonly in the

possession of high quality marijuana influenced my view of him slightly as

well…

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 Chapter Seven - Hope

“People seemed to like our songs, they got up and danced and made a

lot of noise” – Frank Zappa

I got my tax returns back shortly after Dennis turned 21, and I bought

myself a brand new set of drums. I couldn’t have them at my apartment,

obviously, so I set them up at my parent’s house. I wanted to join a band,

but since I had already done the guitar and bass thing I wanted to try

something new. There was a guy at work that wanted to join a band, so he

brought over his friend from back home and we ran through a few stone temple

pilots songs. He sucked, so did the guitar player, so I stopped answering

their phone calls and did my best to avoid him at work. Soon enough, he quit

and I haven’t seen him again.

A few days after this, I got a call from my buddy Ken from high school.

I had talked to him off and on since school, and we had never really been

that great of friends, but I thought he was a pretty cool guy. He said he

wanted to drop by with a couple other guys I had known from school. Seeing

as how I had gotten out of school and took off running as far as life went, I

was ready to see a few of those fucks. He shows up at my place with John

Rose, a guy we used to call “wet weasel” and a guy by the name of Justin who

was our valedictorian (I think, anyway, I didn’t pay much attention to

commencement ceremony, I just wanted to get the fuck out of there.) Then,

much to my surprise, in walks none other than Ashley. I was speechless. She

gave me a hug and sat down. We all bullshitted through the night and passed

around the bong like it was an oxygen mask in a group of drowning divers.

Ken, who was quickly picking up the bass guitar, mentioned that he and John

had been working on material and needed a drummer so I told them to stop by

sometime to my parent’s house one weekend and we’d give it a shot. A few

days later, they were there, and we jammed for about two hours and decided we

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had just formed a band. I had finally found musicians of my caliber that

were ready to do some serious work. I was beyond excited.

Ken, John, and I jammed a few more times intermittently when my work

schedule allowed it. Also, Eric and I had been advertising like fuck to try

to get DJ shows because he had decided after Liz’s party that this was

something he really wanted to get into. One night near the end of March, I

got a random call from Alex. Alex was my only remaining friend from Kim’s

circle, and she wanted me to come out to this party at Kim’s new boyfriend’s

house. Since it was only five blocks away, I threw on some clothes and

headed out to see what kind of trouble I could get into. They started

feeding me beers, and then Travis (the guy Kim ended up picking out of the

group that had spoken with her on my birthday) started talking about how

there was going to be a major party at this house in April when their lease

(and graduation) was up. I wasn’t too drunk to know damn well how much they

“needed” a DJ and said to him “I kid you not, man, I will DJ this

motherfucker for free beer.” He agreed, and I called Eric to start making

plans. We got a date, and I decided I would buy a P.A. system so we could

seriously put on a show. Eric started pouring money into DJ equipment and

new CDs, and I started a pirating campaign that would have put Napster to

shame.

The day finally came, and I got my PA the same day the party was. I

threw it into the car from Guitar Center and brought it straight over to

Travis’ house to learn how to set it up. Eric showed up around six or seven

and we started playing music. Eight hours, a freestyle MC battle, five

hundred or so sorority girls, five kegs, and 6 half gallons later, the people

were all gone and Eric and I had found a new calling in life: We wanted to

do this on a regular basis if not for a living. I started hounding any

connections with the DJ world that I could muster, and got us a job at a bar

in a town an hour south of Kalamazoo. It was a little hick ass town, but it

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was a job nonetheless. We decided we didn’t like playing rap for college

kids, and we wanted to start playing European trance. All we needed was a

place to do it.

April showers gave way to May flowers, and I found myself doing another

new store open for Work, this time in St. Joseph. St. Joseph is about 45

minutes west of Kalamazoo along I-94 on your way to Chicago. It’s sister

town across the river, Benton Harbor, is known as one of the most ghetto

places in Michigan outside of Detroit. This meant I had the same work

schedule as the last time, but I also had a 45 minute drive each way. We

begged for a hotel room, but Work didn’t feel it was necessary. After that

was over, it was time for summer to start happening.

Summer started, officially, the day Stan and I decided to try

psilocybin mushrooms for the first time. It was early June and we had just

driven down to Indiana for cheap cigarettes and illegal (in Michigan)

fireworks for the upcoming Fourth of July. We decided to drive around

Kalamazoo throwing firecrackers at our friend’s houses, and ended up at our

buddy Seth’s house. He started talking about how some fucking ass hats had

thrown firecrackers in his yard while he was buying a bunch of drugs and

scared the shit out of him. We apologized, and then he said “hey- want some

shrooms?” We were bored and had nothing to do, so I hit up the ATM and came

back to see Seth in the kitchen, making us a peanut butter, mushroom, and

jelly sandwich. We ate them, and hopped in the car for the short ride home.

I sat down and started dinking around on the internet waiting for the buzz to

kick in. This was about midnight.

A few minutes later, Stan turns around and he’s like “Dude, I am super

fucked up” Three hours later, I was pissed because I had felt nothing. I

called up Seth and left him this voicemail about how bad his shrooms sucked

and about how pissed I was. I stood up and went to the bathroom to take an

angry shit before I went to bed. I was flipping through one of the various

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magazines, and happened to glance over at a piece of packing tape on the

ground that suddenly shot to life and started inching its way towards me like

a worm. I looked in the mirror and it seemed like it was a reflective

curtain waving in the now visible wind. “Hey dude,” I yelled to Stan in the

living room “I think I’m starting to trip.”

I stood up and immediately fell over as an intensely hot wave of

sensation ran through my body, as if I was spinning uncontrollably. I

started laughing, and Stan appeared in the doorway just in time to see me

start puking like I was in the exorcist. A thick cylindrical stream of vomit

came out of my mouth almost instantly, as I turned and aimed my head roughly

at the sink. As soon as that was over, the fun started. Before I knew it, I

was shirtless and licking the ceiling like some kind of animal. It lasted

for about two hours of sheer insanity, and ended with Stan and I driving out

to some railroad tracks in the early morning and then going to a park

downtown where bums sleep. We hung out with bums for a while, and smoked

cheap hand rolled cigarettes with them as they sipped off of cheap vodka

fifths. I noticed, accidentally, that their life was not remarkably unlike

ours. Sit down in the park (my apartment,) drink cheap liquor (popov for

them, black velvet for us,) smoke cigarettes (bugler roll your owns for the

bums, camel lights for myself,) and talk to people (like bums in a fucking

park!)

It’s strange how the use of hallucinogens, even mild ones like

psilocybin mushrooms, can instill a strange kind of bond between two friends.

Stan and I were best friends. We did everything together. Unless I was

sleeping or at work, he was constantly at my side. He was the perfect

sidekick to my demanding and ego-driven yet still reserved personality. He

was the yin to my yang. Between us, we made the perfect person that either

one of us wanted to be. I was the responsible one. I took care of the

bills, and the orchestration of our lives while Stan stood guard at my side

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offering his zany wit and humor to any situation, and smoothing over my

generally abrasive nature in large groups.

Stan was the guy that was going to come the party, immediately hit up

the keg, and just start yelling random things until he got someone to yell

back. He’d come in, drink up as much alcohol as he could possibly consume

within the first hour of a party, and be a non-stop riot throughout the

duration. We’d show up together and become a spectacle, wrapped in black

clothes with liquor bottles and bong in tow, offering to be the counterpoint

to anyone’s drinking or smoking challenges.

Our friendship began to forge deep connections those bright spring

days. I think back on it now and I can still smell the rich air of an April

morning in Michigan. The smells of nature run rampant, as if kept hidden by

the thick blanket of snow from the winter. Flowers start to bloom, rain

starts to fall, things begin to grow. You can smell worms in the morning

after a violent thunderstorm, and you can smell nature opening up. Stan knew

it and so did I: there was nothing short of adventure in store for us.

Neither of us knew what we were doing in life, and neither of us cared. We

just knew that we wanted to be alive, and take what we could from life.

Tarek was more of a person we happened to live with out of random

chance than a friend at this point. He was usually there, but wanted no part

in Stan and my late night ramblings with whomever we were entertaining. The

rampant drug and alcohol abuse coupled with viewpoints entirely opposite of

his strict Islamic ideals led Tarek to fade away into oblivion with Ilyse,

and just sit in his bedroom and eat.

Stan and I would talk long into the night about all manner of things.

We’d talk about life, work, where we wanted to go, where we’d been, what we’d

done, who we’d known, things we had in common, ideas we had, philosophies we

shared, things we wanted to do, places we wanted to see, and people we wanted

to meet. We made a pact that no matter where life took us, we’d be able to

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lean on each other. Stan had partied his life away into a mass of debt and

crime history. I saw through his rough exterior for what he really was: an

extremely intelligent person with little to no conscience whatsoever. Stan

was everything I ever wanted to be and couldn’t because of my own self-

restraint brought on by my Catholic upbringing and reserved nature. He was

an opportunist, and a crafty one at that. To me, he was as much a hero as he

was a best friend. We came upon an “arrangement” as we called it. I would

help Stan get to where he wanted to go in life, if he would help me become

what I wanted to be personally. We vowed that no matter what life threw at

us, we’d always be able to sit on the fucking couch, smoke a bowl, and laugh

about it.

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 Chapter Eight - Escape

“The Road, It’s home” – Devin Townsend

A week later was my dad’s parent’s 60th wedding anniversary. One

problem: it was in L’anse. That’s ten hours away, and I only had that

single day off. I wanted to go up there so bad, but I couldn’t figure out

how I was going to manage to do it. I worked all week, got out of work at 5

on Friday, had to be back at three on Sunday. I managed to get someone to

cover the first few hours of my shift on Sunday night, and that left me with

a little more than forty eight hours to have a family reunion ten hours away.

I took a quick nap after work and a meal (don’t forget about the bong rips!)

and hopped in my car at Two in the morning and just started to drive. The

drive was gorgeous. The sun rose about six, and I was about an hour or so

southwest of the bridge that goes to the upper peninsula of Michigan. The

Mackinaw bridge, as you may know, starts in Mackinac City and crosses the

peak of the great lakes into St. Ignace. I got out of my car for the first

time in Mackinaw to refuel, within sight of the bridge. I pounded a few more

rock star energy drinks, sucked down a few cigs, and drove for the bridge. I

was making great time as I didn’t have to be in L’anse until noon, so I

decided to stop at the plentiful rest stops and scenic points along the road.

Believe me, you, when I say that the upper peninsula of Michigan is some of

the most beautiful scenery in the fucking country as far as I’m concerned.

I arrived in L’anse, put in a phone call to my grandma, and I headed up

to their apartment above my Cousin Riley’s house. People were there, but

everything was kind of chill and I got to have a really good conversation

with my Grandma about how modern prescription medicine is making us into a

bunch of pill-poppers that keep having more problems. Someone offered her an

aspirin for her bruised knee, and they got a grandma-bitching they didn’t

barter for. My parents showed up around three after some sightseeing with my

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little brothers who hadn’t been up there nearly as much as I had by their

age. We all headed down to the Knights of Columbus hall and had ourselves a

yooper party. In case you didn’t know, Yoopers are people who live in

Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. The people who live in the lower are either

called flatlanders or trolls depending on who you ask. There are all sorts

of social stigma with being a yooper or troll, but I don’t need to get into

that dorky Michigan slang. After the party, I took it upon myself to show my

little brother Dan all the places I had visited when I was a kid. We drove

around to various waterfalls, shrines, and graveyards and headed back around

dusk. I was turning around the last bend before Riley’s and all of a sudden

there’s a fucking deer right in the middle of the goddamned road. I smacked

that fucker good, and he took out a fair section of my bumper. Shaken but

not stirred, I headed back to Riley’s so my mechanic uncles could take a peek

at my car and make sure it was cool to drive home. After bullshitting with

my family, which I don’t get much of a chance to do anymore, my parents

headed for their hotel, and I headed for a beautiful lake access to park my

car and pass out in the back seat. My mom begged me to let her get a hotel

room for me, but I would have felt bad. Besides, I wanted to wake up to the

sun rising over Lake Superior. I ripped on the bowl a couple times, smoked a

cig, and took a walk along the beach.

It was around this point I began to start thinking. Instead of writing

my exact thoughts, I have a set of song lyrics that adequately describes

exactly the feelings I had. It was the first time I had really been alone in

months if not years. The lyrics are from a song named “Detox,” on Strapping

Young Lad’s CD City, and are as follows:

How did I get here tonight?

What am I doing here?

How did I reach this state?

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 How did I lose my sight?

I’m lost, I’m freaking, and

Everybody knows, and everyone’s watching

So here are all my hopes and aspirations

Nothing but puke

God, I’m so lonely.

There I was in the middle of fucking nowhere, Michigan, sitting on a rock

watching the moon reflect on the waters of the largest inland lake in the

world, and all I could think about were my stupid problems. The biggest

problem of all was that I didn’t really have any problems; I just wasn’t

anywhere near where I had expected to be. I was beginning to fail miserably

at college, I hated my job, I hated my annoying ass roommates, I hated being

a drug user out of general respect for my parents, I hated just about

everything about myself. It became a memorable inner monologue when I

realized that no matter how much I hated my spot in life, I was having a

blast. As much as I hated who I was, I enjoyed the people I was around, and

I loved being alive. Life isn’t really about who or what you are, that kind

of shit doesn’t matter. Life is about being alive. It’s about experiencing

things, it’s about dreaming, and it’s about living day to day. There are all

sorts of stories to tell by the end, but you can only remember a few of them.

It’s what happens every day that really matters. People tell me “Don’t sweat

the small stuff,” but I disagree. You may not necessarily have to put stock

into the small day to day shit you have to deal with, but it’s the bulk of

the experience. Life is a day to day existence peppered with major events

that usually end up affecting your reactions to the small stuff. This is why

I say sweat that fucking small stuff because it does fucking matter.

I woke up that morning, just as I imagined, to see the sun rising

calmly over the placid waters of early morning superior. I thought for a

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second about those poor fuckers in the Edmund Fitzgerald while fading back to

a peacefully light nap. I heard a knock on my foggy car window, and looked

up to see my Dad standing there. He says “let’s get some breakfast.” I

couldn’t have agreed more. He brought me back to the hotel restaurant and we

had a giant buffet breakfast of various incarnations of sautéed pig, hash

browns, and eggs. It was delicious.

My Dad and I shot the shit for a while about life. You see, as an

adult, I’ve found that my already strong relationship with my parents has

developed into this sort of mutual respect that no 16 year old kid will ever

understand until he gets older. My mom came down and joined us while my

brothers slept. I can’t remember exactly what we talked about, but I’ll

never forget the moment. This was the first time I looked at my parents and

saw equals. This was the first time I saw my parents as human beings. They

weren’t just my authority figure parents, but real people just like me. They

had their own parents, their own memories, and their own ideals. These

memories and ideals were different than mine, even though some (if not most)

were in common. It may have been the fact that I had been so separated from

them for the last two years. I hadn’t seen them in a while, except for the

various quick visits, so I had never really sat down and talked to my parents

about nothing in particular for quite a long time.

I wish there was a way to properly thank my parents just for being who

they are. Growing up, I was constantly barraged by friends with stories

about their overbearing and misunderstanding parents. I had always thought

that maybe my friends were just complaining, because at times I felt

overborne and misunderstood, but the key difference was that my parents were

teaching me not to do what I wanted, but to do what was right for me. My

mother has a capacity for kindness matched by no other human I have ever met,

and my father is what I consider to be the truest definition of a man. There

is no possible way that I could have ever become who I am, or learned so much

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about the world without them. My respect for my parents really knows no end,

and “honor thy father and mother” is the only commandment I really agree with

to the fullest extent.

My brothers finally woke up (after my dad singing improvised off-pitch

opera and flipping the lights on and off) and we headed back to grandma’s. I

said my goodbyes and hit the road after a few cups of coffee. I drove back

confident that I had achieved a new satisfaction with where I was in life.

Even though shit was getting pretty bad, I still had that feeling of

understanding to fall back on. I knew that wasn’t the end of hard times, but

I knew that I could at least enjoy every experience in life no matter if it

was good or bad. It’s very important that I learned this lesson, because the

summer of 2005 was the calm before the storm.

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 Chapter Nine - Indifference

“Cuz rockin’ and rollin’… is only howlin’ at the moon…” Kansas

Summer was speckled with brief memories of band practice at John’s

house in the woods, driving around on hot summer days with a car full of pot

smoke, and drunken nights at the strip club. We had bonfires at Dennis’

house, we went fishing, and we tried to stay out of trouble. Work even

relented a little bit. I started working normal 40 hour weeks, and even got

myself on a bit of a daily routine for a while. It seemed as if things were

going to be Ok, and I could start at Western in the fall. I was set and

ready. I had my student loans, everything was working well, I didn’t hate my

job nearly as much, and I was genuinely happy with the way things were going.

Our lease ran up at the end of July, and then we were going to move

into a house, and I could finally have all of my recording equipment, drums,

etc. at the same place I lived. I couldn’t wait. We just had to make it

through the summer, which was proving to be quite easy- and even, dare I say

it, fun.

One day, I came home from work, and there was a red piece of paper

taped to our door kindly reminding us that our lease ran out July 15th. I

read it and stood there for a while, and realized that the fourth had already

come and gone, and that the fifteenth of July was Friday, and it was Monday.

Then I called my parents.

On July 14th, Katie came over for the last smoke in our apartment. Stan

and I were to be moving in with my parents until I had saved up enough money

to afford the security deposit and first month’s rent on a house. We managed

to pack up all of our shit and get the fuck out of dodge in less than 4 days,

which was quite a feat considering the ridiculous amount of “stuff” I had

accumulated in two years of living in that apartment. I assembled a

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veritable army of family members and friends to assist me in moving pretty

much all day every day for the beginning of that week.

I opted to stay in my parent’s basement kitchen so I wouldn’t feel bad

about putting my drums in Stan’s “room,” and I let him take my old bedroom.

Living at home again was nice, seeing as how the pantry was always stocked,

and my parents never really gave me any shit about coming home at all hours

of the night and morning.

I started classes at Western Michigan University, and made a deal with

Bruce so that I wouldn’t have to be working ridiculous hours. I woke up

every morning, went to class, and then went to work. It was great to be at a

University, taking real classes, actually learning. Ken and John would come

over and Jam whenever all three of us had a spare hour or three, and we were

beginning to write an album. I set up all my recording equipment, and we

started running demos of songs and organizing our ideas.

By September, I had worked myself into a comfortable little rut of

school and work. I had my schedule, and I had my plans. I was beginning to

get lots of respect at my job, and I was taking on more and more projects for

the franchise business office. I started working with subordinate managers

so I could get all of my paperwork done, and it was starting to become more

of a desk job than a restaurant management job. I was analyzing food cost

for multiple stores, and I was put in charge of creating a training program

and condensing it from five days with two people to three days with one. I

was put in charge of a financial tracking computer software system rollout,

and I received calls on a daily basis from stores all over our geographical

region. I was beginning to become important, and I was getting noticed for

it as well. The General Manager of the store I worked at before I went to

Egypt got promoted, and I decided it was time to make my move for the

position. I sent a few emails to the right people, and managed to get myself

an interview.

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 Entirely and completely out of character, I managed to shock everyone

by taking out my earrings, cutting off my hair, and shaving my beard.

Barring that one symbolic head-shaving, I hadn’t done any of those things

since I was a sophomore in high school. I walked into that interview more

confident than I had ever been about anything before. I had piles of copies

of things I had written for the company, along with a training program I

wrote myself for the General Managers I had personally trained. When I

reminded them that out of their seven restaurants, three of them had active

General Managers that were trained by me, I knew I had the job by the look in

their eyes.

One week later, I got called back into the business office for a second

interview. When I got there I took a seat in the lobby, and was soon greeted

by the entire staff and congratulated for becoming the youngest General

Manager in the history of the company. Before my 21st birthday, I had managed

to work myself up from peon grill cook to a General Manager making $35,000 a

year (which was damn good, especially for a 20 year old college kid) and a

monthly bonus from $200-$1500. I had a lengthy benefits package, and respect

from all my colleagues.

I had to drop out of school, which was hard for me to do. There was no

way I was going to be able to take care of my restaurant and take care of all

of my homework, and you don’t get paid to go to college. I decided that I

needed money a bit more than I needed to complete my schooling, which is an

arguably bad decision.

With my first salaried paycheck and a glint in my eye, I set out to

look for a house. John had since moved out of his parent’s house when I got

him a job working for me in the Kitchen, and he was going to move in with

Stan and I. Now that we had our third roommate and I had the cash, it was

time. I picked up John at the place he was staying, and we got a copy of the

newspaper. I called a few landlords and made appointments that day to check

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out a few houses in the area. The first one to call me back was a guy by the

name of Brian who set up an appointment at the cheapest of the few houses I

was looking at, so John and I headed over to check it out. We arrived before

the owner, and took the liberty of walking around the house and looking in

the windows. The house was on a high hill, above all the others in the

neighborhood. It was like a castle. We went inside the house, and I started

to fall in love with it. It was perfect for three twenty-somethings looking

for a bachelor pad. The second floor was all one master bedroom, with a

giant walk-in closet and a slanted ceiling. There was a giant porch over-

looking a yard ten feet above all the other houses in the neighborhood, with

all manner of menacing half-dead trees and other vegetation overgrown around

the perimeter of the yard, hanging over the retaining walls. The basement

was cavernous, with plenty of room for all of my recording equipment, and

more importantly for parties.

Before I knew it, we were moving in. I told the guy I’d meet him the

next day with the down payment provided I could have the keys by Friday.

That Thursday afternoon, I got a call while I was at work, and found out that

the keys would be hidden under a rock in the garage. I called Stan and John

at work and told them to meet me up there after work, to smoke a bowl in our

new house.

We all met up at the house, and then called a few friends over. Seth

came, Katie came, and John and Stan brought a new chick from work. We sat on

the floor of the living room and started talking about where we were going to

put furniture and stuff, and then we all headed for home to rest up for

moving day.

Within a week, we were in and mostly settled. I had started working at

my new job, and everything was going well. We decided it was time to have

our housewarming party. I spent hours on the phone inviting people and

giving directions. Friday night, we got out of work and bought a bag of pot

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and a few bottles of liquor. It was party time. A bunch of people showed

up, new and old friends alike, and we kicked the new pad off with a bang.

Now John and I could practice every day, and we could have Ken over whenever

he wanted to.

That night we had the party; John invited that chick from work over

because he was trying to get into her pants. She ended up passing out on the

couch, and the next morning we all woke up and she said she’d be back later

that night. Her name was Hannah. She was a tiny little thing, easily a foot

shorter than me, with a delicate frame that was well shaped, yet at the same

time she had this overpowering presence that led you to believe she was a lot

more that what she let on. We picked up the mess, and had our “roommates

only” party that Saturday night. It was our first night of relaxation as

opposed to moving furniture and hooking up TVs and computers. Hannah came

over later, and we were all having a good time drinking and partying in our

new pad. No one could have ever guessed what was about to happen to all of

our lives.

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 Chapter Ten - Peril

“I met a girl; I met a girl – at random!” – Devin Townsend

The next weekend, Hannah came over again. We all drank a bit, and then

Stan and John passed out. Ken had brought over an air mattress for when he

stayed there, so I told Hannah she could use that if she didn’t feel like

sleeping on the couch. I told her she could put it on the floor in the

living room, keep it in the basement, or put it in my room. There was a bit

more space in my room, so she put it up there. I got ready for bed, threw on

some music, and hit the sack. About an hour later, I woke up to a quick tap

on my shoulder. I looked up to see Hannah, and she says, “Zach, can I sleep

with you? It’s cold.” I’m thinking “Fuck yeah, you can sleep with me,” but

I said something like “Yeah, I guess.”

The next question was a bit more direct than I expected. “Can I take

off my clothes?” The next thing you know, we’re going at it like animals.

We stayed up all night talking –among other things- and passed out somewhere

around eight in the morning. Later that afternoon, she wakes up and throws

on my bathrobe to go downstairs and take a piss. I threw on some pants and

went down to have a cigarette, only to see John on the couch. Over the

course of the night, I had completely forgotten that John was after Hannah,

and I could see it in his eyes – he knew what happened. Hannah split during

the early afternoon hours, and John headed out to work. I knew I had just

gotten myself in a jam and I needed some relationship advice, so I called up

the person I always call in that event- my cousin Eric. After an hour so of

worrying about girls coming in between friendships and the band, I decided

that I wanted a girlfriend, so fuck him. I called Hannah, and went over to

her apartment. I found out she was engaged, and living with her boyfriend.

Clint, her boyfriend at the time, was the leader of a band I was

supposed to have tried out for when I quit Mexem, but I didn’t go to any

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rehearsals because they were in Battle Creek. At the time, I didn’t want to

drive that far just to play bass in another shitty Nu-Metal band. I knew He

was a chump, and I knew I could beat him out, so I started putting the moves

on her. I wanted a bit more than a random drunken hook-up. We ended up

heading back to my place, and she ended up deciding she was going to break up

with Clint and go out with me. She gave me her ring she always wore around

her neck, and we were together. She ended up staying with me for a few more

days, and then we both decided that the tension in the house was a bit

excessive. I owed John a conversation, and she was gonna stay home for a

night so I could talk to him.

My conversation with John consisted, pretty much, of me saying “She

likes me, you’re out of luck. Sorry.” We agreed not to talk about it any

more, and I apologized for stealing his girl. The keystone of my argument

was the fact that she invited herself into my bed, and invited herself onto

me. She wanted me and not him, so it was logical to me that he couldn’t have

her.

I wanted a cat. The one thing I really missed about being home with my

parents was always having cats around. I like cats. They’re soft and

friendly. Dennis had a bunch of cats in his barn, so when one of them had

kittens, I decided to get one. We named it Melinda, after the character of

Opeth’s album “Still Life.”

Opeth came to Detroit in October, after releasing their album, “Ghost

Reveries,” and were starting to take their scene by storm, and even crossing

over into the mainstream of Heavy Metal. I had been watching their career

since 1999, when “Still Life” came out and this was my first chance to see

them live. I jumped at it. The show was great, and we all drove home with a

post-orgasmic look on our faces ready for a night of celebratory

intoxication. We had a full house of John’s friends when we came back, even

better an atmosphere for partying. After a few shots of Jager, it was time

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for bed. Hannah and I went upstairs and fell asleep. After a while, she

woke me up as she was getting out of bed to take a piss. I fell back asleep,

and woke up the next morning to an empty bed with my bedroom light still on.

I went downstairs and no one was there, but Stan’s room was open, lit, and

empty. I went to the basement to see Hannah wrapped in Stan’s arms with an

empty bottle of liquor at their feet. Naturally, I freaked out.

They woke up a few hours later and realized they had passed out in the

basement, so I figured everyone got a bit too drunk and passed out. Life

continued as normal, and Hannah still spent about every day and night at our

place. On the first of November, she officially broke up with her fiancée.

It was a rough breakup, and she was pretty upset about it. I bought her some

flowers, and we headed back to my place after work.

I found out I was going to be in Muskegon (about an hour west of Grand

Rapids) for a week to open a new unnamed Mexican restaurant hell for the

citizens of that city. Hannah was pretty upset to find out that I was going

to be gone, but I knew I had to do it for work. Because of my now tremendous

workload, it was obvious that I couldn’t continue doing the training, so I

had to finalize my program and train the kitchen manager at the new store to

be my replacement. I had my work cut out for me, so I spent the next few

days assembling my notes and building a document.

The time finally came, and I had to leave at like five in the morning

to get there on time. I got out of bed, packed up my shit, kissed Hannah

goodbye and hit the road. Later that evening, I checked into my hotel room

and gave her a call. We talked for about two hours, and I hit the sack after

a couple hits off the old bowl.

I had to come back down to Kalamazoo for a staff meeting that Sunday

evening, so I hopped in my car and headed back. I didn’t care about all the

driving, because I was getting paid mileage. I was going to get a fat check

commuting like that, and I was more than willing to have two hours on the

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road to myself. I got back home to an empty house and changed my clothes. I

headed up to the store to give my speech, and found out there was going to be

a party at our place afterwards. I was kind of pissed because I wanted to

have a night in my own bed with my girl, but knew I couldn’t be around a

party because I needed sleep. I headed back with Hannah in tow, and

bullshitted with people from work for a while. I said my goodbyes and headed

back up to my hotel room in Muskegon.

I finally got home that Wednesday morning after the shit hit the fan in

my restaurant without me there, and I was ready for a long weekend of

catching up on paperwork I couldn’t get done while I was out of town. More

importantly to me, however, I wanted to hang out with my chick. I opened my

desk drawer to look at the ring she had given me, and it was gone. Now I was

confused. When I called her, she didn’t answer. I had too much on my plate

work-wise to really worry about it, so I didn’t end up talking to her until

that Saturday night.

When I finally got a call through to her, she told me she was going to

hit the showers and head over. Ken and I were sitting on the couch after a

Jam session, and I was waiting for her to come out when I got another call.

I picked up the phone to hear Hannah crying hysterically and telling me to

come over right away. I can’t stand to hear a girl cry, so I was there in a

heartbeat. I walked into her apartment, and all the lights were turned off.

I walked into her room and saw a graveyard of empty beer and liquor bottles,

and my girlfriend lying naked on her bed in her bathrobe, covered in blood

leaking from her arms. She was half asleep, delirious, and holding a kitchen

knife. I took the knife away from her, and tried to calm her down. After a

few hours of talking, I found out she was so upset because she was pregnant

from her fiancée and wanted to get back together with him to have the baby

and didn’t want to tell me. I did my best to comfort her while mentioning

that an abortion was probably a good option at this time, and that she was in

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no way capable of raising a child on her own and that I wasn’t going to take

care of a child that wasn’t mine. I knew I wasn’t the only dude she was

fucking by now, or I at least had a pretty good idea. I don’t really try to

think about those things too much. I’m nearsighted. Literally, and

Figuratively.

She cleaned up and we headed back to my place so she wouldn’t be alone.

I was shell-shocked. I had never expected this to happen. Work was getting

crazy on a wagnerian scale. I was in that place every day for at least eight

hours, but usually closer to twelve. I would be there multiple times a day

to take phone calls, place food orders, and then run a shift that evening. I

was getting no sleep whatsoever because Hannah would get out of work at 11,

and then we would hang out until the early morning. I would get up for work

at seven, and she would sleep all day, so she wasn’t missing out on any sleep

where I was getting less than four hours a night. Things were never really

the same after that, and she started acting strangely. More and more, she

would pass out on the couch instead of upstairs with me, and that was

starting to take a toll on my psyche as well. John was also behaving

strangely, and everything came to a head the weekend before Thanksgiving.

Everyone was drinking to excess, and I had sworn off alcohol partly due to

the fact that I was constantly surrounded by drunks, and partly due to the

fact that it’s just about impossible to apply yourself with sleep deprivation

and a hangover. I was even smoking less pot, as that tended to distract me

from my work as well.

I asked Stan about the pregnancy later, and they were always really

unclear about it. He told me that she said the last time “that happened,”

she just drank Jager and punched herself in the stomach every night while

jumping up and down until she had a miscarriage. I thought that was pretty

twisted, but nothing really phased me anymore.

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 The weekend before Thanksgiving, Eric and I decided to throw a party so

he could practice DJing and use all his new gear he’d been buying and start

putting together a demo so we could get jobs DJing in clubs. After a few

fifths of Jager had been consumed, Stan started screaming and acting like a

maniac. Before I knew it, I could hear the sound of fists hitting walls, and

soon the sound of fists going through walls. Eric and I tried to calm him

down to no avail, so we sent in the female reinforcements. Hannah went into

Stan’s room and never came out. I came down the next morning to take a piss,

and Stan’s door was open. I could see Hannah’s clothes on the floor, and the

outline of two bodies in the bed. I couldn’t take it, so I split. I drove

around until I came home and her car wasn’t there. I witnessed the aftermath

of drunk Stan, and John was freaking out about all the damage to the house.

Later that evening, Hannah came back and told me that nothing happened; she

was just hot so she took off her shirt. I didn’t buy it. John had taken off

to a coffee shop to hang out with his friends, and Hannah decided she was

going to stay home for the first night in a while. A few minutes after she

left, she reappeared in my bedroom, holding a piece of paper. What follows

is a transcript of that note:

I’m sorry I wasn’t able to convince you. It’s a little late, but I

could show you a love you never dreamed possible. I would spend my life

ensuring that there is no one on this earth as devoted to you as I am. Alas,

now I must go. I cannot bear to see you with anyone else, and I know myself

well enough to know I would never give up on you. My only wish is [that] you

realize I’m the best thing that had ever walked into your life.

By the time you read this letter I will have already enlisted into the

military. I did it for you. I need to prove I am not the loser you think I

am. If you want to say goodbye, I will be at the Club Soda the day after

Thanksgiving watching Kirby’s band play. I’ll never forget you.

With Undying Love,

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John.

He had put this letter in her car, apparently before he left for the

coffee shop. He never came back, and he didn’t show up for work the next

day.

Thanksgiving came and went, and then the following Monday, I heard a

knock at the door. It was just Hannah and I in the house, and Stan was

working, so I went to the door and said, “Who’s there?” I heard the deep

voice of John’s older brother saying “It’s the John and his brother. Let us

in or you’ll fucking regret it.”

I never wanted any trouble in my house, or in my life. I’ve never

really done anything to anyone to warrant any sort of personal attack on me

in any way, shape, or form. What happened that day still stings me to the

bone. I unlocked the door, and John’s brother kicked it in. I sat down on

the couch, and they proceeded to violently remove John’s possessions from his

room, which I had not gone into since he left. With every time he passed,

John’s brother’s looks at me became more and more sinister.

Finally, they had filled up their car and were ready to leave. John

stepped outside, and his brother started to leave and then turned around and

started talking shit. I asked him, politely, to leave, and then it turned

into a shouting match. I finally lost my cool, and yelled “tell your fucking

brother to stay the fuck away from my girlfriend.” He yells back, “He wants

nothing to do with that stupid bitch!” By this time, I’m pissed off. I

begged his pardon, and then grabbed the note and began to read small sections

such as “I know myself well enough to know I would never give up on you.” He

knew he was wrong, so he started getting flustered, and stuck his nose right

in my face. I couldn’t take it any longer, and he had some pretty bad

breath, so I punched him right square in his fucking face. He jumped on me,

ripped off my glasses and got a good swing in on my left eye. I ran his back

into the arm of a chair, which caused him to surrender his grip and convulse.

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So I picked up a baseball bat and chased that fucker out of my house. I

turned around and instantly broke down into tears. I know, I’m a fucking

pussy, but that was the first time I’d ever hit a man. I’m not a fighter. I

don’t agree with it. I feel that all things can be solved by calmly

discussing them, but there was no calm discussion with this fucking oaf.

People like that only understand one thing: A punch to the fucking skull,

and that’s just what I gave him. That being said, I want to include one minor

detail. This guy was a Baptist minister. Only I could get in a fist fight

with a priest.

We pulled all of John’s gear out of the basement, and all of his

furniture out of the living room and threw it in the backyard with a tarp

over it. I called his mom and told him that if either of them came over

again, I’d have the police there to greet them. I told John’s brother that

if he ever came within five hundred feet of me, he’d be a dead man- and I

wasn’t joking. John picked at his stuff over the next few weeks, and every

once in a while I’d see something disappear from under the tarp. He never

picked up the majority of it, and I inherited a few new books, some CDs, and

some awesome seventies furniture.

I realized that this girl was becoming quite a hassle to deal with,

especially after I found out some guy paid her to suck his dick at my friend

Katie’s boyfriend’s party later that weekend. I had just had the first fight

in my life for her, and she was out sucking other guys’ dicks while we were

presumably still going out. More and more I’d find her passed out on my

couch with some asshole from work, or (even worse) in Stan’s bed. I wanted

to get rid of her, but she was pretty much all I had left. My friendship

with Stan had deteriorated to saying hello at work and giving him rides here

and there. Dennis was promoted to director of information technology and had

no time for hanging out with me between his work and this new chick he was

trying to see. All my other friends were going to class and working and

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didn’t have much time for me, so I had my girlfriend and my cat, Melinda, and

that was pretty much it.

Ken decided he would take John’s room, and was waiting to get the money

to put up for rent. I was pretty upset with the way things were going all of

a sudden, and I did what I always did in those times: I surrounded myself

with work. I spent every waking hour there, doing one thing or another. It

kept me busy, and it kept me sane. We were having staffing problems, and I

had been given an entirely new management staff with no training or

experience. I had no assistant, and it was the busiest restaurant out of the

eight they had operating. Needless to say, I was fucked. I got a call from

the president to prepare for a meeting to explain the state of my restaurant.

I knew they had it in for me, so I worked my ass off on a presentation to

convince them I had everything under control- which I did.

I was extremely nervous walking into that office. I knew I was

fighting an uphill battle to keep my position, and I knew they were tired of

hearing excuses. I went through my presentation, and then stopped suddenly

after I got a few looks from the CEO. I was soon interrupted with the words

no one ever wants to hear: “We just don’t think this is working out for

either party at this time.” They demoted me back to Assistant Manager, and

told me I’d be up for re-evaluation in ninety days. I knew it was bullshit.

They were nice enough to keep me at my salary, because I was still a value to

the company with my training work, and my knowledge of their organizational

systems.

I had been demoted back to my old position at West Main, effective

immediately. Within a week, my relationship was in shambles, my career at

the un-named Mexican restaurant hell was essentially over, my roommate was

gone (but more importantly, my guitar player was gone), my best friend had

started hanging out with my girlfriend, and I couldn’t talk to my parents

about any of it because of the intermittent drug and alcohol abuse and

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explicit episodes of premarital sex that I really didn’t feel comfortable

discussing with them. I had nowhere to go, and no one to turn to. I began

to wonder what was to become of me and my life, and I decided I had to talk

to someone. That someone ended up being Bruce, my boss.

Bruce and I had shared some moments over the last couple of years, and

he had been a very good person to me. I looked up to him a lot, but felt

really immature going to him with my problems. After all, I had lost so

much, but I still had my pride.

I felt a little better after talking to Bruce, and I came home that

night to Stan and Hannah finishing off another fifth of Jager. Their

drinking was becoming an issue. We’re not talking a beer every once in a

while, or even a few shots. We’re talking a bottle each and every fucking

day. They were alcoholics. They were drinking buddies. They were beginning

to spend a whole lot of fucking time together. I told Stan we needed to

talk. That’s always a shitty thing to have to say, because it never means

anything good is about to happen. Both parties knew, and neither of us

wanted to have that conversation. The next morning, Hannah left for work,

and I caught Stan before he jumped in the shower.

“Right here, right now- tell me. Are you fucking my girlfriend? I

can take it, just tell me the truth.”

“No, man, you know I wouldn’t do that to you! She sleeps with me,

sometimes, but she sleeps with you without having sex, doesn’t she? Just

because she’s sleeping with me doesn’t mean we’re fucking each other.”

“I don’t know, man, I think we should just tell her to fuck off. This

chick is starting to cause way too many problems. For a while, I thought I

was really getting into her, but I’m fucking sick of all this bullshit.”

“Well she’s still my friend, man, so she’s gonna be over. You don’t

have to go out with her, but I still wanna hang out with her- she’s my

drinking buddy since you decided to fucking quit drinking.”

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 “I guess I can be friends with her, but our relationship is going to

need some serious work”

That night, they got drunk again, and Hannah passed out with Stan. I

became unglued. I busted in on them, both asleep, Hannah Naked, Stan wearing

boxers. I ripped the blanket off of them, grabbed her arm, and picked her

up. As she’s wiping sleep from her eyes, I’m screaming at her.

“Why are you in bed with Stan?”

“I’m not in bed with Stan.”

“Yes you are!”

“Where’s my shirt?”

“On the floor, let’s go upstairs”

“We are upstairs, stupid!”

“No you’re not; you’re in Stan’s fucking bed!”

“Where’s Zach?”

“I’M TALKING TO YOU, YOU FUCKING DUMBASS!”

“Fuck you!”

She sits back down, grabs the covers, takes off her bra again, and

cuddles up next to my fucking roommate and best friend. I went insane. This

must be how John had felt. I know I felt like a piece of dog shit. It was

five in the morning, sleep was not an option at this point, and I sure as

hell couldn’t sit in that fucking house while they slept just feet away from

me. I didn’t know what to do, and there was nowhere to go. If I went to my

parent’s house, I would have to explain myself. I was in no mental condition

to tackle anything that emotionally horrible, so I got in my car and started

driving. Next thing I knew, I was in the cemetery where Steven was buried.

I walked to his grave in the pouring December rain of 2005, and collapsed in

a wet heap of insanity and self-loathing.

Steven was my little brother. My dead little brother. I don’t like to

talk about it all too much, but I had a brother pass away at a very young

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age. The traumatic event makes up some of the strongest glue that holds my

family together. When I really need a place to escape to, that’s where I

always end up. It’s just too bad it always seems to be raining…

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 Chapter Eleven - Catharsis

“And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make” – The

Beatles

I finally came to my senses lying on top of my little brother’s grave

wet, cold, and tired. My head ached, my vision was blurred, and I couldn’t

keep a straight thought in my head to save my life. I knew something needed

to change, but I didn’t know what. I hadn’t done anything but work really

hard, be a good friend, and try my best to make every day of my girlfriend’s

life a good one. I was a nice guy. Sure, I had my faults, but I never

intentionally hurt anyone. I never fucked my roommate’s girlfriend. I never

paid a chick to suck my dick at a party. I drank a beer every couple weeks

or so, and I had a tendency to smoke a bowl once or twice a day. I never

wronged anyone, I never told a lie, and I never did anything to cause all the

shit that was happening to me. I told myself to stop acting like a fucking

whiny emotional bitch, and to be a fucking man. I had spent a lot of time

asking myself what I would do if I weren’t afraid, but this time I had to ask

myself what would I do if I were afraid?

I stood up on my own two feet and promised myself I wouldn’t cry

anymore. I promised myself I wouldn’t act like a fucking child, running away

from his problems. I decided I wasn’t going to get walked all over by my

stupid fucking roommate and the stupid bitch he stole from me. Telling

myself all of this was quite easy, but actually trying to move on proved to

be much more difficult, and took quite a long time.

I went home and waited for the sleeping dogs to wake. I took Hannah

home, and talked to her about everything. I told her how I felt, and I told

her that the only thing that would make me end this all is for her to start

fucking Stan. We ended up going to this park downtown where they set up all

kinds of Christmas decorations. She gave me back her ring, and we decided

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that maybe we weren’t cut out to be in a relationship, but we’d remain

friends. Knowing damn well from experience that this doesn’t work, I decided

to take the opportunity to drag things out a while longer. Maybe it was

because I had grown accustomed to sleeping with someone, maybe it was the way

she smelled, I don’t know. Something made me decide to keep her around, I’ll

never know what it was.

The week after I started back at my old job, I got my paycheck. I was

paid my salary for the week I had at the old place, and then I was paid an

hourly wage for my time on the clock at the new store. I was furious. I

multiplied out the hourly wage, thinking they were paying me the equivalent

of my salary, and it was several thousand dollars short when calculated out

over time. I called in my subordinate manager to look at it again while I

went outside and chain-smoked in choked anticipation for the bitching that my

regional manager was about to receive. I knew at that moment that by the end

of this night I wouldn’t have a job. I didn’t know at the time if I’d be

fired, or if I’d quit- but I knew for sure this was my last day at Work.

I had to deliver a catering order 45 minutes out of town, and I called

my regional manager just before I left. Within seconds of our conversation

starting, I was screaming at her. I knew how bureaucracy worked. Someone’s

signature had to be on the paper that was sent to payroll to change my

information. That person’s signature was hers, and I knew it goddamned well.

I wanted to know why. I wanted to know why she had lied to me, and I wanted

to know why they had promised to give me the same amount of pay, and I let

her know how upset I was. She finally ended the conversation telling me

she’d get a hold of the president and find out why my wages had been cut.

I went on my order, and turned off my cell phone. I didn’t want to

talk to anyone; I just wanted to get the order delivered and get back to work

to finish my conversation. I made the delivery, and called my dad. I

figured he’d be the only one that would really understand the complicated

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work situation. I checked my voicemail, and got a message from the regional.

She said that if I still wanted my job, I was to call her. I figured I

needed the cash, so I called her. I apologized for being a dick, which I

was, and she told me the owner/CEO was there and wanted to talk to me. I

asked her if I was getting fired, and she said no, but that I would most

likely get written up and maybe suspended for a week or so. I walked in, and

the look on his face said otherwise. I put the money in the cash register,

and started to fill out the paperwork for the delivery. I walked into the

office, he followed me and said “don’t worry about the checklists, give me

your keys.” I looked up at him, confused and said “I take it I’m being

fired?” That guy is a dickhat. What’s his solution to his declining sales

and customer service issues? Fire the only person trying to do something

about it.

I almost made it home before it hit me. I wasn’t angry, I was

confused. I walked in the door to find Ken, who had started to move in his

stuff after I gave him the key I took back from Hannah, and said “I just got

fired, where’s the bong?” He promptly looked at me, bewildered, and handed

me the bong (already packed and waiting, we were potheads.)

That day was December 23rd, the Friday before Christmas. Not only did I

lose my job, but it was the weekend of Christmas. Now, in the last three

months, I had gone from ten dollars an hour to thirty five thousand dollars a

year. I had moved into a house under my own name, I had met a girl that I

actually liked. That girl was essentially living with me. Now, that girl was

sleeping with my roommate more than she was with me. Presumably, they were

fucking. I was getting no ass. This upset me. It wouldn’t have been nearly

as bad if I was getting laid and she fucked my buddy on the side, but she

just moved completely to his bed.

On top of all of this, the bills were starting to pile up and John had

skipped out. Stan didn’t give me any money; he spent the little he made at

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Work on liquor for him and Hannah. The day I got fired, they got drunk at

home, and then went to Hannah’s place to get drunk with people from work.

Ken took off around Midnight, and I was left to confront my demons alone.

The hours of self examination and suicidal thoughts that ensued were

some of the worst hours in my life. As far as the second part of that

sentence, any suicidal thoughts I’ve ever had in my life pretty much ended

within seconds of their emergence. I don’t cheat. Suicide is the cheater’s

way out. I may not enjoy my life all the time, but I sure as hell won’t give

it up that easy. Instead of becoming emotional or breaking things, instead

of smoking ridiculous amounts of marijuana and instead of drowning my sorrows

in a bottle of Jack Daniels, I picked up my guitar and started playing. I

played the guitar for about 20 hours straight, breaking only to piss and

smoke. I didn’t sleep for three days, and I spent Christmas with my family.

I got the fuck away from Stan and Hannah, and I hung out with my family. I’m

sure they knew something was going on. There was no way they couldn’t have.

The Zach everyone knew and loved was gone. I didn’t sleep or eat, and I

didn’t take showers. I didn’t shave. The months of constant partying,

malnutrition, and sleep deprivation had led me to lose an unhealthy amount of

weight, and everyone thought I was becoming anorexic. If I ate in a day, it

was a small meal, and sometimes I would go days without eating. Nothing

tasted good, and my stomach was so upset with the stress I was dealing with I

was eating a bottle of Tums every week. I was in a funk, worse than any I’d

ever experienced. I went from literally having everything I ever wanted: The

band (fun), The Job (work), the house (my castle), my girl (my girl), and my

Money (enough,) to having nothing, and losing it all. I couldn’t take it.

I know what it’s like to go insane. I know what it’s like to lose

everything you hold dear but the possessions everyone tells me to dis-attach

yourself from and the family beside you. The next weekend was a New Year,

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and I was fucking determined to turn 2006 into a good year no matter what it

took.

New Year’s Eve started the way it should: I woke up, smoked a bowl,

and started drinking. Hannah and Stan wouldn’t come home from work until 10,

which gave me plenty of time to get liquored up before I had to deal with

seeing them (they had been gone periodically for the last week.) Eric showed

up and set up his gear, and then other people started to arrive. Dennis, his

sister, and her boyfriend “J” came over, which was great. I hadn’t seen

Dennis for quite a while, because he was surrounded by work trying to set up

that software system I had been assigned to. When I got promoted, they

dumped it on him. He would have ended up doing it anyway, because I’m stupid

with computers, but it ended up being a huge task. On top of this, Dennis had

apparently started drinking and hanging out with one of the female managers

at the westnedge store. It was great to see him. I needed at least one of

my friends back.

Stan and Hannah came over, and I was already drunk as shit. They both

started drinking and polished off a bottle of Jager in about twenty minutes.

I was downstairs, and Hannah came down and started “dancing” with me. I use

the quotation marks because you couldn’t call it dancing as much as you could

call it drunken groping and me trying to hold her up on two feet. Midnight

happened, and we all made a toast to make 2006 a better year. This was

abruptly ruined by the sound of Stan once again demolishing his bedroom

walls. This time, however, he managed to kick holes in three doors, the

breezeway wall, the panel out of the screen door, and worst of all he ripped

the pirate flag off of my front porch and threw it in the street. Then he

hit the garage door and split his hand up good and started bleeding all over

the house. Someone dragged his screaming ass inside, and he passed out.

Meanwhile, I was downstairs trying to keep Hannah from climbing on my PA

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speakers like a toddler. She yelled at me to take her upstairs, and I

obliged. I asked her where to take her, she said the bathroom. The rooster

tail of vomit came streaming out of her mouth just short of the toilet, and I

soon had her positioned above the toilet. I didn’t care enough about her at

this point to hold her hair back, so I just left it where it lay and shut the

door. I didn’t give a fuck. I was drunk, and I wasn’t going to let any

amount of fuckery mess with my good time.

Stan emerged from his nap and stumbled out into the living room,

staring at the bathroom door waiting for Hannah to come out. When he heard

the toilet flush, he stood up and stood next to the door. When she came out,

he pressed his booted foot against her back and kicked her into his bedroom

face first onto the bed. He went into the bathroom, I went into his bedroom

to make sure she didn’t break her neck, and then left when he came in. The

door slammed shut, I resumed drinking. About fifteen minutes later, Stan

comes out of the bedroom with blood on his face and hands. Someone says “Is

that Hannah’s blood?” Stan says “maybe.”

For one reason or another, we didn’t step in. No one got involved. We

just pretended it didn’t happen. Stan and Hannah got drunk and no one wanted

to let it affect them anymore.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of Hannah’s car starting and

driving away. I tried my best not to think about what was most likely

happening. Everyone left and I was left by myself once again. I called my

friend Katie, who had remained an innocent third party in all of this, and

had been a very good friend to me by being a set of ears to listen to my

incessant whining. She and I decided I should write Stan and Hannah each a

handwritten letter telling them I’d give them each one more chance to stop

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fucking me over. I took a shot from a bottle lying on the floor and got to

work.

I got a call from Hannah, and then I went over to her place. They

acted like nothing had happened. They were just sitting on the couch,

sipping on beers and watching a movie. I had the letters in my pocket, but I

wouldn’t be the first to initiate conversation. After about an hour of

silence, I said “Well, I don’t want to do this, but I’m going to have to

leave. I’m going to put these two letters on the table. Read them if you

want. If you do, I’ll be at home. You know where to find me. “

About two hours later, they came home and we talked. We ceremoniously

re-hung the pirate flag, and announced that 2006 would be a year of

friendship and overcoming our personal demons. Stan was going to stop

drinking; Hannah would give up fucking the both of us for good, and remain

our friend. Ken would move in and be welcomed as one of us.

That night, Stan and Hannah went back to her house to drink. I

couldn’t take it. I called Dennis and told him to prepare for some drama. I

called Hannah’s phone after mustering up the courage, and got a call back

from Stan a few minutes later. He said she was in bed, and he was about to

join her. He made sure to annunciate those last few words in a particular

way that set me off. I laid into him about how horrible of a person he was,

and he told me to fuck off. He hung up on me, and then called me back a few

minutes later. Apparently, he had told Hannah he wanted to go home because I

was pissed and she told him she didn’t care about him anyway. I was on the

road, and I get another call from Hannah telling me to get there as soon as

humanly possible. I hightailed it, and called Dennis to tell him to meet me

there as soon as he could.

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 Hannah’s apartment was a war zone. The dining room table was broken,

pieces all over. The living room table was upturned and across the room.

The picture hanging on the wall had been replaced with a hole and a pile of

glass on the floor. There was a hole outside Hannah’s door, and beer bottles

all over the floor. I told Dennis to take Stan home. Hannah was hiding in

her closet. I opened the door; she reached for my hand to pull her up. I

looked at it and said “You tell me right the fuck now. Have you been fucking

Stan?” She said “Yes, and I don’t regret it.”

Those words sank deeper than any words I’d heard as of yet. I don’t

regret it. Fuck that bitch. I took her home with me, and I started packing

my shit. I had to get out of the house for a while. I had slept in my car

up in L’anse, and I could sleep in my car again. I grabbed my acoustic

guitar, a notebook, my computer, and some CDs. I went to Grand Rapids again

and talked things over with my brother. I spent two days in my car at a lake

access north of Kalamazoo. I bought a gallon of Gatorade and a loaf of bread

at a gas station before I left. I played my guitar for hours and hours. I

talked to my parents on the phone, and finally ended up meeting my dad in a

parking lot and telling him everything. I told him everything that had

happened. I needed someone to turn to, and it had to be my dad. This problem

was too big for me to deal with, and I needed his knowledge and insight. He

was more than willing to provide it. Getting everything off my chest helped

me to put things in perspective. Putting everything in perspective made me

realize that my decision had been made a month ago when I told myself to grow

up. I didn’t need to deal with Stan, and I sure as hell didn’t need to deal

with Hannah.

Less than a week later, after a few days of heavy recording,

everything seemed to be going fine. I had a bunch of new fuel for

songwriting, and I had been practicing a lot being out of work. That Friday

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night, we were all hanging out like we used to. The three roommates and

Hannah. Ken kept the bong filled, and Hannah even slept in my bed. I stayed

up for a while to hang out with my bros, and then I headed up. I started to

have problems breathing, and Hannah couldn’t sleep, so she went downstairs.

All of a sudden, it felt like something was wrong. I started having severe

pains in my chest, and my throat was swelling up, cutting off my air supply.

I began to freak. I examined my now swelling face in the mirror, and pushed

a piece of swelling from my jaw to my eye, and then back across my cheek. I

knew swelling was not supposed to move, and I knew there was a problem.

Hannah had to be to work at nine, so she split around seven. I called

Ken upstairs, who hadn’t gone to sleep yet, and begged him to get me some

ibuprofen to take down the swelling on my neck. My entire body hurt, and I

was in agony. Ken came back with the ibuprofen and it relaxed me enough for

the endorphins to kick in.

At this point, what happened became more of a lucid dream than anything

else, but what I remember has been confirmed by Ken. For whatever reason,

most likely the shock of being quite unable to breathe for what seemed like

hours, I found myself completely able to hear what was going on, but

completely unable to speak a word. Stan thought I had passed out, so he went

downstairs. I could still hear Ken sitting in my chair near the bed flipping

through a magazine.

After a few minutes go by, I hear Hannah’s car pull up the driveway.

Hannah’s car had quite a distinct sound. It wasn’t unlike a giant nineteenth

century steam powered machine. The door opens, and I hear her talking to

Stan at the bottom of the stairs.

“Is he OK?”

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“Yeah, he just passed out. Let’s go to bed.”

“Here’s ten bucks, get some cigs.”

“Ok, I’ll be back”

(Ken) “Where’d Stan go?”

“To get a pack of Cigarettes”

“Are you going to come up here?”

”No, I just left work and told my boss I’d had to take my friend to the

hospital, but since he’s asleep, I’m going to bed”

“He sounds pretty bad, he can barely breathe”

“He’ll be fine”

To be reluctantly but brutally honest with you, I thought I was going

to die in my sleep. I was not fine. I was far from it, and she didn’t give

a fuck. Worse yet, they were about to have sex while I lay in agony just

feet above them. It made the pain rise to a whole different level. Around

noon, Ken went downstairs to try to get some sleep. I laid there for a while

until I finally passed out. Around four, I woke up surprised to still be

alive, but in a hell of a lot more pain than I was to begin with. I needed

medical help. Ken didn’t know Kalamazoo that well, and I didn’t have the

energy to tell him how to get to my doctor’s office, so I decided to drive

myself. Arguably, that was a bad idea. Think drunk drivers are bad? Try dead

drivers. Yeah. I tried to call my parents, but they were in Grand Rapids

helping my Grandma move into her Assisted Living Center.

I didn’t want to go to the doctor without taking a shower, and I

figured the hot water would help me out a bit. It was quite the opposite,

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however. With every breath of hot steam came a stabbing pain in my chest.

Soon, I finished up and got the hell out of the shower, only to be attacked

again by the frigid air of our drafty house. Around seven I finally managed

to get a hold of my Dad on his cell phone, and told him I was afraid to go to

sleep because I couldn’t breathe very well. He told me to go to the doctor I

usually visit. I asked him if they would be open that late on a Saturday

night, and he told me to go to the E.R. if it wasn’t. I called him from the

empty doctor’s office and told him it was getting pretty bad, that I was

delirious, and that I shouldn’t be driving anywhere in the first place.

I drove to the E.R. to find a full parking lot. That really pissed me

off. Here’s me, with an emergency, unable to park in the fucking parking

lot. I ended up parking across the hospital in the parking structure and

walking my suffocating ass all the way to the E.R, where I was promptly

rushed into a room within minutes of them seeing my neck and hearing my

shallow gasps for breath. The doctors hemmed and hawed over me for a while

doing what doctors do, asking all sorts of seemingly irrelevant questions

about your personal life.

After a while, my Dad showed up and a doctor I hadn’t seen yet followed

him in. He said he had a hunch as to what my problem was. He told me about

this condition involving a hole in the lung that leaks into a fluid-filled

sack that surrounds your esophagus, Lungs, and Heart. After a few X-rays and

a CT scan, it had been determined that there were bubbles of air leaking

slowly up into my neck and collecting along my esophagus, slowly cutting off

air flow. What I had thought was swelling flesh was actually pockets of air

moving around under my skin. From what I understand, it was called

pneumophorax. …right.

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 I was immediately put on a heart monitor, and hooked up to an IV. An

Indian doctor came in, who was the assistant to the resident expert on my

particular condition. She insisted I receive a morphine shot every four

hours (without any sort of resistance on my behalf,) and be put on a one

hundred percent oxygen mix. She explained that the oxygen was more dense

than air, and would re-inflate my lungs which had partially collapsed due to

the air leaking out of them and putting pressure back onto the lung itself.

It seemed pretty fucked up to me, and I was getting scared when everyone from

the E.R. started coming in and saying “Wow, that’s the worst I’ve ever seen

it!”

I was brought up to a room, where I talked to my Dad for a few hours

until he went home to go to get some sleep. After having a few more morphine

shots, I could relax to the point where I could get some rest. I couldn’t

sleep, but I could at least relax enough to watch some TV and think for a

while. Growing up I always had this thought about being in the hospital. I

always wondered who would visit me. Would Hannah and Stan visit me in the

hospital? I had visited Stan in the hospital every time he was there. I was

always there, and I wondered if I would be afforded the same courtesy by my

friends?

My mom came straight from Grand Rapids and got there around nine,

shortly followed thereafter by Dennis and my Dad. We sat and talked for a

while, and then I had to take a few more tests. Dennis took off, and I sat

with my parents waiting for the results. Around four, I was released. My

mom took me to get some bagels and my prescription. I didn’t really want to

go home, but I needed some sleep.

Hannah and Stan were in Stan’s room when I got home (surprisingly

enough.) Ken, after a while, let me know they had fucked whilst I was assed

out in the hospital. Irritating, but not surprising. I decided to take it

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easy, playing some Final Fantasy VI on my play station upstairs. I took

three of my pain killers, took a shot of jack and passed the fuck out,

because it had been nearly three days since I had slept.

The next morning, (or, honestly, afternoon), Hannah woke me up before

she headed out to work. I was still getting used to the idea of my

girlfriend now sleeping with Stan, the bum that used to sleep in the corner

of my living room.

I was also growing more and more displeased with the way Stan spoke and

acted towards me. He was becoming increasingly smug, uninterested, and

unappreciative. He was just as unemployed and broke as me, except Hannah

kept buying him booze (which to his credit was more than I could get out of

her by that time.) Stan was my best friend, and we were slowly being driven

apart by a woman, the one thing friends always say they’ll never let get in

between them.

After a long, easy day of painkillers, bed rest, and video games, I

heard the short stride staccato of Hannah feet marching up my stairs. I

exhaled deeply waiting for the next sea of bullshit I was going to have to

swim through. She took a seat next to me on the bed, and asked me how I was

feeling. For a second, I almost thought she felt bad for my having had a

hole in my lung which nearly choked me to death.

We talked for about two hours until we were interrupted by the now

familiar sound of fists going through walls, and various things being thrown

about the house. I was sick, tired, sedated, and extremely agitated by

Hannah’s insincere rambling. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back,

and I was fucking furious with that piece of shit.

“That motherfucker is going to ruin your house if I don’t go down

there, you know,” Hannah said matter-of-factly. She heads downstairs, where

I can hear a struggling, and then I can hear her running up the steps. She

appears, holding her hand and asking me for some tissues. In a failed

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attempt to keep Stan from destroying his computer, he had sliced her up

pretty good on her left hand. Now she was crying, and in between those

chick-gasps, mid-cry, she had managed to tell me he was pissed because she

was talking to me. It made me sick. Here I was, talking to MY fucking ex-

girlfriend whom had been stolen by my ex-best friend, fucked by that same

friend in a bed I owned inside a house I owned that he had recently taken up

destroying, using condoms he had probably taken out of my dresser, and on the

night I was in the hospital, no less. I marched down those stairs, took a

breath, and turned the corner to walk straight into the lion’s den. Stan

huddled in the corner of the room and sobbing like a little girl looks up at

me and screams “Fuck you!”

I smiled, and said “Fuck me? No, fuck you,” took an about-face, and

went into the other room to call my dad. While I was on the phone, Stan

walks past me straight outside, busted computer in hand. Next thing I know,

he’s running back in screaming “I broke my fucking hand, I broke my fucking

hand” and crying even more intensely than he had been before. I couldn’t

help but laugh. In a few short minutes, my father the size of me and Stan

combined was going to take him to the hospital for the hand and tell him to

stay the fuck away from me if he knew what was good for him.

There was no one I could have called but my dad. He’s the only person

I could trust to carry out the necessary actions with the fairness of a

supreme court justice. While I was very angry with Stan, I didn’t want to

call the Police and make them haul him away in restraints cursing me with his

eyes as they drove off into the night.

Stan was always terrified of my dad. In retrospect, it was probably

because my dad could see straight through his bullshit. As my dad came in, a

defeated Stan slumped onto the couch to put on his boots. My dad walked in,

silently motioned for Stan to follow him. Stan walked past me, looked me

right in the eye and put his hand on my shoulder. His stare caught me off

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guard. Underneath that rough exterior, there was a small child crying for

help. It was the first time I ever saw it. I never talked to Stan again

after that. I saw him once, briefly, at a coffee shop downtown. I was there

with Katie, and as soon as he saw me he ran out. I thought about him from

time to time, wondering if he was alright. I read his online journal every

once in a while, trying to find some sort of message to me to let me know he

was ok.

After my dad hauled him off, I turned and looked at Hannah. She was

curiously silent throughout the entire ordeal. We were headed upstairs to

get some sleep when we got a call from the hospital. It was our buddy, Stan,

informing Hannah that he was going to walk to her house from the hospital (a

good 15 miles) and sleep in front of her door until she let him in. She

decided to be a Good Samaritan and pick him up. Little did I know he would

soon be living with her. I shouldn’t say “Little did I know…” because I knew

damn well it would happen. My dad said so, and I still don’t think I’ve ever

witnessed him be wrong about anything like this. I remember the specific

phrase. “They’re meant for each other. Pieces of shit stick together”

With Stan and Hannah gone, I finally got a chance to breathe. My world

was coming down around me, again. It just kept getting worse. Get the job,

lose the job. Get the girl, lose the girl. Get the friend, lose the friend.

Nothing stays forever… except debt. My money was gone, the only other person

in my house that was giving me any sort of money was gone, and rent was past

due. I managed to scrape together enough to pay, but knew I had to go find

work. I had been hearing from a pizza place in Portage that needed a manager,

so I applied and went through the interview process only to have Work give me

a bad rap and lose the opportunity. I was beginning to get upset. Work had

not only fired me, but they denied my unemployment AND gave me a bad rap to

potential employers, thusly making me even more poor, broke, and upset than I

had ever been before. Everything you have can be taken away from you quicker

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than you can possibly imagine. Nothing sacred, nothing permanent. Be not

afraid.

People started to trickle back in, once everyone found out Stan and

Hannah were out of the picture. Hannah still called me for a while, but only

to beg for forgiveness on Stan’s behalf (most likely because she found out

what a pain in the ass that alcoholic motherfucker was to live with, and how

much of a fucking sponge he was.) One day, she called me to tell me Stan had

lost it again and tried to wreck up her house but made the one mistake of

doing it when someone else was around. Stan was drunk as a fish again,

punching holes like he always does, and Hannah’s friend Tim chased him out of

the apartment where he promptly broke a bottle and started cutting his throat

with the broken shards. He didn’t cut as deep as he must have intended, so

he had enough blood to run down westnedge with Tim trailing behind him with a

broken table leg as an improvised weapon. With me out of the picture, Stan

finally came to the only choice he had left: His parents. He was treated

for his wounds and immediately placed into a mental institution on suicide

watch and super doses of antidepressants and antipsychotics I’d imagine. I

had a few hour chat with his mom, mostly dealing with all the lies he had

told me about himself. I felt even more stupid after that. I had run myself

into a considerable amount of debt for that fucker, and I’ll never get

anything back from him.

Hannah called me when Stan got out of the mental institution to warn me

about some death threats he had made against me, but I didn’t answer. Hannah

only called me to tell me who she was fucking by then, and I couldn’t take it

anymore. She moved straight from Stan to some other shmuck as dumb as us.

She must be a professional home wrecker. People would continue coming out of

the woodwork for months, telling me they had fucked her or something. She

even took a twenty dollar bill from a shitbag I knew from high school to fuck

in her apartment. Oddly enough, he found me at a party and apologized for

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it- something Hannah never did. Every time I think of her face, I get sick

to my stomach. I’ll never understand why people do the things they do.

Perhaps the worst thing out of it all, regarding her, was that she told

everyone at Work that she had driven me to the hospital and stayed there with

me all night which was a bold-faced fucking lie. The only people that

visited me in the hospital were my parents and Dennis, and I will never,

EVER, forget that. Sometimes I wonder if anything that chick ever said

wasn’t a lie.

I spent days and days just lying around the house trying to make sense

of everything that had happened. I called my parents, I called Eric, I

called Dennis, I called Katie, but no one knew what to say. I could tell

they all thought I was an idiot for letting the Stan/Hannah drama play out

for so long, but they all knew a lot more than I did. All my friends knew

that Stan and Hannah were up to no good, but no one had the heart to tell me.

Shall we Re-Cap? So far, in three months, I’ve managed to work myself

to thousands of dollars in debt, destroy my relationships with both my best

friend and girlfriend, drive my guitar player completely insane, lose my job,

prevent myself from getting another job, land in the hospital smacked with a

seven thousand dollar bill because my insurance dropped me when I left school

to take the promotion at work, I was getting sued by my old apartment complex

for a thousand dollars in damage, I had another roommate not giving me any

money, a drug habit that was getting out of control, an addiction to

cigarettes I couldn’t afford and helped to put me into the hospital (I’m

sure), a thousand dollar utility bill from keeping the house warm during the

winter, landlords breathing down my neck for their rent money that I didn’t

have, my parents bothering me to get a job not knowing half of what had gone

down and what was going down, a shattered ego, no food in the house

whatsoever, a cat to feed and take care of, myself to feed and take care of,

a car that desperately needed an oil change and a full tank of gas, and lots

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of time to think about all the shit that was crushing down on me. I didn’t

turn twenty one for another month, so I couldn’t drink my problems away, I

couldn’t afford weed to forget about it, and every day brought more bad news.

I decided to start writing and recording again. I may not have written

anything that anyone will ever listen to but myself and the friends I played

it for. It’s pretty bad, but I don’t care. I do music. That’s part of who

I am. I played my drums for hours every day, and my guitar for even longer.

I wrote lyrics when it was too late to play, and I sang when no one was home

to hear me try in vain to get a vocal track that sounded good. I applied all

over town for a job, and the economy in Michigan was shit at the time. There

were no jobs to be had. I’m not talking just management jobs, either. I

gave up on just trying for management jobs after weeks of getting nowhere.

I’m talking dishwashing jobs, gas station attendants, and convenience store

clerks. Nothing. I couldn’t get a job to save my life. I did some work for

my landlord a few times to try and compensate a little bit on the rent, but

it was grueling work for menial pay. I was a nervous wreck of a human being,

both intellectually and physically. I hardly ate at all, couldn’t sleep a

wink because of all the shit going on inside my head, the vast majority of my

friends had up and left (including some I didn’t think would), and I felt

completely useless.

About two weeks after the embers of the fire that Stan and Hannah had

left me with died out and faded away, I finally started to be social again.

My buddy Tim Mustaine, as we called him because of his love for megadeth,

came over to jam with a few friends. One of his friends, Tony, was

complaining about his roommates. We mentioned that we’d have a free room

soon after we repaired the damage, and he asked when he could move in.

Jokingly, Ken said “Hell, you could move in tomorrow if you don’t mind a few

holes.” Tony says “Nah, I don’t mind- Chicks love that shit. I’ll see you

at noon.” He leaves, they all leave, and we didn’t think anything of it.

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One o’clock the next day, I wake up to the sound of a fist on my front door.

I’m thinking “there’s no fucking way he was serious.” I open the door, and

there’s Tony carrying a headboard. Within a week, he was living under my

roof. It all happened so fast. After a while, I start to get to know him

and let him know the basics of what had just gone down in the last few

months, and he comes to the conclusion that a massive party is in order for

my birthday. I agreed.

One evening, in a marijuana haze, I decided that it was about god

damned time that I called Kevin. It had been well over a year since I had

seen him last, and I just got the thought in my head that I needed to give

him a call. So I did, and we went out for a cup of coffee. We had a few

hours of good old fashioned reminiscing, and promised each other we’d keep in

touch. I told him about the party for my birthday, and he said he’d be there.

I had known Kevin since my first day of the second grade. Over the

years, we had been friends for such a long time that we would go for long

patches of not talking only to just pick right back up where we left off. I

hadn’t seen him in a long time, and I wanted to talk to him about all the

crazy shit I had been through since we had talked last.

Kevin is, like my family, one of the small pieces of permanency I have

to latch on to in this ever changing world. Relationships come and go,

people you work with get fired and quit, school buddies graduate and move

away, but every once in a while you get a chance to meet some people that you

never lose contact with. These are the people I call friends. The people

that you know you can count on when all of your chips are down, even if you

haven’t spoken in months.

In preparation for the party, I knew there was one more phone call I

had to make: I needed a DJ. Who else but Eric? He’d been there for some of

the most dramatic parts of the whole story, and for that reason will always

hold a crucial part. He worked an exhaustive schedule, and was really only

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available for Saturdays. My birthday being a Friday, I quickly realized that

I was going to have a weekend-long birthday.

Finally, the day came. This was the big one. The last birthday that

you can celebrate without berating the progression of time. The twenty

first. By this time, I had all but sworn off alcohol entirely and wanted

nothing to do with drunken antics. I did, however, intend on getting

entirely and belligerently drunk on my birthday. And I did. It started

Thursday night at midnight when I hopped down to the gas station in my

neighborhood and picked up a couple beers for myself with the birthday money

from some relative. That night, I was alone. Everyone was busy, and I had

a few beers with myself and mentally prepared myself for the partying that

would ensue in the following days.

I woke up in the early afternoon of my birthday that year, and I hopped

in the shower to get ready to meet up with my mom. Dan didn’t have school,

so I hung out with them for a while after renewing my license at the

Secretary of State. My dad came home and we headed out to dinner. We went

back to their house and hung out for a while, and I got ready to head out to

the bar. I met up with Dennis, his sister, and J at my place and we all

headed downtown. Tony showed up a little while later, and within a few hours

intoxication had set in. I glance over as a familiar face passes by. I

kicked Dennis, and he acknowledges by saying “holy fuck! It’s Travis!”

Travis was Danielle’s boyfriend, the bitch regional manager that had caused

all of my problems at Work. I never had any problems with him, so we went

over and took a seat. First thing he tells us is that he finally dumped the

bitch, second thing he tells us is even more interesting: She got fired! I

slowly curled my pursed lips to a wide curved smile as high as it would rise.

It was the best birthday present I could have ever gotten.

After a few more shots, and some good conversation, I see another

familiar face and kick Dennis again. I just pointed and said “look behind

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you and tell me that’s not Kim at the fucking table behind us.” He goes to

the bathroom to take a closer look, and next thing I know I’m at the bar

taking another in a long line of birthday shots with my old pal Kim. We

talked for a while, and I told her to come to the party. I couldn’t believe

I had actually run into her. It was wild.

The next day, we threw the party. I started off the night with a

pitcher of beer followed by a pitcher of rum and coke (mostly rum). After

that, I don’t remember much. Apparently I was up and about for several

hours, but I can’t verify that because I was way too drunk to even be able to

think clearly, let alone remember anything. To date, that’s been the first

(and hopefully last) time I’ve blacked out due to the excessive consumption

of alcohol. All in all, it was a birthday party worth remembering (if I

could, that is.) It’s generally childish and ignorant of you to value

friendships based on who attends your birthday party, but at this point in my

life that’s about all I could do. By the end of that evening, I knew who my

friends were.

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 Chapter Twelve - Consequence

“And I’ll Carry on, the best that I can without you here beside me” – Dream

Theater

I had originally intended on ending the story here. Life, however,

decided to throw me a curve ball like it tends to do and offered up a few

more chapters before I could really say the story was over. I started off

writing a story about my entire life. I wanted to start at day one:

February the twenty fourth, nineteen eighty-five. I wanted to talk about

moving to Kalamazoo from Grand Rapids, and I wanted to talk about growing up

in the catholic school system. I wanted to write about meeting Kevin, and

about our close friendship through our school years. I wanted to write about

going to Colorado, West Virginia, Isle Royale; about rock climbing, rafting,

exploring, canoeing, kayaking, backpacking, hot tubs, and sunsets. I wanted

to talk about high school, about how I left the catholic school system, and

about how I became who I was today. I wanted to write about the hundreds of

people I’ve known throughout the years, about my first love, and about all my

firsts. My first sex, my first blow job, my first concert, my first guitar,

my first joint, my first beer, my first job, and my first car. I wanted to

talk about getting into Work, and about the band I was for three years, and

about the CD’s we recorded, and all the shows we played. I wanted to talk

about all the Art I’d created throughout high school, all the things I did

before my life wrapped itself around a tree. I wanted to talk about a lot of

things, and then I realized that when I walked away from Otsego High School

that bright May Day; I, as they say, had my future ahead of me. I had a wish

in one hand and shit in the other. You saw which one got filled first.

I could literally feel the world disintegrating around me. People

always talk about how it feels like the world is on their shoulders. I

literally felt it. When I woke up in the morning, I spent a good fifteen

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minutes of inner monologue dedicated to trying to figure out why I should

even be alive, let alone getting out of bed. Jobless, Friendless, Penniless,

Sexless, and super fucking depressed, I would get up, drink some of Tony’s

beer, stumble down the stairs, shoot the shit with whatever squatter was

staying at my place that night, piss, look for food in the refrigerator

without mold (usually to no avail,) and steal some Wi-Fi from the neighbors

to try to find a job online because I didn’t have 50 cents to buy a paper, or

the gas to spare to drive two blocks to the gas station. Any money I had was

immediately spent on cigarettes, weed, beer, bills, gas, personal hygiene,

food – in that order.

Perhaps the worst feeling of all, however, was the sudden lack of best

friend that I had. Sure Ken was a good guy, and I could talk to him about

anything, but I don’t think I’ll ever have a friend like I had in Stan. For

the better part of two years, I had been joined at the figurative hip of my

alter-ego, Stan. On two separate occasions during our tenure of

cohabitation, Stan and I had even worked together at the un-named Mexican

restaurant hell – something friends can rarely do. Beyond living and working

together, we also had the same friends, drank the same liquor, smoked weed

from the same bong, shared experiences, food, concerts, and taught each

other. Every time I went to a restaurant, a store, or got in my car it felt

like something was missing. There wasn’t the between-song commentary on the

surroundings from my co-pilot. There was no sleeveless black shirt next to

me to pass a bowl to. There was no one smoking my cigarettes but me. Most

people would be glad not to have a leech, but what people often overlook is

that while even though leeches are generally thought badly upon, they still

hold a valid place in society. My particular leech, who just so happened to

be my best friend as well, was gone. Just as my leech was dependent upon me,

so was I dependent upon the leech. I had grown accustomed to having a

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sidekick, or a mentor, depending upon what mood I was in. It was like having

an embodiment of the classic angel:demon effigies on your shoulder.

What had happened to me? Specifically, what had happened to my kingdom

and my plan? What happened to what we stood for? Whatever Happens Happens,

right? What would you do if you weren’t afraid? Why don’t I have a fucking

job? Why am I still fat, pale, and plagued with a constant cough and wheeze?

Why don’t I eat well? Where did all my friends go? Why is my best friend and

intellectual superior locked up in a fucking nuthouse? Why am I not locked

up in a fucking nuthouse when god knows damn well I should have been? And to

think I let myself go out in public like that!

Needless to say, I was going nowhere fast. I was stuck on how good I

used to have it, and how much it sucked that I didn’t have it anymore.

Whatever “it” was, I had it, Lost it, and got fucked over by it, all one in

the same. As I’d like to think about it, I had the big five: Car, Home,

Girl, Health Insurance, Hobby. The American Dream, or rather the Human

Dream, was fulfilled for me, and I was whole in every sense of the word.

Though it only lasted a short time, I still proved it can be done. That’s

all I ever needed or wanted. Just like the guys that develop new crazy atoms

for the periodic table in laboratories. It only stays together for a few

seconds- just long enough for them to prove it can be done (and to put their

name on it). Just like me. I did it. I found the way to make it happen.

You can make your dreams come true. You really can. But there’s an

unfortunate balance that plays into it all. You can lose it all just as

quick. I lived life on my terms, and I paid the fucking consequences. I’m

still paying them now, and I will pay them for a good long time- but I’m

taking it like a man, because I know damn well I had a great fucking time.

Life’s about picking up pieces, building with them, knocking ‘em down,

and starting over again. Eventually even the rubble will form a solid

foundation, and time will heal your shortcomings. What’s the point of

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building something up only to expect that it will never fall? As they say,

the bigger they are the harder they fall.

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 Chapter Thirteen - Aftermath

“Carry on, our wayward son, there will be peace when you are done” - Kansas

I remember waking up one night, sweating profusely. The events of the

last few months had started to fade away like dreams forgotten. I wasn’t

feeling too well, so I went downstairs for a drink of water and a handful of

tums. I looked around my house, trashed as always. I stood there for a

while, in this contemplative sort of state and looked around the living room.

Nothing had changed. Here I was, no Stan, no Hannah, no Tarek, no Jared, no

Work, no friends to speak of, no life, no self esteem, and now, again, and no

sleep. I hung my head low and went back upstairs to my chokingly hot

bedroom. Summer was just starting to hit Michigan, and anyone who’s ever

been here knows that means unbearable humidity.

I lay in bed, searching for something to hear in the silence and found

nothing until I slowly fell back asleep. I thought my story had ended. My

life had played out, and now it was time to start over again. The problem

was, I didn’t have anywhere to start, and I didn’t know how anyway. I

couldn’t quite accept what had happened, and especially after weeks of

healing and introspection.

I finally ended up finding another job- after getting a tip from a girl

my mom worked with. It was at another Mexican restaurant (joy), a little bit

different, a little bit better, but pretty much the same as the last.

Building up those pieces.

A few weeks into the new job, I was just starting to get used to the

place, the people, and the work. Faces were becoming familiar, acquaintances

being made, and I even had a few dollars to throw around on CDs, and creature

comforts. It looked like everything was going to be O.K. I exhaled in a

brief moment of peace and nodded off again.

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 I woke up again, later this time, and at a reasonable enough hour to

pull my head up off the pillow and start my day. I scratched my chest and

threw on my bathrobe. I couldn’t help but notice the same eerie fog effect I

had noticed the day we left for Egypt. I didn’t shake the feeling for the

rest of the day. Something felt out of place and unfamiliar. I wrote it off

as grogginess and hit the showers. The water felt cool against my heat-

soaked skin. It was Tuesday, and that meant it was payday, so I jumped in

the car and headed to work to pick up my paycheck. A few weeks ago, I had

been hit in a parking lot at some ungodly hour of the morning. My passenger

side headlight lens cap was missing, and Tony had ripped one off of a car at

the impound lot he worked at. As I’m pulling off the exit to get to work,

the lens flies off into the wild blue yonder, never to be found again – even

after two hours of walking up and down US 131 in the mid-day sun.

I walked into work, un-named Mexican restaurant hell part deux. I

nodded a silent hello to my co-workers and another to a regular customer

sitting at the counter. I grabbed my check and shot the shit for a few

minutes before hopping back into my car. I rolled down the windows, pulled

back the sun roof, cranked the Opeth, and headed off to the bank to make good

on all the checks I’d be writing shortly thereafter in a vain attempt to pay

back everyone I owed money after three months of unemployment.

I get to the bank and roll up my windows. As I press the button, I

hear a frightening clunk come from inside my driver’s side window and watch

the glass slowly slide down into the door. My heart sinks and I realize I’m

going to be out even more money that I don’t have to fix my stupid car. I

sigh and remember I can’t get upset about something so common. Nobody’s out

to get you, Zach, these things happen when you own a car. Relax, and take a

deep breath. Walk into the bank and put your paycheck in the checking

account, but don’t forget to keep fifty bucks for a bag of weed. Look in the

mirror. Wink, smile, and nod.

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 I drive home, eat some ice cream, and hit the showers. Time for work.

It’s an easy shift today, only 3 PM to 7 PM. Four hour shift, piece of cake.

I smoke a cigarette and pet Melinda while I watch the clock. It’s Two Forty,

time to go.

I had stopped at my parent’s house to saran-wrap my window so the

weather wouldn’t get in, all the while bitching about money to my mom. I had

to dig out my ashtray to smoke in the car, and that was quite the strange

feeling. I usually just ditch the ash outside. I pulled up to work and

walked inside.

About an hour and a half into the shift, I feel my phone vibrating in

my back pocket. Five thirty is a strange time for me to be getting phone

calls. I open it up and look at the number. It seems familiar, but I can’t

quite place it so I forward it to voicemail and keep on working. Seconds

later, I feel the same buzz in my pocket as the number calls me back again.

It was local, so I figured it was some debt collector trying to get at Stan’s

unpaid medical bills. The voicemail peaks my interest, so I go out to have a

cigarette and listen. I sit in my passenger seat and light the cig with the

car lighter. A familiar voice, Stan’s mom, sounding quite distressed begs me

to call her back. It sounded like she was crying. My jaw dropped, and my

hands shook as I dialed the number. She picks up and says “Zach? Stan is

dead.”

I was silent for damn near five minutes, or at least that’s what it

seemed like, as she cried and tried her best to tell me what happened before

she finally surrenders the phone to her husband. He calmly asks me, “Zach,

are you there?”

I meekly reply, and he goes on to tell me that Stan passed away in his

sleep at the halfway house he was staying at. I dropped to my knees and

immediately began to cry in the parking lot of the big burrito, just blocks

away from our old apartment. I walked back into the store, tears rolling

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down my face and white as a ghost and just stand there, staring into nothing.

The other cashier comes up and says “are you Ok, man?” I just look at him

and say “My best friend is dead. I can’t believe it.”

I drove to my parents’ house to sit with them for a while. Even though

Stan had left on bad circumstances, we considered him a part of the family.

Or at least I did. I had the fullest intentions of reuniting with him after

he got back on his feet and off the sauce mania. Stan may as well have been

my brother. We did everything together. Everything I remember from Egypt to

New Year 2006 involved Stan. He was there through the best, and he was there

(usually causing) the worst. Despite our differences, he was my best friend-

and I had never said goodbye. I thought about that stare he gave me as he

left my house, and that’s the last time I ever spoke to him. “Fuck you!”

“No. Fuck you.” That is not goodbye.

I went home a few hours later, after picking up a fifth of black

velvet, a bag of weed, a fifth of Jagermeister, and two packs of camel

lights. I saw many faces that night, but not one I expected in particular.

The only absent face was Hannah’s. Ken tried to call her, and I even talked

to her for a few minutes. She never really cared. She couldn’t have. She

came in and ruined everything. She’s the one that should be dead, not my

best friend. Or gone at least, or preferably not ever having existed. I’d

be a fool to blame it all on her, there were a lot of forces involved, but

she put them all against each other. If I hadn’t lost my faith in God long

ago, I would have lost it that day. Hell, I think I lost my faith in God for

the second time that day. God snuffed him out like the weaklings we used to

mock late Friday nights safely hiding in our apartment from the evil outside

world. That night, I drowned my sorrows in alcohol following in the

footsteps of my dead best friend.

I went to Stan’s funeral, if you could call it that, on a stormy

morning in June. It was more like a somber acknowledgement, slightly

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eclipsed by an excuse to eat lots of dead cow, pig, lamb, chicken, and

turkey. In the two short years after Stan had entered my life, he was gone

forever. None of my friends were there; only family that called him Louis.

Louis was Stan’s middle name. He was named after his adoptive father,

Stanley Louis. Therefore, we have papa Stan and baby Louis. It was a Native

American ceremony, which apparently he had briefly mentioned being the most

beautiful thing he had ever seen. To be honest, it was pretty damn

beautiful.

As a part of the ceremony, there were several herbs and woods that were

burnt to symbolize various Native American beliefs. Stan’s mom gave me a

braid of sweet grass, which was a major part of the service.

I spent several weeks in mourning for my best friend. I quickly looked

past the lie that was his life, and I quickly forgot about Hannah, and I

forgot about everything. I just wanted to hang out in my apartment with

Stan, Dennis, Tarek, Jared, Moe, Katie, Ken Jeff, Bill, Ken, Kim, and all my

old friends. Maybe my cousin would swing by and we’d write some music.

Those days are gone now. Those days of having way too much money for my own

good, between bouts of having no money for a few weeks and then having a huge

paycheck a month later. There would be no more long summer nights lazily

wandering the attic of a party somewhere in the student ghetto. There would

be no more of this story. Sure, some endings haven’t happened yet, but they

all will. Like I always say, every story has a beginning and an end. For my

story that I’d like to say started the 8th of May 2004, but may as well have

started in 2003 when I walked down that fucking corridor of cheap sheet metal

folding chairs and got a cheap imitation parchment diploma. No matter where

I decided to start this story, I knew there was eventually going to be an

end.

One day, the story ended itself. John and I, after a long night of

smoking in the absence of Kenny, the nullifier of any Zach and John

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randomness, managed to stumble into the home of Hannah, the malicious

destroyer of my kingdom. In our hands, we carried two small sections of the

wall bearing blood stains from Stan himself, as well as an eerie message

containing the words “Stop Drinking. Now!” written on his wall with a

permanent marker. These reminders of the damage she caused – single-

handedly, I must impress upon you – were wrapped inside the slightly more

ecumenical egg tempera paintings Hannah’s little sister had drawn Stan for

Christmas 2005.

Allow me to digress, for a moment, to explain how John, our wayward Van

down by the river in Oregon living guitar player came back into the picture.

One night, after a long day at the burrito hut, I came home to see John just

sitting on the couch smoking pot with Ken. He brought a suitcase in the next

day, and never really left. He gave me two hundred dollars, once, and never

a bit more. He continued to act like a sex offender whenever women entered

the house, continued to break my things “accidentally,” ate my food, smoked

my weed without asking, and rummaged through my things when I wasn’t home.

He lived up to the expectation of the worst roommate you could ever have

after having Stan, the second worst roommate you can ever have, after Jared,

the third worst roommate you can ever have (are you sensing a trend here?)

Back to matters at hand, after an oddly awkward few minutes in Hannah’s

apartment for the first time in nearly six months, I was ready to leave. I

motioned to John, and offered Hannah a brief glance as I turned to open the

door and exit. During my quick over the shoulder glance, I saw her coming at

me as if to give me a hug. Months and months of anger flashed through my

eyes as I blew her off and marched down the stairs without looking back. I

never talked to her again.

Later that day, my Dad and I were putting up new drywall over Stan’s

fist holes in an effort to restore the house to a respectable state so I

could leave. Putting up that drywall was something that I had put off doing

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for quite a long time. There was just something about putting up new walls

in Stan’s room that hit a chord within me that I never want to have to feel

again. Although we can patch up most holes, some holes can never be patched.

I decided it was best for me to stay away from life for a while. The

wounds of those last few months still ran deep, and I don’t think the pain

will ever really go away. I needed a chance to examine the choices I’ve

made, the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met, and the things I’ve done.

When asked the question, “Zach, if you could do it all over again, what would

you change?” Without question, I always say “There is only one thing I would

change. When we got the keys to our new house that September night in 2005,

I would tell the short little brunette that walked into my house to walk

right back out and never show her face again.”

There is no moral to this story. The fact of the matter is that taking

lots of drugs, drinking to excess, working more hours a week than you sleep,

and living the life other people only dream of can, and will succeed as long

as you follow one simple rule: When there’s a drunk girl in your house that

your roommate likes, and you know would like your best friend, tell her to

stay on the air mattress.

We had everything. We had the keys to the kingdom. We could share

everything, except one thing. That one thing ruined us all. Then again, I

should have seen it coming when a person I had barely known a year asked me

to go to Egypt with him to live with his friend from the Jordanian compound

in Saudi Arabia. I should have known my life was going to take me places I’d

never believe I’d be the day I walked out of Otsego High School, got in my

car and drove away. I never looked back then, and I don’t look back now. It

has been one hell of a ride, and I will never forget it as long as I live.

This isn’t just a story about my life after high school; this is a

story of a boy who was lost in the vicious and rotten truth that is reality.

This is a story about making sense of this crazy world we live in, a story

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about coming of age in an era where any piece of knowledge I wish to know is

only a few keystrokes away. This world where we still murder one another on

a daily basis based on religious beliefs and the color of our skin and or the

geographical makeup of our imaginary lines drawn on microscopic-scaled

effigies of the planet we live on. This world where one person can see so

much in just three short years. This world where more than half of us

actually believe there is a humanoid god in the sky pulling levers and

pushing buttons that govern our actions, thoughts, and lives. This world

where the same god is interpreted in hundreds of ways, and despite a major

accepted saying of his that we shouldn’t kill each other, hundreds are

murdered in his name every fucking day.

It doesn’t matter what I did, or where my life took me. It’s in the

past. The only things I can do are learn from my experiences and move the

fuck on, or take a bottle full of mixed prescription medication like the

television personality or my fallen friend. It doesn’t matter what anyone

does, anywhere. It doesn’t matter if they die, if they live, if they get

fucked up on drugs, or if they get fucked up by a speeding train. Life will

go on, and whatever happens will continue to happen. You don’t need to

depend on some final salvation in some esoteric afterlife to legitimize the

shit stain existence you had on this “god” forsaken planet full of assholes,

pot hole filled streets, bums, and trash. If you don’t like what you see

going on around you, make some positive effort to do something about it.

Don’t get down on yourself for not succeeding with your first attempt, but

for fuck’s sake don’t give up just because you didn’t hit right away.

There’s no sense in that.

I never asked to be alive, and I never asked to become what I am today.

Everything I have done, said, known, seen, tasted, heard, created, or

experienced has occurred because of a choice I made with my own mind. I, and

you, are our own Gods. This is the twenty-first century, and we should make

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it a chance to create the world society anew- at least that’s what I think.

Some people think you can’t change the world, but as far as I can see it

changes all around me all the time. Nothing’s ever the same.

There are no great adventures left in this world. There are only

triumphs of humanity left to be had. We live in troubled times of change.

Our society is rapidly expanding, our technology has exponentially increased

for the last fifty years. We went to the fucking moon. I am just one man.

You are just one person reading a book, but you had a part in my life. You

are part of this world I live in, or maybe you have inherited your place in

the world from someone who was around when this all happened. You live and

breathe, you experience life. Ask your own questions. Go your own way.

Don’t listen to what other people tell you, they’re just people like you.

I don’t need to convince myself that what I’ve done is right or wrong.

I don’t need to legitimize my life and my accomplishments so they fit some

kind of “status quo.” I don’t need to live up to anyone’s expectations but

my own. Life is what you make of it. Some things change, and sometimes

there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. Just remember. Never be

afraid, and whatever happens, happens.

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Part Two

On Apathy “The Ravings of a madman”

Selected passages from the Diary of the late

Stanley Louis Slavin

Prologue by Zach Elmblad

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 Prologue

Stan entered my life on February 20th, 2004 when we went to go see

Mushroomhead at the Club Soda. Today, it seems like a lifetime ago, but then

I was just trying to check out one of my favorite bands. Stan left the earth

on May 15th, 2006 just over two years later. What happened to us between

those few months could never be contained inside a simple book. There are

many things I remember about Stan that will remain as memories in my mind for

many years to come. I will always remember Stan as my best friend, and the

perfect person for me to have experienced those first steps into the real

world with.

Today, being unable to make a name for his self, I have chosen to carry

on his name for the simple fact that I believe Stan had an understanding

about life that few of us ever will even come close to seeing. What you are

about to read is a blunt, profane, and fractured view on a world that had

beaten a Man to his absolute limit, and then kicked him across the line

repeatedly over the last few years of his short life. If you ever wondered

what it’d be like to have known one of those people who did everything bad

that you ever thought of doing and worse, yet lived (for a while) to tell

about it, that’s what it was like to know Stan. Stan feared no social

reprimands for his frequently audacious behavior, and sought value and

pleasure in some of the more perverse corners of what the world has to offer.

Stan was my best friend, and as far as I’m concerned his death is a

tragedy that humanity should regret and berate. With great anxiety, and with

a breath held in silent admiration for my fallen comrade, I bring you some of

the more relevant and shining examples of all I know of the actual writings

of Stanley Louis Slavin, who had a strange opinion or approach to just about

every topic imaginable. I wish that Stan was still here today to bring you

his story himself, but sadly this is not the case. Although I’d like to

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blame Hannah for Stan’s fall from Grace, most of the people closely involved

in our circle of friends know damn well that Stan was headed for an untimely

demise. I only wish he had been around a bit longer to tell his story, which

I assure you was one of the greatest stories never told. I present to you

the raw, uncensored and unedited text of the inner workings and personal

thoughts of one of the most enigmatic and eccentric people I have ever known

in my life.

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 Diary Of A Sinner

Wednesday, April 12th, 20061:41 pm

-begin:-
spell your first name backwards]- Nats
the story behind your username]- Schwein? German for Pig. I think the name
suits me.
how old?]- 23
where do you live?]- Kalamazoo Mi
four words that sum you up]- Crazy, poor, whipped, and horny

-describe:-
your wallet]- Empty
your everyday jewelery]- Jewelry is for chicks.
your pillow cover]- Usually covered in drool from the previous night's
slumber.
your coffee cup]- I drink coffee in regular glasses, mugs are too small.
your shoes]- 14$ Walmart shoes.
your cologne/perfume]- Whatever's handy.
the CD in your stereo right now]- KMFDM - Nihil
the clothes that you're wearing now]- Fucking Burger King uniform.
your hair]- Usually non-existant.
some of your favorite movies]- FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS.... Milo and
Otis
something you're looking forward to]- Pussy.
the last thing you ate]- Your mother.
something that you are deathly afraid of]- Earwigs. Those creepy fuckers.
your best friend]- Samantha. <3 (she's here with me, normally I'd say
whoever's easy. :P)

physical] - Typical kraut. Pasty, broad shoulders, beer gut. (what's left of
it)
personality] Batshit, cynical, crude, funny (again samantha) I know I'm
fucking hilarious, just usually not when I intend to be.
your boyfriend/girlfriend]- Um. Kinda complicated.
-do you:-
like incense?]- NAG CHAMPA FOR GREAT JUSTICE.
believe in love?]- Occaisonally.
believe in soulmates?]- No.
believe in love at first sight?]- Nope.
believe in forgiveness?]- Forgive, but don't forget.
smoke?]- DRUGS ARE FUN.
do drugs?]- ^_^
sleep with stuffed animals?]- Not anymore. The fact that I have a bed at all
is somewhat miraculous.
read the newspaper?]- Fuck no.
believe in miracles?]- See -^
believe it's possible to remain faithful forever?]- Depends if alcohol is
involved. But usually... no.
like the taste of alcohol?]- <3! But never again, goddamnit.

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believe in God?]- He's in my pants. :)
have any secrets?]- Plenty.
(I keep getting smacked, bitten, and fondled, usually in no particular order.
have any pets?]- Not currently.
go or plan to go to college?]- Been there 3 times. Failed all. Whatever.
have any piercings?]- Nope
have any tattoos?]- Not yet.
hate yourself?]- Not anymore. I'm the shit. Poor and homeless... but the shit
none the less.
trust others easily?]- No. Trust equates to vulnerability.
like sarcasm?]- It's my calling in life.
like to take walks in the rain?]- Fuck yeah.
have any scars?]- Countless.
-when's the last time that:-
you cried]- February 14th. Worst day of my life.
you bought something]- Bag of tobacco, 1.09 out the door, nugga.
you got sick]- Sick now, I'm -always- fucking sick. My immune system must
have been bought at goodwill.
you sang]- I don't sing. I suck at singing. I have a range of about... 1/2 an
octave.
you ate]- About 1pm, had 1/3 of a burger.
you've been kissed]- About 5 minutes ago. :P
you've felt stupid]- Shit, very rarely. I know I'm smart, I just -act- stupid
for my own amusement.
you wanted to tell someone you loved them, but didn't]- Sex ist eine
schlaght, Liebe ist krieg. >:)
you met someone new]- I work in drivethru at fucking Burger King, I see new
people every goddamn day.
you moved on]- Moved onto what?
you talked to an ex]- The masses of angry women refuse to speak to me. :/
you missed an ex]- Hah.
you talked to someone you have a crush on]- What the fuck is this,
highschool?
you had a serious talk]- Srs? nvr.
Any last words?]- "Life sucks. Wear a hat."

So yeah, that killed a little time. Fuck you. :)

Saturday, April 8th, 20064:12 pm

Regret is not an emotion I favor, let alone feel often. I know that in truth
I'm what you'd call a bad person. Bad is a simple word, but the directness of
these words are sometimes the most concise, or all encompassing.

I'm genuinely indifferent to the feelings of most people I know. I often

think the trauma I was exposed to as a child is what made me so apathetic.
Fear of being hurt again by loved ones made me a loner for quite some time,
and then when I met Zach I actually found someone I could trust.

Quite naturally I fucked it up to every possible extent in due time. I'm not
perfect, nor do I ever aspire to be anything close to the idea. I like to use
drugs, sleep around, and serve myself before anyone.

Sometimes I think I lie so much just because of the challenge of maintaining

the facade. Life is often tedious and non-stimulating to an almost banal
degree. Now suppose you start casually flinging bullshit around. It spices
things up a bit. Having to perpetuate the absurdities amongst the known ones
makes for an interesting lifestyle.

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Having given it up, I find it difficult to differentiate between truth and
fiction. And once again I am shown just how irrelevant the two are.

People believe you if they -want- to. Truth or lie, they accept or refuse
both depending on their upbringing, being naive, or just sheer ignorance. I
can spin a yarn of tales so convincing I have people who have known me for
years accepting -everything-. Ironic. What I've actually done with my life is
far more interesting in my opinion, than any crap I may have spread around in
my time.

Whatever. So what? The almost obsessive need for "truth" is bullshit. I admit
I adore history, but I realize the fact that the victorious write the stories
we rather meekly accept as fact. Not to mention glossing over the
uncomfortable realities of how we came to our land, power, wealth, and what
have you.

Never mind we tortured, raped, wrote bogus treaties, and generally

dehumanized the native american. Who fucking cares? We're here now. Fuck
them.

But the petty and shallow who gleefully devour every propaganda piece of
bullshit from the news have the gall to call the Iraqis evil. They say
terrorists aren't worth having life, fair trials, or whatever buzzword is on
the media lips these days.

I sicken and grow weary of all of it. These days I escape by reading books
and figuring out what kind of relationship I may have with the current
female. Not so much of the latter. It's not often on my mind. Base animal
desires first and foremost, of course. But without alcohol and marijuana my
life is pathetically empty. It was before sobriety as well, but I didn't give
a fuck then. Nor do I now, I just accept the fact that I am a failure on many
accounts.

I still have my pride, intellect, and rage. Which many lack to some degree.
Slinging burgers? Whatever, monetary gain is a moot point for those obsessed
with material goods to fill the holes in their lives. Sure that's the verbal
cop-out of a poor man. But whatever, it's what I think.

What sucks about being so smart is knowing the expectations of others,

immediately caring about what they think, analyzing the fact that to need
that approval is a basic human function, dealing with the conscious
recognition of how sorry that need is, and above all... the fact that all
these thought processes are occurring in a wet-wire network of electrical
impulses and meat which will eventually die and be no more. Makes it all seem
rather irrelevant, doesn't it?

So what to do? I don't know. I refuse to fuck up so badly again, that's for
sure. I won't place trust in others ever again. Enjoy their company? Sure.
Savor the interaction and intellectual discourse pertaining thereto?
Indubitably.

Thursday, March 30th, 20067:06 pm

So once again, I write expecting no one to read this in its' entirety.

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Such is life.

Having worked 7-3pm at the salt mine, slinging fat and ketchup at the masses
of elderly couples and bitchy soccer moms... it's nice to sit down and chill.
I'm fucking sick as a dog at the moment, what fun.

Chronic cough, runny nose, and the incessant hiccups following opiate abuse.
Whatever. I quit drinking and can't afford cannabis, not to mention smoking a
cigg at the moment causes agony to course through my lungs. I think I'll quit
for awhile, the habit it far too expensive.

I need a hobby other than reading, fooling around with girls, and wandering
the downtown streets seeking temporary distractions from the bustle of the
city.

Ugh, just blew a great gob of snot into my hand and wiped it on my khakis.
Amused by the stares of the patrons in the library, I just grin at them and
make lewd tongue gestures. Christ, I love being an asshole.

I always make vague promises to better myself, but fuck that. I want to have
fun, damn the consequences. I'll only live once. Do I honestly give a fuck
what people think or feel? I think I'm egocentric to such an extreme because
I used to be so insecure such a short time ago. My callous front actually
became my personality.

I'll lie if it suits me. Steal if I can get away with it. Wreak sheer havoc
on anothers' mind and emotional state if I see some positive outcome for me
in the near future.

I've screwed up so much and so often it's almost a way of life, my ethos of
existence, as it were.

Whatever, I'm not entirely amoral... but my life has sucked too much to give
a shit about petty sentiment. I'll grin, smile, sell you the package of happy
Stan the Funny Man. The spaz, the comic, the wit, the avid reader and
slightly "stupid" co-worker; All the while I'm engineering your perception of
me. Fuck you. Tool. Am I really too dumb to make sandwiches at a burger
joint? Fuck no. Lazy? Damn yeah.

But my bosses love me, I make them laugh, I do my job when they're looking. I
make you the scapegoat. A bastard am I.

So what? Why strive to be respectable? It's futile. Fuck you. I'm dead in
less than a decade. So what if I shoot my brains out in the middle of the
woods and let the flies lay eggs in my corpse? Does anyone genuinely care,
aside from my parents?

No. The idea that human life is precious, what a frankly absurd concept. Get
over your innate programming to sustain your own kind, it's those very
instincts that will doom us all.

We sit at our little computers, sheltered from actual life. We buy food, we
get fat, we fuck and suck the fat off the land... Practically everything is
handed to us as long as we follow the rules.

Cheers to the actual rebels. Rip the system. We've gotten too placid and
weak, ignoring the gaping wounds in any society, watching Oprah and

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masturbating to internet pornography. Get fucked, go scream your racism at
the supposed inferiors you nutless pussy. White power? My ass. Your little
internet shitbag hatemongering should be punishable by death you spineless
fuckstain.

I wish I could invent something like Captain Tripps superflu and release it
to the public, we need a virus to kill off 99.98% of humanity and start over.

Driving around in our little cars with our little Ipods, attending our little
church gatherings with little-minded people. FUCK YOU. I HOPE YOU ALL GET
CANCER AND DIE IN PAIN. STOP BREEDING.

-- You scoff at me for being a junkie? I abuse drugs to forget just how sorry
of a world I fucking live in! I want to escape CNN, the lies, the murder, the
rape of nature, all of it. Eat shit and die you tofu sucking idiots. Eat red
meat. We're animals, we shit, we piss, we mate and leave bad smells on the
sheets.--

So what now? Where do I go from here? Nowhere. Work, save money, get laid as
often as possible. If I weren't such a pussy I'd deliberately get AIDS and
spread it to as many people as possible. Give nature a helping hand. It's not
the bubonic plague but it's the next best thing.

Hah, even medicated I'm just as pissed off as I always was, just now instead
of killing myself I want to kill everyone else.

Charming.
Saturday, March 18th, 200610:23 am
Idle rambling.
When I'm laying in bed at night I have the most (I'd like to think at
least...) profound thoughts and marked streams of consciousness, but I don't
have a way that's easy as a keyboard (or markedly more legible for that
matter) available to me where I'm staying. (petty bitching, I know)

A girl I'm somewhat seeing at the moment is presenting quite the conundrum. I
don't feel like a man unless there's a woman in my life to some extent.
However the damages done to my ego and super-ego from the last *relationship*
I was in are still bleeding and the scar tissues have truly yet to form. Not
to mention sex with this girl may have lasting consequences. I pride myself
on my prowess in the bedroom and whatnot, yet I'm not sure I want to wholly
commit myself to anyone... let alone this particular female.

The medications I'm on make my libido near zilch as it is, and now I'm nearly
terrified of women to the point of self-preserving indifference to the whole
subject. I need a break. I need to resharpen the intellectual pencil of my
mind, assuming I haven't irrevocably damaged it with cannabis and booze. I
can actually note a difference in the way my mind associates words, memories,
and ideas to my hands and mouth from say, 3 years ago. I've gone from a
quick-fire cynic who could decimate scores of internet shitbags with wit and
sarcasm... to someone struggling to spell words properly and format a
reasonably formed sentence.

Had I known the effects would be so pronounced and distinct, I'd never have
abused to the excess that I did. Sure I knew weed fried your brain, but I
suppose I didn't care at the time.

Hrm, on to something else. Let's see if this addled mind can recall some of

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it's previous bullshit.

Well let us see. Pause. A break in the mindstream, I note the fellow patrons
of the library, tapping away and murmuring to fellow classmates or
sweethearts. Disconnected, it's as if I'm here yet not quite. I'm on the same
book but each life is just a page. (yeah I know this is stolen, but it
applies, and all being a scholar truly is these days is knowing when to
regurgitate someone else's ruminations) I suppose this jaded sense of
separation from the community whole is what they call growing up. Strange, I
still feel like a fucking little kid around the big boys, but my front
wouldn't indicate such... and the stream of lies and smiling malice I'm
capable of come now out of habit more than actual heartfelt emotion of
desire.

Ironic. I wish to become a "respectable" person, but my old habits of cruelty

and deceit are rooted deep. I don't know how to act around people. I'm sober
(well, not totally, but fuck you, I'm a retiring junkie, if you haven't been
there... suck out my farts and die) now. I've forgotten how to be a real
person, so used to the fraudulent and old ways it takes honest *hah* effort
to show what I feel and think.

Instead of the usual "Right on." response to practically EVERYTHING said to

me, I'm trying to become more involved in the daily drama of life, out of
boredom if nothing else. Christ, I cannot shake the feeling that everything I
say is some brass cliche used by every other fuck with half a mind and a pen
(mine being electrical, obviously) with which to write.

Ah, the sublime struggle for individualism amongst a sea of different and
beautiful fishes. One of the paradigm changes I'm forcing upon myself is to
appreciate -everything- and try and understand why they do what they do, how
they go about it; and the possible causes for their current mindset as well
as the way I react to them initially, in retrospect, and then in memory.

Fuck me, the only words I can truly claim as my own are when I forget for
that fleeting second what a truly sorry fuck of a lifestain I am. Not out of
masturbatory self-accusation, (guilt is sweet, the finest liquor has no
compare) do I say this, but a bitter realization that I have recently turned
23, I'm homeless, a junkie, and my mind is a bit frayed around the edges, and
yet I WILL STILL BE LEAPS AND BOUNDS SMARTER THAN MY PEERS.

Will I ever get over my own ego? Doubt it, becoming a humble person is the
hardest damn thing I've yet to attempt. But I say fuck humility, take pride
in what you do, where you are in your life, scholastics, athletics, BE PROUD.
Fuck absolving your accomplishments to God. He created cancer. FUCK JESUS. I
may be more "spiritual" as it were, but AA is just re-igniting my fires of
rage for totalitarian religion. I see these old men, 25+ years sober, but I
can almost smell the shit they've replaced their addiction with.

They come to the meetings giddy with delight at the fact they can yell at the
newcomers, about how "Cunning, crafty, and Menacing" or what the fuck ever,
alcohol is. They love being the martyr. AA isn't about sobriety at the one
I'm attending, it's highschool drama motherfucking bullshit combined with a
homophobic atmosphere... (Having said that, I don't see much difference
between the two)

I see these fucking college pukes who almost... Fuck what's the word. This is
what I'm talking about with the weed damage. I should know it. Prostrate.

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Yes.

I see these fucking college pukes who almost prostrate themselves at the
community tables, thanking their lord and savior Jesus H. Christ for their
whole 2 years of sobriety, when I fucking smell the whiskey on their breath.

What goes on in their mind? Are they still so plagued by addiction that they
feel no guilt for being that false? Fuck knows I've been there countless
times.

Do they feel shame, guilt, resentment, or rage?

I think this is enough, my right hand is still pretty fucked up, and this is
perfect exercise to keep the hand away from atrophy... the mind as well I
suppose. But with no one to communicate with, I suppose I'm just the same as
the crazy man in the solitary cell, speaking only to phantoms he can see.

Insanity isn't so bad.

Monday, March 13th, 20064:16 pm

I wish I could end someones life without consequence or feelings of guilt.

The shitbag that almost hit me with a car? Explode their SUV in a fiery
inferno of motor oil and gasoline, savoring the screams of the innocent
children burning alive.

The broad at the cash register that gave me incorrect change? I'd love
nothing more than to whip out a .22 and shoot her dead between the eyes,
splattering the gooey gray brain matter all over the backside of whatever
soon-to-be-departed bluehair behind her, and relish the screams of her now
failing heart.

I am a basic and carnal animal taking savage delight in the misery of others.
Imagine if you will, when some jerk cuts you off in traffic, causing you to
slam on the breaks. In fear for your life
, adrenaline pumping, don't with want nothing more to step out of the
vehicle, grab the cellphone yakking cunt by the hair. Stomp her face into the
pavement with a sadistic and malicious glee, until all that remains is
something resembling cat-food that once conveyed electrical impulses and
semi-cognizant thought processes?

Do you not want to exert your animalistic and savage impulses once more, to
savor the primal and carnal glee or dominating your enemy, your opposition,
your pseudo-antithesis to the extreme point that nothing remains but a corpse
or corpses.

I have empathy, remorse, guilt, and happiness. But I view them as burdens,
weights holding me down. I wish I could have joined the armed forces, simple
for the ability to kill. To rend life, to brutalize that which the church so
aptly calls "sacred". (never mind war in the name of god is perfectly
acceptable and to all fucking hell with the 10 commandments). We can rape in
the name of war, pillage, plunder, commit atrocities innumerable simple to
spread the good Lord's name.

I mean for God motherfucking's sake, look what we did to the native americas.
Fuck me, we stole their land, raped their women by the score, forced them on

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death marches so brutal that corporate america glosses over the face that we
fed them small pox and lord knows what else. MANIFEST DESTINY you soulless
unforgiving cunts. I wish we could go back and arm the natives with fucking
cannons. Sink the Mayflower, The Nina, and The Santa Maria with 200 caliber
missiles and let those buckle-wearing fucks sink into the deep not knowing
the terrors they'd have visited to the well-meaning, and good natured
Indians.

I wish I could develop a disease to entirely wipe out civilization in it's

entirety. We have failed as a race, as an entire intelligentsia, as a
theocracy, and as a whole. I'd wipe the earth clean of our malice and self-
hatred. So we donated money to africa? Why, for the hopes of cheaper
materials and labor. Can't have all the niggers dying from AIDS, who the fuck
would we get the diamonds from? The magnesium, the rich coal deposits, the
countless medicines from the jungle?

The rich milk the poor to death. DONATE MONEY TO SAVE THE NIGGER BABIES?
Yeah, guess the fuck what? They don't see but a fraction of a cent of that 20
dollars you donate. Most of it goes to warlords.

Not to mention the genocides going on in whatever fucking pisshole of a

nation those negroids call it these days. I'll dig up a link for you CC
loving motherfuckers to show you exactly just what the fuck is going on in
the "civilized world".

AFRICA.

YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY GOD IS DEAD? WE KILLED HIM, YOU APATHETIC MOTHERFUCKERS.

Do you know what necklacing is? You fill a tire with gasoline, put the
victims head inside, and then set it on fire.

And let's not fucking forget Kosovo. Keep in mind the female victims were so
brutally raped out of 100 having taken their photographs, not ONE, NOT ONE
FUCKING WOMAN could look at the camera.

If you sleep well at night, I hope the sandman maces your eyes and murders
your family
NORTH KOREA.

I'll edit this shit and give you graphic images of just how lucky we are to
live in an over budget shithole we call the United States of America.

Land of the Free my motherfucking ass. Land of Rape and Honey, I say. I'd
join the military just to put and end to the unending atrocities that occur
daily worldwide.

Cast down the Nazis if you will, keep in mind the US settlers wiped out
NINETY-EIGHT FUCKING PERCENT OF THE NATIVE RACE. NINETY-FUCKING-EIGHT.

I hope you puke in your sleep and choke to death on the bile.

Thursday, March 2nd, 20062:56 pm

Stan, you dumbfuck.
I'm 23 today.

So I'm walking to the bus stop at 5:30am, BAAAAAAAAAARF! All over the

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sidewalk.

Sit down at the terminal, I fucking blow chunks all over the inside of the
little seat-house-box-fuck thing.

So I get on the bus, naturally I get Happy Negro the Bus Driver, acting quite
chipper and loud. I keep hiccuping nonstop (still am right now damnit)
because I'm allergic to opiates) and trying not to barf on the bus.

I barely make it to work without puking, second I get off the damn thing, I
dry heave until I'm spraying spittle and phelgm all over creation.

Get into work. Genius me, drinks 3 cups of coffee right off the bat. That
stayed down a whole 5 minutes if anything.

Painted the men's room at Burger King quite nicely.

Then I think, "Hey, I'm sick, but I can at least drink some water, right?"

Oooooooooof course not.

Puked up straight fucking water into the garbage right next to the grill.

Anyways, I'm here in the library, hand's fucked, still hiccuping, head's
killing me, and I'm queasy as hell. In summation...

STAN, DO NOT TAKE 1500mg OF HYDROCODONE AND 80mg OF METHADONE IN ONE SITTING.
YOU WILL GET VERY SICK

Thursday, February 16th, 20066:29 pm

Well, holy shit.
After years of alcohol abuse, rage held in, and utter disregard for the
feelings of others... I've finally had to pay my dues.

I've been kicked out of Zach's house for essentially ruining the building and
my friendship with him.

Then I stayed with Hannah for awhile, fucked that up as well.

After spending a night in the woods next to a fire I had to build to stay
warm, my neck bleeding profusely from an attempted suicide with a broken beer
bottle, and essentially hysterical from anger, resentment, self-
loathing/recrimination, and total debasement; I went to the only place I
could.

My parents home.

They fed me some soup, seeing as I hadn't been eating at all. I had lost my
job at Work on the 1st of January because I had drank to much the night
before and spent the night at Hannah's. No call, no show.

Sometime after that I went into a drunken fury at Zach's and threw my
computer onto the nearby garage out the back door and fractured my right
metatarsal by punching an unforgiving wall. His father was decent enough to
take me to the hospital, and I haven't seen them since, nor do I ever plan to

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again.

Hannah picked me up at the hospital, and let me stay at her place out of
general compassion and goodwill. But as usual I destroyed everything once
again.

I stole Zach's "girlfriend" as it were, and I honestly felt guilty. But not
enough it would seem.

After her putting up with my venemous and unfounded jealousy, my psychotic

mood swings, and sexual misfires and false starts... the final blow came when
2 of her friends spent the night.

I'd written some angry letters/suicide notes, and that night she read one of
them at her insistence. I'd said some very hurtful things in those notes
about her.

Having promised up and down to not disappoint her with my alcohol induced
behaviors, I went and got some beer.

18 beers later, all three of them crawl into bed, leaving me on the couch. My
mind was chaotic. I felt abandoned, enraged, lonely, perversely disgusted,
etc.

I don't recall exactly what happened, but I was insane with anger. After
kicking out a windowpane in the apartment hallway, I smashed a beer bottle
and began sawing at my throat with it, hoping to cut deep enough to end my
life.

But after the 6th cut and no death, the guy came after me with a table leg
and chased me away.

Next thing I know I'm in a dry creek bed, building a fire to stay warm.

I walk to my parent's house, they fed me soup, and called the police.

Firetruck, 2 cop cars, (one of which containing the cop neighbor that lives
caddycorner), and an ambulance show up soon after... taking me to the
hospital.

They glued my neck wounds as well as possible, and then after a brief 6 hour
wait in the ER, I was shipped off to a psych ward in Grand Rapids.

I met some of the saddest people in there, human in every way, but one or two
critical and crippling areas.

I won't say names, as I know they won't as well, but goddamn some of the best
fucking people on earth were in there.

Some schizophrenic, some career junkies promising to go to AA for the 10th

time, most of them likeable, some not.

I'm now on Cymbalta for my depression and anger issues, most of which stem
from feelings of abandonment as a child from the divorce, my self-perceived
inadequacies during elementary and middleschool, and my bitch stepmother and
adoptive father.

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He fed me beer when I was 7 and I associated that with the happy memories as
child from every visit we had. I could do what I wanted with him, then come
home to my mother who loved me, but disciplined me. I resented that, and
became a very angry and violent child.

I haven't progressed since.

The booze and weed was self medication. A cheap escape. Nothing more.

I won't say I'll never drink again, but I sure as all fuck intend to.

It ruined my life. Over and over again.

I'm currently staying in a very strict halfway house for young men in
Kalamazoo. If I fuck up, I'm homeless on the streets. That's motivation.

I'm sitting in a public library as I type this, thunder and lightning

crashing down all around me, with the possibility of a tornado quite
imminent. I have a 7 block walk back, the rain coming down in torrents.

To those I've harmed, I ask no forgiveness, nor expect it ever.

This closes a chapter in my life riddled with lies, self-aggrandizement,

destruction, and malice.

To those from Forest View reading this, I'm not just the charming cutie who
made you laugh and talked patients out of hanging themselves, or the witty
intellectual who loved to read books. I have my problems, as do we all. But I
am finally now addressing them with the intent to solve/cope/handle them to
the best of my ability.

To the internet "pals", it is surely irrelevant, my life nothing more than a

tale to amuse the mind of the jaded online personality most likely a lie a
well.

I'll update more frequently as time permits, but I have my own fucked up mind
to fix, drug addictions to cure, and psychosis's innumerable to explore and
dissect to my best advantage.

Should Zach ever read this entry, (dubious) I apologize for ruining your
life, taking advantage of you and your family, stealing (I use the term
lightly, she's as chronic a liar as I am) your girlfriend, and I never expect
to see you again. However I want you to succeed where I have to totally
failed.

Be something man. Go back to school. Pursue your love of music. Don't be a

restruant schmuck escaping life's maladies with substances. It stops working
eventually.

I see a therapist tommorow to get on Medicaid, and discover the local AA and
NA meeting grounds, which I will attend daily for at least 2 years, should my
work schedule permit it.

Never again. I'm sick of being a hurt child hiding behind the front of a
sarcastic and callous man.

164
Thursday, December 29th, 20051:37 am
Utter desolation and madness.

The carefree and banaly nihilistic way of my existence is starting to impede

me.

I fall in love. Holy shit, I'm totally worthless. Balls.

But we'll see what happens. It's 1:30am, using Z's lappy. Stoned as hell and
alone for once. The past 2 months have been total chaos.

Zach is jobless, we owe in excess of 1400 in bills, 400 of which is for

electric... I'm working every day this week at Qdogballs....

He got canned for screaming at his total cuntface boss bitchqueen demonspawn
whore of a supervisor. I went to school with this piggy eyed lardass, I know
her ways.

By the way, at work today all 5 of the chicks I closed with today said I was
"Built and totally hot." Go me. I make seven bucks an hour to totally bust my
motherfucking ass putting rice, beans, and meat on a fucking tortilla.
Whoo...

Later cats.

Tuesday, November 8th, 20053:36 pm

The ravings of a madman.
Monday, Nov 07

...[READ ALL OF THIS]...

Buddy of mine at work needed some purchases made since he is not yet on the
same particular pier of legal recognition that society deems either an
"adult" or "minor".

(bear with me, rum an other funstuffs are kicking in at the moment)

Moving on. We get back with this Patron tequila, he has expensive tastes. Who
the holy fuck buys 50$ 5ths of liquor?

Well the stuff tasted phenomenal, and I daresay that was the finest liquor
I've yet to drink. The man gave me 4 shots, "FOUR" of them, Christ. what a
solid man, dude's 17 and parties like a motherfucking demon, I love the guy.
So 4 shots of tequila. Then this Jillian chick hands me a bottle of some
clear Bacardi rum.

"My mom bought me this and I don't even want it. Go ahead and take this."

:D

As I'm happily drinking rum and chasing it with High Life, getting well on my
way to fucked up, we go downstairs and watch an Opeth dvd for awhile.

Time passes.

The 40 is gone, 3/4 of the Bacardi is in my gut, and four shots of tequila.

165
I don't remember anything after Opeth, but apparently I was in "Destructive
Drunk Stan" mode. My computer was all over the place, I ripped off what
remained of the faceplate and threw it into the hallway, there were scuff
marks on the door, (I remember locking myself in my room and kicking the
doorknob for a bit) looks like I just grabbed a handful of the miniblinds and
ripped it down. The plastic pieces were all over fucking creation. I found
some outside for god's sake.

I also threw the vacuum across the room, and then kicked it, laughing the
whole time.

Zach said, and I quote "You never had a cross look, you were just laughing
and breaking everything in sight." And I kicked in a speaker as well.

Scared the hell out of XXXXXX too, I can't begin to imagine what she thinks
about me. Ah, the madness of everyday life.

It's a fucking marvel in and of itself that my PC is even running. Zach said
he saw me put my boot into the computer, more than once and with tremendous
force. Me and my goddamn boots when I'm drunk, if something displeases me and
it evokes the wrath of Stan, I'll probably kick it really damn hard.

[I'm stoned and on the way to being drunk, so pardon any nonsensical
ramblings if you please. I'm sure at least one terminally bored person will
read this, and that justifies (in my mind at least) going through the motions
and posting this garbage of the internet.

I'll get an ISP soon, but I'm having way too much fun getting fucked up every
day and killing myself with carcinogens from the utter debauchery that I
participate in.

There's more going on in this shitstorm, but I'm not going to expose all my
secrets on this thing. Suffice to say, these are the best goddamn days of my
life.

Life rules.

Get this shit.

M 11am-10pm
T 4pm-10pm
W 11am-10pm
T 4pm-10pm
F 11am-11pm
S 4pm-11pm
S JESUS MOTHERFUCK I HAVE A DAY OFF!

Work hard play hard live hard die hard. WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Oh, and I saw Opeth, I still have a hardon from that show and you should
fucking listen to Ghost Reveries.

I don't care what you listen to. These are instructions that will better your
life and the life of your peers. LISTEN TO OPETH. THE ALBUM IS CALLED "GHOST
REVERIES". OPETH. It's a fusion of brutal swedish death, some progressive,
and then they do shit like -Hours of Wealth- GET THIS SONG, IT IS WORTH THE

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TRIVIAL CLICKS AND SHITTY DOWNLOAD RATES. GET IT. I'm fucking serious people.
This isn't fanboy shit or the arrogance of some callous jackass with a
computer. (I am a jackass and callous to boot, but please, I'm serious) This
music is motherfucking perfection.

Get the album, you know where to go.

Well folks, I miss not being able to talk to you on a regular basis. I plan
on fixing this problem with my next paycheck, or possibly the one after that,
given the financial situation what with late bills, rent, ciggarettes, booze,
self prescribed herbal remidies that help me cope with the tedium of work and
lets me escape my existence if only for a short time... and other shit as
well.

Okay. Took a shower. Smoked a square.

4:30 and I'm wired.

More shit to talk about.

Zach's "girlfriend" XXXXXX is awesome. She can outdrink me like I'm a 16

yearold highschool broad. She's an avid reader, I got her into Lovecraft and
now she's reading my books. Sharp as a tack and quick witted, gets my obscure
jokes every time, and usually whips out a repartee that leaves me in a corner
and looking like an idiot, it's marvelous.

Plus, she tells me I'm a nice person and she likes me. Which does wonders for
the ego. The affection between Zach and I is heartfelt but unspoken, we're
guys obviously. So we yell "EAT SHIT YOU FUCKING PUKE!" or whatever at each
other and call it good.

But to have someone else tell you you that you're smart and cool or whatever
is life affirming and rare as hell.

If you're friends with someone, just tell them why. People need to be honest
and open about shit like that.

I'm doing just dandy at the moment, booze has worn off already and I'm out of
schwag, so I think I'll pass out and wake up for work in five hours.

Monday again, 10:30pm

Christ I hate having women cry on my shoulder, all I want to do is start

crying with 'em.

Still Monday? 11:30pm ANGRY

Another beer run, another "Thanks Stan you're great!", and then everyone goes
to bed and fucks and enjoys the sleep of the sated.

And I'm here trying to kill my liver, typing on a fucking blog.

I wonder if I'll ever find someone. Ever.

I suppose I'd be content to fuck whatever comes my way and be happy with
that. But I know as a fundamental instinct, if nothing more, (I'm still not
sold on this whole Cosmo Hollywood love shit, it's saccharine to the point of

167
nausea.) I'd like a mate and a life partner.

Sometimes I wish I could just excise specific emotions from my mind.

Oh shit, waaaait. Yeah. No car, I make burritos for a living, I'm an

excessive drinker and have serious anger issues. Plus, my heart's probably
going to stop when I'm 30 and assuming I don't die from a staph infection, (I
have gone to the hospital FIVE times for serious infections in the past
year.) I may make it to the precious age of 30 when I have a near fatal heart
attack and overdose the next morning.

Maybe I should just shoot myself in the fucking head and save everyone the
goddamn hassle of taking me places, putting up with my drunk ass, and fuck
knows what else.

Anyone clueless or stupid enough to want to stay with me for more than a
night would probably be so horribly revolting that I'd run screaming into the
night.

But whatever. I made my bed and now I have to lay in it, and there's no sense
pretending that anyone reads this shit in the first place, so now that I've
said my bit once again to a deaf audience, I'll consider that dealing with my
problems and drink myself stupid just so I can fucking wake up in the morning
broke as hell with nowhere to go but crazy.

Fucking great. Stay in school. Or you'll end up a fuckup like me. :)

--

Well that's some of the poison out of me, here's more.

Some fucking jackass at work a few days back was yelling at me because I
mentioned having a ciggarette and...

Stupid white black man - "You know you shouldn't smoke, it's really bad for
you and costs alot of money."

:pause:

stan - "You know you should'nt eat that chicken queso burrito, it has 1200
calories and over 300 grams of pure fat, which will attack your heart FAR
worse than me smoking a pack... so yeah, it's bad for you and costs alot of
money."

Dude just stares at me and I leave to get a ciggarette.

So yeah, you fucking uppity holier than thou shithead bastards, lose the
fucking 40lbs hanging off of your ass before you tell me what the fuck is
fucking bad for me you xanax popping jesus loving shit for brains
motherfucker.

In other news, women are horribly confusing creatures that should be heavily
medicated at all times.

Seriously. Make up your damn minds about shit and stop fucking with me all
the damn time, don't show me your tits and then yell at me for jumping. I
will not tolerate that bullshit because it pisses me the fuck off.

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I'm in a vile mood right now, and starting to enjoy it a bit.

What else, I don't have anything better to do and I'm much too pissed to be
sociable upstairs.

Roomate John is moving out to Ohio in 2 weeks. Now -everything- I hate is in

Ohio.

Man, I'd say what has me in such a bad mood is XXXXX's boyfriend hadn't
spoken to her in 10 days, and from what I got through the sobs and tears
they're splitting up.

God I hate it when women (My friends) cry, it fucking kills me inside to the
point that I'm essentially a social cripple and I can't even talk. The
feeling of utter helplessness and total lack of ability to make the situation
any better is agony. Sheer. Absolute. Agony... Desolation, in a word. I mean,
I'm Stan, I can make anyone laugh, or at least smile. And to hear and feel
that going on is like a knife being slowly twisted in my stomach.

I can't articulate what goes on in my head when someone I care about is

hopelessly crying from emotional pain. I essentially revert back to a primal
need to destroy whatever is hurting said person.

Certain things can't be said online, but I would gladly beat the shit out of
a certain person right now.

Having said that, I do feel a bit better.

Damn these awful restrictions on my mind, certain urges and forces that abuse
my conscious and cause my intellect and higher brain to freak out. Goddamn
emotions. I miss being an amoral teenager...

I still have something of a rancor going, but having bitched, I don't know
what to complain about.

Oh yeah, I know. God. (Christan one only, hindus are all cool and Muslims
give CNN something to scare us with. OOOH SCARY ARABS! Forget about Bin
Laden! 9-11 was just a springboard to take out all opposition to the USA,
COLUMBIA IS NEXT. etc.)

Okay. Here's my problem. People (doctors, lawyers, chemists, fucking actual

people) think there's an invisible, all-powerfull, omnimpotent being that is
watching us and judging us.

Now the apple of knowledge was a temptation sent to total innocents, with no
concept of Satan (knowledge, intelligence, the will to rebel and learn. Hail
Satan!) and God sat there and let the devil do his work...

He has the power to create anything, control all, be all, and most likely IS
all. (again this is bible talk)

Why the hell did he give angels all the awesome stuff, powers beyond reason,
etc. And we get AIDS. Great. God's a total fucker.

Now here's how it is. Back in the year dot, a smart man or group of men
decided to write a story that would allow a culture to succeed and live

169
somewhat well...

Don't steal, don't murder ( well war is totally different lol omg <>< ),
don't cheat on your spouse, and other codes essential to maintain a certain
(aura? I want to say pathos or ethos, I used to know this shit damnit) well,
an almost tangible blanket of security in your rather crude society.

Now of course people fuck up, people -are- fuck ups. So you tell the bishop
or pastor what you did wrong, (great way for the kings and cardinals to know
if any REALLY bad shit was going down amongst the devout) and if you're
really sorry, God say's it's all good and you can sleep at night.

BREAK THE RULES AND DO NOT WHAT THE CHURCH (The church being a bunch of
corrupt shiteyed boyfucking sodomites) SAYS, AND YOU WILL CONDEMN YOURSELF TO
ETERNAL AGONY IN A PIT RUN BY SOMEONE CREATED -BY GOD-. HE DOES THE WILL OF
GOD, HE IS HIS TOOL. WHAT THE FUCK?

It's pretty intelligent. Mass manipulation on such a grand scale that it can
only be called a religion. Keep the sheep scared and obedient, all is well,
put cash in the basket.

Take something as innately terrifying as death and combine it with the

natural curiosity of a human mind, (the world got here because God made it
so, don't ask questions, scientists are heretics, the world is flat and obey
the church) now promise eternal bliss because we can't PROOOOOOVE that God
isn't real because in order to get into this dixieland happy merry-go-fuck
you have to have FAITH!!!

FAITH. ADMITTED IGNORANCE AND BELIEVING ANYWAYS, DESPITE NO SOLID EVIDENCE.

THAT IS THE DEFINITION.

There is -nooooo- difference between the easter bunny and jesus motherfucking
christ.

Rabbits are real, candy is real.

Jesus was probably real, maybe stuck on a cross, like all the other
rebellious hippies back then.

That's where the smart group of men come together and fabriacte something to
oppose the government. They used to persecute Christians in Rome.

WHY DON'T YOU DUMBSHITS GET IT? WE HAVE GONE TO SPACE. GOD IS NOT IN THE
CLOUDS YOU ASININE RETARD. GROW UP.

--

And after confessing my utter rage and angst to her, I get a hug, a laugh, an
appreciative chat, and I'm right as rainwater.

Women are fantastic and totally mad. The cause and solution to all my
problems.

2:30am Tuesday morning

I'm sober and bored. I -have- to be bipolar. I can't help but wonder if I'm
smart, or really fucking stupid. And when all is said and done, it doesn't

170
even matter.

I don't think I'm going to edit what I just wrote either. Pardon the typos
and grammatical errors. I'm getting old.

Back to the god thing, I view god and satan as nothing more as an ethereal
and or symbolic personification of man's duality (stolen from Full Metal
Jacket, but damn me if it isn't a fine statement) [the dual forces being what
man wants and what man must do in order to better himself, when in fact -
bettering- onself in the minds eye is entirely dependent on the upbringing
and instilled morals during childhood] in the conflicts and internal
dialogues of scared and confused people.

(Sorry folks, I go off on fucking TANGENTS, try and keep up)

Trying to see things in black and white is a self assuring method of

perception that gives one a sense of security, either something IS, or IS
NOT. Mankind wants SECURITY, more than anything else. It's a primitive
instinct.

Unfortunately I lack the perception to see so acutely, and everything is just

differing shades of grey on what I see as Good and Evil.

I sit and think of how me, as myself being an intelligent entity separate
from my environment, would be different had I not been raised a Christian.
The subconscious fear of hell constantly warring with common sense is a
serious handicap and I believe the world would be a much happier place if
people didn't worry about SPIRITUAL salvation and focused instead on the
current world situation and how we're destroying our habitat in every
possible way.

War, famine, starvation, with America sitting on the fat of the land. I'm
drinking beer and doing drugs when right now some POW in North Korea is
starving to death, praying to a mute god for some release, when all that
awaits him is a slow death and an unmarked grave... should he be so lucky.

Goddamnit, I know I'm intelligent. I talk about this shit to people and I get
glassy eyed stares and demands for the television to succor and amuse the
idle minds of the flock.

Society would call this the ravings of a madman, I see it as clarity. Perhaps
there isn't a difference.

And I get infuriated by the people who say "Wow Stan, you're smart. It all
sounds like Blah blah blah, to me."

THESE ARE NOT DIFFICULT CONCEPTS. YOU ARE AN IDIOT AND YOUR VERY EXISTENCE
OFFENDS ME TO THE CORE. READ SOME BOOKS YOU DUMB FUCKER.

3am

I'm dry as a bone and chainsmoking, trying to speed along the process. Fuck
beer, it doesn't get me drunk anymore. I need liquor. And I have a dollar to
my name until Friday.

Life is probably going to get alot better in a few weeks, I'll just ride it
out like I always have.

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Oh shit, I have Unisom. Sweet, sweet, vertigo and leaden eyelids.... here I
come. G'night people.

Time to chew some sleeping pills and drift off...

If you actually sat down and read this, and understood most of it, you're
probably Kyuu. :) I miss you, man.

Friday, October 28th, 20056:31 pm

Just saw Opeth last night.

Woke up at 4pm, left for Detroit with Zach and Hannah at some time I don't
recall.

Fireball Ministry and Nevermore fucking suck.

OPETH UBER ALLES

Best show I've seen, totally whupped on Ministry.

The banter from Mikael was hilarious.

"This next song, is a slow one, so if you want to sit down, get a beer, have
a smoke, now's the time."

*INSANE EARBUSTING GUITAR*

DELIVERANCE. \m/

And they played a ton of good shit, nice variety, but mostly metal.

Life rules.

Sunday, October 9th, 20056:15 pm

So yeah, spent the money on booze and drugs.

Broke at the moment, but all is well.

New drama at the house.

I invite chick over to drink beer, etc, from work.

She digs Zach, things happen.

We get a new roomate.

Up to 4 people in the house now, rent is so fucking cheap. :D

I'll probably get a 5meg line installed once the finances are figured out.

Miss you guys, but don't miss the internet.

So it goes.

Moving on. Working about 55 hours a week, I managed to get a weekend off
finally.

172
Um yeah.

I've wasted my life, but in all honesty, I don't think I could be having more
fun. :)

Wednesday, September 21st, 20052:04 pm

Greetings, scum of the internet.

Got a house.

Got a sweet deal on a job.

I'll be online again soon once I purchase a new PC and go through the shit to
get a cable line set up.

(I'm sure you're thrilled)

Beer pong is awesome.

Anime, porn, memesheep, and sorority girls all fucking suck... some to
differing degrees than others. ;)

Monday, May 16th, 200510:20 am

Looks like I'm being sued.

2600$ or some such from my old apartment building.

Then I get to deal with the hospital, the skipped taxes....

...prison here I come.

5:20 pm
Screamingly sentient, dumbly delirious, only the gods that were can tell. A
sickened, sensitive shadow writhing in hands that are not hands, and whirled
blindly past ghastly midnights of rotting creation, corpses of dead worlds
with sores that were cities, charnel winds that brush the pallid stars and
make them flicker low. Beyond the worlds vague ghosts of monstrous things;
half seen columns of unsanctified temples that rest on nameless rocks beneath
space and reach up to dizzy vacua above the spheres of light and darkness.
And through this revolting graveyard of the universe the muffled, maddening
beating of drums, and the thin, monotonous whine of blasphemous flutes from
inconceivable, unlighted chambers beyond Time; the detestable pounding and
piping whereunto dance slowly, awkwardly, and absurdly the gigantic,
tenebrous ultimate gods - the blind, voiceless, mindless gargoyles whose soul
is Nyarlathotep.

- HP Lovecraft

Monday, April 25th, 20052:26 am

Stan : oi
Mark: sup
Mark: how did you know I was on?
Stan : Dude
Stan : i think im going to die majn
Stan : like, soon
Mark: umm
Mark: why>

173
Mark: ?
Stan : i took 6 \oxyc9ontin
Mark: six what?
Stan : and i think a bad dose is like 4
Stan : Um
Stan : Oxycontin
Stan : made from opiates]
Stan : jesus mamn, look at me
Mark: holy fuck
Mark: drive to the hospital or something
Stan : man i feel so bad
Mark: Indications of an OxyContin overdose:
Stan : cant even breathe too well
Mark: # slow breathing (respiratory depression)
Stan : I awesome
Stan : yeah i vomited
Stan : Iver had seizures
Mark: never?
Mark: or you have had?
Stan : Ive had seizures*
Mark: just now?
Stan : about half an hourt ago
Mark: fone 911
Mark: jesus
Stan : I kinda fell in the bathtub and blacked out for a good 20 minutes
Stan : Im kinda scared man
Mark: what are they gonna do?
Stan : If I call 911 i go to jail
Mark: so you'd rather die?
Stan : Im not going to die, I just feelk like it
Mark: oh
Stan : on a positive note
Mark: well, then what are you so worried about?
Stan : I dont have the meds in b\my blood
Stan : Ive been fvomiting blood
Mark: holy shit dude
Stan : Man I am a wreck
Mark: yeah man
Mark: don't overdose on drugs?
Stan : im not falling asleep in a long time
Stan : I ll wake up dad
Stan : dead
Mark: watch your breathing man
Stan : YEAH IVE VEEN TAKING DEEOP BREATHS
Stan : ack
Mark: lol
Stan : But I go about a minuye
Stan : brtween them
Mark: its an opiate
Mark: so basically the biggest risk you have right now, (since the siezures
and coma are over) is that your lungs are gonna give out
Mark: now, ideally, you would have a shot of adrenalin and be hooked up to an
oxygen mask
Mark: how much did you take?
Mark: The most dangerous thing to do with an OxyContin overdose is to go to
sleep- there is a good chance that the user will never wake up.
BUZZ!!!

174
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
Mark: jesus dude
BUZZ!!!
Stan : sotry man
Mark: The most dangerous thing to do with an OxyContin overdose is to go to
sleep- there is a good chance that the user will never wake up.

Mark: time to make some coffee

Mark: do something so you won't stay still
Stan : im not sleeping until noon
Mark: scared the shit out of me there
Mark: lol
Mark: watching you die is not high on my list of things to do before work
tomorrow
Stan : oksay man
Mark: how did you end up doing so much anyways?
Mark: whats the story?
Stan : um my buddy dgtlchlk
Stan : brought me some oxys
Stan : 20mg tabs
Stan : We kinda forgot hes 300lbs
Stan : and has resitance
Mark: shit
Stan : this is my 1st time using them, on an empty stomach, and 6 at once
Stan : If i sleep i WILL die
Stan : I just puked 5 streams of bloody water
Mark: fuck man
Mark: can you stay awake?
Mark: http://www.megadriver.com.br/mp3/MegaDriver%20-
%20Storm%20Eagle%20(Mega%20Man%20X).mp3
Mark: have some METAL
Stan : im so freaking terrified I wont sleep for a week
Stan : ]dude how long was i staring into space?
Mark: you'd better not
Mark: cuz if you do
Mark: and you still live
Mark: I'll fucking kill you
Mark: lol
Stan : Dude how long?
Mark: about 2 or 3 minutes
Stan : My minds been shutting down alot
Stan : holy fuck
Mark: you looked like you were asleep
Mark: thats why I was buzzing you
Mark: fuck man
Mark: you look like death
Mark: isn't anyone there with you?
Stan : Zachs asleep dude, I feel kinda hysterical
Mark: wake him up
Mark: tell him whats going on
Stan : he has to work, and I just need someone to talk to fir a few minutes
man
Stan : he just went to bed
Stan : u \\I put on a good show for david and zach, but man Im really
freaking out
Mark: you're not gonna die

175
Stan : oh i know
Stan : Im just crashing from what may be the best high ive ever fucking had
Mark: damn
Mark: well
Mark: at least you have experience with this kinda situation
Stan : yeah no shit
Stan : Drink massive anmounts of water, do some jumpingjacks and vomit
Mark: and at least you're lucid enough to hold a decent conversation
Mark: vomit BLOOD
Stan : i was mumblingfor 2 hours or so
Mark: so the worst is over?
Stan : i dunno man
Stan : If i close my eyes ill pass out
Mark: fuck man
Mark: I can't get over how bad you look
Stan : sand i really dont want to die yet
Stan : Plus i broke out lik ehell
Stan : hang on dude im freezing
Mark: can't die ugly
Mark: lol
Stan : h man
Stan : Just threw up again
Mark: hey
Stan : and my head is killing me
Mark: more blood?
Mark: no shit
Stan : yeah more blood
Mark: damn
Mark: will they really send you to jail if you've overdosed?
Mark: fucking asshole american cops
Stan : fuck yes
Mark: can;t you just get a ride to the hospital?
Stan : dude i owe everyone money
Stan : fuck that
Mark: fuck man
Stan : i need to put on shoes with a rock in em or something
Mark: heh
Stan : So in other words
Stan : or whaterver
Stan : how have you been dude?
Stan : Dont let me keep you up
Mark: lol
Mark: I wasn't gonna go to sleep any time soon
Stan : Good, i need to keep occupied
Mark: damn it man
Mark: go to the goddamn hospital
Mark: how can they arrest you for this?
Mark: they don't have anything except circumstantial evidence
Mark: and you don't have any drugs on you
Stan : for doing controlled substanes wihout a RX
Mark: as long as you're not in possession of the shit with you
Mark: you should be okay
Stan : dude i took 6 oxys, theyd freak out
Stan : and holy shit am i tired man
Mark: so what
Mark: they can't arrest you
Stan : I woke up at 8am yesterdaty and slept 3 hours

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Mark: fucker
Mark: GO
Mark: TO HOSPITAL
Stan : Nah man
Stan : Ill be fine,
Stan : Im gonna play some kataklysm
Stan : and wake the fuck up
Mark: kataklysm is good
Mark: james stopped me from seeing them live
Stan : Wtf, why?
Mark: he didn't think they sounded good
Stan : theyre pretty simple
Stan : but they sound good
Mark: I like them
Mark: they're badass
Stan : yeah man
Mark: awesome double-bass drumming
Stan : keep an eye on me man
Mark has started viewing your webcam.

Stan : i jkust blacked out again

Mark: canadian drummers are the best
Mark: dude
Mark: wake up
BUZZ!!!
Mark: stop closing your eyes man
Stan : im trying to man
Mark: FUCK
Mark: go to the fucking hospital
Mark: they can't arrest you
Mark: they have no grounds for it
Mark: and at least you'll still be alive to work it off
Stan : Man I just need to make about 4 hours
Stan : and ill be good
Mark: wekk
Mark: well
Mark: I can take you to about 5 am
Stan : thanks man
Mark: my time
Stan : man i have never felt this bad from drugs
Mark: man
Stan : I keep going like a minute between breaths
Mark: what were you thinking?
Stan : wasnt.
Mark: you gotta breathe more man
Mark: fuck, you look like shit
Mark: how do you get women?
BUZZ!!!
Stan : not looking like this dude
Mark: haha
Stan : I fucking broke out and shit
Mark: yeah I noticed
Mark: BRAF!
Mark: nice ear man
Stan : lol sorry
Mark: hehe
Mark: sokay

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Mark: man call the fucking hospital
Mark: for fucks sake
BUZZ!!!
BUZZ!!!
Stan : dude
Stan : im up man
Mark: sorry
Mark: you keep spacing out
Mark: I'm supposed to keep you awake
Stan : i fucking know man this shit is scaring the fuck out of me
Mark: no matter how much you feel harassed
Stan : aw wtf
Stan : where are my speakers
Stan : one sec
Mark: man, you should get yourself a drink
Mark: and some chewing gum if you have it
Mark: moving your mouth keeps you awake
Mark: sing along with the metal too
Mark: trust me man, I've done stuff like this before
Mark: minus the threat of death
Mark: but still
Mark: and make a big huge pot of strong coffee
Stan : I JUST FUCKING COLLAPSED
Stan : damnit
Stan : caps
Stan : all i gotta do is keep talking man
Mark: yeah man
Mark: jeez
Mark: you look bad
Stan : whoa
Stan : there I go again

M: damn man
M: have a bit of discipline
verpissdich88 : dude my brain just SHUTS DOWN
M: well yeah
verpissdich88 : im bugging out on oxy wth NO slwwp
M: you gave it a near fatal dose of extremly refined opiates
verpissdich88 : yeah
M: what the hell did you think was gonna happen?

God I hope I can stay awake till noon.

Monday, April 11th, 20051:52 am

"Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago--centuries, ages,
eons, ago!--for you have existed, companionless, through all the
eternities. Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that
your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction!
Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane--like all
dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet
preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy,
yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life,
yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness
unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels
painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and
maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell--mouths
mercy and invented hell--mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied

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by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other
people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them
all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the
responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it
where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine
obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!...

"You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a
dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly
creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks--in a
word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks
are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.

"It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no

universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all
a dream--a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you
are but a thought--a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless
thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"

- Mark Twain - The Mysterious Stranger

Spending my time talking to people that I will never meet and I generally
hate seems a waste of what little life I have.

It's spring now, motherfuckers, God is dead and Stan needs money.

See you guys around sometime.

Thursday, April 7th, 20058:27 pm

A sanguine mood negates my usual derisive and scornful paradigm.

Perhaps the weather changes how I think.... anyhow....

Thursday, March 24th, 20058:14 am

Yet another infection...

yet another hospital visit.

Tuesday, March 8th, 20053:52 am

As of 7am,sleep evades me, and the ever present boredom takes hold.

Sleep is such a wonderful burden, I think.

Do you ever feel more content than right when you fall into a warm bed and
drift off to sleep?

No way.

Sleep dominates any artificial high out there.

If I could, I would sleep forever, wake up once and awhile, only to fall back
into that blissful slumber.

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But no...

Life beckons. The drive to accomplish and achieve, wages a losing battle with
my apathy and laziness in the relentless war of conscious existence.

Dead words can only express the feelings and sensations occuring in my grey
blob of a brain, and the vague language we use to communicate falls miserably
short once again.

So it goes.

Tuesday, March 1st, 200510:54 am

Suicide is for emo kids and japanese people.

I make a few comments on how I think about suicide and I get this?

Yeesh.

Stan won't kill himself for a few years yet, fuck dying in a hospital.

Anyways, it's my fucking birthday today.

Whoopie shit.

Gotta work 4-10pm.

Out.

Friday, February 25th, 20054:45 am

Half-assed semi-rant.
I'm drained of all things new and exciting. The daily grind has finally worn
me down, so that I live only for the bottle and the temporary highs that I
can find.

Suppose I give up my vices? What else will I have to live for?

Guess what? I don't care... And by saying I don't give a flying fuck, I mean
it.

Nor is this a childish denial of my own mistakes and misfortunes, (Christ,

must I always use cliches when I type?) like some snot nosed emo kid that
won't get a raise in his allowance.

I truly do not give more than 10 seconds thought to my future, aside from
aimless, idle, and indifferent plans of sex or suicide.

Thoughts of suicide, especially since Thompson died, have been in my mind

more than usual as of late. (another cliche damnit)

This isn't a cry for help or a plea for attention, this myself writing down
my ideas as they happen so I may better understand myself and provide you,
the solitary reader with some mediocre poorly written entertainment for the
few fleeting seconds where you pretend to actually care what happens to me.

Don't worry, I do the same thing too.

Jagermeister in hand, the sun rising to greet a nihilistic self-deceived

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world of zealous animals, I sit and think of all the things I could have done
with my life had I been bothered to exert myself.

Ah well, you can't achieve what you don't attempt.

Like life.

Man, back in the day I was full to the brim of slightly evil yet optimistic
piss and vinegar... now?

Blah.

That's all I have to say... for now.

Tuesday, February 22nd, 20056:35 pm

Rest in peace, Hunter S. Thompson.

Your work was loved, and influenced my actions, speech, and general outlook
on life in many ways.

Take your life as you see fit.

Sunday, February 13th, 20055:26 am

I only feel whole when drunk/inebriated..

Some would condemn that statement, others.... understand.

How pathetic, that I need a manufactured substance to attain some sense of

completion.

I'll probably delete this when sober....

So it goes.

Alas, so it goes.

Wednesday, January 19th, 20051:53 pm

going home -today-

i wish the docs would make up their minds -_-

gonna spend some time at the olds house, that way I can eat actual food and
not the horrible shit i get at wendys or god knows where else

im gonna be on some uberexpensive drug called zyvox or whatever -_-

finger appears to be okay though

Tuesday, January 18th, 20057:33 am

2:30am

Been hiccuping for about 14 hours nonstop and my head is killing me.

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Had an allergic reaction to the vicodin, so now it's tylenol-3 aka codeine

Been dozing on and off, haven't eaten much of anything, like at all.
So goddamn restless and bored.,

latest guess will say im gonna be here for about 11 days total.

Which means i wont be able to attend a party that i had been looking forward
to for some time.

And I have spoken to the docs extensively on the topic, and I have the
medical backing of some of the most prestigous minds out there,

Stan NEEDS nudies from all his LJ female buddies.

It's for medicinal purposes of course.

Current Mood: krank und geil
Current Music: npr national public radio :D

Monday, January 17th, 20055:30 pm

Well okay

typos will abound and everywhere.

To those who replied ;_; i love you guys :D

Im so damn lonely in here and SO bored.

1st things first

Ive been diagnosed with a staph infection and something called "mersa" or
"merca" which is like, bad shit.

Im going to be in the hospital for something like 12-18 days

on the plus side my manager wes is filling out an incident report concerning
this, so I may be in good hands.

If not, I am so fucked. XD

Well I would have posted more yesterday, but as it turns out I got a
roomate.... that was a retard.... and loved the jesus channel on television.

I was just grinning the whole damn time.

So im just here chilling in a hospital bed, at the end of the hallway,

(apparently what I have is ubercontagious) and living off of applejuice and
hospital food.

the downside of this isp connection is that im using a keyboard attached to a

remote, and essentially, this internet tv thing has all the capabilities of a
palm pilot.

the doc wants me to undergo water treatment or some shit which involves NOT
sewing up the "conan the barbarian-esque" gashes on my hand and using warm
water in a jacuzzi to flush out the infection

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well my hands getting uber fatigued ill write more later

and yes mark, to be uninsured and in the hospital... this trip may end up
costing me about thirty thousand USD.

if workmans comp covers this i should be okay though

bbl

Current Mood: pain

Sunday, January 16th, 20051:28 pm

steady pulsing hum of the iv drip...

idle chatter amongst the caretakers on whatever floor i happen to inhabit....

it's 8:30am... man was not meant to be up this early.

typing is an absolute bitch when your right hand is covered in gauze.

I was placed in the pediactric ward/section whatever, so i have reassuring

murals of cute looking jungle animals staring at me, o.O

what fun, and the internet Im allowed access to is on a 19 inch panasonic tv

and the display setting is at like.... 320x240.

Docs are going to poke and prod hand, re-dress it, and all that other fun
shit associated with hospitals and health care.

I miss being able to use my right hand, like, even eating is a chore.

more later

11:46 am
645am

im in a hospital bed and i will be here for at least 3-4 days

stan is not thrilled

they made 2 incisions in my finger and flushed water through a very infected
tendon sheathe and forced quite a bit of crap outof my hand

which is now wrapped up and is hurting like a mofo seeing as they want to put
it in a whirlpool or something like that

this is going to cost me....... so freaking much. ;_;

what blows is no chat applications will start, not even aim express or the
java chat applet

but man did the numbing process hurt.

ill probably write alot because im sure ennui will no doubt start fairly soon

I got to see the surgeon do the whole operation and i can just say "whoa"

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they put a flexible tube in there and via syringe they ran 1000 ccs of water,
and that was actually cool

and i got a tet shot, :P @ joel

Current Mood: Post Op

Current Music: WMUK - NPR News

Saturday, December 11th, 20044:44 am

It's now 7:30am.

At 11pm yesterday Zach took me to ER and I had some surgery that was
inevitable.

About a week ago I had switched deoderants to RIght Guard ubercheap, and all
was well.

The next day my armpit swelled up like a balloon with pus, since i had some
reaction to the deoderant and my gland sealed up.
I endured it for a few days hoping it would fix itself.
2 nights ago the only way I got any sleep at ALL was by partaking in illegal
substances and ALOT of aspirin.

So I go to ER at about 11pm.

With a trusty copy of fear and Loathing and having second thoughts about the
surgery I head in...

Zach and I sit for about an hour... he leaves to go home and take care of
some shit.

These 3 black people, 1 with her husband and -adorable- baby sit next to me.

The other 2 are quite drunk women, and they WANTED me. XD
Funny given my usual hatred of blacks, I got along with them quite well.
Probably because they were drunk, and I know drunks better than anyone.

I'm not very fluent in blackanese, but I caught, "I'm trying to get some
white meat girl, lemme get his digits."

Took me awhile to realize she meant phone number.

Then these two girls and your typical pussy frat boy bitch walk in...

Both girls were PAINFULLY attractive, except one had blood pouring from her
head.
She was drunk and fell on a door knob.
Really fucked up.

So they FINALLY call my name.

I struggled with putting on that damned hospital gown, and then just gave up
and sat shirtless on the bed. (That gown was fucked up, lemme tell you."
They do a temp, bp, etc check on me.
Then the doc comes in and goes, "That's the biggest *whatever medical term he

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used for it* I've ever seen, son. Do you want some painkillers?"
"Yes, please."
He injected me with happy juice.

Then numbed the swollen gland with something, cut it open and proceeded to
force out some truly gross looking shit from my armpit.

He put a rubbed tube in it and stitched it in, but it fell out about half an
hour ago.

I went to the pharmacy right?

Vicodin without prescription. 10$

Amoxacacillin without prescription? 94$

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IM SO BROKE FOR

THE NEXT 3 MOOOOOOOOOONTHS

Current Mood: Fucking high on painkillers.

Current Music: Hellalujah - Sheissmessiah - Hanzel und Greytl

Monday, December 6th, 200412:45 pm

It's 2:30 - 3:00am, Zach says "Dude, want to go to Denny's?" (Denny's being a
24/7 breakfast joint.)

I am stoned RETARDED.

"Sure man."

So we get there, and this sweetheart of a waitress tells us where to sit...

As I sit down I say, "I think they're on to us man."

Zach says, "It's 3am, this is Denny's... I have a beard and you look like a
child molestor."

At which point I lost it and started cracking up.

Then I respond in a stupor, "Dude all this place needs is a few flashing
lights, and I'm set."

Zach then points to the shorted light, directly behind me that just HAPPENS
to be flickering erratically.

Stan - "What the fuck?" O.o

And the waitress starts vacuuming with a very loud appliance, and I make the
mistake of commenting on it.

Stupid Stan.

This chick goes on a 3 minute tirade about how we can get them at the local
superstore, but they're not all this loud, and they're 40 dollars and blah
blah blah.

I'm staring at Zach the whole time trying not to giggle.

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That's all I remember.

Saturday, December 4th, 200411:39 pm

Once again, smoking hooka.

And once again, boredom sets in.

I've decided to stop drinking and smoking weed for awhile, and I'm going to
opt for the straightedge life... at least temporarily.

Interesting thing occured at work today. 16 year old christian girl hit on me
like a nigger with a new prison bitch.

"I haven't gotten laid in two months, Stan."

"I don't like highschool boys, they can't do anything in bed except orgasm
and pass out."
"I was going to call you last night, but you never gave me your number."

As attractive as she is, it just isn't worth it.

At least that's what I tell myself.

I feel myself being slowly worn away by the daily grind, my desrie for new
knowledge is being overrun by drugs and the need to sleep. Fucking pisses me
off.

I think I'm gradually getting stupider... my acerbic wit and stinging sarcasm
has lost its' edge recently.

Maybe the reason old people are so laid back is the simple fact they've
forgotten anything relevant or awesome to say.

All they talk about is how their body is fallng apart and what Betty served
as a dish at the bingo hall.

I don't ever want to get old.

And I doubt it will happen, given certain health problems and my lifestyle.

Ah well, no one lives forever.

Thursday, December 2nd, 200411:47 pm

It's 2:30am.

Impossibly quiet, given my location; I fear a zombie outbreak has occured.

No frat boys yelling, no sorority sluts screaming for cock and gratification,
and no niglet children bawling for food or attention.
So with my newly found solace I do but ONE thing... I turn on the fucking
metal, and start to write a bit.

I was pleasantly stoned with an unnatural sense of inner peace, but it now
conflicts with the sharp edge of paranoia. Taking another drag on my
wonderful hooka, feeling the ache from a day at the salt mine, wondering if
this is all I want to do with my life.

Drinking, getting high, womanizing, and reading the books I feel are worth my
time.... wasting time online with people I will never meet, only thinking as

186
far ahead as my next paycheck, living life as it comes to me, with little to
no inkling as to what I will be doing in 2 years, let alone 2 weeks.

I always have the most profound (or so I'd like to think) thoughts and
elaborate concepts while I'm staring at the grill in the shithole I work
for.... yet I never fucking remember what I was thinking about when I finally
get home.

I sleep on a mattress with no sheet, I rarely wash my clothes, shower and

shave when I feel like it... my lifestyle is minimalistic and lazy to say the
least.

.... and I rarely say less than I ought to. >_<

No one reads what I write, and it doesn't bother me. I do this for peace of
mind and something to occupy my mind. (if not for a short while)

The holidays are here, and with it comes the idiocy in full swing.

Christmas in Thanksgiving, feelings of stress about what to buy for who, the
weather and people unable to drive in an inch of snow, and the fucking
jingles with x-mas sounds and themes.

At least Christmas isn't about jesus anymore.

Just commercialism. Praise the lord, God bless America..

Well, I'm bored with this.

More coming later.

Saturday, November 27th, 20044:21 am

And to think, for all this toil, suffering, abject poverty, and bad teeth… my
end will be the same as the college grad, the happily married man with 4 kids
in a nice neighborhood and a shiny fucking SUV.

We both will die alone. We will stop thinking, and expire… only to decompose,
and in 200 years, our lives will have been equally meaningless in the eyes of
whatever upright living shit dares call itself the sentient race on earth.

That’s my consolation, I suppose.

Huh. I suppose we all have that burning desire to breed, have kids, give into
our instincts and set up a brood, thus ensuring our genetic code will be
around for a little while longer… and this urge will be our downfall.

People fuck without protection… all the damn time. They have kids they don’t
want, and since most mothers have this annoying desire to raise whatever
maggot happens to be occupying their womb, this little parasite will be shat
into existence.

It scares me to see the number of births that occur every hour on this
planet.

I hope I’m here to see it all go down.

But I won’t be. And that pisses me off.

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Even if I live to be 60, the US will probably still be here, fucking other
countries over, and I’ll be a doddering old fart in a wheel chair, paying for
his drug abuses in the past, and reading a documentary on G. W. Bush… and how
the next 4 presidents were busy trying to fix the country he so thoroughly
fucked up…

And I’ll smile, because I knew it was coming. :D

People will still be blowing each other up in the holy land, celebrating
their love for their righteous fallacy of a God, and Americans will still
grudgingly act as if they care.

That really makes me laugh, and it appalls my supposedly normal parents.

“And another car bomb went off in “whatever some fucking sand people decided
to call their shithole village” and at least 10-30 people were injured in the
blast, and now for sports.”

And the people around me actually pretend to care, just so they can tell
themselves that they are, in fact, compassionate and caring people who are
concerned about what occurs in “the less fortunate countries”.

Fucking BULLSHIT.

It’s all bullshit.

We gleefully buy our goods from countries whose working conditions are so
awful the only reason people work there are either A. They have a starving
family. B. It’s prison.

And some people may have a rightful claim to ignorance as to where their
material goods come from, and who suffers to make them…

But why aren’t these atrocities being showcased on CNN?

Money. :D

Has anyone ever heard of what really went on with Pol-pot in Cambodia? Nope.

And the Rwanda shit that went down WAS televised… but no one really paid
attention. Just black savages killing each other. Who cares? They created
AIDS after all.

Heh.

But you figure in something like the Holocaust? My god. That was a tragedy
that won’t be forgotten for a LOOONG time. Why? Because they were white and
America is a white nation, and by golly the Nazis fucked with us. Funny how
the Germans were vilified for concentration camps, when what the US did to
the Japanese was equally appalling.

I still have my doubts as to the supposedly humane treatment of the Japanese

in those camps. Who knows what really happened? We criticize the German
public for going along with the Nazi regime and the euthanizing of the non-
Aryans, but did any fucking Californians stand up for the Japs rights?

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And you’ll hopefully notice how no one went after the German immigrants in
America, nah, let’s just fuck up them skinny yellow bastards, and give them
shit for living here… by god we’re protecting America.

Everything just makes me fucking sick.

People are liars, living in their own little world, and they have the
motherfucking gall to criticize me?

I try and tell them, do they listen? Nooooo….

“So what if you can’t see Jesus? He’s everywhere! *bleats*”

“What? You’ll go to hell for questioning Jesus! But he does love you… which
is why he’s damning you to eternal pain.”

“Who cares what we did to a bunch of spics and heathens? Anyways, that was a
long time ago, and the Spaniards really didn’t follow my own little brand-
named Jesus sect, so we can’t really be held accountable for anything they
did.”

“Oh? You don’t think God exists? Look around, you poor lost soul. God is
everywhere!”

Shit like this makes me want to knock this person out, and slowly murder his
family before his eyes, and make him realize that IF there is a God, it does
not care in the slightest about your wishes, desires, or pleas for mercy when
a truly horrible act is being committed against you.

Fucking hell, according to the Bible, God is all controlling, all knowing,
probably invented Doritos, and knows just what we are going to do.
*The Doritos part is only in the latest version of the NIV Bible, along with
Microsoft trademark on the bottom of the cross… just you fucking watch, it’ll
happen.*

Which negates free will, seeing as we are all doing the work of God, in our
own way, as deemed fit by the almighty God.

But to cover this and many other BLATANT contradictions in the Book, the
clergy just gives us little blurbs of ignorance such as, “The ways of God are
mysterious.”

Dead end there.

So since we are doing the work of GOD, why do we have heaven and hell? Was
there a lottery when his Highness was on his play-doh binge of creation?

Fuck, all this shit does is make me angrier.

No matter HOW much proof you stack up against these cocksuckers, they will
STILL come at you with their blatantly admitted ignorance, and act as if
their very fucking declaration of stupidity was their redemption!

FAITH. I FUCKING HATE FAITH.

It negates all the good in mankind. In science, you cannot say you think
something is true because of faith… You’d be laughed out of any fucking

189
university worthy of that title.

But by a sickening amount of men, to have faith in God is something worthy of

respect… not admittance to a psychiatric ward for an analysis.

Fuck, most of the employees doing the psychoanalysis claim belief in a God of
some sort.

As with most, they claim faith… they go to the required church mass, some go
to confession to happily report their many sins to the ears of a supposedly
impartial stranger, they go through the routines indoctrinated into them by
their fucked up parents…

But do they ACTUALLY believe in an invisible man who has angels at his
command and has a “son” who has superdooper powers and so on and so forth?

I doubt it.

Then why jump though all these hoops?

1. Fear of Hell.
2. The socializing aspect of going to church, and being within a flock. The
sheep mentality is painfully accurate concerning the church.
3. Relief from the unanswerable questions we all ask, ponder, and think
about. Christianity is nothing more than a father figure who will make
everything OK just as long as we follow the rules.

You misbehave… and shit happens. But that’s okay because Jesus still loves
you, buuuuut you’re still going to hell unless you confess and fell sorry for
what you did.

Buuuuut you might still go to hell anyways, and it all gets pretty muddled
from here, so just go do a couple rosaries, act guilty, have some Fisher-
Price introspection where nothing is accomplished, and then go commit the
same fucking sins again next week, so you can feel deliciously guilty all
fucking over again.

What a crock of absolute-mindnumbingly-fucking shit.

And these shits, these… people, claim they have the RIGHT to believe this
shit.
(I’ve said this maaaany times)

And kids can still believe in the toothfairy… hell; the toothfairy gives me
stuff when I lose my tooth! She MUST be real, simply because I am too FUCKING
IMMATURE TO CONCEIVE OF ANY POSSIBLE FUCKING ALTERNATIVE.

And when the little shits classmates tell him what a retard he is for
believing the exact same shit they did not only months before, and he either
accepts the fact outright, and realizes what a stupid ass he was… or he tells
his parents and they just try and console the poor kid to the fact that he
has been lied to for no fucking reason whatsoever.

Same with Jesus. It’s a self-imposed lie to give us the much needed
perception of value to our endless misery in life.

So we can say to ourselves after our dearly loved wife leaves us for the guy

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she’s been fucking secretly 2 months prior to your marriage, and she leaves 8
months later with half of your possessions, you can console yourself while
you cry alone on your couch, “Hey, at least I remained faithful, that BITCH
is going to hell.”

The “bitch” whom you loved with all your heart months before, the bitch that
walked down the aisle with you on the happiest day of your life in the house
of God, the bitch who took your virginity and you bared your soul to… left
you.

And since you can’t go out and fucking kill the two timing bitch, (to the few
who do, cheers) you tell yourself that GOD will deal with your supposedly
important misgivings in life.

Never mind the bitch swore oaths to stay with you until the end of days,
where was God then, hmmm?

It’s all so sad, good men and women set themselves up for SO much pain simply
because they are looking for the easy way out, and answers to the questions
they so desperately want answered.

I respect and love animals. I treat them better than my peers.

Most of the time, I freaking HATE people and their utter lack of
responsibility.

Hmmm… I’ll have to rant more about this later.

Ahhhh…. I always feel so much better after screaming about the world’s
fuckery.

I swear it’s better than sex.

Some of you milder readers (all two of you, heh) should try writing out your
poisonous hate and launch biting attacks on whatever the fuck is pissing you
off.

Don’t care about whom you offend, stop trying to be nice, and stop acting as
if you should actually feel anything for the people whose feelings you
injure…

Thursday, November 11th, 20042:04 am

Rant. Same hate, rearranged.
Fuck the typos.

Faith is what defines a religion. That's what makes it's victims feel
complacent and safe in their false world.

What irritates me is several things.

1. That supposed "adults" can actually get away with believing in this shit
and not being locked up for it.
- Last I checked people that talk to invisible men with super powers got
locked up, or at least heavily medicated. Suppose the insane are just touched
by God?

2. The fact that faith is what gives them the power to prattle on about how

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they pity us for not believing in something that cannot be proved, and the
fucking fact that their God CAN NOT BE PROVEN VALIDATES THEIR FUCKING BELIEF.
- Faith = admitted ignorance, yet believing still, and telling everyone you
still do.
- So if someone told me the world was round, showed by all the scientific
proof that it is in fact FUCKING round, and I petulantly denied it anyways,
and claimed I had my right to believe it was flat simply because of "faith"
in God.

- On a side note remember the church named the scientists "heretics" not so
much for confronting the bible, but for confronting the CHURCH, which fucking
ran everything.
Think about it.

God blesses your government, so do what the government tells you to,
otherwise you go to hell.
Rather brilliant, actually.

If I wanted a tool to control a mass of people, make them docile and weak,
I'd invent Christianity.

Think about it.

Adultery = sin. Because having bastard children makes it a burden on everyone

else.
Theft = Just inconvenient, if people cant own stuff you can't control them.
Satiate them with material objects, deny them ANY spirituality or learning
outside of the church.
Greed = Bad. Give it to the greedy church instead.

I could go on and on.

3. It's freaking bullshit.

Jesus wasn't fucking white. He wasn't black.

He was most likely an olivwe skinned black haired man with a martyr complex,
if that.

Note the religion didn't take hold for 100's of years, and back in europe
being a follower of Christ got your ass killed.

What you believe is what you believe, but if you actually think that the
intricate reaction of electrons inside your flesh mound of a brain does
something when you die, you're a fucking cretin.

Friday, October 8th, 200410:24 am

No angry Stan today.

I went to the bar with a girl that I consider a friend last night, it was
cheap drink night and it was fucking PACKED with students. Like wall to wall
bodies.

Her friend was pretty wasted and she was kinda drunk as well, and her friend
is shouting at me "You're HOT!"

"...WHAT?!"

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"I SAID YOU'RE HOT!"

"WHAT!?"

"YOU"RE...HOT."

"....OH... THANKS."

All I had was 4 bucks, having spent it all on booze, dvds, and more
materialistic shit that I don't need but felt it essential to own anyways; so
I didn't get much to drink, I just bought one pint of labatts and shared it
with her.

Then this cool ass motherfucker was all "You want nother beer man?"

"YEAH, BUT I'M FUCKING BROKE."

"WHAT DO YOU WANT MAN?"

"ANOTHER LABATTS?!"

*I wanted to post an image of GTO with tears of joy streaming down his face,
because that totally sums up how I felt at that moment... but I suck at
internet, so I'll just state my intentions here instead.*

So she's pretty drunk, and so is her roomate, and me and the dude walk back
to her place, and I sit in her room...

And coolness ensues. I sat and talked with her for like, 2 and a half HOURS.

Her roomate was all like, "Are you getting sex tonight?"

And she's like, "Noooo."

*conversation continues*

Man, it was awesome.

But it saddens me to know people that have so many problems, issues with
other people, and how they deal with them in less than smart ways.

*cough*booze*cough*

I'm a waste of life, so I don't really give a flying fuck about what happens
to me.

But this chicks in college, has alot of shit going for her, but she pays
like... 450 bucks a month for a room and bills, which she shares with 3 other
chicks.

Boggles the mind it does. Wendys sucks, but the people I work with are cool.

Well, having said this I think I'm going to tear the livingroom apart and
hunt for a misplaced box of coals.
Saturday, September 25th, 20049:10 am

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Drinking steadily, smoking more, trying to speed up the whole process.

Good times, great fun.

Such is life.

2:34 am
One of my reasons for drinking has got to be the dreams.
I'm a very heavy sleeper so I rarely remember any dreams I have, but tonight
was the coolest, best, most fucking AWESOME dream I have ever had.

I'm in my old church, with all the old faces, same scenery, same priest.

(from what I remember)

Church is about half full, with plenty of room to move about...

I, for some reason, begin laughing loud and hard as the mass almost begins,
everyone in their proper place...

I walk back and forth, roaring with glee at the people I'm facing.

I walk to the priest at his podium, and he steps aside (for some reason).

Raising my hands toward the ceiling and concentrating on focusing myself

into...um... myself? (I really can't explain it, it was a dream, after all,
it involved alot of concentration, though)

I begin to levitate in the air and rise up, I experiment moving left and
right, up and down, all the while the masses of people are in a stasis of
some sort.

Then I begin laughing again, and grabbing a long candleholder in a swoop, I

spin on the priest and take his head from his shoulders in a glorious
fountain of blood.

I hear demons urging me on as I fly about the church raining anything I can
grab on the people, who are now running frantically about the churchtrying to
flee...

Some make it out the door but they go unnoticed by me, as I methodically kill
every living person in the house of christ.

After the church is literally SOAKED in blood, I fly out the door only to be
caught in a very distinctly WHITE net thrown on to me by some of the burlier
men of the church.

So I fly skyward with the men still hanging on to the net, and take great
delight in dropping them on cars from a great distance....

I look to the sun, then the earth, which opens up and I descend to hell...

And wake up.

Hungover as fuck.

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Get up to drink some water, lie back in bed...

What happens?

I fall asleep and my dream continues....

Except now I am very obviously a full blown demon, wings out the back,
poisoned tail, whole nine yards...

And from there on I reign total destruction on the world.

*wakes up again to type this out so I don't forget any of it*

I think it safe to assume that this is is the best dream I have ever fucking
had, and will ever have.

Oh and I get paid again before my court fees are due, so right now I have
245$ in my pocket. :D

Monday, August 16th, 20044:16 am

I have this terrible urge to do about 20 lines of cocaine and make my heart
stop...

Sadly all I have is some hash, and hash is a pussy drug.

Life sucks, but is also looking up, which seems to be the way life usually
progresses... if it can be called that.

Sans progresses, insert continues.

Listening to some Informatik, which may be the best fuck music on the planet,
if not the Milky Way.... (pun wai~ omgwtfbbq lollerskates 2.0 abec bearings)

So yeah, I'd opened this page with the intent to rant once again about the
many injustices of the world that affect me...

But I really can't be bothered anymore.

I think this is the daily grind... work sleep eat work DRINK GET FUCKED UP TO
FORGET HOW LAME MY LIFE IS sleep eat work sleep and so on.

I just can't be arsed to actually do something with my life at the moment.

And I've been saying this since I was about 12... go figure.

Well, I've signed up for some classes at KVCC but I doubt I'll have the cash
to pay for them, so that's shot.

I'm going to work on saving up to pay off certain bills, and pool some money
away for Acen and the move to Florida.

Sunday, June 8th, 20031:05 pm

Gah, I did it as well.
Wooo. Here goes.

First off, what's your name? Stanley Louis Slavin

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Why did your parents name you that, and do you wish they hadn't? My adoptive
fathers’ name is Stanley, and my neighbors name was Louis Weckler, and the
family name is Slavin. Go figure.
How old are you? 20.
How old are you emotionally? I’d say 13…
How about mentally? 13. I swear, I haven’t aged a day past 13.

SEX, ETC.

Let's get this one over with- have you ever even had sex before? Too many
times.

If you're a virgin, do you plan on having sex before you get married? A
little late for that.
Are you straight, bisexual, gay, or lesbian? As often as gay men hit on me...
I’m straight.
Do you feel comfortable talking about sexual things or uncomfortable? I talk
about things that would make a whore blush. I’m pretty damn open about sex.
Do you feel comfortable talking about sexual things regarding your own
experiences, what turns you on, etc.? You can’t get me to shut-up.
Do you, or have you ever masturbated? About once daily, now that I’m jobless.
I’m a horny little goober.
Do you think it's okay for members of the sex opposite your own to masturbate
and why or why not? That’s the most arousing thing ever, watching a woman
pleasure herself is an instant hard-on for me. :D~~~~
On a scale of 1-10, one being the least, and ten being the most, how
perverted do you feel you are? Bah. I’d have to give myself a 9.
If you're a teenager, are your hormones making you undoubtedly horny? I’m
always horny. >.<
What do you think of pornography? Have you ever seen it? If it’s consensual,
and they’re enjoying themselves, then it rules, but some of the shit out
there makes me ill.
Do you have any fetishes or things that automatically start to turn you on?
If so, what are they? I’m kind of into S&M, mainly because my ex introduced
me to it. Ummm, I like what I like... and that’s that.

Are you flexible, or do flexible people turn you on? I’m a flexible as a
brick.
Did you lie on, or avoid answering any of the above questions? To what end?

LOVE

Do you believe in love as a concept? It’s been over used in every possible
way, and love is now synonymous with lust.
Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend or crush? If so, who? I plead the 5th
amendment.

Do you love them? Why or why not? I don't know if I even believe in love. <-
What she said.

On a scale of 1-10, one being the least and ten being the most, how important
is your boyfriend, girlfriend, or crush to you? Unsure.
On a scale of 1-10, how important is the way your
boyfriend's/girlfriend's/crush's family feel about you to you? Having been
disowned, I find the family completely irrelevant.

If you family hated your crush, boyfriend, or girlfriend, would you still go

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out with them? Why? Again, couldn’t care less.
DOES your family hate your crush, boyfriend, or girlfriend? Irrelevant.

Are you physically attracted to your crush, boyfriend, or girlfriend? Why or

why not? Good god yes.

Do you think The Beatles were high when they wrote the song, "All You Need is
Love?" Oddly enough, I have never heard the song.

How do you know when you love someone? You don’t?

Is love worth it? For what I think will always end up in an inevitable
betrayal, ultimately ending in sorrow… God yes, that’s like never eating,
because you’ll only get hungry again.

FRIENDS

Who is/are your best friend/s of the opposite sex? I hate you all. :D
Who is/are you best friend/s of the same sex? Never really had friends.
Name one or two people you know you would die for. The guy that hits me with
his car.
On a scale of 1-10, how important are your friends to you? 3.
Have you ever fallen in love with a friend? Never.
How well do your friends know you? Do you think they would still be your
friends if they knew EVERYTHING, no exceptions, about you? If so, which
friends? Assuming I knew EVERYTHING about them as well, I think it would only
fashion a stronger bond.
Ten years from now, which friends do you hope to still be in touch with? Why?
All of em.

YOUR PSYCHE

Do you have any diagnosed mental disorders? If so, what? ADHD, advanced
depression, serious anger issues, and cynicism so intense my shrinks have
wondered if I am psychotic.
Do you have any undiagnosed mental disorders? If so, what? I think I have
enough already.

If you do in fact have a diagnosed or even undiagnosed mental disorder,

describe what it feels like and/or your personal experiences with it.
Absolute futility. You can see the world as few can, in all its’ brutal,
uncaring glory.
Have you ever been to a therapist, psychiatrist, or psychologist before? If
so, were they helpful to you? Once when I was 6, then 10-13, then 14-15, then
18-19. So that’s 4 shrinks.
Do you think your dreams are a window into your soul? Or do they have any
significance at all? I rarely remember my dreams, and the ones I do are full
of violence and anger… So. Yes.
How would you describe yourself mentally and psychologically? Fucked.
Do you feel insecure with your own person? Have a self-esteem problem? I used
to have no self-esteem. Now, I have self-esteem, but no job. >.<
RELIGION AND PHILOSOPHY

What religion or system of beliefs, if any, do you subscribe to? Having been
kicked out of the church… I’d just classify myself as angry, and leave it at
that. New religion. Angry.
Is this a mainstream religion? More than you would think follow this path.

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What do you think about non-mainstream religions? (Wicca, Hiduism, etc.?) Do
as thou will.
How much do you actually know about non-mainstream religions? Too fucking
much. My mother honestly believed in fairies. I shit you not.
Have you ever tried to convert someone to your own religion? Why or why not?
All the time.
What is your overall opinion of televangelists? Great. Jesus will only love
you if you send money.
What is your opinion of evangelists in general? Scum.
One word can be said and mean many different things. In the end, how
important are words, really? Words are the organized form of thought, without
words, all thought is merely emotion.
If you could ask God or whomever you choose as a supreme being one question,
and only one, what would it be? (If you're an atheist just skip ahead.) I
would ask him this. “Why?”

MUSIC

Is music important to you? Why or why not? Fairly important, it’s the
soundtrack to the comedy which is my life.
Do you sing? If so, do you sing well? I only sing well when I’m drunk. (Or so
I think)
What instruments do you play, if any? The Kazoo.
Do you or have you ever written music before? I can run an audio console like
a mofo.
What do you think of Eminem? Extreme for attention.

In your opinion, what band is the best of all time? Band? No. Composer? Bach.
Now for the lightning round. Do you like...

Pop music: Crap.

Rock music: Queen.
Punk music: Crap.
Rap music: Crap.
Hip-Hop/R&B: Crap.
Country: Crap.
Jazz: Some good stuff.
Classical: Bach, Holst, DeBussy, Beethoven, Tchai, various others.
New Age: Crap.
Teutonic Industrial/Metal: Rules… And yes, I added this.

What is one band/singer you absolutely love that no one else does or seems to
have heard about? Oddly enough, A LOT of people don’t know KMFDM.
Pick up the nearest CD to you and write a random song lyric from it.

Sex ist eine Schlaght, Liebe ist Krieg.

Sex is a battle, Love is war.

Wollt ihr das Bett en Flammen Sehen? – Rammstein – Herzeleid.

MOVIES, TV, ETC.

What is your favorite tv show? That’s on currently? Hell if I know. I watch

VERY little TV. I REALLY liked Fraggle Rock as a kid.

What is your favorite movie? Apocalypse Now. Easily. The Secret of Nihm is a

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close second.
If someone made a movie about your life, do you think anyone would want to
see it? No.
What is your favorite TV character? Asuka.
What is your favorite movie character? Captain Willard, from Apocalypse Now.
Favorite actor? Depp. Easy.
Favorite actress? Not too sure.

ISSUES

What is your stance on abortion? Less kids the better,

What is your opinion on gay people being allowed to get married? Homosexuals
don’t breed, and are a blast to hang out with. So why the hell not?
What is your opinion on gay couple adopting? Whatever works man.
Do you have a political party affiliation? Don’t care.

What do you think about sex before marriage? Use protection, and have fun.

The End

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 Epilogue

This is the end of our story, for now. Everything is as it was. Stan,

unfortunately, didn’t last to see how it all came out in the end, but I don’t

think he’d be very surprised. Hannah’s a bitch, John’s an asshole, Dennis

still doesn’t smoke pot, Kim’s a bartender, Katie’s Still my friend, Seth’s

hanging around, Melinda is growing up to be a fine young cat, Ashley is still

gorgeous, Danielle eventually got fired and now serves me jack and pepsi at a

local bar.

I still like to meditate sometimes, and remember what it was like to be

a giant ball of teenage potential energy just waiting to become kinetic. I’m

going to drive away from this part of my life like I drove away from Otsego

in May of 2003. I’m going to steer myself in a new direction and see where

it takes me.

I will never go to college again. I love learning, but I refuse to pay

thousands of dollars for a degree that I didn’t learn anything in the process

of receiving. I will always be learning, but I don’t need to measure myself

against academia. I’ll let them worry about what’s right and wrong for them.

I must also not forget to remind myself and the rest of us that Dennis

was a silent observer throughout this all, as well as a dear friend to Stan

and I. We used to call ourselves the “triumvirate of burrito.” It’s really

important to have friends. They are there to help you through your worst.

Even if you think they aren’t there for you, they are. You’re thinking about

them, what makes you decide they aren’t thinking about you?

I’ve told my story now, and I can finally rest easy. A lot of people

these days talk about stress management, coping with loss, and making sense

of changes that go around in our daily lives. I know what it’s like to be a

lot of different people, in a lot of difference social standings, and in a

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few different places in the world. I’ve seen a lot, and I’ve told it to the

best of my ability. There is no lesson to be learned here. There is no

overlying theme to this madness. The bitter truth is that this world is a

strange place, and a lot of things happen that we can’t explain or even begin

to comprehend. Life is a very strange trip. It begins one day, suddenly,

and ends one day, just as suddenly. You can’t prove for sure that anything

really happened before your story started, only take the word of people who

tell you. You also, unfortunately, cannot find out when your story is going

to end. The biggest problem of all, however, is that it’s impossible to find

out where life is going to take you. Sometimes you just have to hold your

breath and ride along. Life has taken me to a lot of places. It’s

definitely had its ups and downs, but there is one thing that Stan and I

picked up on during those trying times. A little phrase that we decided we

needed to tattoo on our chests one night but never did, it’s an Italian

phrase, you may have heard it before in your own travels, and it goes

something like this:

Che Sera, Sera – or, as I like to say it

– Whatever happens, happens.

As for me, I regret none of it.

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 About the Author(s)
As of 2008, Zach is
still living in
Kalamazoo, and rather
than leaving for good
has decided to travel
as much as he can.
Still building up
pieces, and still
living his dreams. He
is still actively
involved with art and
music.
Zachary Kyle Elmblad
Stanley Louis Slavin

If there was one reason to wish

for an afterlife, it’d be to
see you again. I miss you.
I hope you’re proud of me,
asshole.

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