The Fifteenth Billion Pass

Hooray! After a very long cryo sleep, yours truly has come back from the land of the dead following the completion of his latest (and hopefully final) pass. For those who don’t know what a pass is:

Discreet Butt Grab

NBA players have mastered the art of the discreet butt grab.

No. That’s not the kind of pass I’m talking about. Let’s try this again:

Not even drunk driving is an excuse here.

Not even drunk driving is an excuse here.

Um, no. Still not the type of pass I’m talking about. Third time’s a charm?

State of the personal union.

Just missing some color, and a strong permanent sedative to put me out of my misery.

Ah, close enough.

In the literary world, a pass is every time you go through your entire manuscript to edit/proofread/change/rewrite/rearrange/destroy it. After 1 year, 9 months, 12 days (I’m just guessing here), 17 hours (I’m guessing even more here), and 54 minutes (yep, still guessing), I’ve finally completed the final pass of my second novel, ‘Save Me Last’. Now I feel like it’s finally worthy of being subjected to the harsh critiquing eyes of some agent/publisher who’ll probably rip into it and, in the off chance he or she likes it, will probably send it to a professional editor for even further revision, bringing back something that mildly represents what I originally wrote but ends up basically being a bastardized version of the vision I had in mind. Needless to say, the agent/publisher will convince me that this is for the best, and that despite my best efforts, time, sweat, and tears, this version of the novel will seem more acclaim and success and that that’s just the way the business is run and that I should deal with it or find someone else to help me represent my book.

Okay, so now that I’ve taken a deep breath and gotten that rant out of the way, I just want to say this:

Yay. Sorry for the lack of enthusiasm but it’s pretty late and I’ve been running on approximately 3 hours of sleep a night for the past six days trying to finish my story in order to get query letters out soon. Fingers crossed, people. Fingers crossed.

If my pitch is a success and the agents love what I’ve written, then I get to enjoy a brief period of sanity before I have to do this all over again for my third novel. Ah, the wonderful life of a writer. Where’s the steady stream of alcohol and uplifting music when you need it?

Even sadder than blue balls.

Even sadder than blue balls.


2014: A Repository for Fresh Beginnings

So, like, yeah…

Where do I start? How about the fact that I’m in agonizing pain thanks to surgery I just had performed to repair a hernia near my left nut. That’s right, my left nut. Know what that means? No sex. No masturbation. No porn. No thinking about naked woman and getting aroused, period. Nothing. So this is what priests and nuns feel like. Must explain this picture:

Considering his profession, technically it's an oxymoron.

Considering his profession, technically it’s an oxymoron.

And this:

Because sometimes even God's graceful touch isn't enough.

Because sometimes even God’s graceful touch isn’t enough.

I’m never taking my abs for granted again. Those bad boys are like a steroid fueled Lance Armstrong circa 1999-2005: they’re tireless and they just keep going and going.

On another note, writing… Yeah… With me restricted to the confines of my bed for the next several weeks or so, I figure now’s a good time as any to finish that great second novel I’ve been working on since, like, 1965. I vow to get it done. I have to. No excuses. I just gotta finish watching this movie I’m halfway through first…

State of the personal union.

State of the personal union.

Speaking of movies, I saw ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’ recently. All I’ve gotta say is that I have to up the ante for my next humor novel… and I gotta get rich doing so because I’m clearly missing out. I’ll pass on the drugs, though. Something about having to roll down a set of stairs in order to get to my car since I’ve become physically incapable of walking after having OD’ed on some expired barbiturates doesn’t exactly scream “dignified” does it?

Sadly, this is very reminiscent of me in bed right now.

Sadly, this is very reminiscent of me in bed right now.

I’m done blogging right now. My nuts are screaming from the burning pain and I have to go pee. Damn you, diuretics.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

Can you feel the holiday spirit? No? Then you need to drink more. Anyways, to kick off my latest blog post, I just wanted to share some of my mediocre poetry with the rest of the world. Please refrain from gouging out your eyes if you find it less than satisfactory as poetry isn’t something I often dabble in.

Here’s one heavy with alliteration:


My characteristically chaotic chemistry is
A synthesis of strewn stitches
Rough rims, rimples and ridges,
Too big for one’s britches.
It ignites, igneous and incandescent
Never needing nor nagging nor gnawing nor clawing.

Raging, reposing, regarding or responding
Each emotion expresses efferent expectations
Encompassing elements of everyday events.
Don’t dig dangerously deep—it’s just the sound of my name.




I sprouted into privilege, to a pair of green money trees
But all other kids glared and scorned, burning me
And I shriveled up
Into a dry, disfigured leaf.

Attempting to smile white
My teeth quickly rotted and it got easier to frown brown
And so I found happiness in winter’s grey.

While growing up frozen and lonely
I discovered the warmth of a true friend
Who then died—drug overdose.

After I stumbled I started using too
But then I discovered and recovered
And now I find myself healthy and free.

I started off heavy
And I think I’ll end up light
But should this flight crash early
I’ll rest six feet under. Me and my plight.

Whatever #2:



I explode towards the blue sky
Stretching my right arm up.
The shiny red rim gets ever so close,
My callused fingers wiggle higher
But my wild hair stops fluttering
And gravity says no.
The dull concrete below catches up,
My faded Nike Air Max’s crash,
Bursting in shame,
The deflated orange ball bounces away.
Stained with the numerous marks of my soles,
The floor declares itself king.

Visual poem with four syllables per line:



I march ahead—
Ready to strike
At your command.

I break blockades—
North, south, east, west
Keeping keen watch.

I carve a path—
Guarding your crown.

I tread biased—
Spreading belief.

I promenade—
Up, down, crisscross
For you, my love.

I sit and wait—
This heavy crown
Marks my checkmate.

**Unfortunately, the top poem can’t be displayed as it’s meant to be viewed thanks to formatting inconsistencies with WordPress. It’s like driving a Lamborghini with a rev limiter set to 40 mph. Talk about annoying. Trust me, though, the poem was meant to be all visual, with the shape and arrangements of the words taking on the chess pieces move patterns.

TL;DR: This poem was awesomer in its original form.