Coping

About a week ago I started playing Civilization 5. I focus on science and culture and befriend all the other countries. We all love each other very much and get along very well, a fact they remind me of often.

Sometimes the Aztecs get out of line and start threatening war, but me and my friends slap them down. I'm probably going to lose because Siam has built like 7 wonders and will easily get a cultural victory, but it's all good, I just like the fantasy of a world not gone mad.

I also learned that Doge is a real title, and not a stupid meme.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doge

Man.

Aw, man.

A Perfect Manhattan

I knew it was time to head to the bar after my wife tried to kill me with a steak knife. Our vacation had hit a rough spot. Maui had not been what we were told it would be. The photos she had posted to Facebook of us at the beach had gotten a lot fewer Likes than she expected.

 “Look at this beach,” she said, jabbing the screen. “How are they not impressed by this!? Why do we even go on these trips!?”

She then turned her anger on me, being the nearest, and accused me of sabotaging her photos. She said I looked bored, and my boredom dragged the image down. Made our lives unappealing.

“I'm not bored, honey,” I said, stroking and smelling her ruby red hair. “That's just how my face looks.”

“Well, then you have a boring face.”

Following this disagreement, it rained for the next two days. In Maui. We were told it wouldn't. I was upset. As was she, and also tired of staring at my boring face. After thirty six hours holed up in that hotel watching re-runs of Friends she lost her mind and tried to kill me with a steak knife.

So there I found myself, fleeing my wife, headed toward the bar at 1 AM on a Tuesday in Maui. There was only one bar nearby. The locals, a pleasant, inviting people, had recommended it to me. 

“Tourist fucks like you love that sort of shit. Go fuck yourself.”

I thanked them with a tip of my sombrero.

The bar was called, “Shit Hole,” a name that I found quite amusing.

However, my amusement soon turned to disgust, when, upon entering, I found that the bar was a literal shit hole. Everything was awash in a bright, blinding light. These lights did a good job of highlighting the many glistening puddles of puke. I felt like a sizzling hot dog left out under a heat lamp, and the bar smelled like one. Also cat piss.

Shielding my eyes from the glare of several fluorescent tubes, I sat down on a sticky bar stool and asked the bar tender if I could get a pitcher of vodka.

“We don't serve pitchers of vodka here,” she said, scowling.

I decided she was not a good bar tender and that I would not tip. “Then how about a beer?”

“Only the worst imported brands,” she said, handing me a large laminated menu. It was a list of over 20 different flavors of Bud Light.

“I'll take the Clamato.”

“Like fuck you will.”

“What?”

“All we have is Pabst Blue Ribbon.”

“Okay, then I'll take some Cat Piss.”

She snorted several times, draining her lungs of mucous, then spit it into a pint glass. Taking that same glass, she poured my beer and handed it to me.

The glass contained about a thimble of beer. The rest was foam.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Seventeen dollars.”

“What a deal,” I said, handing her a hundred. She gave me back 20 in change.

I sucked on my foam, and did my best to think about nothing.

A woman sat down next to me. She wore a blue parka. I ogled her breasts.

Seeing as we were the only two in the bar, and I was interested in some conversing, I tapped her shoulder to get her attention. She turned and looked at me with an unflinching bug eyed stare that I found terribly arousing. The bright burning tubes above us revealed every blemish and pore. There was a smudge of chocolate smeared into the corner of her mouth and she had several tiny bumps across her forehead.

I wiped the foam from my upper lip and smiled. “Come here often?”

“Three times a decade.”

“Not very often then.”

“No.”

She got the bar tenders attention by flinging my glass at the wall. It shattered on impact. The bar tender whipped her head around, screaming at the two of us, “Who threw that?!”

The woman smiled and said, “I'd like a Manhattan, please.”

The bartender filled a giant martini glass with seltzer water. She then grabbed several handfuls of olives and tossed those in. Seeing that it was more olives than seltzer water, I nodded in approval. At least they knew how to make a proper drink in this place.

“Here, a Manhattan!” she said, thrusting it at us proudly.

“Thanks!” said the woman. “How's business?”

“It's going well. Profits are up this quarter. We've seen an increase of 32% over previous years."

The woman turned her big unblinking eyes back toward me, and said, “I like your sombrero. It makes you look intelligent.”

“Actually,” I said, snatching one of her olives. “I am intelligent.”

The woman drained her glass, olives and all. She took a moment to chew and swallow, then said, “Nothing like a good Manhattan.”

Just then, my wife burst through the front door, knife in hand, blue bathrobe soaked in blood. “We gotta go, Allen! I've killed someone!”

My Advice to Aspiring Writers

GIT GUD.


LALALALALAAAA!!! 

How do you draw? lol

A Universally Agreed Upon Writing Tip

The moon shone through the trees, striking Tom in the face, jolting him from his slumber. He had been dreaming. Stretching his pale arms he yawned, stretched, scratched, blinked, shifted his covers, blinked again, yawned, and with a flash of light piercing his eyelids, realized it was all a dream. He fell out of bed, and woke up, again, realizing it was a dream, a mystery he could not escape. The moon shone bright. A splash of cold water shook him from his slumber, "God, another dream," he said, yawning. He looked down, and saw that he stood on a cliff, another dream. "Oh, shit," he said, just in time for his alarm to at last awake him from his deep deep slumber. He yawned, and said, "Waking up sure is a boring way to start the story!"

(9/23/15 Edit: Unless you're a good writer: http://nelsonagency.com/2015/06/perils-of-waking-character-openings-take-2/)

So, uh, just make sure you're a good writer.

Do Netflix

The jingle of her cell phone is like shattering glass.

Her head mashed into her pillow, partly soaked in sweat, her thoughts swimming in the sweltering heat of her bedroom, she grabs for the phone from her bedside table, and checks to see who it is. It's the man she had been seeing for two weeks now – or maybe three, she can't recall – but it's going OK, so she's more or less happy to hear from him, because really, what else does she have to do? Her friends are all busy at the coast -- without her -- because she had to work. To kill time she had been reading, and reading is okay, but the book she picked up from the library last week has kind of hit a slow point, where nothing happens, and the main character is droning on and on about shit she already knows – relationships or something like that – so at this point she figures her best option is to try to see where this so-so relationship might be headed. Perhaps to nudge it along with a conversation of value.

She has had her doubts about him on more than a few occasions, especially in the way he seems so eager to talk about himself and what he has since accomplished since moving to Portland. Still, arrogance – confidence – can have it's own charms, and she hopes they can work past this, and reach some equilibrium where he learns that she, too, has things going on in her life she would like to talk about, even if they're not quite on the same level as him, which involves running his own start up, which is cool and all, but – ugh – give it a rest already, buddy, you're not exactly Mark Zuckerberg.

Taking a deep breath, she answers, and for reasons unknown, finds herself greeting him in a far too girly sing-song voice when she says, “Hi, Derrick! How are you?”

“I am doing well, thank you,” he answers with an odd gravitas to his voice, considering the circumstances.

"Glad to hear it," she answers, ditching the overly cheerful tone.

After a pause, he says, “Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out?”

“Sure!” she says, sounding a bit too excited for her liking, and certainly not out of desire – no – but boredom, but perhaps.. Okay, a little desire. She is just kind of horny, but not a lot, not desperate horny. No, certainly not.

“Oh, nice, nice,” he says, trying his best to sound calm. Smooth. Whatever it is. “Well, I was thinking, since it's hot as balls, we should...”

“Did you just say it's 'hot as balls'?”

“No, I mean, yes. Sorry. Are you offended?”

“No, it's just sounds stupid. Like you're 13 or something. I don't get offended by that stuff, I told you that, but it just sounds stupid. You can say it if you want to, I guess. I don't exactly see how balls can be hot. Sweaty and gross, sure, but not really what I would immediately think of when I try to describe this heat. When did 'hot as hell' become not enough? Or even just say, 'It's really hot.' Or why even say it at all? We know it's hot. I mean, I'm sweating through the pillow over here.”

“Well, yeah, so okay, you're right, but still, it's hot as balls, and that's just me. I want to say that. My balls are hot. That's why I said that.”

“Okay. Interesting bit of information. Thank you for sharing.”

“Anyway, since I have air conditioning...”

“As you've told me many times before.”

“Yes, right, and since your apartment doesn't have AC, and I'm guessing it's really hot over there since you've soaked your pillow with sweat, well, I was thinking – do you want to come over and Do Netflix?”

She pauses, takes a deep breath and thinks a moment. Hard.

She's heard this line before. Many times. Too many. About twenty times or more. She bites her lip and tries to decide if she really really wants to Do Netflix. He is kind of cute, after all, broad shoulders, nice hair, delicious, soft lips, she had enjoyed kissing just a few nights ago, during that romantic moment near the waterfront, but it is hot, as he said – balls hot! – so she'd rather not face the heat, and she is still unsure how serious she is about spending a day with him, watching – Doing – Netflix, and, of course, not so desperate. At all.

And not stupid.

So, sighing, both from the heat and the exasperation that he think this shit might actually work, she says, “Well... I was planning on – um – going shopping. My fridge is empty. I am actually starving. Like, to death.”

Her fridge is actually empty, and she is actually hungry. She's not lying about this, but it's hot, and food shopping is a tiresome chore she would like to avoid, even on the nicest of days.

“Well, I can drive you there, then afterward, we can Do Netflix.”

“That's okay, you don't have to. It's not far from my house. Only takes 20 minutes or so, walking, and I like the exercise, even if it is 98 degrees out there.”

He pauses. A long time.

She stares out her bedroom window. A man wearing a trench coat trundles by with a shopping cart. He's screaming at someone.


Finally the man on the other end says, “So how about afterward, you want to Do Netflix then? There's a few new movies up – a new Keanu Reeves movie. You like him, right?”

“I do.”

“And Ryan Gosling?”

“Eh, not so much.”

“Well, that's okay. So, I mean, Keanu – shooting a lot of bad guys – it could be fun.”

“You mean John Wick?”

“Yeah, I think that's it. I'd have to check.”

“No, that IS it. That is what it is called.”

"It could be the Matrix."

"That came out decades ago. It's definitely John Wick."

“Oh, that's cool, if you say so, I mean, I'll probably have to check to be sure, but....”

“Sorry, but I'm actually a 100% right on this. I am looking at it right now on my laptop, I just Googled it just right now, while you were talking and here it says the latest Keanu film on Netflix is John Wick.”

“Oh, well, that's cool. If you say so. I might be wrong after all...

She sighs. "You are definitely wrong."

He laughs, but not without some effort. "Okay then. So you should come over and watch John Wick with me. I have a bottle of wine, too. Chilled.”

“I don't drink," she says, rolling her eyes. He's being so obvious now that she's wondering if he won't send a dick pick in the next five minutes.

“Oh, right. I forgot. It's pretty low alcohol volume, so maybe just a little if you want. I mean, a little bit of alcohol won't kill you. I'm not trying to get you drunk – maybe a little buzzed, okay – but not drunk. I'd never do something like that. I think people are a little to cautious about drinking, you're not going to become an alcoholic from one sip.”

“No. No alcohol. Like I told you, I have a serious allergy to it.”

“Oh, I didn't know that.”

“I thought I told you that. I think I told you on our first date, and the second one, and that one time we walked on the waterfront and you had a flask you wanted to share, during all of those times I made it pretty clear.”

“Oh, I sometimes forget these things. There's a lot on my mind, with the start-up and expanding our business... I have so many employees to manage and worry about that I tend to drift when people start to say things to me. I am working on it though. I hope you understand.”

“Right well, that's fine, but also, I am busy, as I said. I have to go food shopping, because I'm starving to death, as I also said. Maybe later on, we could just go to the movies. There's a new one with Melissa McCarthy I want to see. The theater is just as good anyway, it's air conditioned, and maybe afterward we can go get food. I think that sounds a lot more fun than sitting inside watching Netflix all day.”

“Oh, well, but it's so hot out! I'm not really a big Melissa McCarthy fan, either. She's so fat."

"What?!"

"Sorry, I didn't mean that."

"I hope not."

"But I haven't Done Netflix in months! I really really want to Do Netflix.”

It sounds like he has started to cry. The heat probably. Or male hormone imbalance. Severe thirst. Tight jeans cutting off the circulation to his brain causing severe distress and irrational reaction to minor stresses.

“I don't want to DO NETFLIX! I said that. Are you even listening? It's hot, and I am tired of you saying that. Come to think of it, I think I'll just order a large pizza, gorge myself on it, and take another nap, then maybe later, I will call my friends to see if they've returned from the coast and see if they want to do something that has nothing to do with Netflix.”

“Wha? Aw, noooo! Please, please? I want to Do Netflix! Waaaah! Ablooo-hooo-hooo.”

“How old are you? Jesus. Please. Stop. You're embarrassing yourself.”

“I'm sorry. Sorry, it's just hot like I said, and you said, and okay, forget tonight, maybe next Friday? The heat will have ended then. Then we can Do Netflix? Please? Can we? Can we Do Netflix? Are we still cool? I'm sorry I got a bit worked up. These new jeans are really tight. And my start up. Don't forget that. I'm so important these days. It's just that... your hair, you're just so, so pretty. God, I just want to...”

Before hanging up on him mid-whine, she screams, “I know I'm pretty! I'm god damn gorgeous!”