Category: Uncategorized

Say Hello To The Night…

Rob Says1 Comment

lost-boys

Lost in the Shadows. Lost Boys. It ain’t just a movie anymore.

Decent vampire flick from back in the day, but I’m not talking about vampires. I’m talking about Men today, young and old alike, that are lost. So many lost men. Going down one maze after another, chasing both real and imaginary carrots to become, what? Anything? “A Real Man?”

You’ve sat at the knee of every woman of importance, and some that are not, for most if not all, of your lives. Asking, begging, demanding them to tell you what to do. How to be a Man. How to get the girls. How to be successful. How to have a quality life. How to be happy. How to… And the list goes on. And the women don’t know. And they sometimes, unintentionally for the most part, lie to you.

All the popular media, movies, music, and television shows, they lie to you as well. School lies to you and indoctrinates you. And most of the Men who you think knows something, well they are either absent, or they are just as lost and confused as you. Your religion lied to you somewhere too.

And one day, you got on the internet and started searching, looking for answers. You found some dudes on a social media platform like Twitter who seemed to know what the fuck was going on, so you started following them and doing what they told you. Same with the women, you started following them as well and doing what they told you to do too. The glossy photos, the well written pieces, you swallowed it all. Just like the kool-aid that the mainstream media sold you. And then the discrepancies started showing up. You found out people weren’t who they said they were. What they said and what they did didn’t match up. Do as I say, not as I do. Maybe they are just in it for a quick buck. Maybe they want something else from you, another agenda of theirs.

All you wanted was to know what to do, how to be.

I’ve got some good news and some bad news for you.

“What is the meaning of life? What do I do?” To do whatever you want. You get to decide. It’s up to you, because nobody gives a shit. That’s the good news.

“How do I do that?” You have to burn first. You have to fuck up and fall down, because nobody gives a shit. You have to trust and be betrayed. You have to be let down. You have to listen closely and pay attention. Those with an agenda of any sort will ultimately out themselves, but you have to listen and you have to take chances. Sometimes you’ll take some really bad advice from some straight up con artists, and sometimes it will be from someone who means well, but honestly, that advice just wasn’t for you.

The people in your life, your friends, your family, your co-workers, society at large, they all want you to “stay on the plantation,” or “get back on the plantation.” Why wouldn’t they? They are just as enmeshed, they are just as enslaved for the most part. Be a good plow-horse, be a good provider, “Man up and (fill in the blank here).” “A real man (fill in the blank here.) And if you don’t, (insert whatever guilt, shame, and fear tactics here.)

Somehow, some way, you found yourself here, reading this right now. Maybe you follow me on Twitter. Maybe you’re on my newsletter. Maybe you found me on YouTube one day. I don’t know how you got here, but here you are. Welcome. Glad you made it.

Maybe everything I’ve said so far, you already knew. Old news and all of that, right?

So here’s the deal:

Your life is your own. Stop looking for someone to tell you what to do, and decide for yourself what’s in your own best interest for you. You’re going to rock the boat. You’re going to fuck up and fall down. You’re going to burn. You’re going to piss people off. You’re going to be guilted and shamed. You’re going to lose friends and loved one’s over your choices. You may even be ostracized and cast out of your group, your community, your clubs, or whatever social venues you inhabit. You’re going to be the villain. You may even lose your job over it. And if and when you decide to follow your own internal compass, you’ll be doing it alone. I cannot and will not hold your hand, because you have to burn and I don’t give a shit. That’s the bad news.

You learned how to walk at some point while you were growing up. I imagine you didn’t get it right on the first try. I imagine you fell down a lot and ended up with some bumps and bruises, maybe even some stitches and scars. And yet you learned how to walk and you survived. Same for figuring out what you want and what life, your life, means to you.

Wanna bang ho’s and be a bachelor your whole life? Fine, do that. Wanna wife a woman up and have a gaggle of kids? Fine do that. Wanna go be a hermit and live on the mountain in a log cabin, far away from civilization, hunting, hiking, and living off the land? Knock yourself out.

Whatever you do, go do that. Just make sure that whatever it is you want to do, it’s actually what you want to do and not someone else’s idea. Think for yourself. Be willing to take risks, because risks are mandatory and required. You’re gonna have to burn.

There are no magic pills. There are no quick fixes. There are no short-cuts. There’s no easy way to do it and no easy way out. You’re going to have to do shit over and over again until you get it. Repetition. Trial and error. Don’t get caught up or hung up on the results, just play around with it. You’ll get discouraged. You’ll get disillusioned. You’ll get tired. You’ll even get bored sometimes. Welcome to it. Welcome to life. Welcome to the rest of your life.

Take chances and fall down. Skin your knees. Be willing to burn it all down and start over again. Because fuck it, you only live once.

Stop apologizing for your own existence. Stop walking on eggshells. Stop being a pussy. Stop waiting for the “perfect moment.” It doesn’t exist. Stop waiting on God to give you a “sign.” Maybe this is that sign? Fuck it, I don’t know, I’m not you. Stop with all the personality tests, systems, and magical bullshit telling you what’s ideal for you. Stop tiptoeing around other’s because you might offend them. Guess what? You will. There, I took the suspense out of it for you.

Last thing:

If someone says something that makes you feel good, like a quote, or a platitude? That’s a narcotic. You feel good, you copy it down, put it on the wall, regurgitate it back to your friends and family, get a pat on the head and you get a cookie for being a good boy. And you end up right where you are now. How’s that working out for you bud? Things that make you uncomfortable, piss you off, anger you, and agitate you? That’s where the money shot is. That’s what you should probably be paying attention to.

I know I just shit all over platitudes and quotes, but I do have one for you to mull over and think about:

“Yours isn’t to find yourself. You’re not lost. You’re right here. Yours is to create yourself.”

So fucking create yourself. Or don’t. Either way, nobody gives a shit.

Welcome to the rest of your life.

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Kiss A Little Longer..Stay Close A Little Longer..Hold Tight A Little Longer..

Rob SaysLeave a comment

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“I don’t know how you guys get time to write. Takes me forever to write shit down.” – A Friend of mine talking to me on Twitter.

The thing is, once writing makes you her bitch, it’ll flow. You won’t be able to type fast enough to keep up with it. So you’ll get a voice recorder app, or an actual voice recorder to snag those ideas out of the ether. You’ll start carrying a notebook around with you and a couple of pens or pencils. Write that shit down man. If you really become hardcore about it, you’ll get a program or an app or something that will teach you how to type if you don’t know how. Or it’ll help you get really fast if you do. Gotta keep up with that shit in your head. You think faster than you type, always have and always will, but you’ll try and keep up, and you’ll fail. But you’ll keep at it anyway. Because that mistress, she’s such a ball-busting, slave driver of a bitch, she’ll keep cracking that whip. And the more she does, the more you will love her. Your thoughts get sharper, cleaner, more refined. The mental orgasms you have, and you’ll have them, when you complete a piece. That’s the shit baby. That’s the money shot.

And the tension that you create inside yourself when you’ve started something, but you haven’t worked on it, or finished it? That is a sweet suffering, a beautiful agony of your own creation. Sometimes I sit on something just to stew in it and suffer, but to get back to it is like drinking a glass of iced water when you’ve been wandering the desert for weeks on end. It’s like getting a woman aroused and seeing her panties getting wet.

You don’t get the time to write. You make the time to write. Because eventually you have to. It becomes a release. A catharsis. It is its own orgasm.

Reading is and has always been enjoyable to me. Now though, now there’s another element to it. I not only read to be entertained and to educate myself, but I read to sample nuances of other writers. It’s like wine tasting. You take a sip, swish it around in your mouth, and usually you’re supposed to spit it back out. Reading has become like that for me these days. I sample a writer, especially for their humor and I take it in and savor it. Only instead of spitting it back out, I swallow it down. Just like how I do wine tasting now that I think about it. I didn’t realize that you weren’t supposed to drink all the wine that you tasted, to me, wine tasting is a fun way to get really fucked up if that is your goal. Reading and then writing is kind of like that too, minus the hangover.

Lot of guys in the Twitterverse yammering on about procreation so that you have your “legacy.” Apparently in their world, that’s their mission. Wife a woman up, bang out a bunch of kids, save western civ, and boom! There’s your legacy.

Here’s a question for you though, some food for thought if you will:

What if your kids turn out to be pieces of shit? What if they don’t like you and want nothing to do with you in your old age? They don’t owe you an obligation just because you brought them into the world. What if in your declining years, your kids shuttle you off to a rest home, never to be seen again until your funeral? And then it’s off to the attorneys to fight over the pickings left behind, like vultures circling carrion. Didn’t think that could be your legacy did you?

You spent your life creating your legacy only to find out that your legacy doesn’t give a fuck about you. And two generations later, you’re forgotten anyways. Your great grandchildren, if there are any, barely remember you. And your great great grandchildren? You’ll be lucky that they even knew you, let alone of you. I’m not trying to be cynical here, it’s just the truth. It’s just reality.

If your mission is to leave a legacy behind, what better way than to write it down. Hell, half of the Bible is nothing but a recording of births. Why not do the same thing? You want to leave a legacy behind for future generations to enjoy, why not write a book or a blog? Why not put your thoughts down, even if you think they are boring and insignificant. Those thoughts and feelings might be insignificant to you, but what about to whoever ends up reading them? What is insignificant to you is profound to another. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure and all of that.

This is my legacy. This is what I leave behind. Sometimes boring, run of the mill, and yes even insignificant. At least for me, it’s my way of saying, “I am. I’m here. I was here.” I still get traction on posts that I wrote over a year ago when I decided to get serious about this. God knows why, but they do. I still get comments and e-mails about them, thanking me for writing them. They helped somebody out there, out. Good enough for me.

And if I ever have kids, this will be something that I’ll leave behind for them to remember me by. Warts and all. Maybe I’ll compile these posts into a book and put it on my shelf with the others that I hold near and dear. It could make an interesting conversation piece at least. “You wrote a book?” “Why yes, yes I did.”

If I end up with kids, and those kids have kids, and I give them this blog, or some form of book from it, and those kids read it, at the minimum they’ll probably say, “Grandpa was a weird fucker.” Yes, my 5 year old grandkids and great grandkids will swear.

And if I don’t have kids, so the whole grand and great grandkid thing will be a moot point? Somebody somewhere will find this and read it, eventually. And they will say the same thing, because they swear too.

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Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz…

Rob SaysLeave a comment
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Don’t feed them to seagulls.

Dreams of a future with no past. Dreams of a past with no future. Dreams of a present that is one long orgasm. I don’t want it to end. That’s what happens when you fall asleep watching a movie and the TV gets left on. Don’t try this at home kids.

The thing is, there is nothing that can’t be done given enough time, dedication, and persistence. Read that again. And then read it again. I’ll wait.

Your life is ending, one hour, one minute, one second at a time. But how can you do your mission unless you are eating healthy and lifting weights while beating off to some dead philosopher and getting right with God so that you can live forever?

My mission is to lie with her, tracing her spine with my fingernails all the way down to the small of her back to the curve of her ass and back up again to move her damp hair away and to lick the sweaty salt from the nape of her neck. I want to see the goosebumps rise on her flesh and feel her breath explode in my ear as she gasps. I want to feel her writhe and shudder and I want her to draw blood from my back with her nails. I want bitemarks on my shoulder. The deeper the better.

I don’t want to live forever, I just want to live. I don’t want to die in my sleep, I want to die right as I climax. I want to come and go. I want to climb into her skin, sink deep down within, and I want to devour her soul.

I want to clamp down with my teeth on the back of her neck and carry her around like a cat does with its kittens. I want to shake her like a dog worrying a bone. And then I want her to put her head on my chest, curl her body into me, and have her tell me that I’m home.

I want to go out drinking with you, but it’ll have to be beer. When you drink whiskey and get that whiskey breath going on, I have flashbacks to when I was a kid and Dad would come home drunk from some party and he would try to be cute and funny and say things like, “You know what you need? You need an ass kicking. What you need is a knuckle sandwich.” To a 5 year old kid, that’s God thundering down from the mountains. That’s your imminent execution. And for what? What did I do? I was just sitting on the floor playing a video game. And that won’t do. Whatever arousal I had for you will be gone and that’s not my mission. That’s my anti-mission. I want to smell beer on your breath because your beer breath smells sort of like bread being baked and that’s always a good smell. Plus when you drink beer, you are warm, fuzzy, and horny and I like that. When you drink whiskey, it’s a crap shoot. I don’t know who or what is going to show up. It’s the mystery meat at the buffet, a coin toss. Do I get happy drunk? Crazy spazz? Angry woman? Mostly I see weepy sad sack who needs someone to hold her hair back while she pukes in the toilet, praying to the porcelain god. And I’m too old for that shit. So let’s just stick to beer shall we?

My mission is to kiss you deeply and taste what you ate. This time it’s coffee. Better than cigarettes. Or Doritos.

My mission will be to convert you to medium-rare. All women start out with either well done or medium-well. Must be in the handbook or something. I’ve never understood your fascination with eating shoe leather. Sometimes I succeed and you become a true fan, a real connoisseur of steak. Your future boyfriend will thank me for that one. Sometimes it’s a lost cause. The key is to know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em. Know when to walk away, and know when to run. You never count your money, when you’re sitting at the table. There’ll be time enough for counting, when the dealings done. Don’t mind me, I’m just channeling my inner Kenny Rogers.

I bitch about my creativity. How I don’t know what to say and if I’ll have anything else left after I’ve said the last thing, and yet, here we are. The well runs deeper than I thought. It’s funny how it works for me though. I’ll write several things, all at once, back to back, as if in a fever. I can’t type fast enough to get it out. And then days go by. Sometimes weeks and it’s….Nothing. It’s like I blew my load and then I’m in my refractory period. Waiting to charge up so I can blow another load.

One thing I’ve realized though is this:

The more I write, the more I have to write. It’s almost a compulsion. If I don’t write I’ll explode. Mental blueballs.

There’s a demon inside, blood-let it out, blood-let it out. That’s writing, and that’s easy.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. – Ernest Hemingway.

Kids at home, let this be a warning. Don’t start writing. Ever. You’ll give up things like video games, shooting hoops, drinking, drugs, and whoring. Writing will become your mistress, sooner or later if you keep fucking around with her. It’ll start all innocent where you can write a couple of sentences or maybe a paragraph or two and put it down for months on end, not even thinking about it. But then one day, she has you. She has you in her iron grip and she won’t let go, and you have to write goddamnit. And you have to write now. Demon inside indeed. I wonder if there’s a 12 step program for writers. “Hi I’m Rob and I’m a writer.” “Hi Rob.” “It’s been 4 hours since I last wrote and I’m going out of my mind.”

I’ve heard people compare things like chocolate to sex and saying that chocolate, or coffee or whatever, is better than sex. Bullshit. Nothing is better than sex. Not even writing. But writing is really fucking close.

I know what I want to do. I want to lick the salty sweat off of the back of your neck, have a simultaneous orgasm, and then sit and write about it with my laptop resting on your back and ass while your breasts are pressed against my body and you lie your head on my chest and run your fingers through my chest hair. That’s my mission.

But don’t giggle goddamnit. That makes the laptop jiggle and I can’t write then. And I can’t have that.

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