Tag: anti-social
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

In Between Bender Blues

- by Typewriter Fox

It takes a moment to gather bearings at the tail end of a holiday weekend binge. One fueled by poisons, pot noodles, and objectively questionable decisions. Surveying the carnage in a dirty motel room booked without memory, it is no wonder why insides ache. And the tongue feels desperately in need of a shave.  Empties scattered everywhere. Overflowing improvised ashtrays clashing with little plastic “No Smoking” reminders. Pages of inked gibberish scattered over the table. They obscure a typewriter embarrassed at having witnessed another marathon spinout of pour me—puke in the trashcan. Puke in the shower. Puke in my shoes.  Why is there always so much puke?  Housekeeping deserves a respectable tip. Something more than the fluid soaked sheets and the nightmare that is the bathroom. …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Birthday Funeral Part One: The Drive

- by Typewriter Fox

Things just haven’t been the same since you hot shot yourself.   That awful Monday night when the needle bit you a final goodbye. Alone. Curled up inside that ramshackle Indiana motel room tacked to the shoulder of US 33. Your few belongings neatly arranged as a last courtesy. Everything in its proper place. Everything except for those last words on a page—your final temper tantrum. It was a gibberish beyond the comprehension of most. But I understood perfectly. Because no matter the distance of our disconnect, we somehow remained tethered. At least when it came to the writing. We could read each other as easily as the riddle printed on the back of one of her hoarded banana Laffy-Taffys. She always had that soft spot flair …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Unmasked Foxes

- by Typewriter Fox

In this carnival of broken souls, I have worn many masks. Friend. Lover. Scoundrel. Writer. Soldier. Artist. Failure. And I’m still not certain which one fits the best.  I just know that I’m running out of time to choose a final variation. Through it all… through every breaking of the heart… every scarring caress… every mournful upheaval…I followed what I felt was right. Fought for the ideas in which I genuinely believed. Screamed out pages of raging tantrums in neatly typed lines. But somehow, I got it all wrong. Kissed all the wrong faces. Coloured outside the wrong lines. Pulled the wrong fucking triggers. In the wrong fucking battles. And that made things messy.  Not an unexpected outcome when a well-intentioned accidental scavenger crashes the party …

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Sticks and Stones

- by Typewriter Fox

If only someone had told me it was the best worst of times. Maybe then I would have kept the receipts. Or demanded a refund.  But no one said a fucking word. Things that were plainly obvious to others remained stubbornly foreign to me; I was always the misshaped peg. And I kept trying to stuff myself inside all of the wrong holes.   I could never stomach the correct stillness of being bored. The mundane nature of pretend adulting goes against the nature of my chemistry; I am not hardwired for responsibility. And that disconnect causes more irritating friction than the back strap of a sandy beach thong.  So I stumble through as best I can. Playing the part of the drunken fool. Disrespecting boundaries. Because …

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Sushi Tastes Like Highschool

- by Typewriter Fox

The list of places I am no longer welcome continues to grow; the number of people willing to put up with my shit seems to be shrinking. Thankfully, it wasn’t an accidental cohabitation situation with a blonde disaster like the last time. Regrettably, it was a friend from high school who wanted to meet, “just to catch up.” After thirty some years of not actually seeing each other’s faces.  We somehow managed to stay in touch over the years. At least as far as the big life events were concerned–births, deaths, her too many affairs.   It was always the middle of the night when my phone would ring. Another transcontinental call. She knew I would be awake. And probably drunk enough to talk her back from …

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Coconut Rum Diaries

- by Typewriter Fox

Sunday drunk on coconut rum. Not a flavour native to Michigan. But it reminds me there are better places in the world. And that’s not nothing. So I cling to it, like a mother does her special needs child to keep him from running into the traffic barreling south on MLK. Tropical drinks downed against the backdrop of Midwestern blandness. It seems a reasonable response to the ridiculousness of it all. Because nothing here makes any fucking sense.   And I’m dying to get away.  Away from the stink of airplanes—yeah, I’m pretty fucking talented at kicking tin. I’ve set the early departure record multiple times. And someone up at corporate must have noticed that. Because they rolled back our scheduled departure. In doing so, I helped …

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Sunday Coffee

- by Typewriter Fox

Blue Owl S. Washington The days all seem to start out the same way. Same intro; same cup of coffee. Same view of the same people. Admittedly, there is some comfort in that familiarity. But change is more fun. I guess maybe that is why there is always that push. Because laurels aren’t meant for resting. They are meant for pasta water—we just call them bay leaves when we do that. So let’s get something cooking, yeah? Maybe even incorporate that low hanging literary fruit I just picked. Mash it up. Let it ferment into a higher proof. Or like me, decompose slow at the back of the fridge, forgotten and unpalatable. Mix up the metaphors. Shaken, not bacon. Squeeze out the gooey center. Because that …

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The Interview

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s weird waking up to the realization that a whole city is going to read my name. Steel workers and teachers. Construction monkeys with blue on their collars. Empty suits shuffling meaningless paper. Coffee shop vagrants. And the matted masses collecting across the street for their yoga class. Or, as I like to call it, “Bendy Toots.” It was a strange experience being the subject of an actual interview. Usually I am the one chasing the stories. But instead, I stood awkwardly in front of a gallery wall covered with the stupid shit I drew and answered the questions of a talented reporter to the best of my socially retarded abilities. And he did a great fucking job with the story. Not only is it an …

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Highway 51 Revisited

- by Typewriter Fox

I awoke in the belly of a metal beast today. Didn’t plan it that way, mind you. Wasn’t looking for a new low; I wasn’t on a quest for shame. But shame, like an old friend, always seems to stick. Even when I’m actively eluding the less dignified demons of my more unpredictable intentions. It was the kind of green dumpster you find behind every supermarket. Right there on an unnamed side road off of Highway 51. Somewhere south of Paw Paw. I awoke with my head nestled between a torn trash bag and the oxidized metallic skin; my mind echoed the groan of the city waking up. That rust belt metropolis sprawling east, still drunk on dreams of better days. A few coins jingled in …

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When Foxes Cry

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s always strange to be driving during the in-between time. Those few weird weeks when winter hasn’t fully surrendered her grip on these familiar flyover fields. And spring has yet to fully pounce in to freshen the world with newness. The scraggly grass, filling median strips and clinging to shoulders, hasn’t completed its transition to a brighter lushness from the drab browns of a winter’s purge. The shadows of skeletal trees strobed across a broken highway, making the world jump and skitter at 78 miles an hour. Indiana was well behind my tires. But I was still pushing hard north. The day had been a weird melange of emotion. One which would require a great many more miles to fully process and I was doing my …

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