Tag: bullshit
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

September Corn

- by Typewriter Fox

Sunday drunk in Dewitt. Again. Not exactly sure why that keeps fucking happening. Or what triggers the urge to consume liquid stupidity to the point that the voices actually dim. And the panic fades. Even if it’s just for a heartbeat of a Clinton County moment. I never intend for it to happen.   It just does. Because there I was again. Closing down the same Old Town haunts. Chatting up different ghosts, while pounding down the Sunday rounds. Embracing the A.B.V. of it all. Because there is fuck all else to do here in the Mittened wasteland. At least when there aren’t tin monsters to fight. And the last of lost weekend hours yawn in a 517 dial tone nothingness. Ripping raw down around Stoll Road. …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Sharing an Old Town Sunday

- by Typewriter Fox

It’s funny sometimes what the Mitten can throw at you. It was just another untethered 517 Sunday night. One spent wandering through Old Town brick. I was unsupervised and unappreciated; it was a night rapidly bleeding into no agenda. Even though the underlying vibe was one of sticky hours in desperate need of filling. It was the third bar of the night. Hours of pre-partying sloshed behind me. Because it’s impossible to predict the number of pints required to properly wash away the stink of a week’s worth of tin monsters. Especially the temperamental ones, born of European pedigree. Because those fuckers can bite you if you aren’t paying attention. It was also difficult understanding the dosage required to help calm a wounded heart. The one …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Shot Glass 🦊

- by Typewriter Fox

It admittedly didn’t take long to slip back into the familiarity of old habits. A pocketful of hours into the 517 and I was back on a familiar rise. Where the lights from a mean city twinkle down on dirty water. Not the welcoming baptismal I anticipated. But it is the one I guess we deserved. Because we both lied. I realize that. It was just in different ways. And to very different people. Some lies were so big, the charm of their gravity pulled me from the dirty alleyways of Wayne’s City. All the way up to nowhere fucking Michigan. And when that attraction broke, I spun out inside the barreled sprawl of a strange Capital City.  Running feral, I could only capitalize on the …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Graduation

- by Typewriter Fox

If they only knew the truth.  Because it’s always the same fucking thing.  “I love the writing!” “You definitely have talent.” “Is any of your work about me?” Fleeting praise I once admittedly loved. But that now makes my stomach churn. Because it’s just superficial flattery pushing a jet-blasted brain into recoil mode. More hollow compliments masterfully baiting all the caged demons to collapse into their liquid howls of disgust. It makes me want to rage and lash out. Scream the indignity of my discursive curse. And ultimately embrace the anonymity of my more vulpes nature. Because no one ever fucking acknowledges the cost. Or the exhausting burden of investment required to put something meaningful on paper—I am terrified of a blank page.  Because it’s too …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Tuesday

- by Typewriter Fox

I didn’t intend to get accidentally whiskey-ginger drunk. On that claustrophobic Tuesday night. In the strip mall heart of fucking Dewitt, Michigan. But, it happened.   I tripped into those triples shortly after kicking a virginal 767 off the ramp. The one loaded with critical healthcare medicines and ridiculous consumer madness. Ten tons of overflow Amazons and random online acquisitions—not my best flight. But we still made it work. It was a weird drunk, too. Not the actual inebriation aspect. Because let’s be honest, that’s a familiar fading, here amongst the shuffling Q.D. Zombies. But I still learned some important lessons, teetering precariously on the edges of a barstool disaster. I discovered it is better to avoid anything passed the upside of West State Road. Because the …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

500 Mile Drive

- by Typewriter Fox

I still think about that drive. The tenacity of those Tennessee roadside concessions. The ones fueling those dirty dashboard confessions; the ones screaming at a Pigeon Ford quickly evaporating in a smoky rearview mirror. Because I never had the opportunity to properly explain myself. I just remember Knoxville coffee punching hard against softer insides. And how that burn helped to round out the sharpness of those elevated curves. And smooth the stark indignity of unused emergency runaway ramps. The ones scratched and clawed into an unnamed mountain’s downward slope. Cities were on fire then. It felt like the whole world, locked down and suffering, was about to collapse. Which I thought was fucking hilarious. Because I was tired of the abuse. And wanted to break free …

Share
Read More
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. …

Share
Read More
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 …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

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 …

Share
Read More
Blog Posts / Random / Stories / Writing

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 …

Share
Read More