Tag: mindfuckery
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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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The Opening Part Two: The Closer

- by Typewriter Fox

Eerybody has been asking about the status of the second part of the story.  But honestly, I debated even writing it.  She did say that Part One was a lovely opening to an experience that had left her mind reeling.  As admittedly mine had been, too, ever since the taillights of her green Subaru faded south, leaving The City to feel that much more empty in her sudden absence. My weiner was starting to feel a little peculiar about it all, too.  Not sure about how hers was feeling.  Things not meant to cling were starting to get sticky.  Weird, but in a way not entirely unpleasant.  Like going to the gym drunk. But I still found myself hesitating. And it didn’t really help literary matters …

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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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Chicken Man

- by Typewriter Fox

Good morning, Michigan! In the land of Q.D….okay, you know what? I’m actually going to be a good sport for once. I am going to refrain from calling you QD Donut Munchers. Again.   We were never going to be in agreement. And sometimes, it takes the bigger man to walk away. This is, after all, the land of second third fourth fifth chances. And it wouldn’t speak well of me to continue poking fun at the unenlightened bakery zombies shuffling around the greater Lansing area, clutching their bland excuses for baked goods. Because I get it. Cultural and regional differences, etc. Taste buds polluted from Rust Belt heavy metals. Tragic, misinformed upbringings. Blah blah blah.   However, having been agreeable to letting the whole donut tantrum slide, …

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94 East

- by Typewriter Fox

I am not going to write about that night.   In general, I have never been a fan of secrets. They far too often transform into a malignancy that burdens the better angels of genuine intent. But, every once in a while, it is okay to squirrel moments away for just yourself.   And that Saturday night hidden away in Porter County is something just for me.   I will confess that despite the lack of an audience, I did my best to make a joyful noise. Because it has never been about the attention. Or, the accolades. It is about putting the words on the fucking page. Although admittedly, the occasional ego boner is appreciated. In fact, my four favorite words in the entirety of …

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94 West

- by Typewriter Fox

There wasn’t time to really think about it.   I knew from experience that the moment I hesitated, motivation would evaporate. Like a lot of things seem to be doing these days. Despite my better intentions. And frankly, I’m growing pretty fucking tired of losing things.   So it was up and running and out the door. Pushing hard west on 94. Trying my best to beat the traffic. But getting beaten instead by the unexpected wind blustering over from the big lake.   That pinballing ride, powered by ballads, endless nicotine, and fermenting nostalgia, was worth the temporary discomfort of a white-knuckle grip. Because I could feel myself slipping. And choking on the unpalatable stench of a Capital City warming up to another season.     …

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The Dirty Boulevard

- by Typewriter Fox

I fought my way through hell. But, I was lucky enough to have kissed an angel. I felt the scaring prick of abuse. But, then I blushed hard against the curve of alabaster skin.  And delighted in her freckles counted there.  I wanted to give each a name.  And celebrate the imprint of their uniqueness. Forever. Instead, rough fingers traced the smoother edges of a dream right before the wake-up call of another scheduled good-bye. A clean dream.  One in which healthier avenues would eventually prevail.  And claim gentle victory over the forces of narcissistic intent. But being born to wander the dirty Boulevard leaves little room for acclimation.  Or even acceptance.  Not when legalities constantly threaten.  And commitment teeters under the influence of abusive memory.  …

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