First Rule of Fight Club is…

Probably my favorite post so far just because of the responses.

Conceited Crusade

  • My right hand knuckles are busted so now I’m typing like a test monkey. Hand swollen like a latex glove filled with water. Three out of five fingers won’t come apart and I’m pretty sure autocorrect just quit on me. I forget 90% of my thoughts before I can capture them because every letter to the right of TGV lags onto my document slower than dial up. But it’s okay, this is just what I needed. Content.
  • I won’t tell you guys why my hand is busted because then you’re more likely to assume I knocked some guy in the nose rather than flat knuckled the face of a steel door. Either way it all started because one man couldn’t circumvent the pride his father had hotwired into his macho-masculine brain cells and the other man hadn’t emptied the bullshit canister in his brain for a while and it caught…

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3 Ways To Find Time For Writing

Fred Colton’s figured it out for the rest of us.

Fred Colton


  1. Give your kids up for adoption.
  2. If you want to write then you’ll just fucking do it. Honestly what else did you expect to find in a post like this.
  3. Maybe read fewer blogs about blogging. Really though: how is that a thing. That’s like seeing a painting of artists painting. Stop making these twats rich. I can tell you to “post and curate good content” too. These automatons aren’t even telling stories. I didn’t realize the path to success was to be meta-boring: Writing boring stuff about boring stuff. But shit, if it is then check back tomorrow for my new post: 6 Killer Strategies To Not Misspell Your Name In A Blog Post.

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Valle De La Luna

Conceited Crusade

A long stretch of desert in Chile looks like the surface of the moon. This is our protagonist. Coarse sand used to touch the sky in invincible pillars before its affair with the wind. Water left this place and now salty trails scar its dunes and mounds like tears over cheeks. Now when the wind whispers between the canyons their echo depletes without reverberating from a moving surface. Nothing changes.

Black clouds drag through the sky like a widower’s veil. This is our love interest. Here it reveals flashes of lightning in gaps of its thick clouds like the slit in a dress. They summersault through the sky and over the desert and that’s when a flash rubs across the surface. At first strike, the sand billows into glass and it’s the first thing it’s grown in centuries. The tall mountains grab hold of the electricity as the clouds straddle…

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It’s all true. Everything they wrote.

That’s the kind of romance. Slow strings and deep bases. Rain drops over open lips make for foggy kisses. That’s the kind of romance.

Nowadays you’re a romantic if you wash your hands before you fingerbang a stranger in a public bathroom. A real gentleman if you warn her before you bust all over her eyelashes. Netflix and delivery pizza. Anniversary dinners with the same button up tucked into your JC Penny’s jeans. Your faces look the same in every picture because those are the only smiles you can fake. This is our 21st century Romeo and Juliet. You get married and fuck out a couple of babies because those are the last components to your socially accepted life.

I was that guy, once upon a time, minus the JC Penny jeans. Found this girl who didn’t care if I liked spending our time off together alone in a coffee shop writing about other girls. I thought, this could work. I found someone to be with who I’ll never actually have to be with. That’s all anybody in a relationship ever wants.

That’s when a this green eyed freakfest plot twisted the shit out of my life. You enter that surreal zone as a writer where real life becomes better than anything you could possibly write. I’ve said I’ve fallen in love with a dozen girls, but this was like love in all caps. This was thundering and explosive. This was sincere – I wasn’t copying the words I wrote out for my characters.

Love like that you kinda have to drop everything for. A bullet train with no space for baggage. Everything in my life crashed down in a blaze of fire when I made the choice to hop on. I became the villain in a lot of stories but it felt good. Breaking the chain. The illusion. I felt like Neo and I’d just taken the red pill.

Cue secret rendezvous in back alleys and sweaty sex behind foggy car windows. Lies to everybody but each other. Early morning naps before work in a park. You can find poetry in life. When three or four perfect things happen at the same time it’s like the gods are rhyming. You never really understand why love stories are written until you’re in the middle of it. Every kiss feels like flash fire. Every graze of her fingers. Every breath on your neck. It feels like the first second of the universe. You can remember every day because the way the wind blows her scent in your face is so consistent that everything becomes a pattern. You’re not trying to go through the motions but the poetry of life forces it, and it feels good.

Days go by and you expect it to stop and when it doesn’t, you think maybe it’s true. Everything they wrote. All those love stories and fairytales. Maybe they’re all true.

Then one of those days happen when you guys get in a fight over groceries and you think goddamn this bitch.

Interview with a poet


With Sam Lobes’ romantic experience, you could easily imagine her sitting in a field of daisies picking petals in hopes of foretelling her romantic future. But instead of counting daisies, Sam pulls apart the English language through striking poetry and collaborates with a group of wretched authors, each intent on pressing their ballpoint deep enough into the page to make it bleed. This week I had a chance to pick at my fellow Crusader’s brain and risk spilling her laureatic secrets and blowing everyone’s skulls in the process.

When you first started your blog, what did you think it was going to be about? What is it about now?

I’ve always viewed it as a sort of online journal where I could write my thoughts and get my creative juices flowing. But in the beginning, I intended to use it more as a space to work on my creative writing. That quickly got pushed aside by my need to process my personal drama through words. I actually wrote my first entry out of desperation, at 3 am on my wedding day, 2 years ago. It’s titled “Today”.  I probably should have known then not to get legally married based on what an emotionally hellish day it was, but I was really intent on making things work at the time.

Now my blog is all me, all the time. I sprinkle in stories and poems every now and then, but it’s primarily my thoughts and experiences. I think it’s evolved into an even more intimate forum than I ever anticipated. I never would have imagined I’d be writing and sharing half the things I do with complete (and some not so complete) strangers.  I feel I have to put a disclaimer out there, that while it sounds like my head is a fucking hot mess of never ending drama, it’s only because I write my raw and unfiltered truths of the moment. I’m actually pretty chill in person. You try and write down the painfully honest thoughts in your head and see how sane you sound. Just saying.

You’ve had extensively exhausting relationships. Is there one you wish you’d never had?

This question made me laugh and squirm a little. I think it’s funny because I actually haven’t had very many “relationships”. Or at least, not to the standards I would consider a relationship being. I’ve had 2 serious relationships, my marriage and this last one with Mr. Nerd. Of course, that one was short lived and I never got to meet him in person, so I don’t know what you would call that… I have no fucking clue as to what to call what I had with Mr. Freaky, but it definitely wasn’t a relationship. There was the brief puppy love I had with my co-worker but that was an unrequited crush/friendship on my part, so I don’t really count that. Yeah, that’s it. The rest are pre-marriage and don’t count. Maybe it’s just the unique and intense nature of my recent relationships and my ability to write endless, pain searing posts about them that makes it seem like I’ve had a lot of them.

I realize I’ve danced around the question. Sigh. It really depends on where I’m at emotionally. On a bad day, I have wished I hadn’t had any relationships/whatever the fuck I’ve been getting myself into after my marriage, from Mr. Freaky on. But on my more rational and emotionally stable days, I realize that each of these relationships/interactions have been for a reason, even if I may have no fucking clue as to what reason that is. Maybe in the future I’ll find out. Hindsight is 20/20 after all.

You’re awoken in the middle of the night: what/who do you hope woke you?

First of all, don’t fuck with my sleep.

Secondly, if I do get woken up, it better be by a hot somebody intent on pleasuring me so I don’t bite their fucking head off for waking me up in the middle of the night. Orgasm=Forgiveness

Why will your name be in the history books?

As the beautifully tortured mental health therapist who wrote a book that is hilarious, heartbreaking, and riveting, changing the course of literature forever through her insight, intelligence and refusal to abide by literary rules.

Oh, wait, has that been done already?

Okay then, for being pretty.

Favorite and least favorite word?

Favorite word- Fuckery

Least favorite word- Homie

Your house is on fire and you only have time to grab one thing. What is it?

Valentine, my handsome little pug.


What is one thing you wanted to be as a child that you secretly still want to be?

Popular. Ugh, I feel so shallow just saying that. But my reasons are different now than they were then. I wanted to be popular as a little girl in order to feel accepted and to have friends. Now, I would like to be popular in the sense that I want to be a person sought out because I’m trustworthy, dependable, caring, lots of other really good things and overall worthy to be looked up to by kids that I encounter.

You share a name with my girlfriend. How does it feel to have the most commonly used name ever? What would you want to change it to?

I actually love my name. I swear I sound so vain, I know this. But I wouldn’t ever want to change it. Plus, the meaning, “listener” fits me perfectly. I’ve only met about 15 other Samantha’s in my lifetime. To me it’s not that common. But of course, I grew up in an area where Jose and Maria are like the most popular names.

One thing you’re too scared to experience in life?

I’m generally not a fearful person. I’m actually a bit of a risk taker. But probably trying drugs. I hate the idea of losing control over my mind and body, even if it’s just a little bit. And even more so, the idea that it might change my brain chemistry for good, scares me. Because well, my brain is naturally fucked up already, do I really want to fuck it up some more?

Sam can be found on her page Am I the only loser out there? and on the Conceited Crusade, where she posts every Wednesday or Thursday depending on your timezone.