Category Archives: Uncategorized

Notice of Eviction

Nowadays this blog catches strays and wanderers unintentionally, like long forgotten trash drifting in the ocean traps birds and turtles and, I’m not sure but can only assume, the occasional merman.

For those wanderers, a forewarning, this is abandoned real estate. You are each of you squatters in a forgotten jumble of html’s. I have not died in real life, yet, but visiting this blog feels like I left something behind and it feels unfinished. I meant for that, I meant to abandon it the way you leave dogs on the street after they’ve grown old and boring, avoiding any correspondence and moving onward to my next project.

But I’m drawn back here, still, just like you rando’s, stumbling upon an old page using an arbitrary combination of tags.

Unfortunately, I’m already balls deep in my next project and feel no inclination to continue this and that, both. So here’s a secret link, the only one connecting both. I started it with the hopes of being less authentic and more broadly accepted but old habits are hard to break.



Missing fiction. Here’s a piece for the Conceited Crusade based on the prompt “Recollection”.

Conceited Crusade


Gio woke up in an empty piano bar but the sounds of Gaspard de la nuit still rang in his ears alongside the horrible aftermath of a pleasant buzz. He groaned and leaned forward over the table with his right hand over his forehead.

The room was black. Lines of sunlight peeked past the thick, velvet, red curtains draped across eight rounded windows, each large like the arches of a church. Little café tables littered the room until they stopped at a stage where a quiet black Grand piano watched over like the statue of an old Chinese tiānzǐ. In the corner of the room, a man in a penguin suit stood equally still, his eyes the loudest thing about him.

From across the way, a chair scooted back and the sound echoed like gravel against the melodies that ghosted the place. Gio had stood up, although he still…

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Hunter Butcher Wolves Pigs

On a new rotation at the Crusade and this was yesterday’s piece.

Conceited Crusade


Midnight in the projects. She’s scurrying along the stucco walls of apartment buildings nestling a guitar case like it’s cocaine. Maybe it’s got cocaine in it, I don’t know. I’m probably the only guy in this place who doesn’t care. I feel like I ought to tell her that as she’s shooting sideways glances at me but I’ll let a girl live in fear. She’s always walking home with a guitar case, this girl. Always passing by and always scared I might chase her down the street with my erection. I wish she’d stop and ask if I would but she’s probably smart not to. It’s better this way – if she stopped being scared of guys like me one day she’ll get caught by guys unlike me. Don’t feed the wildlife, they say. Dependence. Trust. Those things don’t belong in the wild, and out on these streets, the city…

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Digging For Content

A post over on the Crusade about Mexico, drinking, and parents being more adventurous than you.

Conceited Crusade

tepozteco Tepoztlan, Mexico. Pomegranate hunting grounds.

Last night my belly was the lining of a wineskin. My world was a mandala of colors bleeding over each other, and my language proficiency was equivalent to that of a tree. Adult Jenga has adult perks (3x’s the adult perks) but also adult consequences and this morning my alarm assaulted my R.E.M. hard like the siege of Minas Tirith. With a hangover every whisper sounds like the screech of a nazgûl.

I had an appointment with my mother so I give her a call. Mexico is treating her well. My stepfather is in Tepoztlán walking the cobblestone street markets in search for perfect pomegranates so she’s using the time to reconnect with herself and advance her business. These clowns are living life.

Time to clean because you never clean up after yourself when you’re drunk. Wiping down dried beer stains and vacuuming up condom…

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What it almost was

There it goes. My grandmother gave her that plate. Now it’s on a UFO trajectory to the wall like it’s area 51. I don’t have to duck – she has terrible aim. Or unclear intentions.

Her eyes water when she yells this loud. Her hands flex out and she leans at me like she’s catapulting her words. When she stops screaming I assume it’s my turn to talk so I say the wrong thing. I always say the wrong thing.

She pushes the lamp over because it’s going to solve our problems if that fucking blue lamp is on the floor. If she were a man we’d be four bloody knuckles into a fight by now. God I wish she were a man so I could beat the shit out of her. Here she comes.

She stomps over the floor like our neighbors pay her for it. Then she jabs me in the chest and drops my car keys in my hands. I have to leave, of course. In our apartment where I pay for most of the rent, but I have to leave. Fuck me, go fuck myself, fucking fuck fuck. She’s always been awful at using curse words in a sentence.

I walk to the door, but how did I know this would happen. Am I just going to leave? Just like that? Well shit, isn’t that what you wanted? Now she says I don’t care about this relationship. Maybe I don’t. Can I say that? I just want to tell her I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this. I don’t care about you, I don’t care about our kids, I don’t care about this apartment, I don’t care about this life. I just want to leave. Hitchhike on the bumper of a semi headed right to Hell. I’d rather have Satan rape me repeatedly in the ass than inhale another molecule of your Britney Spears perfume.

She asks if I ever even loved her. She won’t like the answer so I don’t say anything. I can leave, she says, and she becomes soft. She’s raged out. Her body slumps like a bean bag chair and the tears breach her lashes.

Guilt settles into my gut. The crossroads. I’m here once a week and I always pick the wrong road. No, less like a crossroad, more like a roundabout. All I have to do is take the exit.

Of course I love you, I say. I’ve always loved you.

Sorry Satan, our date will have to wait.

Modern Men at the Gym

Gym stuff. You’ll understand.

Conceited Crusade

Back at the gym. Thick neck guy and uncomfortable orgasm sound guy are here again. It’s not the same two guys, always, but they might as well be. They’re like Sith. There will always be two – hanging out by the squat rack or snapping pictures of their QUADS BRO. I don’t mind usually but today I didn’t bring my earphones and now every struggling rep sounds like he reached completion in the bathroom right as his mom walked in on him. You know the sound. Pleasure turned into utter distress. I want to get up and rip the dumbbell out of his hands. Lift something lighter, I want to tell him. It sounds like it’s too heavy. But instead I look at my own bagged eyes and shallow cheeks. I’m fucking tired. My hand still hasn’t recovered. I’m hungry. But if I don’t go to the gym I have…

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Here’s some words so you won’t leave

I’ve fixed the chain on my bike and now I’m back to sliding into streets like a curveball. I like thinking that maybe I’ll cut it too deep and my knee will scrape the floor and the bike will run out from under me and hug a tree. But maybe not. Because then I start thinking about the medical bills and I think man I could better spend that money on coffees and paying fines to my library. I haven’t written anything because I can only think of the one story but I can’t finish it. The characters won’t let me finish it. I can’t suck the air out of their lungs, they just want to keep doing shit and if I interrupt them it just ends like an unfinished

But I’ve never liked those authors who talk like their characters control the story because they’re just characters. I don’t know. Maybe I’m looking at it wrong. I just want to finish this damn story so I can go back to blogging about writing stories.

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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