May 10

Juggling Expired Yogurt

Expired Yogurt

Yesterday, I had this magically funny moment where I was with my daughter, and I was juggling three small containers of expired yogurt. One of the containers had slightly opened a bit. My daughter was nervous that the expired yogurt would open or splash everywhere if I dropped it, but we shared a moment that was fun and kind of hilarious.

Life is juggling expired yogurt. Once in a while a bit of bad will leak out. You’re definitely going to drop something every now and then and have a big mess to clean up, but if you never take chances, you’ll never have fun. You’ll never live life!

Leave a comment then go juggle some expired yogurt.

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May 7

Not until May the 8th

Tomorrow

On May the 8th, I will be everything I want
Everything I know I can be.
I’ll be wiser, strong
More confident.

I’ll be nicer to people
Less reactive.
I’ll be smarter
I’ll be everything I ever wanted to be.

But not until May the 8th.

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May 6

Profound Fucking Sadness

Profound Sadness

What man needs to cry? Maybe all men need to cry. I’m going through couching right now, a type of couching that looks inward. It can be a bit like therapy at times. Other times, it can look like business coaching. My coach tore open an old wound. The years of stress and unexplained anxiety that I feel everyday was washed away with sadness and tears, just like that. Instead of being stressed and a little bit angry all of the time, I’m just very sad now. Maybe I’ve always been sad. Not maybe, definitely. I’ve always been sad. At least now I can deal with that sadness, instead of the unexplained stress.

I suffered from childhood trauma, and all of my life I just seemed like I was a little bit angry and maybe a little bit dead inside. I’m just as emotional as anyone around me. I have the soul of a poet, and I’ve finally realized that while I’m rough and strong on the outside, I’m still gooey and mushy emotionally.

I know I’ll come out the other side as a better more enlightened person, but this is really fucking difficult and strange. Luckily, the sadness makes me want to write more.

Has anyone else out there gone through emotional transformation?

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December 2

Toasted honey sandwich #poetry

The sweetest type of honey drips down that delicious golden brown.

The tip of my tongue licks the drop, tastes it.

I press my lips to it, spread it open, just a bit.

My eyes close, the smell, intoxicating.

I slide my tongue inside, licking and tasting every bit of honey inside.

A bit drips down my chin, and all I can do is look up and smile.

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November 28

How to Keep Peace

She takes your dreams,

Steals your time,

Makes you mad,

Bloody irrational.

She’ll take your health,

Then your life.

Breathe.

In, she’s translucent.

Out, she’s transparent.

Breathe. She’s gone.

She whispers in your ear.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

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November 27

Reset Button

I sometimes need a little button.

A little button on the back of my head.

I would reach back there,

Fiddling around though my hair,

Screwing my fingers around.

I would press it once, nothing.

Twice, nothing.

Three times!

No stress, warm sand between my toes.

No routine, the taste of ocean salt on the thighs of my love.

No responsibility, the bright sun warming my nearly nude skin.

I would press it once, nothing.

Twice, nothing.

Three times!

I’m back.

I’m happy.

I know who I am.

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September 19

A Powerful Disagreement

Grey City

I sat there, alone in my board room, looking out into the grey city. It’s a city that I once loved, more than anyone or anything. I loved this grey cold beast. The more I schemed, lied, cheated, stole, the more I gave in to my darkest side, the more the beast gave back to me. You don’t change that beast. It keeps changing you.

Now, at 40 years old, I wish I had chosen some other way to spend my life. Could I have been a farmer, probably not, I hate any sort of manual labor. Maybe I could have run a charity, but I was way too selfish for that.

“You have a look of regret on your face.” I look over to see a tall medium brown haired man with a light skin tone but healthy looking complexion talking to me.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask.

He laughs a little before he says: “don’t be sorry.”

This fucker is going to come into my fucking boardroom, laugh at me, and engage in mother fucking word play with me but not answer my question. I look at the ground, take a deep breath, reorient my eyes back towards the man and say: “what is it that I can do for you?”

“I’m here for you Tim, whatever you want. I ask for nothing in return.”

“I’m supposed to be impressed that you know my name? I’m the richest man in this city. Everyone knows my name. Here’s the thing, I don’t do business with people I don’t know and don’t trust, so why don’t you leave, now!”

“I’ll leave when I’m ready,” he says, somehow without any tone of arrogance.

I pick up the phone to call security; it’s dead. I try to open the boardroom door, locked.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“What do you want?” He parrots back.

“Ten gorgeous clean hookers and an extra large pizza.”

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, out of frustration. As soon as my eyes are open again, there are ten beautiful young women, glammed up, wearing very tight business attire, and there is a God damned pizza in the middle of the table.

“What the hell?” I ask.

“I’m here for anything you want.”

“Anything?”

“Pretty much. You can have anything that a human being has at some point in their life had, and if it’s something that can be kept, you can keep it.”

“This is where I’m supposed to ask for money?”

“If that’s what you want,” he replied.

“I don’t need any more money. Can you send me back in time?”

“No. Humans can’t time travel.”

I look at him curiously and ask: “how do you know?”

“There are magical hookers in the room. Trust me, I know.”

He grabs a slice of pizza, walks over to where three hookers are making out and begins to open his pants.

“I don’t want the hookers.” Just as I utter those words, they disappear, so I continue with: “and no pizza either,” and it too was gone.

He turns around with his erect penis exposed, attempting to tuck it back into his pants but not ashamed to show me while saying: “I thought you were going to be fun.”

“I don’t actually have sex with hookers.”

“How about revenge? We could get back at everyone who once wronged you.”

“Well…” I say while pondering it for a moment.

“I’ve been alive for longer than all of humanity; please take your time. I’m patient,” he says with an erection that is still somewhat visible through his zipped up pants.

“Do I have to make some sort of deal with you first? Do I have to give you my soul? I won’t do that.”

“You people and your contracts. There is no deal. There is no such thing as signing over your soul. I’m here for you. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it. Then, I’ll leave. Simple, no contracts, understand?”

I worry that there is some sort of catch that I’m missing here, but if he is some mystical beast who can give me almost anything I desire, I would be a fool not to take him up on that.

“OK. Did you see my secretary on the way in?”

“Yes, she’s the nice lady who is hiding an obvious black eye by wearing too much makeup.”

“Yeah. Her boyfriend gave her that black eye. Can you take him out of the picture?”

“Sure. Done.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he said before walking out.

I guess that’s it. I guess I only get one thing, and I selflessly used it on someone else. I’m good with that. My life has been about making money, about taking what I want. Now, I did something for someone else.

I went home after that, poured myself a rather tall glass of port and binge watched Mad Men. After my day, I totally deserved it. I thought about calling up the neighbor lady to come over and have sex with me, but she’s married, and I’m trying to do the right thing now. Look at me, practically mother fucking Theresa. Maybe tomorrow I’ll start a charity.

Time to make a phone call.

“Hello.”

“Hey. Is your mom home?” I ask.

“No.”

“So, you’re alone?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to come over?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

It’s the married ladies daughter. I know it’s wrong, but she turns 18 next month, and I deserve this.

It was a fun night last night, but I have to get back to business, back to the office.

I shout for my secretary, “Emily.”

The man with the magical powers comes in: “yes?”

“You again? I thought you were done. Where’s Emily?”

“Oh, she’s at home, mourning the loss and all.”

I look at him with screwed up eyes and say: “what loss?”

“I killed the boyfriend. You know they were in love, right?”

“I didn’t tell you to kill him. I told you get him out of the picture.”

“You can’t use word play with me. I’m powerful, damn you. I knew what your intentions were. I can read thoughts and emotions. You wanted him dead. He’s dead. Now, Emily is at home with her hands over her face, crying uncontrollably, while the police question her.”

“Why are the police questioning her?” I ask, angrily.

“You always suspect the girlfriend first.”

“This is not what I wanted. Fix it.” I said, in a very demanding voice.

“It’s what you asked for, and your actions have consequences. Like I said before, there is no contract. Life is a series of moments and choices, and when you make bad choices and bad things happen as a result, it’s on you. You are the sum of your choices.”

“So why are you here? You just want to gloat?” I ask.

“I met with a man this morning who found out about a week ago that his wife was cheating on him. He installed nanny cams in his house to catch her, to be sure. What he saw is one of his neighbors fornicating with his 17 year old daughter. When I told him he could have anything he wanted, he asked me to take that man out of the picture.”

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September 18

We Might Have Already Met the Murderer – Chapter 28

Gift

After following my phone’s GPS like a subservient slave to my master of technology, Stain and I are taken to the apartment building directly across from the bank that Lily got shot in.

Stain looks angry, fiercely angry. I’ve seen him sad, frustrated, happy, and just about any other range of emotion a man is capable of, but I’ve never seen him truly angry before, except when Lily was shot.

“Sappho, you had better not be messing with me,” Stain glares at me.

“This is the address BM sent me,” I say throwing up my hands as though it were a sign of innocence.

“If Big Money is messing with me, I’ll slit his throat from ear to ear with a fork. I don’t care how long it takes me. I’ll do it, and I’ll wash my face in his blood,” Stain says while his eyes widen and pupils dilate.

“BM doesn’t strike me as the ultimate prankster type. It’s probably safe to say that his actual friend lives here,” I raise my eyebrows.

I send a group text to Frank and Ben with the address and information, in hopes that they might be able to come to the party. BM will appreciate the extra guests, and Stain and I could use a couple of people with an outside perspective.

Stain looks like he’s having a small breakdown. All he can get out before we enter the apartment is: “I…I don’t want to.”

“What?” I ask.

“I just… I don’t want to.”

As a couple is coming out of the security door, I jolt ahead and open the door for Stain. “You don’t want to what?”

Stain walks in, almost out of habit, as though he didn’t want to be rude. I start walking towards the stairs because I hate elevators and like stairs. Stain stands still, frozen.

“Stain, let’s go.”

“I can’t. I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

“Stain. You don’t know that the shooter was in this building, and if the shooter was in this building, it was unlikely that the person was in this apartment.”

“I can’t,” Stain repeats.

Stain, if we go in there, we are one step closer to finding out who shot Lily. If we’re superheros, I mean true superheros, who deserves justice more than Lily?

“I…” Stain pauses.

“What do we fight for?” I ask.

Stain looks away from me, and with the determination of a herd of rhinos, heads straight for the elevator and presses the button. I saunter up behind him when the elevator door opens. Stain, me, and Joe, from Taking a Shirt, all get into the elevator.

“We fight for good,” Stain says, not even noticing that Joe has gotten on the elevator with us.

“Joe, hello,” I say, almost as though it’s a question.

“Sappho, Stain, hello mi amigos. You are visiting a friend here?”

Stain is standing in front of the buttons, waiting to press a number. I look at my earlier text message from BM and say: “number 10.”

Stain looks at Joe, waiting for him to call out a number, when Joe utters: “same.”

Before I had a chance to answer Joe, Stain shoots him a glance and asks: “so, you live here then?”

“I’m here for Jamie’s birthday party. Do you know Jamie?” Joe asks.

I half nod my head. “We’re here for that too.”

Joe exits the elevator, and Stain presses the close door button, keeping us in. He promptly presses number 9.

“So Jamie is it?” Stain asks.

We get off the elevator and head for the stairs.

“Yeah.”

“Can I go in on the present too?” he asks.

“Yeah, I already put your name on the card.”

“Cool. Thanks. So, what did we get Jamie?” Stains asks.

“You’ll see. Try not to act surprised.”

“We could meet the murderer tonight. We might have already met the murderer. It could be Joe,” Stain surmises.

“Stain, it could be anyone. Tonight we are only gathering information, so no giving away anything that we know. You’re too emotional on this topic. Listen and observe. I invited Frank and Ben. I figured they could help.”

I knock on the door.

“Fair enough,” Stain utters, almost under his breathe.

Big Money answers the door.

“Gentlemen, hello. Come in, come in.”

The only people in the room are me, Stain, Big Money, Joe, and a woman I’m assuming must be Jamie.

Joe and Jamie are laughing about something, so I take the opportunity to quietly say: “she looks like a 30-year-old Parisienne lesbian.”

Big Money gives me the oh really look and says: “don’t judge, I’ve seen what your cock has been in.”

“That’s nothing, he was trying to go mud diving with Joe over their earlier today,” says Stain.

Big Money has a serious look of concern on his face. “Wait, you guys know Joe?”

Stain casually says: “yeah, we met him at the t-shirt shop today when we were going to order our superhero t-shirts. Our little blue eyed boy here got lost somewhere in pec boys massive muscles. I assume the way he rolled his Rs probably added to the fantasy a bit.”

“I didn’t think you even noticed,” I say.

“I was trying not to,” Stain says.

“How do you know Joe?” I ask Big Money.

“He’s a friend of Jamie’s.”

“So, BM, you going to introduce us?” I ask.

Big Money takes us over to Jamie and points at each one of us saying: “this is Sappho. He’ll fuck you, your mom, and your dog, and he’ll make you think it was all your fault and walk away completely unscathed. Somehow no matter who you are, he’ll just shine those big blue eyes at you, and you’ll always care for him. This is Stain. You don’t have to worry about your mom or your dog, but he will fuck you if he gets a chance. You’ll regret it, but you’ll keep fucking him over and over again, until you finally hate him, yourself, and anything he ever touched.”

“This is true?” Jamie asks.

“Oh, yeah. He’s actually being kind,” Stain says.

I nod my head. “Big Money is being kind. The good news though, is that I never have sex with someone’s mother or dog on their birthday.”

Big Money. Who is this?” Jamie asks.

I almost didn’t notice that Joe and Big Money are whispering back and forth.

Stain chimes in. “We have nicknames for people. We have one for you, and one for Big Money over there.” He points to Big Money.

“We also have one for Joe,” I say.

Stain looks at me. “We do?”

“Yes, we call him Alejandro,” I say.

Stain giggles a little, “Alejandro, from the t-shirt shop. Got it.”

Jamie looks over at Stain. “So, what is my name?”

I quickly shout: “hey BM, I hope you don’t mind me watering down this sausage fest, but I invited a couple of tacos.”

Big Money laughs, hard. It was that baby seal clubbing laugh again. Something about Big Money changed, but I’m not sure what.

“You have tacos?” Jamie asks.

I hand her the present we got for her, and she shakes it.

Stain says: “good thing it’s not breakable.”

“It sounds big,” Jamie pauses, “I’m so rude. Can I get you a drink?”

“Bourbon, neat,” Stain says.

“He’ll have a beer, and I’ll take a glass of red wine, please,” I say.

“Of course,” Jamie says while walking off.

“Nice way to change the subject from me telling her the nickname,” Stain says chuckling.

“What nickname?” I ask.

“3PL,” he says.

“3PL?” I ask.

“Yeah, 30-year-old Parisian lesbian,” Stain says.

“I hope Ben and Frank get here soon,” I say.