Skeleton Woman or Things Like Me Don’t Happen To You
Christ it happened again. Another notch in my “girls that want to be my friend” belt. It made sense. We were perfect friends and she was real cute too. I kept thinking that I was ok with it. I’d be happy just being a friend again. I keep turning to God for strength to accept my fate as “Friend to all women” that I’m attracted to. My acceptance level seems to be ok. I go to my happy place. I go to my cave. I say the serenity prayer over and over I am sure that I will be ok with this. Yes I will. (no I won’t)
Cut to a scene from Fight Club
TYLER
Stop it! This is your pain — this is your burning hand. It’s right here! Look at it.
JACK
I’m going to my cave. I’m going to my cave to find my power animal!
TYLER
No, don’t deal with this the way those dead people do. Come on
!
JACK
I get the point, ok, please!
TYLER
No, what you’re feeling is premature enlightenment.
Ok. I get the idea. Feel the pain. Feel the hurt. Feel the rejection saturating my heart until I bleed more than just these words all over the place and finger my open sore of a brain as it wants to dwell on her over and over again. Screaming and roaring her name with anger and grief and sometimes a slight relief that it’s done and I know that she will not reject me again unless I go back for more and more or less or a little bite of her cheeseburger and a sip of her Pepsi to tide me over until the next one comes along with better food and spirits for my, for me for. Four scores of seven years itch as I scratch the weathered tired out mongrel of an ego that was left stray years ago in a pound for wayward hearts and letches that can only love and never be loved.
The pain of being a friend. A friend. I’ve heard that “Let’s just be friends” millions of times in my life as I gargle a new mouthwash and toothpaste hoping my breath will be the answer to my problem. My problem is as follows: me, myself and I. We altogether are the problem. We want to be loved so bad that we give off the vibe that scares the shit out of women so they just want to be friends. Friends. Friends. I think to myself that will be fine. Friends is ok. It’ll do. I can accept that. Bullshit! Feel the pain I tell myself. Embrace it. the pain is your friend. To hurt is to be alive. I’ve never been so alive. I’m alive. So alive.
“Did you ever hear about the skeleton woman?” Morton asked.
“Was that a Glam rock band from the seventies?” I ask.
“Ha. Ha. Nah. It’s an ancient Indian story. This guy was fishing in the middle of a lake. He was totally into it. He was relaxed. Not a care in the world except catching the next fish. All of a sudden he feels a tug on his line and he yanks it up. A skeleton appears on his line. He doesn’t realize that it’s attached to his line and he gets scared. He starts paddling his boat away from it but it follows him. He still doesn’t realize that it’s attached to his line. He gets out of his boat and runs into the village and he is carrying his fishing rod and the skeleton is still right behind him. He jumps into his Tee Pee and it follows him in. He lies down and tries to hide not looking at it for a while. When he finally turns to look at the skeleton it has changed into the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She is his. The moral of the story is that he was minding his own business doing something he enjoyed and that’s when the right woman came along. In other words when you are not looking for love is when it will find you. ”
“I know that but it’s so fucking hard to stay focused on other things without thinking about how much I want to be loved. Fall in love. Ya know?” I responded.
“I know. I know.” Morton said.
“We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.” Tyler Durden
I TRY TO IGNORE THE WHISPERS LOUDER THAN THE SCREAMS. IN DREAMS I WALK WITH YOU. You Roy. I AM TRAVELLING. Always traveling. Moving. New apartment. New house. New CCITEE-Y. NEW STATE. STATE OF MIND. Party goers and house warmers and birthday goers and CHRISTmas mass attendees gather. I know some then I know everyone. I am no one. They don’t see me this way. He doesn’t see me this way. She. You.
MR SANDMAN BRING ME A DREAM.. I know you. I love you LOVE! I carry buckets of paint to your house and the party has just begun. I GET NO KICK FROM CHAMPAGNE either Frank, baby. Seven sisters of love pies stare at me and glare at ME AND THAT LOOK. THAT LOOK. IT SENDS CHILLLS DOWN MY SCARS- inside and outside that run against my heart. Let’s get this CHORDETTEONIAN PARTY STARTED MR JIMMY!
I put my arm around Grandmom to say I love you. People STARING. People caring. Empty people fill the crowded party. Acting hearty. Listing their character defects. Last chance. MY DEAD GRANDMOM TURNS HER HEAD AND SAYS “I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!”
I wake up smoking and drift back along the sea of asphalt, scraping my fat ass and ripping my favorite dream jeans still wondering what I did. WHAT DID I DO THAT GRANDMOM KNOWS I DID? Was it last summer Jennifer Love?
I am alone. ALONE. MY NEWEST OF THE NEW HOUSES. Sir Raleigh comes with news. I thought he said PRESIDENT REAGAN HAD DIED OF INDECENT IMPLOSURE. I didn’t care until I realized he wasn’t just dreaming about my Dream girl locked in his dungeon TIED UP WITH VINES and THE SISTERS OF REJECTION.
GIVE HIM TWO LIPS OF HATRED AND VIOLENCE. RESTRAINING ORDERS, BRIGHT LIGHTS AND SIRENS.
“SHE’S A COKE HEAD” HE SAYS.
“SHE USED TO GIVE BLOW JOBS TO HERMAPHRODITES.” HE SAYS.
My throat fills with vomit and joy. IN DREAMS I DO COKE WITH YOU.
Stolen emotions and borrowed gifts are shared at the airport and train stations and parking lots and I’M STILL NOT SURE WHICH IS WHICH. IN DREAMS I TALK TO YOU. Us is back and you is cornered and still slip away. Reptilian monkeys bred become bread for the children of Elizabethan peasants but I grab two of them and hand them to the girl with ruby slippers and she vanishes like the Dark Knight into the dark night when she hears Bruno approach.
“I’ll whip you now my pretty and your LITTLE MAN too! Hahahahaha” Bruno yells but not enough to find her. I find her in her Old Kentucky home with three wooden porch steps away and I go into seizures. Jules Vern hides Tu-Tu Hundred Feet Under The Sea Under The Porch. I pass out. DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM –DUM DUM DUM DUM DUM. MR SANDMAN WAKES ME. The ape lizards have grown by the time I reach the inside. The Dark Huntress awaits me wearing a smile and a bra. I am excited to see her but worry about poor Mr Vern. Guilt reddens my pink face knowing that I shouldn’t be THERE. The Queen would be quite jealous and take away my deconstructed addictive Kingdom. SHE IS THERE AND SHE IS THERE. IT WAS A DUBIOUS PLAN OF THE HUNTRESS OF DARK TO HAVE Mr Vern under the porch and watch my web of lies unfold. The evil one IS not Bruno and I NOW KNOW WHAT GRANDMOM KNOWS I DID. I JUST DIDN’T DO IT YET WHEN SHE TOLD ME.
Caught in the trap admiring the salamander gorilla’s ability to change in size determined by the cage they are in. I imagine if they were let loose if they could grow bigger than the entire world. My Darling Queen and my Miss Huntress dance and change clothes despite the height and come out laughing at me and yet forgiving me and I feel a calm as MY DEAD GRANDMOM SAYS “ I STILL KNOW WHAT YOU DID.”
Note: I wrote this on Friday but haven’t had the chance to post it. I’ll give you an update at the end.
Woke up way too early. Trouble breathing. Asthma? Then the stomach turned and I had to go. To the bathroom. Funny. I have no bath but I call it the bathroom. I went. Felt a little better.
Face hurt. A little at first. It always starts with a little. It got worse.
Trouble breathing. I was smoking. Maybe I smoke too much. Then the racing thoughts and the heart followed. I made coffee. Good for asthma. I heard. I heard a lot of things so I drank coffee and a lot of water with my 4 morning meds. The stomach and heart beating anxiety kicked in as I tried to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
I had to be somewhere to help a friend with a ride this morning. The meds were kicking in. I started to feel a little better as I got dressed and mapped the address of my friend. The breathing was like hyper ventilating. It came and went. It went when the pills kicked in. Pills. Have to take ‘em if I don’t want pain or anxiety. I did.
I got a text just as I was psyching myself up for a long ride. It was my friend’s boyfriend canceling the ride I was to give. The long trip. Over. Now I can stay home and try and relax. Or feel pain and anxiety.
It goes away eventually. Drugs kick in. Feel better. Wear off. Feel worse.
Need a nap. No nap. I guess the stress is up there. Anxiety.
Watched a couple of movies. Did a few tings on the internet. Hurt. Can’t breathe.
All over the place. God. Bad. Breathe freely. Breathe naturally. Breathe short and slow. Loss of breath. Chest pain. Face pain. It’s all running together.
I look up the symptoms and talk to friends that have similar conditions. They confirm that it’s just a panic attack. Combined with my face pain. It hurts.
Don’t want to complain. Complain. Complaints. Revealing my pain to you and everyone else is . . . like getting a mew therapist.
Just repeating my day out loud. No answers. Just venting.
Conclusions come after solutions after diagnosis. Am I sure it’s not just another panic attack in a way I haven’t experienced.
Experienced. Weird pain. Something different.
Do I need a hospital or not? Go to bed and sleep. Get up early tomorrow to do some work for my uncle.
Good. I’m falling asleep as I write this.
Note: Aftermath- I was hoping that a good night sleep would be the cure. It wasn’t. I woke up at 6:30 am with the deep breaths and panic for no reason. I was tired but that was normal. I drank less coffee and took my morning meds, More face pain. I took pain pills. Everything kicked in by the time I got to help my Uncle at cleaning offices. I was just tired from all of the pain and anxiety the day before. I made it through the work hours. Then I had to go home shower etc and pick up a model for a photography project. It was an all day event but now and then I felt the anxiety and shortness of breath but had to keep going and took anxiety meds. I got through the day and went to sleep early. Woke up today feeling a little bit of the breath thing and anxiety and it slowly went away and I helped my Uncle again and now I just feel emotionally hungover. Tired blah. I made it.
Living with Terry and Morton was a blast. They were both in their early thirties and I was in my late twenties. We are all artists in one way or another and we were all on the prowl for the ladies as we clumsily tried to pick them up at coffee shops, AA meetings, bars, art shows and anywhere else we thought that we could find our type.
Our types varied. Terry was obsessed with finding a “Vampire chick” or a “Goth Chick’. Ironically he dressed kind of standard 1988 in 1995. He had that bob cut hair. It was kind of long on the sides and real short in the back. Morton was after the “Rocker Chick Slut” or the “New Age Hippie chick.” He usually dressed the part either wearing his new age outfit or his Rock star clothes. He had long black died hair. As for me, I stood by with my usual requirements: any good-looking girl that actually liked me. We rarely found what we were looking for after obsessing day and night about these fantasy girls we would never have. We had fun in our bonding of failures with the ladies.
We all lived in a house that Terry owned in a town on the outskirts of Camden, NJ. It was a poor neighborhood and was becoming racially mixed. It was mostly poor minorities and white trash. The chances of ever seeing hot chicks that fit our tastes were next to impossible.
Then she appeared. A young girl of maybe seventeen walked by our house every day around 5:30 pm. She dressed a little on the “alternative” side. It was around the end of the grunge years and that’s when the poor neighborhoods usually take over a style is when the middle class is done with it. Always a step behind. Kind of like us. So Terry nicknamed her the “Artsy Girl” because he says she dresses artsy. It was a style that was once artsy but not now. The three of us became obsessed with her. Everyday at 5:30 one of us would call to the others “Artsy Girl!” and we’d all come running to the kitchen window to see her.
“Artsy Girl!” I said.
“Where?” Terry said.
“I don’t see her. Did I miss her?” Morton said.
“Stop fucking with us, man. This is the highlight of our day. We don’t need to be teased.” Terry said.
“Sorry. I just think that it’s funny that we all start salivating the minute someone rings the Artsy Girl bell.” I said.
She was cute in her little flowered dresses and her Doc Martins. She had medium length reddish brown hair and pretty brown eyes.
One day I was walking home from the train and I ended up walking home with her. She didn’t acknowledge ever seeing me before. Thank God. She didn’t know what a letch I was. Her name was Megan. She just got out of High School. She was going to start working at the local convenience store. I was going to hit on her then I realized that she was just a regular little girl. That’s ok but not for me. When we got to my house I felt sadness in her eyes that I was going home without hitting on her or asking her for her phone number. After getting to know her the thrill of the “Artsy Girl” vanished. I realized that I am not the letch I thought. She was too young and too inexperienced in life.
I still fucked with the roommates though. I still gave them the mating call of the Artsy Girl. They still kept a running. I never felt the same again.
Purchase your copy of Yellow Socks; Confessions of a Non-Don Juan here.
Holy shit. What do I do? I’ve been in hiding out alone in my house for so long and now that I’m out and making new friends and socializing I’m not sure how to react, what to say and what to do. When it comes to women. When it comes to her.
I’ve had a stressful day and wanted to hibernate like I did for the past few years but I found myself at the same coffee shop ordering the same coffee and sitting in the same place. I had to make a few phone calls, texts, and emails to move along the things that are stressing me and it was time for a cigarette break. There she was. Sitting with her back to me outside at a table immersed in work on her lap top or pretending to be immersed in it.
She was there for a while but this time I was compelled to talk to her. Tall blonde in tights and high boots that I thought were awesome so I told her so. They were sexy. We talked about boots in summer, men shouldn’t wear sandals ever, and people we knew. Normal conversation with a pretty blond with pretty blue eyes and nicely shaped legs. Not my usual type (blonde and blue eyes) but she was really nice and good looking. We talked and talked for about 20 minutes and seemed like we were hitting it off. Maybe we were or maybe we weren’t. I have trouble reading people after not being around them for so long.
She had to make a phone call so I went back inside and worked on a few projects for almost an hour and I wanted a cigarette and might have to leave soon and didn’t know what to do. Do I ask to see her again sometime? Do I ask for her phone number? Do I ask for her email or facebook page? Or do I just blow her off and forget about it? Write it off as just another person I met and leave it to fate (if there is such thing). Do I just pussy out like I have many times in the past.
I sat at my table and I looked up now and then and watched her working on her computer and texting through the sun filled window. I was kind of frozen. I wanted to smoke. I wanted to leave. I figured I’d go out to smoke and talk to her if she was free and ignore her if she was busy or acted busy. Then I thought I’d grab my stuff to leave, light a cigarette in front of her and say goodbye. The end.
I prefer casual acquaintances these days anyway. Jus as I stood up I saw her stand up and pack her stuff.. Didn’t know what to do. I felt like a stalker if I coincidentally walked out as she was leaving. Was she coming inside to talk to me or say goodbye? Nope.
She walked away from her spot outside the coffee shop. All hope was lost. I thought.
If I meant anything she would have come in. Oh well.. Fuck her. It got me to write.
It was at least safe to go outside. I did. Just as I sat down and lit my cigarette I glanced to the left and saw her at the parking meter. I ignored her. Suddenly she was in front of me talking on her cell phone. She kept walking but looked at me and waved. Was it a wave goodbye? Wave hello again? A wait a minute wave? She stood about 10 feet from me on the edge of the side walk. I was too consumed with myself and what could happen I couldn’t hear her conversation.
I imagined her telling someone “ I met this cute guy and we talked a lot. He’s nice but I think he’s stalking me now. Staring at me right now.”
I waited to finish my cigarette and a small skinny body appeared in from of me. It was a guy I know and haven’t talked to in a long time. I tried to focus on talking to him as I finished my cigarette still glancing at my fleeting coffee shop desire.
I followed him back in the shop and took my seat. I forgot about her fast. I guess it was what it was. Another person that entertained me for few minutes in between my coffee shop hanging out and writing. Goodbye young lady. Goodbye for now.
Edgar Degas (19 July 1834 – 27 September 1917) is regarded as one of the greatest founder of impressionism. Degas rejected the term and preferred to be called a realist. He was an expert “realist” and painted many subjects through his life but over 50% of his work was focused on the subject of ballet dancers. Supposedly the paintings of dancers showed his mastery in depicting movement. His portraits are notable for their psychological complexity and depiction of human isolation.
“Early in his career, he wanted to be a history painter, a calling for which he was well prepared by his rigorous academic training and close study of classic art. In his early thirties, he changed course, and by bringing the traditional methods of a history painter to bear on contemporary subject matter, he became a classical painter of modern life.” –Wikipedia
I have been exposed to Degas years ago and thought he was pretty good but never really looked at it. I was exposed to almost every artist that had an impact on the world thanks to having an adopted father who taught art, constantly learned art and in retirement became a major contributor to the art world. A So, Degas kind of fell into the back of my head and I focused on modern artist I loved like Francis Bacon, Joe Coleman, Robert Crumb and a bunch of other outsider art.
In 2003 I landed a job at the Philadelphia Museum Art working in the museum specialty store at the end of the special Edgar Degas exhibit that was in town for 3 months or so. I was over exposed with his work. At first I wasn’t that into Degas’ paintings. Although I love looking at ballet dancers it seemed boring at first. I did my research. I read what I could about Degas at the museum, at home, and online. He seemed a little more interesting. I started looking at the paintings and this may or may not sound weird depending how much you know me, but I was attracted to the girls in his paintings. Even though Degas had the habit of blurring their faces or even making them ugly, they were painted with obvious sex on mind. The dancer’s bodies were painted with delicacy and strong sexuality. The younger the girl painted this way the more I kept thinking “pervert”.
“Degas, who believed that “the artist must live alone, and his private life must remain unknown”, lived an outwardly uneventful life. In company he was known for his wit, which could often be cruel. He was characterized as an “old curmudgeon” by the novelist George Moore, and he deliberately cultivated his reputation as a misanthropic bachelor.” Wikipedia
Degas liked to hide out. It is common for many artists to have eccentric personalities of all types but there seems something interesting about Degas making it a rule to keep his “private life unknown” and being a “misanthropic bachelor” makes him seem creepy to me. A pervert.
I kept my observations and opinions to myself for a while. I brought it up to a co-worker or 2 and they thought the same thing. It became a topic of discussion for almost every employee after a while. Even the security guards were talking about it. We never let this on to customers or visitors.
One of Degas’ well-known paintings hangs on the walls of the Philadelphia Museum of Art called the Interior also known as The Rape. It depicts a tense confrontation by lamplight between a man and a partially undressed woman. It seems like something uncomfortable or bad just went down. The very young woman or girl looks violated, ashamed and sad. It looks like she has been packing luggage but didn’t finish for whatever reason The older man stands against the wall looking domineering and confident in ever move he made or is getting ready to make. It’s an uncomfortable painting that even I have trouble looking at.
I don’t judge Edgar Degas for whatever goes on in his head and expressives through art. I hope that’s where it ended. I’ve heard many artist proclaim that if they didn’t have their art they would be killers, criminals, rapists, etc. I even know of a case where a convicted murderer discovered art in prison and upon release he became a full time artist. Despite the fact that he is indirectly making money off of his crimes, he has no desire or motivation to kill again because of art. Back to Degas.
I guess it really doesn’t matter to me if Degas is a pervert or not in real life. I do get weird feelings from some of his paintings but it is art. He has influenced many other impressionists and even indirectly has influenced me (with his style and passion not his perverted intent).
If you don’t know Edgar Degas look him up and see for yourself. It might just be me and few hundred other perverts that agree he is a pervert. What’s obvious to me isn’t always obvious to others.
The most important thing about art is reaction. Whether it’s a good or bad reaction it is a good thing. It’s when people feel indifference to art that it looses its value.
Degas was great artist despite all controversy. His work does invoke emotions.
Well the five of us (models and photographer) spend a few fun filled hours today taking photographs for my upcoming novel, Yellow Socks: Confessions of a Non-Don Juan. THis phase is over and next up is the cover design then off to the internet publishing.
Due to my lawyer and agent’s advice I am not at liberty to reveal the photgraphs yet but here is a sneak preview of what might be on the cover and back cover.
Excerpt from My First Novel Yellow Socks Confessions of a Non Don Juan
June 4, 2012An Excerpt from my 2010 novel Yellow Socks- Confessions of a Non Don Juan
Skeleton Woman or Things Like Me Don’t Happen To You
Christ it happened again. Another notch in my “girls that want to be my friend” belt. It made sense. We were perfect friends and she was real cute too. I kept thinking that I was ok with it. I’d be happy just being a friend again. I keep turning to God for strength to accept my fate as “Friend to all women” that I’m attracted to. My acceptance level seems to be ok. I go to my happy place. I go to my cave. I say the serenity prayer over and over I am sure that I will be ok with this. Yes I will. (no I won’t)
Cut to a scene from Fight Club
TYLER
Stop it! This is your pain — this is your burning hand. It’s right here! Look at it.
JACK
I’m going to my cave. I’m going to my cave to find my power animal!
TYLER
No, don’t deal with this the way those dead people do. Come on
!
JACK
I get the point, ok, please!
TYLER
No, what you’re feeling is premature enlightenment.
Ok. I get the idea. Feel the pain. Feel the hurt. Feel the rejection saturating my heart until I bleed more than just these words all over the place and finger my open sore of a brain as it wants to dwell on her over and over again. Screaming and roaring her name with anger and grief and sometimes a slight relief that it’s done and I know that she will not reject me again unless I go back for more and more or less or a little bite of her cheeseburger and a sip of her Pepsi to tide me over until the next one comes along with better food and spirits for my, for me for. Four scores of seven years itch as I scratch the weathered tired out mongrel of an ego that was left stray years ago in a pound for wayward hearts and letches that can only love and never be loved.
The pain of being a friend. A friend. I’ve heard that “Let’s just be friends” millions of times in my life as I gargle a new mouthwash and toothpaste hoping my breath will be the answer to my problem. My problem is as follows: me, myself and I. We altogether are the problem. We want to be loved so bad that we give off the vibe that scares the shit out of women so they just want to be friends. Friends. Friends. I think to myself that will be fine. Friends is ok. It’ll do. I can accept that. Bullshit! Feel the pain I tell myself. Embrace it. the pain is your friend. To hurt is to be alive. I’ve never been so alive. I’m alive. So alive.
“Did you ever hear about the skeleton woman?” Morton asked.
“Was that a Glam rock band from the seventies?” I ask.
“Ha. Ha. Nah. It’s an ancient Indian story. This guy was fishing in the middle of a lake. He was totally into it. He was relaxed. Not a care in the world except catching the next fish. All of a sudden he feels a tug on his line and he yanks it up. A skeleton appears on his line. He doesn’t realize that it’s attached to his line and he gets scared. He starts paddling his boat away from it but it follows him. He still doesn’t realize that it’s attached to his line. He gets out of his boat and runs into the village and he is carrying his fishing rod and the skeleton is still right behind him. He jumps into his Tee Pee and it follows him in. He lies down and tries to hide not looking at it for a while. When he finally turns to look at the skeleton it has changed into the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She is his. The moral of the story is that he was minding his own business doing something he enjoyed and that’s when the right woman came along. In other words when you are not looking for love is when it will find you. ”
“I know that but it’s so fucking hard to stay focused on other things without thinking about how much I want to be loved. Fall in love. Ya know?” I responded.
“I know. I know.” Morton said.
“We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.” Tyler Durden
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Leave a Comment » | Angels, Bands, Beer, Bipolar Disorder, Blog, Dream, Email, Excerpts from Yellow Socks, Exploitation, Fiction, Friends, Funny, Living the Dream, NJ, Obsession, Pantyhose, Photographs, Self absorbed, Social Networking Sites, Sociology, Spoken word, Ugh!, Work, Writing, Yellow Socks | Tagged: 2010 “Everything dies baby that’s a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on fix your hair up pretty and meet me tonight in Atlantic City” -Bruce Springsteen Mom, 2010 I started writing blogs in 2003 mostly on a social networking site called MySpace. I act like you’ve never heard of the now dying site. It was the beginnings of it’s popularity back then and, 2010 Juan and Carmen I met Carmen and Juan Ramirez in third grade. They were Puerto Rican twins that I started to hang out with. They were School Safeties and I met them in Safety training. Yes, 2010 Share this: Facebook Twitter Press This Like this: Like Be the first to like this post. 1 Comment | Art, 2010 Stalking Cameron Diaz My cigarette fell out of my left hand into the open cement ash can outside the front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I was facing the city. It was only 3:24 pm. A little, 2010 Well the five of us (models and photographer) spend a few fun filled hours today taking photographs for my upcoming novel, 2011 “When one’s in this world, Alcohol, Alcoholism, and writing in a very personal expression. The room at Philadelphia Museum of Art has a room full of eight to ten foot paintings based on Homer’s Iliad. I heard that when Cameron Diaz was here last, ANGER, anti-social, Anxiety, Anxiety attack, art, Art Museum, article, Atlantic City boardwalk, balloons, Bands, beating onboardwalk, Big eyes, Bipolar, Bipolar disorder, blog, blogs, boardwalk, Bob, book signing, Boy George, callmemr, callmemr wordpress, Cameron Diaz, Cameron Diaz is in the Impressionists Exhibit.” Sam said. “Really?” I asked. “Yeah. She’s over there right now.” “How do you know?” “Larry from Visitor Services told me.” Larry was, Cameron Diaz naked, Cameron Diaz nude, Candy, Cartoons, Chainsaw, Charles Bukowski, Charlie Kaufman. I could name a dozen more movies she was in that I liked but I wasn’t all goo goo eyed for her. Yeah she’s hot but she’s just another decent actress. I didn’t feel star struck, childhood, children playing, chocolate, Comentary, Coming of age, commentary, companions, confessions, Confessions of a Non-Don Juan, Crazy, crazy girls, crazy people, crazy women, Cy Twombly, Dancing, dating, Death, Delusional, depression, depression and heartache at the same time wearing me down like a sleepless night of pills and vodka while running a two hour marathon that has no winner only destitute losers that beg for someone to t, Digital art, distortion, docotors, documentary, donkey, Drawing, Dream, dreaming, drink, drinking, Drug addiction, drugs, eating, editing a book, editing a novel, Elephant, emotionally disturbed, etc. I’ve personally experienced the joy and escapism of all of the above. Everything I do is a distraction from someone or something else that bothers me. To be trapped alone with my thoughts is th, everyone that read it so far doesn’t think so. I finally got all of the requirements down for them and Ill hopefully be sending it out soon. I asked a few of my published friends what they think I s, Excerpts from Yellow Socks, family, Father, father's death, fear, feet, Fetish, Fetish art, fetishes, fiction, finished writing a novel, finishing writing a novel, folks, friends, frightened or not.” Louis- Ferdinand Celine It’s true, funny, gambling, games, Gog, gorgeous women, grammar, green art, Happy, Hate, Henry Miller, High Heels, Holly, holy ghost, Hooters and My Ex Twitter Wow. Holistic is all right. Burned some sage around the house and I feel good. 5 days ago It ain't me 1 week ago Click Here Category Cloud Anti-Social Anxiety Art Article Blo, Hooters legs, hopelessness, Horror, How to meet women, how to pick up chicks, Hunter S Thompson, I confess. I want out. Don’t you? Any escape will do. Movies, I decided on the title at the start. I knew how it was going to begin and decided ho it was going to end. I needed to write the middle. You know the book itself. So, I didn’t talk to her but I saw her. Yippy. I stalked down and saw a real life “celebrity” at work. Don’t you think I am great? Aren’t you impressed with me? Don’t you think I am a lot cool, I need a cover design. I had this vision when I finished the book of what I want the cover to look like. After about a month of trying to get a model to get photographed in Yellow Socks I’ve got a c, I want out, I was School Safety responsible for crossing hundreds of other children from one side of the street to the other. I was good at it. Carmen and Juan were pretty advanced street kids. They lived on the, I wasn’t paying attention to my Mom. I missed all of her off color comments and insane rants. I usually blocked her out when she was acting strange. My Dad left when I was six years old. He took me, India, insane, INSANITY, is to go out of it? Whether one’s mad or not, isn’t it, it started as talking about my relationship with my natural parents especially my paranoid schizophrenic mother. The more I wrote this personal stuff I realized that I am going to fictionalize it. Alt, it wasn’t all good. My adopted father was sick and one of the main reasons I moved back in was to help take care of him. Despite his illnesses he was a constant creator of some fabulous art. His art, Japan, Jesus, Jesus’s birthday. He dismissed it. He thought she was just over worked with raising me. All we needed was a vacation. We went to Atlantic City for the weekend. One of the nights we ate at a boardwal, Journals, leg man, legman, legs, loneliness, loony, loony tunes, loss of job, Love, Love addiction, Lust, mad, mad ones, marijuana, masturbation, medication and AA meetings. I started to feel better then the beginning of November 2009 I had a breakdown for a few days. I literally thought I was going ot lose my mind and be institutionalized. I w, meditation, mental illnes, Mental illness, mess, model and other models for the back cover. I still needed a pair of yellow socks. I figured I’d wait until the last minute in typical Rich Hillen Jr style. I did pick up a pair that were the right s, Mother, muggung, music, MySpace, nothing, novaboon.com, novel, Novel reading, Novel. modern art, nude female band, out, pantyhose, Paranoid Schizophrenic mother, patricia araujo, Pervert, Peter McCoy, Philadelphia Museum Art, photo for cover of novel, Photo Shoot, photogragraphy shoot, Photographs | Tagged: blog, Photogrpahy, poetry, porn, prose, psychiatry, publish, read, reading, recite, Relationships, Reviews | Tagged: Atlantic City, Rich Hillen Jr, Rich HillenJr, Romance, Sally, Sam greeted me immediately. “Yo, sarcasm, Schizophrenic Mother, self help, seperation anxiety, Serial Killers, sex, Sex addiction, Sexual encounters, sexuality, sexy zombie girls, shopping, Sleep, sleeping, slug, smoke, Socializing, Sociology | Tagged: a yellow sock hunt, Sociology | Tagged: Alcohol, Sociology | Tagged: Charles Bukowski, sock fetish, socks, solitaire, son, spiritual, spirituality, stalk, stalking, Stalking celebrities, stockings, stories and poetry. It gave me a quick fix. The book was a slow endeavor. It was always in the back of my mind. Year after year I would move up 50 pages or more but I kept putting it on the back burne, SUicide, suit, surely the best thing one can do, surfing the internet, syntax and continuity. It was a slow process that I had to force myself to do. Again my mom bugged me about it. Months went by and I was still editing. “Almost finished. Almost done. Keep going.”, taste, teeth, Television, tits, trauma, trigeminal neuralgia, Vampires, Video | Tagged: Book Reading, Water, we were still stalking the “celebrity”. I pushed forward and got near the Cy Twombly room. I saw the security guard in his place at the entrance to the exhibit. As I walk in I see her. Ccameron Di, weed, White Zombie, wife, Willian S Burroughs, women's socks, Work, Work | Tagged: art, working, Write, writing, writing a book, writing a novel, xrazy men, Yellow Socks, Yellow Socks | Permalink Posted by richhillenjr Another Excerpt from my Novel Yellow Socks- Juan and Carmen September 21, Yellow Socks | Permalink Posted by richhillenjr Damned Yellow Socks: the Biography of a Novel July 10, Yellow Socks | Permalink Posted by richhillenjr Email Subscription You are following this blog (manage). Recent Posts Underground Poets Society of 2012 What a Way to Grieve or How I Spent Memorial Day, Yellow Socks | Permalink Posted by richhillenjr Excerpt from my Novel Yellow Socks – Atlantic City August 26, Yellow Socks | Permalink Posted by richhillenjr Live Reading from my Novel Yellow Socks & a Promo Video December 23, Yellow Socks | Permalink Posted by richhillenjr Photo Shoot July 11, Yellow Socks | Permalink Posted by richhillenjr Stalking Cameron Diaz – Excerpt from my novel Yellow Socks October 13, Yellow SOcks. COnfessions of a Non-Don Juan | Permalink Posted by richhillenjr Rich Hillen Jr’s Digital Art February 6, Yellow Socks: Confessions of a Non-Don Juan. THis phase is over and next up is the cover design then off to the internet publishing. Due to my lawyer and agent’s advice I am not at liberty to reveal, Zombie girls | Permalink
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