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Rated: ASR · Novella · Paranormal · #2087687
Think Neil Gaimans American Gods and Charles Burns Black Hole meets my own autobiography.
This is the static item version of my weird and wacky work in progress.


New Chapters added June 2016, and starting to edit the old ones.


I had never rented a room before. But, yeah. I'd thought about it. I thought about it lots. I even had the place picked out. A little yellow motel on the way to work. It was off the map, so to speak, out of sight of the main road so I didn't have to worry about my wife seeing my car. Or any other busy-body who happened to drive on by. Big cities could be small worlds too.

It was one of those cheap places that had the price right out front. There's your salesman for you. Cheap prices on a cheap board. Imagine if motels were like restaurants, and out the front of each was a chump (no doubt with his own sideboards) trying to sell you on the place. Just come in, he'd say, for a minute. Come see the menu/pricelist. Nah, that place down the road you're looking at, they had food poisoning/cockroaches/multiple sightings of the mother mary last week.

Yeah, thank God for small miracles. No spruikers. Very quiet. Very discrete.

Just the way I'd want it if I was going to rent a room.

Yeah, I'll rent a room. I'll rent a room one day. Right here in my own city. A city of over a million people. Over a million people, all thinking the same thing. "Where could I get away with it?"

But why? Why would I want to rent a room. I got a beautiful wife. I got beautiful children. I got a beautiful place. Why would I want to rent a room? It's not like I have some parlour-maid lined up and I'm going to pork her in that cheap motel room. It's not like I'm gonna hook-up with my ex, now a smoking-hot policewoman, and create our own "scene of the crime".

Am I going to enact a sting of sorts? Pretend to have an affair so I can make my wife jealous and shore up our precarious marriage?

Or is sex not the answer at all? Is it something more ... sinister, in the eyes of the law at least. Is it death I have planned? Maybe it is death. Maybe it is. Maybe I've planned for a long time, such a long time, to rent a room, not far from my own house, in my own city to be exact. Rent a room for a little death. Have that smoking hot police-woman ex-girlfriend, find me and the bodies of some Tongan drug dealers I've made short work of. Us all bloodied, shots fired, arms opened up with big machetes. Blood on the floor. Blood on the walls. Blood on the bed. And none in our stone cold dead bodies.

Yeah. Death. It's all about death alright. But I'm not killing anyone. It's resurrection we're talking about here. Raising the dead. And I'm gonna do it in a rented hotel room cos I ain't got no other place to go"

So, I want to rent out a hotel room. And it's got to be close by my neck of the woods. And it's gotta be off the map, so no one can see me, no one can find me. And it's not about sex, not about murder. But it's about death. It's about raising the dead.

The dead. I've seen a lot of dead in my time. I see the walking dead at work all the time. Men so washed up by grog and maryjane, they can't put on weight and they think they hear cockroaches in the roof. I've tried to listen to cockroaches. I had so many guys tell me they could hear cockroaches that I thought to myself one day, I better have a listen to some so I know what they sounds like when I do hears em if I ends up like them: washed up laborers and dirty-living half-wits. You can't hear them. They might as well have hard heeled tap shoes on their little feet, for all the noise they make.

But I'm no louse. I'm no drug-addled steel worker, no drugstore cowboy, so maybe I'm just not attuned to how a cockroach would sound to that kind of gentleman.

You might as well be dead if you live like that. Zombies. Waiting for the zombie-apocalypse-that-never-comes, waiting for the next guy to get his gear on so they can go party. Yawwrr. Where's that apocalypse?
But it's not that kind of dead I'm talking about here. Although, I guess it is in a way. Just not the way you're probably thinking.

I couldn't go hire that motel room tomorrow. My wife knows I'm home from work. But I could do it the next day. Pretend to go to work, but instead pull my station wagon into the half-lit entrance. Roll right up to which ever room I've hired. I'd be real quiet while I unpacked my wagon. Then I'd get my gear and bunker down. Start real early on raising the dead. Making sure that everything's in place, making sure that everything's all right. If I slept, I'd be in trouble.If I got distracted, I'd be in real trouble. All that effort. Go to all that effort of renting the room to raise the dead and if I got distracted, I might as well have stayed home.

I've thought of just parking my car, I've got tinted windows, in the street and getting the job done there, but there's just not enough room. I'd need room to move, room to pace.

So, I'd rent a room and park my wagon right out front. The back of it facing the motel door so that when I dragged the body wrapped in carpet I wouldn't have so far to go.

What, you thought it was an analogy? That I was alluding to dead dreams or having a party to raise the dead?
Nah. I'm really gonna raise the dead. I've got a dead man all ready and set to go.

A dead man ready and waitin and raring to go? How could I have a dead man ready and raring to go? A nice, sane family man like me? My wife would ask how, my wife would ask why, my kids would ask where did you hide him all this time daddy? It must be a very good hiding spot - can we hide there? Is there room for us?

Well, kids, I would say. I've kept that dead man right under your noses all this time. That dead man has been propped up against the wall in the playroom all this time. Yes, the playroom. He's been covered in your dress up clothes and my old hats, and he's just been snuggled up there all this time. I take him out from time to time and air him out so he doesn't stink the place up so bad but mostly hes okay. He doesn't sweat the big things like most folk. He doesn't smell

because he led a clean life. A clean life, yes. So he couldn't be a member of your Mama's family, I would tell the kids but only if the missus was out of earshot. That ole dead man couldn't be your Ole Paw because he fleeced his social club at the bowls club of most every penny they made over the pump, claiming it was a percentage deal and he had costs to cover and they were using his bar to raise funds, and his skills to tend the bar. Not your old Paw, I would say. Besides why would I want to raise him from the dead and why would I want to keep it a secret from the missus. Dirty old man, not in that way, but she loved him.

No, the dead man I been hiding all this time and am just now beginning to think, perhaps, I could raise him from the dead after all. Is a man with no connection to this family. He's a silent man, he's a stoic man, a man of muscles and intellect and he knows how to throw a football and he knows how to win an argument without upsetting your mother, this is my kids I'm still pretending to talk to, if they ever found out I was fixing to raise the dead, and most of all he'd be a great dad and a role model and really show you kids how to live your life, and he'd make time for playing with you guys, and not spend so much time out on his own reading zombie books and harlequin romances. Gonna raise me a dead man, then I'm gonna raise him to be me.


It's been raining. I'm soaked. My back pack straps have been chafing my shoulders. If I was to look down, I would see rivulets running down my bare thighs like that time last month when I pissed myself out here. If I was to blink, water drops would fall from my eyelashes like that time last week when I stood in this same spot, watching my children through the window, and my tears slid down my face.
Watching my children; watching my wife; watching the man I raised from the dead be the husband and father I felt I could never be.My greatest sacrifice for their greater good.
I couldn't turn away even if I wanted to.

To recap: I'm on the run from my life. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I lost sight of the important stuff. I found a life size living doll, or a living and breathing carcass or a zombie in the traditional sense (jamaican not romerian), in my kids playroom and hatched a plan to raise it to be me. To act, and think, and pretend to be me, a better me, a me more capable of looking after my kids and wife. I taught it to kick a football. Maybe I should have taught my kids instead. I was in a low mood state, a catatonia of my own, I admit. I wasn't thinking straight.
By the time I realised what I had done, it was too late. I found myself out in the rain wearing naught but shorts and a backpack, watching my family through the kitchen window living it up with a golem. I'd never seen them so relaxed and joyous. Did they sense that the golem was not me? Or did they think the old, moody, unpredictable me was the golem. I would watch and stare for hours.

The rain washed away the grit blocking my joints from moving.

After months of incapacitation, I could take no more, and I fled.

I fled and I fell into more darkness. And I discovered I was not alone in this darkness.

The park is gloomy at this time of night. And so am I. I've come here to get away from my mistake. My first thoughts, when I first discovered that body in the play room, was not to call the police or call my wife. I didn't even jump. Siting here now, in the gloom, I wonder if, on some level, I already knew it was there. Perhaps that first breath of uneasiness in my relationship, all those years ago, was the true, actual arrival of that cadaver. Standing there, then, looking into it's vacant eyes first, then looking at its strong jaw, it's full head of hair, the smooth lines of it's brow. Casting my eyes down across its wide shoulders, heavy arms, and stoic chest. The legs, all three of them, long, hard, and worthy of envy.
I thought, not of how it got here, but, why not? Why not? What's the worst that could happen if I Transferred part of my consciousness into that empty skull-cavern, and raised the mewling mental-babe to come, into a more active (important quality for my kids)?and more dependable (important quality to my wife) version of myself? What was the worst that could happen?

I didn't know the path to come would tear at my soul, like the glass shards leading away from the scene of the crime tore at my feet, leaving holes, and bruises, and blood, and sinew, and pus and ectoplasm behind me on the trail.

It's gloomy in the park. It's time to move on.

From the park I moved on to the water fountain. I stood, bow-legged in the chilled night air, gazing at it in all it's concrete splendor. Shame about the lack of water really but in a town this size, a small town shrinking everyday, who were they going to keep the water works flowing for?
Laughing in the chilled night air. Laughing in the wind. Laughter in the dark keeping me thin.
"Hello there." This time it's not the shadows talking to me.
I slowly turn, my mouth agape.
"Oh," says the voice, a male voice, seeming closer. "Wore your welcome out did you?"
The meagre street light casts its glow, showing me where he stands. He's shuffling closer, bit by measly bit.
"Stay where you are," I tell him.
"Oh," he does stop. "You're a little cup of joy aren't you?"
"I don't like the way you're walking," I tell him
"Oh," he says with some thought and shuffles forward. "Like this?"
"you're doing that on purpose," I tell him.
"I don't need you to tell me that," he snaps. Have I offended him?
"have I offended you?" I ask him.
"well," he says, changing his mannerism but keeping his tone."if you have, I know you didn't mean to."
He doesnt shuffle anymore. That's something, now perhaps we can get off on a different foot.
"it's just," he says and now I think I can see him a little clearer in the darkness, "I used to run the sports store, and now I can't even run to the corner store!"
"wait - sports store? We don't have a sports store," I tell him.
"1n 1953 we did," he says.
"say that again!" I cry.
"in 1953 I used to run the sports store."
"But that would make you over ... 70 years old, maybe 80!"
"Yes, yes it would."
I peer harder at him through the dark. I strain forwards but I'm not walking any closer to this guy.
"but you don't sound that old.."
"I don't," he shuffles forward that last metre, and now I can see him clearly. Now I can see him in the pale street light that washes all colour from anything it touches.
My face is already drained of colour.

"You see, I'm just like you, son. I'm a lost soul, on a lost highway. I'm a bird with no flock, a cow with no herd, a butterfly without --"
"-- legs!" I interject.
I had been gape-mouthed through most of that speech, but as my eyes were overloaded with sensation, the realization of what I was seeing had sunk in.
And so I interjected.
"You have no legs, you have a - a -" I was waiting for him to interject, but he didn't. I had no choice but to go on. "a st-stump! You have a stumpy...protuberance...it glistens in the street light like water beading on rock, or water seeping out of clay. Clay. Is it clay? It can't be real"
But, even though my heart is hiding in the pit of my stomach, I feel it there, right in its middle. It's real. This man, this man before me, whose way of walking so disturbed me, has a deformity growing from his body.
He's standing at the base of the podium, I am half way up the steps, the artificial light from the street casts him half in shadow, half out. His face is bearded, it's curls sprout in any direction, it's thick and he's old but it's not grey. He has a yellow business mans shirt on, and over that a dark tie. The tie is held down By the strap of a bulging satchel. He has no pants, and I can see his little old mans doodle nestled in a pouch of saggy elephant skin. Below that, the glistening stump.
"Are you human?" I ask.
He chuckles in response and rummages in his satchel, pulling out a wad of papers.
"I was once! I was human once! I was a human with not jest human legs, but a human heart to boot!"
"what happened to you? How did you get like this? What are those papers?"
He stares at the ground, the papers in his left hand held away from his body. Despite myself, I take pity on his inability to climb the steps and I go down a few of them towards him. Closer now, I see the yellow cakes of dirt on his once-white shirt, and see the sweaty skin rash peeping out from his collar. My pity does not put me within arms reach of him. I stay a couple of steps away from him.
"You have to ask?" He cries, emotion ringing in his voice. He's a bit of a ham, I'm starting to think. "You - who are so tainted yourself? You have to ask?"
"Tainted!" I swear I washed my leg after I pissed down it.
"I can see it on you," he says. "I can see it under your skin."
I look at my skin, I try to look under my skin, but I"m not having much luck. Surely he doesn't mean --- him?
He leans in closer to me, his neck craning an impossible length towards me, closing the distance on the stairs. I lean away, breathing heavy.
"The papers." I pipe.
He licks his lips.
"I get these in the mail," he mutters and waves the wad of papers in front of me. I can see they are shiny, flashes of yellow, of spiky balloons. Of ... hair products? It's junk mail.
A mutant dwarf from 1950 is carrying around wads of junk mail in his satchel.
"Do you deliver them?" I ask innocently.
An inarticulate roar issues forth and I quiver away from him. There is a loud, squelching sound and suddenly he is on top of the stairs. How did he do that? He's right on top of me, I can feel the slime of his protuberance touching my bare calf. As long it's the protuberance, and not his old man balls.
"You kids, you live in your email addresses and your facebook inboxes, you get a little spam, a little ad for knockoff viagra or a dating site, and you hit delete, or you set up a filter. I've seen you. I've seen all you people setting up your filters. Well, I've got no filter, I've got no filter for my mailbox. Twenty years I ran that sports store, and twenty years before that my father ran it too. The last thing I did, before I had to run away, was write a cheque for the P.O Box. It was the one thing I couldn't let go of. Mothers used to send me letters, telling me how the dress shoes I fitted their son with helped him get a job. Fathers used to send me cards telling me their son was picked for a scholarship at college. Thanks to my knowledge of superior sporting goods. And now... now..." His head sagged, like he was deflated. Fear, pity, Fear, pity. I was on a n emotional rollercoaster ride of disgust with this guy. "...all I get is junk mail.."


I'm sitting on the steps of a concrete fountain in our towns only park. It hasn't founted for years. They cut the water, when the government cut the funding to the gas plant on the outskirts of town. No gas plant. No town. No water fountain to amuse the dwellers. A lot of us have left, moved on to the next town over the bridge. They have a gas plant too. Theirs is funded by the government, no doubt. Their town is expanding, while ours is shrinking. Not all of us have left. Some of us have been here for years. This town has a history, richer then a conglomerate.

"Now my sports store is a pharmacy," the old man groans. "They sell inner sole inserts, but no shoes. One size fits all."

The old man is next to me, but he's not sitting. He's kind of squelching. He doesn't have legs, you see. Not like me. I used my legs to run from my miserable life. He slug-trailed from his. The old man sitting next to me has a slimy, protuberance, a slug like mound of flesh where once his legs where. He still has his genitalia. I don't know if they're working. I don't know why he doesn't cover them up. I'd appreciate it if he did.

He turns to me, and I brace myself for another diatribe. He's not so different this old man. Slug trail regardless. He's just like any other old man with an axe to grind.

"I can smell it on you, you know," here we go, "but I can't see it. I can't see the freak on you. I got the freak, no hiding that. But you, you smell like you got the freak, but I can't see it. You could have stayed longer, you know, in their world, your world, so why'd you do it? Why'd you run boy? When you could have stayed?"

I look out at the circle of trees that the street light has illuminated. Somewhere past that murky gloom is the house with my family. My wife. My sons. My daughter. My dog. My in-laws. My mother. My brother. My father. My boss. My best friend. My accountant. My clients. My golem. Somewhere past that murky gloom is the golem I raised in a voodoo ceremony and inserted into my life.

"I guess the why's not important, old man. It's the how."

"The how?"

"Yeah, as in "how do I get myself back into my own life?"

"go back!" the old dwarf laughed. "go back! Son, you can't go back! It's not like picking a wallet up off the sidewalk and handing it in. You're the wallet, son. You're the wallet. And, now you're dirty. You've been on the ground. Got the germs. Been touched by the elements. Lost your shine. It doesn't matter that inside you still have your credit cards, still have your drivers license. You. Are. Contaminated!"
I looked at him, my heart in turmoil.
"you can't go back son. No one can, once you've got the taint of freak."
"but," I cry,"what is this freak?"
It's his turn to stare off into space. He rubs the palms of his hands along his slimy, sluggy protuberance. Nope, I'm not used to that yet.

"No body knows for sure, son" the old dwarf mumbles. "No body knows what this freak is. They just know it's real. Real bad."
He looks straight at me, this is probably the calmest he's been since I met him. I feel apprehension.
"Look, son. I've had the freak for 50 years. It's not just about physical deformities. It's up here too," he taps his forehead with his pudgy finger. The nail is grimy, and leaves a slight smudge on his greasy skin. It may be fifty years since he's had a bath as well. "Our brains are deformed too. Our minds are the first things to change. There are others out there, that's right son. Lots of us, but still, not that many. We all end up with physical deformities. But, usually, when we find each other, the deformities have begun. It's unusual to see a man like you seek us out..."
"I didn't seek you out!"
"Oh, you did. You just didn't know it.. It's like a tracking device, we can all sense each other. See, that's where you get confusing. Most anybody who smells like you, has had the freak for a long, long time. They is already struggling with the deformities. But, you, you don't have any but you smell like an old timer. You should be able to sense each and every one of us, and if you've really got a bad case of the freak, then you should be able to tell us apart as well."
I'm still reeling from the thought that I may end up looking like this mutant dwarf. I stand up.
"I've got to get to a doctor!" I cry. I've got a cold sweat up now. I hobble down a few steps, and then I pause. "A doctor can help me right?"
The old dwarf shakes his grimy, grainy, greasy head, "I only know one man who can help you. But, he's one of us. You'd have to come with me. Come with me down to the river. And, if you think your world is turning all topsy turvy now. It's a whole different ballgame of psychedelica down there."
"You have a doctor? Why doesn't he help you?" And, do I want to see more of these mutants? My god, did he just say there are grosser ones then him?
"He doesn't live with us," the old dwarf's eyes begin to water. Rheumy? Or is he about to cry? "We ... We drove him out."
"You drove him out? Is he dangerous?"
"Dangerous? Yes, he's bloody dangerous. But he's no fool. He'd know you're somethng different."
"I'm not sure I'd want to go see this doctor of yours, if he's dangerous."''
"Well, come to our community first. And meet the rest of us. We're not a bad lot. Not by a long shot. You might find some company with us. But before, we do that, I want you to do me a favour."
"A favour?"
"Yes," he unfolds himself and squelches down the stairs to stand near me. Strangely, he smells slightly of talcum powder. "I want you to stand watch, while I put this brick through that bloody pharmacy window!"
He pulls half a brick, it's red ochre crumbling slightly in his hand, out of his satchel, and gestures towards the distant shopfront lights.
"The one that used to be your shoe store?"
There's a glint in his eye. Is it mischief or evil? I'm not sure, but there's something alluring about it. I feel a surge, a twitch, like a switch being thrown, I feel some energy in my body. Some excitement?
In my younger days, I had been known to cause a ruckus.
"You're feeling it, aren't you? You're feeling some of your youthful sprite, aren't you?" the old dwarf says, glee sheer jumping in his voice. "That's my other trick! The secret to my longevity. Bringing the lad back into old men who should know better!"
I laugh. I can feel the wind on my legs prickling my leg hairs. I feel like running in the night. I feel like climbing some of these trees, I feel like drinking coke through my nose, and trying to belch the alphabet.
"Old Dwarf,"
"Tom. Tom Large is my name."
"Tom Large, let's go break a few windows and get down to the river,"
"And you're name lad, you have to give me your name too. I can't just go around calling you Stinky."
He calls me Stinky?
"I'm Cool. Mister Cool."


It's later and Tom's on the ground, while I'm running for my life.
“Run! Run, damn you, Mr Cool! Run!” Tom’s voice cracks and I hear him crying as they hit him with their batons. I hear the soggy squelch of his protuberance being beaten. I hope it doesn’t rupture.
“Hold it there, freak!”


I may be out of breath, but Im not out of my mind. I've still got my wits. After hearin what they did to Tom, Well, Im not hangin around.

I can't see the face of the cop in front of me. hes got a gas mask over his face like some kind of special forces operative. His uniform is a bulky body armour. It's black and emblazoned on the front is "S.W.A.D"
I blink.
What the eff does SWAD stand for? He's got a mean looking baton in his gloved right hand. Maybe that D stands for Dick.

Before he can swipe that dick at me, I make like I'm going into a shop front bu as he shifts his weight, I push past him, hard, making him lose his balance and smack into the shop front window. TV Store by he look of all those cop shows. I hop over him, should I hit him on the way through? but no, I've caught my breath. I am out out here. No d in that message.

I sprint. I sprint hard. But it's no good. It's no bloody good. They're upon me.

The pain of each baton hitting me feels like each rotten memory of my life. The baton that brings me this pain that explodes through my thigh and straight out my eye sockets.

If only I could run so fast. I can’t see the dirty, wet side walk. I can only see the time I smacked my son too hard and he fell over. The baton that brings me this pain, both physical and psychic, smacks into my ribs and out my eye sockets explodes and I see myself standing in the rain, watching my family through the window.

The baton that brings me this pain, smacks into my shoulders and out my eye sockets into the night rises my anger at my wife when she would ignore me.

The baton that brings me this pain, nearly takes my head off my shoulders as it busts into my skull and out my eye sockets surges a life time of regret and self-loathing.

The baton blow stops.

The only sound is the rushing in my ears. Then the golem I have spewed into life out my eye sockets makes an agonised roar and the rest of the night sounds rush in. The cars. The shouts of the other police men. Tom’s cries. The scream of the officer beating me as my golem tears his arms from their sockets and starts beating him with them.

I stumble to my knees look up at the ghastly sight before me. The night swaying, the city pounding. I pull myself to my feet and look again at this angry golem as the other police officers race towards it. Towards us.

I don’t hang around.

That golem is my creation, but it’s a creation made of rage and despair and hatred of myself and everything I have ever done or thought.

After it finishes with the policemen, it will come for me. It will come for me and then I will know real pain.


Still with the cries of the slaughtered policemen in my ears, I run.

Still with the vision of my only friend in this world, the freakish Tom Large, being pummelled by said policemen, I run.

Blinded by the darkness as well as my tears, I don’t know where I’m running to only what I’m running from. Myself.

Or my golem. My other golem.

When I first discovered that other me in the playroom of my children, I thought that it had always been there. We just had never noticed it. Now, that I have witnessed first hand the birth of another golem, albeit a more intense and painful birth, I realise that I must have created that first golem.

And if one golem can become two: how many others have I created over the years? Must the creation always be a coherent, if not conscious, one? The motel room. Oh God, the atrocities I had committed in that motel room. For what? The black magic that had raised the dead man from the grave was not the brutal blog written in my own blood (a bloog?) and bodily fluid and consumed by the golem in what I had thought were his first moments of breath away from death. The slow burn of my depression and self-doubt, the lack of belief in my worthiness as father and husband, the decay of my psyche. All that had coalesced into the thing that had taken over my home.

And I had let it.

It looked like me, it acted like me, it was me I thought. The me I wanted to be. The me that I wanted my children to have as a father. A me for my wife; bigger penis and more hair, as well as being more adept at practical, manly, duties. More practical then decorative; a reverse of the joke first told to me by my mother-in-law when trying to soothe my ineptness. Bless her soul. Now.

My feet pound the pavement and I run. I run from myself.


I am five years old. I am into Star Wars figures and Match Box Cars, tantrums and getting my own way. For the most part, I don't wear shoes.

We live in the backwoods, in rural Ohio, but I am fascinated by the city that my mother comes from. Melbourne, Florida. It's on the other side of the country, that I do know. I also know that I will live there some day. My tracksuit always has to match, top to bottom. I get quite upset if it doesn't. I get upset quite a bit. The other day, I wrote "fuk" on the cover of my brother's Invaders comic book. He knew it was me, because out of all the kids there, I was the dumbest, he said. I know I am the smartest. I know that one day I will sit by the throne of God, Jesus on one side and me on the other. I think Darth Vader is my father too.

Nine years old. I live in the mountains. I live in the mountains on the other side of America now. Rocky Mountain High. I don’t like this town as much as my old one. I have lots of cousins here though. That is why we moved here. My teacher always tells me off for slouching in my seat. She tells me off for everything. We don’t get along very well. I’m confused because I thought that teachers had to like the kids they taught? My Mum just laughs when I tell her this. I also get in trouble a lot for drawing in the columns of my exercise books. I’m into Transformers toys and GI Joe action figures and M.A.S.K. My brother often gets angry with me because I won’t give him my pocket money to help him buy comic books. We get our pocket money from our Dad, who we ran away from in the middle of the night, but he found us. I use my pocket money to buy toys, why would I buy comic books when I can read his? I saw my first real life naked woman the other night. I didn’t mean to. But I did.

Seventeen years old. I'm into smoking cigarettes, drinking southern comfort straight, smoking marajuana, taking acid, having sex with my girlfriend, cutting school and reading comic books. I like grunge music and I have a fringe that reaches past my chin. I have the longest fringe amongst all my long fringe friends. I've been kicked out of home, I live in a townhouse in a retirement village with 2 guys from Chicago who moved here to escape the big city guns-and-drugs scene. My friends come around, not to see me, but to use my housemates giant bong. I write and draw my own comic books now, as well as reading other peoples. I plan on moving to the city when my girlfriend finishes school and becoming a comic book publisher by night and a printer by day. I do not live with my head up my arse. That is for mid-thirties bald guys who sit at the kitchen table completing exercises from writing books about their youth.

I'm twenty-eight years old and I've just got married. Not to my childhood sweetheart who I did move to the city with. To another girl, a woman. We're at the kitchen table and she's just told me she's pregnant. Life. A life, I have created a life. All my mistakes do not matter, because I have created a life with my wife.
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