Irish men are hot

COOKIES!!! COOKIES!!!! COOKIES!!!!!

I'm your favorite cookie..... aren't I?

An Update to the latest events

As Many of you may or may not know- wait that sounds really stupid. What i mean to say is: Hi Everyone! I'm in Connecticut!

At college! YES everyone College! Amazing!

Not certain if I feel that way just yet. I'm kinda having an out-of-body experience, I don't really know where I am or what I'm doing here. It's like I'm just going through the motions of life. I don't yet feel centered.

I miss knowing what I'm doing and being adjusted to my community. I hate not living in a vacuum.

I'm playing rugby. I had my first practice today, I hit my head a lot, and there was much sprinting involved. I thought I was gonna throw up.

But for the most part I'm happy that I did it and that I'm getting back into athletics.

tattoo numero dos

so since my mother doesn't know about my newest tattoo and i can't very well visit all of you from here I am posting pictures of the latest tattoo!

P.S. I'm thinking about doing rugby, actually I signed up so I'm doing rugby.

tattoo

big tools and lots of caulk

I started my new job two days ago. Construction: nothing quite definitively sums up a man  like construction! hard work in the sun! carrying heavy stuff! RARARA! BREAK TIME GRAB YOUR BAGELS AND JUICE BOXES!!!

What I meant to say is, is that I am not one of these people. Everyone thinks I'm straight as I have yet to tell them otherwise(see I can pass as straight!) and I'm apparently a hippy because I'm vegan........

On the plus side I like playing with the heavy machinery, and I'm making ten dollars an hour. 

I think I'm getting a vespa with the money I've saved.

It was scary last night!

SO I was lying in bed last night with puppy pup with the lights off, and she jumps out of bed, I figured "oh she's just gonna go to sleep on my laundry or something." 

But noooooo. Rather than just going to sleep she tried going downstairs for who knows what. The next thing i know there's a skittering of claws and then a bunch of little thumps followed by one resounding big thump. 

I thought she died, but she turned out to be fine, just a tad embarrassed. 

I don't know what I would do without her. 

SUPPORT ME!

I am working at this place and I will personally bake and package your baked vegan goods if you order from: http://www.heavenonmainstreet.com/catalog/index.php?main_page=index&cPath=67

GOOOO HEAVEN!!!!!!!!!!!

I wanna be Tommy Gnossis

I bike 8 miles to and from work each day. It is a weird sensation, the hills extend on forever and the scent of animal shit permeates your skin as I pass by pigs in the dirt and powerlines. My workboots hang from my backpack and slap my thighs.

I wonder if being eaten alive by insects at work or traversing barbed wire is really worth the 8 dollar an hour rate I am being given.

Goodnight

I made like 160 bucks this weekend

So I have some fun and silly anecdotes.  I'd prefer to talk about em in person or on the phone! Sadly the only place my phone has service up here is 2 miles away up and down hills. Sucks even on a bike to travel. I went there and called some people, no one picked up, so i went home.

Poh! 

Well, here are some pictures that I had laying around from when I was at Sebastian's!

Because it wouldn't make for a good picture if something didn't have to suffer in order for it to happen.



Paparazzi take our picture
gang signs?







Because without Photobooth my life would be meaningless

1st day upstate/work work work

Hi EvErYoNe!

Today I got hopped up on caffeine! 

I worked at my new job at Heaven on Main St. I am Barista-ing, waiting, and working the cash register. I fear I may not be eating enough. I have a headache now. Okay I'm gonna go and put away tonight's pasta dinner.

OK BAI!

Thomas

Update

I found this thanks to a friend. sorry i sound so groggy.  enjoy your weekends

There comes a time.

There comes a time:

When convulsive sobs fall upon deaf ears.

When denial is equated with kindness.

When pushing someone away means keeping them safe.

new story.

Rocky Waters

My Family has never had good experiences being on boats. We get seasick, we get irritable, we get drunk, and we get angry and loud. Everyone at our table, immediate family plus grandparents, aunt, step-uncle, and cousin could feel the nervous tension of this family reunion.  My sister had already retreated to her cabin; after a violent bout between my stepsister, aunt, stepmother, and her on the main deck of the boat, she had the common sense to lay low temporarily.

Martinis, wine, just about any alcoholic beverage will do to get my family to yell at one another or embarrass themselves. For a cruise, the number of passengers on the boat was rather small; everyone knew everyone else’s business. The dining hall was in close quarters. The waiters wore plaid and served prefixed meals accompanied by very strong drinks. It was the dead of winter in New York City; this had little effect on us since it was in the high 90s in the Galapagos.

The occasion for the cruise was my grandmother’s 75^th birthday. The jovial spirited lady sat at the end of a long table; next to her, my grandfather, a grumpy old fart who frequently combined the word “fuck” with a part of the body. We might be driving; someone may cut us off at which point my grandfather rolls down his window and bellows: “Get off the road fucknose!”

But I’m getting off topic. The aura of everyone at the table on the surface was warm, perhaps a result of the booze my family had been consuming en masse throughout the meal to tolerate one another. My grandmother, who had just topped off her second or third martini, turned to my brother and with a look of concern, disclosed to him some sage-like advice.

“Henry, my dear, whatever you do, don’t go off marrying some waitress like your father did.”

Her behavior always makes everyone a little ill at ease when she drinks; she becomes this pool of emotions; she repeats herself, and gets angry about her childhood. Yet, what she had said was new and scathing. There was a clatter of silverware as my brother pushed away from the table.

It’s been 4 years; the family has again reconvened on a boat, the memory of the previous trip still sharp in our minds.  My dad and aunt have the ludicrous idea to have the waiters “water down” Grandma’s drinks; they want everyone to play along.

Flash forward 5 days:  I’ve been seasick and have contracted some sort of virus from one of the islands we visit. I feel like crap but I get out of bed and dress for dinner. The tables in the dining hall are in closer proximity to one another than the tables of the previous boat. The people on this boat are bourgeois snobs: rich kids who think they can do and say anything they want; the adults are worse. Our family hopes to win the award for upper-crust white trash family, with our frequent and earthshaking tussles.

I’m at the table. Grandma is drinking.  I don’t really care that she’s sauced to be honest; she’s one of the oldest people here, she financed this trip, I think she’s entitled to do whatever she wants. The only people who she is talking to are my brother and I. We are like two giant pillars seated on each side of her. 

“Tommy.”

“Mhm?”

“I love you soooo much. I think you’re per-fect.”

            I blush slightly, and smile, uncertain of what to say,

“Thanks.”

She then turns her attention to my brother. Henry is much better when it comes to talking to people; grandma is drunk, and he’s laughing and talking to her like it’s nothing. 

            Flash forward: 10 minutes later, the mood of the table has turned savage, my grandmother wants more wine, and wants to know why her kids are trying to control her and don’t trust her.

            “I’m not just some fucking drunk, OK?!” my grandmother says at a level much too loud for this dining room.

            “Mom,” my aunt says patronizingly “don’t yell, and we aren’t watering down your drinks. Right, Tommy?”

She looks at me. I say nothing; I’m not going to tell a lie to someone who’s over 50 years my senior.

My grandmother looks at my grandfather, her finger raised at him like a war spear.

“And this fucking asshole over here, he HATES me, look at him sneering like that! He always tries to control me or make me feel stupid. Well I’ve got news for bucko: I hate you.”

She loves the man dearly in actuality; they just sometimes have a tendency to piss one another off… a lot.  My grandfather looks up, and smiles at her, he laughs, and then with an air of thespian wit he shouts back at her

“I’ve seen what happens after the third martini, Darling!”  

More harsh words are thrown back and forth; they have such an interesting dialogue going that I half expect for them to rise and bow for the audience they have been entertaining this evening.

“Thank you everyone! No, you’re the stars not me!”

The table is silent, in fact, so is the entire dining hall. No one looks at us though; this kind of behavior has come to be expected from our family. My brother has become a nervous wreck; he jitters a little and tries to rise, I grab him. 

“You’re not going to leave me with this shit.”

He sits back down. 

“Who wants dessert?” laughs my step-uncle.

The rest of the table is silent, my aunt pats his hand.

Everyone has become silent. Everyone finishes eating. My grandmother gets the wine she wants. The adults stay and talk, my brother and I head out onto the deck.

“This is ridiculous, I mean, ri-di-cu-lous.”

I shiver. The wind is blowing hard on the deck, its deserted, the water rocks us back and forth, and I remember how nauseous I was. Henry hugs me: it’s a rare occasion that we are this close, and even rarer for us to get along so well.

“I hate this boat,” I say to him

He pats me on the back

“Me too, Thom. Me too.”

           

 

college update

University of Hartford is now offering me a full scholarship.

I will hear back from my other schools soon enough.

yarrr.

I adore thee I AO 

I AM the unbecomer. the bringer of end. 

I AO

We coexist like roots entwining through the oceans of our mindless streams of thought

I AO

I AM

I∑Ω¡ 

'Nother Story+novella

The Melancholy of the Starving Artist

Thomas Shapiro

2/l/2009

“On a day just like any other, Harold awoke from his sleep. He turned off his alarm clock and shifted out of bed slowly, careful not to wake up his 2 siblings who slept beside him. Sluggishly, he walked to the bathroom, dragging his feet on the ground.

As he walked into the bathroom he placed one foot on the cold linoleum tiles and shivered as he switched on the bright fluorescent lights. His eyes soon adjusted to the harsh lighting in the room, wanting to escape the cold as quickly as possible he quickly turned on the shower to full heat. Harold waited the several minutes it normally took for the water to adjust, leaning on the sink as he contemplated the day’s work to come. He got in the shower, it was warm and soothing; his favorite part of the day. He opened his mouth, taking big gulps of hot water.”

The writer stopped his frantic typing.

“Ah! Why am I even trying anymore?”

He was way behind his deadline for his next piece in his opus A Day in the Life. His editor had been on his ass for weeks. The writer of course had no trouble writing up until then. He had received some slight fame for the previous 3 books, even a review in The New Yorker, who called his books a “smashing success”.

Despite all of this, every time that he set out to write lately, all that came out was more of the same drivel that his editor had sneered at when he submitted it the first time. Now, his manuscript was a week late, and he was dangerously close to losing his job. He hadn’t slept for several days, surviving only on coffee and Rothman Reds.

Sheets of paper lay in disarray across the floor, crumpled up thoughts and ideas. He started to write again, progressively losing his patience:

“As Harold got out of the shower, a sense of anger consumed him. ‘Why should I be expected to work everyday, while siblings rest easy in the bed?’ He rubbed his body vigorously with the towel, and then flung it to the floor. He reached for his toothpaste and toothbrush. He walked back to his bedroom with both items in hand, then hurled them at his siblings with such force that the toothpaste exploded, spattering navy blue viscous fluids over their nightgowns….”

“ARRRRRGH!” The writer slammed the laptop screen shut. He got up and stomped about the living room in frenzy, papers fluttering about him. His cat, a neurotic tabby, eyed him with caution, knowing that at any minute this volatile man could turn against him as well. The writer walked into the bathroom and submerged his face in icy cool water; he looked up at his drippy face, bags under his eyes and a sizeable beard and moustache growing. With his fingers he pushed and prodded at his face, no feeling.  The writer grabbed at his hair with his hands as one might attempt to grab at an idea.

Abandoning this method, he walked into the kitchen throwing on the exhaust fan to the window. He hit the gasoline to the stove and its flame came to life, he stooped to light his cigarette. The writer started to relax, “OK, deep breaths, you can do this…” he started to doze off, forgetting entirely about the burning cigarette in his hand. Several minutes had passed- he hadn’t noticed that the ember of his cigarette was burning dangerously close to his finger. “OW, SHIT. BALLS”. His fingers were painfully enflamed and glowed a ruby red were they were singed by his cigarette.

This was the last straw. He grabbed a pair of slacks that lay strewn upon the floor amongst the rest of his laundry, then his worn leather jacket, throwing it over his wife beater. Then after lacing up his boots, grabbing his cigarettes and keys, he trudged to the door and left the tiny cluttered apartment, the cat was relieved.

As he walked outside, the chill breeze of winter hit him violently. It was 10 degrees Fahrenheit outside (not counting wind chill), and he instantly regretted his brash decision to not dress warmer. He zipped up his jacket, hoping to at least give himself some defense from the harsh climate. He went for his cigarettes, but when the chill hit his hands he shoved them deep into his jean pockets.

He often did these walks whenever he needed to clear his head. The fresh air helped take away some of his anxiety and he was able to walk silently and clear his head But as he walked, all he could think about was the impending deadline and the urgency with which he had to hand something in to his editor. Yet the writer continued to walk, he approached his local coffee shop, a place where he used to enjoy sitting and typing on his computer. The stuff he had written there was terrible material, but he had enjoyed it nonetheless. He walked in. There she was, “the girl behind the counter”. He had loved her since he had first set eyes on her several weeks before. She was very thin, medium stature, fair complexioned, with bright fuchsia dreadlocks, which she beaded. She always wore heavy eyeliner that gave her eyes a dull gray tone. He liked that the most about her. Despite his attraction to her he had always been too timid to go up and talk to her. She appeared to him to be “untouchable”, so he watched from a distance.

“Today will be different.” he told himself with an air of confidence.

“Today I’ll talk to her.” He approached the counter and stood there stupefied by the sight of his goddess. His heart pounding against his chest he managed to mumble his order: “Coffee. Black”. The barista turned to the machine, pouring out the scalding liquid into a disposable cup. She handed it to him.

“Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. That’ll be one fifty.”

            The writer scrounged through his pocket and dropped an assortment of coins onto the counter, a few rolled and fell onto the floor, and he winced with embarrassment as each one fell to the ground. The Barista had already collected the appropriate change and had continued her work by the time he had collected all of his change from the floor.

“Thank you.” he said.

She didn’t look up. The writer picked up his coffee and walked back home, another story unfolding in his mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Novella

The Story with no end in sight

There was once an old gentleman who lived inside of a bubble at the bottom of a gorge. His family had gone on a vacation with him many years ago and had forgotten that he was with them. Thus in order to survive, he made himself a new hme at the bottom f the gorge.

            After frequent attacks by coyotes and rattlesnakes the old man had developed a physically toughened exterior. He was elderly, but his body was still fresh and stong.

One day a coyote appeared at his door. He could hear its claws scratching at the slimsy wooden door. The old man sighed and lifted the large rock he had prepared for just this sort of occasion. He opened the door with a sweeping motion and as he raised the rock to crush the skull of the brutish whelp, it called out in a low grumble.

“Don’t kill me, for I be a buxom babe!”

“But, how could this be?” the man thought

Though his sight was beginning to fail him, he could see quite clearly that this was in fact a coyote and not a dame.

“I will grant you three wishes.”

“Don’t genies generally do that?” the old man inquired.

The Coyote stopped and paused for thought.

“Well, just because that is the case in most folklore, does not mean it’s the same here.”

The man was convinced and allowed the coyote to enter his house. The man was never heard from again.

 

 

 

 

Since everyone else is doing it.... PHOTO POSTS

Do people really read what I put on here?

Is there any reason i share my thoughts?

From The Basement

Foreword: This short story is by no means an accurate depiction of  a heroin addicts experience and should not be interpreted as such.

From the basement of his parent’s home, Jackson frequently found himself pissing his time away with his friend Leah. As juniors in High school both were average students, producing B’s and an occasional A or C. Both of the teens led basically normal lives, following a monotonous suburban routine: wake, eat, home, eat, shoot up, throw up, come down, do homework, eat, sleep.

Despite being friends with Leah, Jackson had begun to detest her, her parents were home everyday at the appointed time, her mother always had a lovely spread laid out for dinner, their family seemed perfectly ideal in every regard. Jackson ‘s family had taken on a sterile vibe since his mother had died of breast cancer and his father got demoted and started working late into the night and stopped talking to him. He loathed his mother for dying and hated his father for never being around for him.

Dinner consisted of two things for Jackson: a microwave and a frozen dinner, Any appetite he may have had for food was frequently quelled by the Black Tar, and a fresh syringe.

Sitting down in his room, Jackson starts to write in his journal:

It’s been over a week now, my stock of goods is quickly depleting and any of the money I had saved is now coursing through my veins…. I can’t get any cash from Leah or my dad, then I’m gonna have to start taking mom’s jewelry…. Wait. Is this what I’ve lowered myself to, taking from my dead fucking mother???

His tears start streaking the pages of Jackson’s journal, making its blue lines become blotchy and faint.

He continues to write, trying to find the silver lining in what he is preparing himself to do: But then, taking just one or two of the ones she never wore could hardly be considered a heinous act…. And I doubt that dad will notice anything missing….

His father would be home any minute; if he were to take anything now would be the time to do it.

The following evening, sitting in his basement Jackson opens his gym bag, from within he produces a package containing a syringe. He tears it open with his teeth and placing the needle in the pan where he heated his fix he pulls the plunger back. The dark viscous fluid slithers into the barrel. Tightening a rubber tube around his track-marked arm, finds a vein and cautiously pushed in the needle. Jackson had done this so many times before; it shocked him as to why this time felt so much more uncertain.

About five minutes later, Jackson had his head leaned to one shoulder, his back pressed firmly against the wall. The effects had just started to set in. Leah was not with him this time; they had a fight today at school. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, thick beads of sweat raced down his face. oh god, he could feel his heart, bursting free from his chest! And as he stared pointedly from one wall to the other, for some friendly face, he found none. Wait, his mother, standing there, her eyes- two vacuous holes, her face unwavering; contorted into a sickening grimace. The nightgown she wore fell from her, revealing the absence of her right breast, from the hole poured jewelry of all sorts, glistening and shining, but as it hit the floor, it turned into serpents and maggots and crabs.

 Then, there was darkness; the creatures were upon him, he could feel them biting him, desperately he scratched at them but for every insect he crushed there were a thousand more to take its place. As he feels himself being pulled back into the darkness for a final time, he cries out for his mother, his father, god, to save him. Then Blackness.

“Mother? Are you there?” he asks

           

            

A satirical take on the United States

Satire: The Cure for Abortion

In the United States, abortions happen on a daily basis. Women are allowed to choose to have abortions, and do not need to have a rationale to support their decision. Many organizations exist today that are founded upon the belief that an abortion is tantamount to murder; however, as a result of the trial of Roe V. Wade, women can legally choose to abort their child within the early phases of its conception, regardless of the opinions of others.

Righteous organizations that exist on the behalf of these unborn fetuses are entitled to their opinions. Americans should consider alternate perspectives.

Our own presidential candidate for the Republican party, Senator John McCain, along with his vice presidential candidate, Sarah Palin, a Pentecostal Christian, believe that abortion should be made unlawful in all cases, including those of rape, endangerment to the life of the mother, and incest. Were McCain and Palin to be elected into office, abortion would be made illegal, no exceptions.

But it would not be too difficult for women to grow accustomed to such a strict policy. For this new policy to function, however many things would need to change:

First and foremost, many women have to work in order to support themselves; were a women to become pregnant, not only would the birth of this child require her utmost attention, but also this new responsibility would mean she would not be able to work, and thus support herself and her child. I propose that the government create daycares capable of supporting and feeding, during the times which the mother or father is working, all of the children that would otherwise have been aborted. These institutions would be expected to provide these services, free of charge to the parents. The cost of establishing such institutions might appear extreme to the government, but if abortions are to be made illegal, then certain hardships are only to be expected. As a follow-up clause to the aforementioned, all mothers unemployed at the time of their child’s birth would be obligated to work at these “institutions”, thus insuring the health of these children, and a steady income for the mothers, provided by the government.

Secondly, in many situations, these “unwanted” children are often placed in the care of only the mothers. The fathers will jump the coop in order to avoid the responsibility of raising a child. If the mother cannot abort her child, then she is left with the responsibility of raising it alone, with no assistance from the father. Thus the third clause of my proposal is this: “the fathers must remain to help support the child.” Many may be asking, “How on earth could one possible guarantee that the father will uphold his duty to the mother. Simple, explosive tracking collars: upon designating whom was responsible for the impregnation, the father will be required to submit himself to the government to receive his collar, the tracking device implanted in the mother will be matched to the collar, making it so that if the father were to attempt to flee the country, the collar’s alarm would activate and explode. Any attempts to tamper with or remove the collar would result in its subsequent explosion as well. The men will be forced to remain and will be given schedules during which they will be expected to take care of the child. The reason for which the country will adapt such drastic measures in dealing with its men is this: If the men were not forced to remain with the mothers, then they would make the women’s lives more difficult as single parents. The men would also not be upholding their ends as parents. As an added bonus to this clause, if the men do attempt to escape, it will show that they are incapable of parenting, thus when the collars activate and kill them, it will prevent any further propagation of these “bad seeds”.

Thirdly, while many (homosexuals, single people wanting children, etc.) cannot have children themselves, they frequently use sperm and egg banks. Unfortunately, as a result of the drastic flux in childbirths in America, Sperm and Egg banks will be eliminated to decrease the number of children. There are already too many children to deal with as it is. Additionally, anyone discovered giving or receiving an abortion will be sentenced to death effective immediately; the life of the child takes precedence over that of the parent’s.  Lastly, Masturbation will be banned as well as the use of contraceptive devices during intercourse, as these are all forms of ending life amongst our own species. To ensure that people follow these laws, video and audio surveillance cameras will be installed in all rooms of all households.

While all of this may seem a tad extreme, it is for the greater good of America, if we want this great nation to succeed, then we must strive for greatness and abolish abortion under any circumstance. After all, doesn’t the possibility of this new world hold so much more appeal than the shameless unholy world we inhabit in our present day?

 

 

more writings

This was a piece that I had written earlier this year, I'm not sure if this is the final draft of it or not. Enjoy.

Omnission: Under The Influence

Tamar was lonely; on the crux of thirty, she had just found her first gray hair in her hairbrush. Her latest relationship with a man she had met on an online dating service had been ended painfully over the phone. Her once glamorous figure had been relegated, after losing her gym membership resulting from delinquent payments, to drooping here and sagging there. Her life was in utter shambles.

 For a woman of 150 lbs at a stature of 5’4” Tamar was quite a stunner. her camisole draped upon her large chest and revealing the muffin-top made by her skinny jeans, giving her the appearance of a lumpy sausage. Her auburn hair had been pulled sharply into twin pigtails. She was just finishing up her 3^rd cocktail at her usual haunt, The Twisted Fister. At this point in the evening her words would begin to slur and her inhibitions would crumble behind the lenses of her “Beer Goggles”.

The drink made her confident. She could do anything or anyone, Tamar turned her gaze; fixated to the man sitting beside her. His belly circled out in front of him, bloated with beer, like some hairy beach ball. His face had a dark and devious quality, only exacerbated by his voracious eyes, which constantly shifted towards Tamar’s low-cut top. Though she certainly was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a beauty queen, she certainly could have done better than this man. But, as fate would have it, her self-esteem was low, and subsequently, so were her standards. “What are you drinking?” the brooding man said to Tamar. Tamar was clearly in no state to be drinking but she accepted the offer anyway. “Kamikaze” she said gingerly.

Three drinks later and the man were still ordering more, his advances upon Tamar becoming more and more physical. Sliding a hand between the crease of her legs, asking her if she would go home with him, and ever staring at her pendulous breasts.  Tamar appeared beyond the point of caring, she no longer had the foresight to consider the outcome of her actions. Through the haze of colorful drinks she managed to discern his face from the rest, and mumbled a barely coherent “Yes.”

The man stood, drained his glass and paid the tab, then proceeded to adjust his unabashed erection. In one hand he held the keys to his car, parked on the far end of the parking lot, and in the other, the ass of the oblivious Tamar, drunken into a brain-dead stupor. 

They left the bar that night, Tamar and this corpulent bear of a man whom she had only just met. Her feelings of inadequacy looming heavily upon her so much that she gave herself to whomever asked. The only thing she wanted in return was to feel wanted, and be given fancy drinks.

 

something to drag you from a sad time.

Lately whenever I feel lonely or sad, I try to find ways to placate myself. Whether it is writing, doing art, or running, it doesn't matter. So long as I don't just sit alone with my thoughts eating away at me.

Thus, if but for no one other than myself, I am composing my top 10 list of things to do to de-stress and refuel....

1. read a web-comic, my personal favorites are Bearandkitten.com and marriedtothesea.com

2. Do some creative writing. this is especially nice if you feel a little sad and confused, so you can actually understand the root of the problem better.

3.  call a good friend and talk for like an hour or so. this is very fun, the only downside is when the conversation just gets awkward.

4. Go and exercise. I hate to sound like some sort of health guru but whenever I feel agitated or lazy I realize that if I go running I'll feel happy afterwards. I don't like to exercise but the feeling of finishing a 4-mile run is great! trust me!

5. Make art. This doesn't mean do art that has been assigned, because if you do art that is homework you are liable to get frustrated and then want to destroy your work!

6. Leave wherever you are currently situated for like almost a whole day. I get pretty anxious when I am cooped up in my room for too long, so I like to leave and go far away. like out into the streets or to a cafe or to a town.

7. Listen to an audiobook read by Ian Mckellen. His voice is very soothing. I really like it. It's great when you want to go to sleep or want to like escape the shitty stuff going on around you.

8.(Courtesy of Montana) go and make some hot Soy-milk mixed with honey, then take the soy-milk and get some Newman-O's. Dip the Newman-O's into the delicious beverage. consume.

9. Play the guitar(even if you really suck and actually don't know any chords or nothing and just are using Shelley's). It's fun, it's like being expressive, and sometimes you make something that sounds like a song, and you feel so self-sufficient. I like to strum randomly and sing songs i just make up.

10. Get a big hug from everyone in the quiet lounge. One time, I was really upset, and I couldn't even say how upset I was because I was THAT upset. So then I start crying, a lot, and suddenly there are these arms, holding me, and telling me "it's okay". And it really was then. 

Sick

I've had this sinus thing for a couple days now. I'm starting to feel like it's something more now. I'm really tired and my throat hurts and I feel a bit queasy. I don't know, maybe I'm just dehydrated. I should probably go to the art room tonight to work on my still life or something, I will. 

Anticipate portfolio/art book photos on here soon!

Dream writings

So, Last night/this morning I had this really odd and sort of déjà vu-esque dream. 

I was standing somewhere. I don't know, I think I was on a cobble-stone street with lots of really trendy clothing stores and pet stores. and ouT of the blue, this almost cartoon-y girl comes out of nowhere, and i have this urge to protect her, I don't really know why. So we are running, whatever we are running from is getting closer. 

Then this creepy guy who sort of looks like a lizard shows up, and tells me that it's my time to die because I chose to protect this girl. Suddenly I have a gun in one hand and the girl's wrist in my other, and we're tumbling through stores, bullets whizzing by us. 

Then, we are in a supermarket, the man who was chasing us now has 2 accomplices, one of their appearances or purpose I can't remember for the life of me. The other was this homeless guy with an AK-47, he was being paid 100 dollars to chase us.  They keep shooting the entrance of the supermarket behind which we are hiding telling us to come out. We go outside and as the man lifts his gun to shoot us, we start running again. I tell the homeless guy that I'll give him 1000 dollars to kill the guy chasing us, he says he won't kill hi for that, but he won't kill us either, which frankly was good enough for me.

Then we are in this jewelry store, barrel-rolling over display cases, the back exit was open, and we leapt out of it. I think. I honestly forgot where this whole dream was going. It was just kind of weird and memorable.

an epiphany at 7:05a.m.

I think that this is a good place to post some of my sketchbook work. What does everyone else think? I mean, I'll probably do it regardless of whether people think it's a good idea or not, but yes uhmmm hmmmm. ok. I go to class now.

a story i wrote not too long ago.

On the topic of betrayal

Thomas Shapiro

Short Fiction

This weekend, one of the skeletons of my summer resurfaced. To call it a skeleton may sound a tad melodramatic, but I really don’t care, I’m entitled to my pain right now.  “Bob. B.O.B.” those three letters spell out the name of a man I had true emotional attachment to. I met him at “Nowhere”, a sleazy gay bar near Union Square. He was so handsome with his cowboy clothes, stubbly angular face, and unusual mustache.  I was in lust.

We struck up a conversation over a series of drinks, I had whiskey sours he drank his beers, we both smoked. Our conversation was awkward; trivial remarks, interspersed with heavy petting and chaste kissing. I saw potential with him. Breaking from routine, I did not go home with him that night; I wanted to make this work.

We went on our first date later that week at a chic Indian restaurant in the east village. The neon pepper lights that hung from the ceiling gave it a very silly vibe, but we didn’t care. In a sober state we talked about love and being queer. We both had been betrayed more than once and we were both so tired of the club scene; Poppers, coke, and orgies. We wanted unrequited love.

We continued to date until our “summer of love” came to an end. On the last night that I saw him I slept over. We went to a bar and took a secret spot in the back. I would nibble his ear and he would love it, his bristles tickling my lips as he kissed me, the stubble made me raw and vulnerable. I bought one round, he bought the next, and then we hopped on a train and went back to his place. I sat at his kitchen table, sucking in smoke from his cigarette, the TV was on and I wanted him. We undressed. My body, rubbed his, we were together. Yet I never let him penetrate me, he never got inside of me, at least, not sexually.

I woke up the next morning, his dog, Dudley was licking my face, Bob was gone; he had work. I got up and walked to the G train.

We continued to date until my third week back at school. He had been going through problems at work. One day, he stopped calling- stopped texting- stopped our heat.

            I forget how sad I was, I placated my sexual longing for the lover whom I lost with frequent pornographic stimulation and other guys whom I pursued.

On a whim last night I returned to the place where I first met Bob. It was a Saturday. Bob sat at the bar, his beer bottle seeming almost phallic between his skinny legs. I approached him- he smiled- I smiled- say hello. he winks .

I return later that night after having dinner with my friends. Bob is still there, now painfully drunk. I try to kiss him; he kisses me once on he lips and returns to his conversation with his gaggle of popper-loving losers.  All the stools were taken so I sat down next to a talkative couple. I must have been obviously upset since one of Bob’s friends approached me, “Why do you look so sad?”

“I’m Fine. I’m probably just a little tired.” I mumbled.

“Well. Don’t sit alone, come and meet my friends.”

I don’t recall any of the names except Bob’s.

“This is Bear.” Bob’s friend said, pointing at him.

“Yeah I know. We met.”

He half looked down and smiled at me, his eyes glittering behind the black box-frame of his glasses.

I stood there awkwardly and gradually their attentions drifted away from me and back to the topic at hand.

“So you just found out how old he is then?” Bob’s friend asked with surprise, alluding to the shirtless bartender, the one who had been giving me nasty looks.

“Yeah.” Bob said.

            When Bob was alone I sat down next to him.

“So you’re dating the bartender then?”

Silence.

“Look. Uhhhhh. I can’t really-” he takes a sharp inhale, then breaths out slowly. He’s silent again.

“I wish you would have told me. Do you know how stupid I feel right now? I mean have you been seeing him long? Do you like him much?”

I was floundering, hoping in the deepest recesses of my mind that Bob and I still had something.

“I’m gonna go pee.” Bob said.

He left me sitting there. I waited. Then I went outside for a cigarette. He was there, standing at the curb with his friends. One of them fell down. Drunk. Everyone laughed. After, they all went back in, Bob stayed.

He looked at me. Puppy dog eyes and a look of slight exasperation on his face.

“I really want you to email me. Will you?” he asked me for what felt like the thirtieth time that night.

“I will.” I say. Each time that he said this to me, I felt like the hope for our love was rekindled.

“OK. Good.” He came close to me, touched my neck. “God you’re cute.” He said.

            His Voice had this seductive quality to it; like a southern Jewish Cajun from California.

            He kissed me, one last time, then walked back into Nowhere.

I reentered the bar. Bob had his coven of drunken losers surrounding him all whispering loudly due to the diva anthems blaring from the jukebox. Several moments after I approached they dispersed, Bob walked away, I was left with the man who had re-introduced me to Bob in the first place.

“Look,” He started. “Bob is a great guy, I know this because we’ve been friends for so long. And his boyfriend, the bartender, is also a friend of mine. Bob wanted me to tell you that you’re causing him pain. He might not say anything, but that’s because he’s too nice. You should leave, before any more damage is done. I want to see it work with those two.”

After the monologue I got up from my stool. Humiliated. I could feel the tears, but I wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction of seeing me cry. The people in Union Square got to watch instead. I stooped low in a corner. Emitting wild noises from my throat. The tears were hot on my warm cheeks. It took me an hour before I could stop the tears. I stood, and walked the lonely 30 minutes home. I sent him an email that night.

You probably were telling your friend that I was in the way of your functioning relationship, or that I was making your boyfriend jealous, or even that you didn't have the courage to tell me that I was messing up your relationship. I say all of this because that's what your friend told me, he asked me to leave you alone since he was both your friend and your boyfriend's. After I left the bar tonight I walked about a block and then burst into tears, I had to call my friend and sit on the phone with her outside for an hour telling her what was wrong. I still feel upset that you let me think that I stood a chance with you. I assume that, you asked him to talk to me. If you can explain what happened tonight I would like to hear, since right now I'm really upset that you couldn't tell me that to my face.

Sincerely

XXXXXXXX

I’m still waiting for his email.

College apps and art

As the deadline for submitting my portfolio to colleges draws nearer, my stress builds. This is common for anyone. I don't know, I have been feeling down lately. This is a very clear rant. 

I don't know where I want to go to college, or even if the choices that I made for colleges are the right ones. It's things like that, that scare me. I don't want to wind up somewhere where I'm unhappy, and I don't want to be alone from all of my high school friends. 

As well as my fear of being dissatisfied with college, my parents words of "reassurance" over the phone have only been exacerbating my fear of school. I feel like they aren't satisfied with my academic performance  unless it's stellar, or that they don't have  confidence in me as becoming an artist or going to art school. I don't think parents realize the weight of the things they say to their kids. 

I realize that this is an odd thing to have posted as my first entry in over a year, but it's just how I'm feeling.