Category Archives: Story Time

Events worth writing about



Enjoi a new read.


Unpleasant City Citings

A women eating a hotdog with a topping of mustard: NICE

A women eating a hotdog with a mustache topping her lips: NOT-NICE


Pat Pat Pat

Hopefully my first of many more…


When It Rains…

…it pours sucks! Two minutes in the rain today, and I get my socks murdered. Thanks to Kaity, she hooks me up with some nice ass running socks*cough catch the next fall issues of Antenna COUGH* 


Sony: PlayStation3

The night filled with Good Peoples, Good Food, Good Game.


To Please This Women…

If you want to be a gentleman in the eyes of Weed’s super-hot-mom, Mary Louise Parker these definitions should be in your character dictionary:

Montblanc, Forona Gordas, Salt on your chocolate, Initials on towels, Order for her at restaurants, Flannels shirts, Tip more than necessary, Be able to build a cabinet and/or sandwich, Fix things.

All I can offer to you Ms. Parker is my flannel shirt, but if you want me to put salt on my chocolate I will, I will.



Not The Same Anymore

The day my mom washed away a piece of art. That piece of art I’ve been working on for two years. It began, well, two years ago. This art piece began as a humble black/ heavy navy canvas, as I worked on it more, it took shape of what I went through on a daily basis, almost like mirror reflecting my inner colors. Such things as weather, my materialistic desires, and my dietary consumption affected every stroke and shading being incorporated into my art. I would spend at least once a week putting time into this art. A funny thing is, certain things in my life would cause very specific turn out that day on my piece of art.  The more money I had, the shades would fade towards lighter blue and almost white. The more I didn’t talk or communicate to others more squares and rectangular were embedded into the fading blacks and blues. The more I didn’t listen to music and fasted my musical urges I had curves and circles added. Just when this piece was becoming more and more mature and becoming a masterpiece to me the unthinkable happens.

Mom meet art, art meet mom, stay friends just don’t touch each other. I should’ve known this rule would be broken, one thing led to another and things happened. I must have forgetting my mom’s tendencies because I’ve been away at college for so long. She probably picked it up, picked at it, touched it, and smelled it and realized how ‘dirty’ it was to her. So she decided to wash my art. It was almost like an epi-epidermis to my epidermis, was the bookbag for my books, my scrotum to my nuts. She wasted my one-of-a-kind denim. That’s right I said it denim. Some of you out there are thinking ‘ what’s this baby crying about?!’ and a very select few out there are up with one fist in the air, feeling my pain. For those very few, I pump my fist in the air too.

I called it the one-of-a-kind denim, not because it’s a limited edition x collab from a high end Japanese denim factory. I call it my one-of-a-kind because there is literally none like it out there, it was MINE. Now it’s ruined. This now gives me an excuse to go grab another pair. Thanks but no thanks mom.