Sex Scenes

Since I've never written a sex scene before and my script calls for one soon, I thought I would do some research and see how others handle it. I remembered the public sex scene from Crank to be one of my favorites from recent movie history.

It really wasn't as good of a read as I thought. Looks like I'm going to have to keep looking for a better example - but in the meanwhile, here it is for your enjoyment:


EXT CHINATOWN, OUTDOOR PLAZA, MOMENTS LATER
EVE storms out of the restaurant, letting the door slambehind her. CHEV follows, staggering like a drunk man. He catches up to her and grabs her arm.

CHEV
Eve... baby... please!

She spins on him.

EVE
Mob hits, Chev? Chinese poison? Do you know how ridiculous you sound? If you’re going to break up with me, at least you can tell me the truth.

CHEV
You think it sounds crazy? How do you think I feel - I’ve gotta live this shit...

Just then the CAMERA SLAMS THROUGH CHEV’S TRANSPARENT CHEST - his HEART seems to GRIND DOWN and STALL, MID-PUMP, as the POISON’S PROGRESS moves another clock tick forward.

The CAMERA pulls violently out of CHEV’S chest cavity - he looks like someone just FIRED A CANNONBALL INTO HIS GUT... face white as a dinner plate... It’s the worst we’ve seen him yet.

EVE
Oh my God, Chev... what’s the matter with you?

He looks around like a drowning man. People everywhere, but starting to disperse as lunch hour dwindles. The world starts to SPIN.

CHEV
I... just need...

CHEV falls to his knees, pulling her down with him.

EVE
Chev, you’re scaring me.

CHEV
(getting a desperate idea)
Wait a minute. Do you trust me?

EVE
No.

CHEV
Make love to me.

EVE
What?

CHEV
Come on. I think it’ll help.

EVE
Help what?

He starts grabbing at her. She pushes his hands away.

EVE (CONT’D)
Get off! Are you kidding me?

CHEV
Take your clothes off.

EVE
No!

CHEV
You always say you want to be more spontaneous.

EVE
You’re insane. You’re like some adrenaline junkie with no soul.

CHEV
Save me, Eve. Save my life.

CHEV starts feeling up EVE’S ass.

EVE
Stop it!

She SLUGS HIM IN THE MOUTH. His head snaps back; he comes up holding his lip.

EVE (CONT’D)
Oh my God, Chev!

She reaches instinctively to comfort him and he lunges forward, tearing at her dress.

They roll around on the ground, scratching and clawing at one another. A curious crowd gathers round. EVE starts to flip out, SCREAMING AND POUNDING on him with her fists like a crazy woman. Next thing you know she’s kissing and biting his mouth, breathless, still pounding with her fists.

EVE (CONT’D)
You filthy animal ...

She reaches down and starts fumbling with his pants. He helps. The onlookers’ eyes widen, moms covering the kids’ faces.

EVE (CONT’D)
Take me right here in front of everyone.

CHEV’S HEARTBEAT starts to pick up. He lifts her dress and positions himself on top of her. EVE is completely out of her head, eyes closed, legs up in the air like a porn star.

EVE (CONT’D)
That’s it... do it ...

CHEV thrusts.

EVE (CONT’D)
Come on, put it in me...

He thrusts again. EVE’s eyes pop open.

EVE (CONT’D)
What are you waiting for?

CHEV looks down at his equipment, then up at EVE, helplessly.

EVE (CONT’D)
(incredulously)
Tell me you’re joking. Now you can’t get it up?

CHEV
(determined)
I’ll fucking get it up!

With a surge of energy he lifts her off the ground, drags her over to a newspaper machine on the street - the crowd parts to let them through - and bends her over it.

He tries again to enter her.

EVE
God damn it, Chev ...!

CHEV
Shut up!

He starts to SPANK her. She responds with a moan. A certain portion of the crowd spontaneously breaks into applause. CHEV picks up the pace. EVE begins making primal cries. A busload of JAPANESE GIRLS pulls up - tourists in matching red uniforms - gaping out the window with slack jawed amazement. With the crowd cheering and traffic stopped, CHEV gets a shot of adrenaline and goes for broke. EVE shrieks like a banshee as he enters her.

CHEV (CONT’D)
I’M STILL ALIVE! I’M STILL ALIVE!!!

CHEV’S HEARTBEAT is slamming, he’s really giving it to her, making full eye contact with the busload of tourists the entire time. CHEV doubles his efforts, desperately fighting for the climax, when ...

BEE-DEE-DEE-DEEE-DEE-DEEE-DEE-DEE-DUM.

CHEV (CONT’D)
What was that?

EVE
Oh God... Oh God... yes...

BEE-DEE-DEE-DEEE-DEE-DEEE-DEE-DEE-DUM. CHEV’S CELLPHONE.

CHEV
Shit!

CHEV reaches for the phone.

EVE
What are you doing?!!

CHEV puts the phone up to his ear.

CHEV
Yeah.

INT DON KIM’S SHIRT FACTORY, SAME TIME

CU of KAYLO’S face.

KAYLO
I’ve got Verona.

We see that KAYLO is duct taped to an office chair in what appears to be an old warehouse, knife to his neck, held by unseen captors. He’s been badly beaten up.

EXT STREET, CHINATOWN, SAME TIME
CHEV is still going through the motions with EVE, but his attention has shifted 100% to the voice on the phone.

CHEV
Kaylo?

KAYLO (V.O.)
I’ve got Verona, man.

CHEV yanks it out and pulls up his pants.

Nothing

Nothing to report today.

More reading, some writing.

Reading

So I spent most of the day reading scripts and various screenwriting forums. I didn't have it in me to do much writing, so I figured the next best thing would be reading screenplays.

I read one that was so cliche, so hackneyed - but I couldn't put the fucking thing down. 147 pages, and I wanted to jab a pen in my eye with each overused cliche, yet I couldn't stop reading.

That's all I have for you today.

$366,798

Well, I don't have much to report today - but my buddy J.C. got second place in a World Poker Tour event today in Reno.

Here's a link: Juan Carlos Alvarado takes 2nd.

I know he wanted first place, but I think the $366,798 he won should tide him over until next time.

Go Away

No clever little stories for you today. Probably not tomorrow either.

Until then, however, here is something for you to look at:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a-MClm904ew

I made that little video last month. That's what I do.

I get bored and something shiny consumes my entire fucking day. Just the other day I tried to see how many clips from various shows I could put together to the hip hop song "Walk it out."

Thankfully I stopped myself before it was too late - but I still have it a third done - so you never know - my return to YouTube may not be out of the question.

Los Angeles is Burning

"Look at this morose mother fucker right here," directed my friend Kent towards me, quoting Ben Affleck's character from the movie Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back.

I was sitting outside a local coffee shop with this girl who worked there, shooting the breeze, killing time. I wish I could remember her name, but sadly, about the only thing I can recall about her was that she got my attention by drawing a chocolate flower on top of my mochaccino and saying, "Look, I made you a flower!"

Instantly, I hated her.

Therefor it was only a natural progression that I would spend her lunchtime with her.

"Who's this?" asked Kent, never the one to be bashful. Perky as the day was long, and with almost supernatural speed, she hopped out of her seat and introduced herself to him.

Kent hated her too.

"So listen," he said, now ignoring the perk monster and turning his attention back to me. "There's this house on Mount Olympus, a couple guys we know are having a barbeque there this Saturday." You could tell from the look on our faces that we both hoped the perkster would not ask to join us. Thankfully, she didn't, and I told Kent I would ride to the party with him as long as he agreed to drive, as I planned on drinking. Never the one to voluntarily give up drinking priveleges, Kent begrudgingly accepted the terms and quickly made his exit.

Soon after, I too bid perkus maximus farewell, and went home to continue being a morose mother fucker.

Mount Olympus is one of the areas of Los Angeles where the hoyte toyte live. So when Kent and I pulled up to this behemoth home nestled among the trees, we both couldn't help but notice that it was completely void of furniture. In fact, it was totally empty of any earthly possessions except for a grill in the back yard, some plastic patio chairs positioned around the pool, and blue and red cups filled to the brim with ice cubes and copious amounts of alcohol.

When we inquired into the status of this home that was currently catering to sixty or seventy of Hollywood's unfinest, someone clearly not of legal age, holding what appeared to be his third-too-manyeth cup of vodka, took us aside. Leaning a little too close for comfort, the kid said in a hushed tone, "Nobody owns it right now. We're not supposed to be here."

"Thank you, numbnuts!" I disapprovingly groaned to both the boy wonder and Kent.

Before Kent could even point to the abundance of bikini-laden boobage near the pool and plead his case for staying, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

"Settle down, Beavis" said the sweet, feminine voice from behind me.

I didn't even need to turn around to already know I was staying.

Kent, being painfully aware of my weaknesses - of which there are many, gave me a victorious smirk and walked off, as I swiveled around to respond to whomever it was that was obviously stuck in 1995.

And there she was, in all her glory. Short, petite, black hair with a red streak in it flowing down to her jawline, and a smile so bright it trumped the beautiful skyline of California on that warm July afternoon. It was the chick from [Band Name Removed].

"No fucking way!" I shouted at her, uncharacteristically unable to keep myself from giggling like a little schoolgirl. She gave me the "calm the fuck down" look, and immediately I knew the clock was ticking. I had to act quickly or lose the opportunity of a lifetime.

I pulled myself together in what can only described as nanoseconds, and immediately engaged in efforts to redeem myself in the eyes of this gorgeous creature.

"Excited about your show next week?" I asked.
"Yeah, I love touring," she said enthusiastically.
"Yeah, I have tickets," I lied.

She approved, I had recovered the fumble.

"Lets get us a drink," I said while motioning her outside.
"I'll have what you're having," she said, as I paid the ten bucks for our already-ordered two Captain and Coke's.

TSOL was blaring on the CD player in the back yard, and it was painfully obvious they were a band neither one of us was very fond of since we both looked for the spot furthest away from the speakers to park our laurels.

We found two seats under a shady tree beside the pool and exchanged stories for a good hour. I eventually explained to her why I was yelling at the now missing teenager as I pointed out my compadre Kent in a crowd of six or seven people across from the pool. Before she could even be shocked by our entry into the illegal world of tresspassing and squatting, she gave the group Kent was with a once-over and did a double take, tilting her head sideways.

"Is that..." she began to ask.
"Fuck me, I think it is." I laughed.

In an ironic turn of what could already be described as a surreal afternoon, it turns out the party we were attending was also being graced upon by a few hollywood has-beens we instantly recognized.

"No fucking way!" I shouted for the second time that day.

As I brought us our third round of drinks, we were beginning to become giddy. The Hollywood Has-beens had been transformed into the Double H Squad. The Double H Squad eventually became the Hoo's Hoo of Hollywood. Finally, we settled upon Hoo Hoo as the winner of the "Give them a nickname" game we'd been playing for several hours now.

So every time a new song came through the speakers, we lifted our drinks in triumphant salute and shouted, "Hoo Hoo!"

"HOO HOO!" the crowd began chanting with us between songs. Eventually even Kent's too cool for school group couldn't help but fall to the peer pressure of the crowd and bellowed with us, "HOO HOO!" They were unwittingly shouting their own nickname, and nothing, absolutely nothing, could please us more at that very moment. We were sitting on the grass by this point, giggling like schoolkids, shoulder to shoulder, drinking the day away. I didn't want it to end.

Dusk was setting in and Los Angeles Is Burning by Bad Religion had just come on. And with one last "HOO HOO!" the final chapter to our little story was being written. Extra lighter fluid was poured onto the now unused grill, and a huge bonfire was born.

"Los Angeles is Burning!" we sang in unison. Rock Stars, Hollywood Has-beens, and nobody's alike, we watched the flames rise into the night and sang our hearts out that day. Whichever posh fashionista would end up owning this beautiful piece of real estate would never be able to truly appreciate the landmark they were about to come into possession of, I thought to myself.

The second the song came to a close, as if they were waiting for their cue, there was a knock at the door. The LAPD was there to shut us down. The underage began to panic, girls started scrambling to find their clothes, and one kid could only be heard muttering, "Oh fuck, oh fuck."

As one courageous soul went to answer the door, Kent and I, along with my new friend and her companion, quickly snuck out the side, narrowly escaping the buzzkill of Johnny Law. We made haste for our rides.

"I'll see you at the show," she said with a smile as she hurriedly got into her car.

"Absolutely," I lied again.

This Way To The Egress

Move along. Nothing to see here today.

Trying to write.

It's hard.

Deaf Tones

I had this friend named Billy growing up. Besides myself, Billy was the only other non-hispanic kid that hung out in our local Hollywood arcade, incessantly feeding quarters into whichever was the most current of fighting game rages.

"You ready to get buttfucked?" he would always ask me before we started a new game.

"You ready to get buttfucked" pretty much sums up Billy and his outlook on life. Hardcore as they come, Billy loved video games and music, and not much else. He'd ramble on and on about the system and how it held back progress, and about how society forced us to conform to its standard instead of it conforming to ours. That was just Billy.

When everybody had long hair, Billy shaved his head. When we were all buying hair dye and getting mohawks, Billy kept his short and combed. When we wearing torn jeans and leather jackets, he wore a shirt and tie. He hated trends with a passion.

He was different, god dammit, and that's how it was going to stay.

Now I'd love to tell you about how he's changed over the years. Talk about how he got married, had kids, and finally settled down with a nice job, but then where would the world be if Billy, the last rebel standing, became a slave to the machine. Nope, our friend Billy still has a mohawk, still preaches about how we're all just pawns to the corrupt, and I'm fairly certain he still doesn't shower regularly.

About the only thing that's changed about Billy is that we started calling him Boxcar Billy a few years ago. Boxcar, as he's now affectionately referred to by his friends, would always have Boxcar by The Ataris playing. No matter what time of day it was, no matter where he was - whether you got into his car that was being held together by duct tape or if you showed up at his closet of an apartment at three in the morning, Boxcar was playing.

None of us had the heart to argue with him that Boxcar was, indeed, a popular song. Instead, nobody ever spoke of it. Every time we'd hear it and Billy would start rocking out, a few of us would glance at each other and give an almost paternal smile. Boxcar Billy was forever ours, our adorable son not without faults, and who were we to take those two minutes away from him.

So one night, as Ruth and I sat on his couch that "someone just threw out, can you believe that shit?" Boxcar by The Ataris came on. I had told Ruth about Billy and this very story before we went over, so as soon as the song came on, she elbowed me in the ribs.

I laughed.

His girlfriend Kim rolled her eyes so far back into her head I was ready to call for an excorcism. Instead, I just gave her an understanding smile - and we all sat there quietly, watching as Billy switched from playing air guitar to banging on air drums, depending on how into the song he was getting. As the song was wrapping up, Billy threw his hands up into the air and counted along with the song, "1, 2, 3, 4 - Who's Punk? What's the score?" and headbanged his way into the close, "You're all alone... you're all alone... you're all alone."

Kim, having waited patiently for Billy to go through the routine she'd too had undoubtedly witnessed hundreds of times, immediately jumped off of his lap after the song ended and announced, "Alright, how about something different!"

She put in a Deftones CD.

And as the first song "Change" from her burned CD came on, my eyes widened as I looked at Ruth in utter fear. Neither of the poor girls knew what they were in store for, what sleeping monster they'd just unleashed.

"What the fuck!" Billy jumped out of his seat. "How can you like this garbage?"
"I love the Deftones," retorted Kim, obviously baffled.
"How the fuck don't I know that?" asked Billy, equally confused.
"I don't know, I guess it never came up," she said, her voice cracking.

Billy was disgusted.

"Can you believe this?" he directed towards me, knowing I shared his sentiment about this particular band. I shrugged noncommittally.

Ruth was beginning to understand the situation we'd just inadvertantly stumbled into. She put her legs up over mine, and from the look of anticipation in her eyes, you'd think the only thing missing at that moment was a bucket of popcorn.

Billy began his tirade.

"Deftones is garbage!" he said definitively. "They're called the Deaf Tones. Get it? The mother fuckers are tone deaf, that's why their music sucks so much!"

"It's just fucking noise. And just because the unwashed masses are conditioned by grass roots radio marketing movements to think these fags are hot shit, it doesn't change the fact that they suckle upon the teat of your wallet with their formulaic screaming."

I laughed, and Billy nodded at me in a show of brotherhood. I was more amused by the fact that he was referring to masses other than himself as unwashed, but this was probably not the best time to point that out. I nodded back at him, in a fight the power way.

"Damn the man," I said sarcastically.
"Damn the man!" confirmed Billy.
"Damn the man, Billy!" Ruth laughed, now fully grasping why those few of us who knew Billy well were so fond of him.
"Damn the man," accepted Kim.

Damn the man indeed.

Love you, Boxcar Billy.

Entourage Spec

A few of you had emailed asking me to post a sample of what I'm working on, but I'm not quite comfortable enough with the current script to post any excerpts from it. I hate disappointing people, though - so what I'll do is post two scenes from my Entourage script.

Hope you like it.


EXT. POSH JAPANESE RESTAURANT - DUSK

The boys are seated on the patio of a hip new Japanese restaurant in West Hollywood. Turtle has his nose buried in his sidekick.

TURTLE
Holy shit Vince you gotta check out the nipples on this one. They’d give a newborn a hard on.

VINCE
You still on that website, Turtle?

TURTLE
Shit yeah! I’m gonna find my wife on here.

DRAMA
Jesus. I haven’t seen nipples like that since I stole those National Geographic magazines from Miss Elkins’ class.

ERIC
And she still has your picture up as a sexual deviant.

DRAMA
Fucking Miss Elkins.

VINCE
You nervous about tomorrow, Johnny?

DRAMA
I’m cool as ice, baby.

ERIC
So you’re not worried about your calves being a problem in those short shorts?

DRAMA
They’ll be too busy checking out my package to even notice the calves, E.

Turtle finally looks up from his sidekick.

TURTLE
Why, you gonna stuff a sock in there?

VINCE
The Chase brothers can fill out a pair of shorts.

ERIC
Ari’s going to need to find you something soon too, Vince. We can’t keep you off the radar for too long.

VINCE
We’ll worry about that later. This is Johnny’s hour.

Vince raises his glass towards Drama.

VINCE (CONT’D)
To Drama.

ERIC
To Drama.

TURTLE
Don’t fuck it up.

------------

EXT. ARI’S OFFICE BUILDING

We come up on Ari and Eric already leaving Ari’s office building, still in the midst of a heated discussion.

ERIC
If I find out you had anything to do with this, Ari-- So help me God.

ARI
What? You’ll fire me?
(pause)
Again?

ERIC
And this time for good you heartless son of a bitch.

ARI
Hey look, I’ll be the first to admit I’d whore out my own mother to get what I wanted. But this I had nothing to do with.

ERIC
That’s real nice, Ari. I wonder what she’d think of that statement.

ARI
She’s read the Good Book, she’d understand.

ERIC
Yeah? What’s that? The Gospel According to Saint Eminem?

Ari is thrilled that Eric gets his reference and grabs his face to kiss him.

ARI
You complete me, mother fucker.

Eric pushes Ari away and heads for his car.

ERIC
Just wait until I tell Vince that Drama doesn’t get the part unless he agrees to co-star. Then we’ll see how much you want to kiss me.

Eric starts getting into his car.

ARI
(yelling)
You had me at hello, Eric. You had me at hello!

A WOMAN WALKING HER DOG ON ROLLER SKATES gives Ari a quick glance. Ari swivels to give her a “what the fuck” look but quickly realizes she’s worth checking out instead.

The Little Things

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Fuck Like a Republican

One night we're at a bar celebrating a friend's birthday at some hoyte toyte restaurant in West Hollywood, and I spot a stunning redhead manning the bar thirty feet away. "Happy birthday, I got you a gift" - I'm off to the bar with lightning speed. I sit down and order my first drink - something that has proven time and time again to instigate conversation - a liquid cocaine. Part Goldschlagger, part Rumplemints, and part Bacardi 151. The sort of drink that will put hair on your chest and impress women.

Well, the type of women I'm after anyway.

As expected, her eyes widened and she began to discuss my drink of choice with me. The conversation flowed pretty smoothly from that point on, although I don't remember much of it, except that she was a student with a dual major in Political Science and Philosophy. A braniac redheaded bartender with big tits - this chick was one step removed from being a stripper - a more advanced of the species, sure, but still within my range. I'm sure the rest of what she said was terribly fascinating and limitlessly engaging, but once she wrote down her number on that bar napkin, my job was done. I bid her farewell and rejoined my party already feasting upon seventy-five dollars a plate of something or another.

I waited the universally acknowledged three days before calling her, at which point I invited her over for some drinks and conversation.

She arrived at my house around eight that evening, and I was prepared. I had recently been recommended Nietzsche's Beyond Good & Evil by a friend of mine, and I'd made sure to pick it up before our date. I steered the conversation towards philosophy and politics, to give us common ground to dance on, and of course to provide me the avenue to demonstrate my smooth moves.

"So what's your philosophy on life?" she asked. The plan was working.
"Well," I said. "I like to use Nietzsche's Beyond Good & Evil as a foundation."
"How so?" She was intrigued.
"Nietzsche says that we need to move past what is considered "good" or "evil" by society, and instead, do what is "good" or "bad" for ourselves." I admit, I'd only thumbed the book.

It was clear I needed to work harder if I wanted to run a coup in her government.

"In other words," I quickly continued. "I do what is best for me while still trying to be a good person. I won't run anyone over to get to where I want to, but at the same time, I won't lay down for others either."

"Ahhh," she smiled. I was doing better.

My democracy would spread through her soil by daybreak.

"So now you take the foundation Nietzsche provides, and intertwine it with some Buddhist Path of Enlightenment - sprinkle on some Christianty for flavor, and you basically have my outlook on life." God, I was good.

I didn't know what the fuck I'd just said, but I could already see the next day's victory parade.

"Wow, that's so awesome," proclaimed the redhead.

Stick a flag in her, we're done.

"What about politics?" She threw a curveball at me.

College Student. Female. Political Science major. I knew what the right answer here was - I was a liberal democrat, maybe even a communist or socialist. Something was different, though. It hovered around her, like a scent. Sure, she'd have sex with me if I gave the right answer - but my nose was telling me I'd get the lay of a lifetime if I wasn't.

It was worth a shot.

"I don't admit this often," I stuttered a little for effect. "But I'm a Republican."

Her jaw dropped. In a good way.

"I've voted party line every year except in the last election." I was laying it on thick. "It's troubled me because while I'm a firm believer in Republican philosophies, I think our current administration has made a mockery of not only the party, but the country as a whole."

"So you're conservative? Like pro-life and all that?" She was a bit hesitant, but hungry for more.

"Not at all." I set her at ease. "I'm what you'd call a South Park Republican. We're socially liberal - like totally pro-choice, all for gay marriage, but we also stick to what is - or should be anyway - at the heart of the party. Smaller government and lower taxes."

She had heard enough.

We fucked like true Republicans that night, and it was all courtesy of the GOP. So thank you, gentlemen. I owe you one.

I Hate Cleveland

Downtown Los Angeles after about 8pm is something right out of a movie. Quiet as a graveyard, not a single living creature stirring, not even a lone car whizzing through its streets - except ours, of course.

Ruth and I had been spending an unhealthy amount of time together, and I'd grown fonder and fonder of the girl over those past several months - although neither one of us had approached the subject of a "relationship" yet, and had simply enjoyed one anothers company. So when she informed me about some sort of super secret rave going on in downtown that Saturday, I happily accepted her invitation.

She'd always had that unique sense of style that I find attractive. From her long, dyed black hair down to her studded wristbands, from her torn skirt and fishnets down to her Doc Martins - she was either getting wardrobe tips from the depths of my psyche, or this was some form of serendipitous bliss. Either way, she had yet to disappoint.

I had just gotten out of the shower and it was nearing 9:00pm. Ruth was scheduled to pick me up at 10:00. I had an hour to get ready.

My brand new boots had shown up in the mail just the day before, so I was definitely wearing those. Aside from my spiffy new New Rock's, my attire would consist of my usual black shirt, black jeans, and black coat.

Five minutes to ten and there was a knock at the door, she was prompt as always. I opened the door to let her in, and there she was: Standing in front of me with a big shit-eating grin on her face, with her Guitar Hero guitar strapped to her back. Before I could even let out a chuckle or ask, she announced, "I'm going as a Gen Y Rock Star!"

She grabbed my hand and tried pulling me out the door.

"Hang on, I gotta get my sunglasses and keys," I said, still laughing.

We picked up my friend Boxcar Billy and his girlfriend Kim on the way, and off we were, to either get mugged and murdered or to party the night away in Downtown Los Angeles - probably both.

Making our way down Grand Avenue, everything was as expected; a warm breeze blew up some loose papers laying on the ground, and except for us and the roaches, the streets of downtown were dead.

"Are you sure you know where you're going?" I asked.
"Pshaw!" she quickly responded, smacking my gut.
"Don't make me cut you, woman!" I snarled back.

As Billy and Kim guffawed at our playful banter, I eyed Billy and made a gesture towards the plastic guitar laying in the back of the SUV.

"That's right, I'm a Gen Y Rock Star tonight!" pre-empted Ruth, her spider senses tingling from my incoming jab.

Kim laughed and patted her on the shoulder, as if to say, "You go, girl!"

Billy grinned with approval. All was well.

Taking a right onto our boulevard of destination, the streets of downtown suddenly came to life. Rows and rows of cars were parked next to what would normally be nothing other than a big giant warehouse. We witnessed several dozen people in groups of roughly six each huddled in conversation over cigarettes outside while we parked.

The place was going to be packed.

As we made our way from the back of the parking area, out of nowhere Ruth leapt on top of a random parked car, swung her guitar around and strummed it once before throwing the goat and shouting, "Are you ready to rock, Cleveland!" Her voice cracked.

We about fell to the ground laughing. Nobody questioned why it was Cleveland she was intruducing herself to.

I picked her up off the hood of the car and carried her the rest of the way, making sure she couldn't get herself into more trouble. She seemed content there with her arms around my neck, making some sort of growling face at me that I can't describe as anything other than adorable even if I tried.

This girl was trouble.

It was nearing five in the morning when we finally walked out of the rave. The hundred or so other hooligans in attendance were loitering outside. We took a moment to light up our cigarettes and catch our breaths. Ruth was annoyed because someone had apparently snatched her Guitar Hero guitar early in the evening, during one of the rare occasions she stopped pretending to be a Gen Y rock star and stepped away from the damned thing.

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll get you a new one."
"But I don't want a new one!" she feigned a sniffle.

I gestured to Boxcar Billy who produced her guitar from under his coat.

"Told you I'd get you a new one," I smirked with a sense of triumph. Boxcar chuckled.

Billy's girlfriend Kim and Ruth just stared at us, their mouth's agape. Leaving them both in stunned silence was oddly satisfying. I continued to smirk contently.

Ruth gave me a fierce look before snatching the guitar out of Billy's hands and climbing to the top of the stairs leading back into the warehouse. As she turned around, perched on top of the stairs, you could see she reflected in thought for a moment before turning to the crowd, her plastic guitar raised ceremoniously. My busty vixen had their attention.

"Thank you, Cleveland!" she screamed at the top of her lungs as she swung her guitar down between her legs onto the concrete, smashing it into pieces.

The crowd erupted. It was Billy and I who were now stunned in silence.

"You said you'd get me a new one," she said to me as she grabbed Kim's hand and they both made a mad dash to the car. The crowd continued to cheer.

"This one's definitely trouble," said Boxcar, putting his arm around my shoulder.

As we made our way to them, I still hadn't decided whether I wanted to kiss her or kill her. When we finished our trek past the sea of cars to our own, the doors were locked and the windows rolled up.

"Let us in!" demanded Billy.
"Not until you guys promise you still love us and won't hurt us!" they said in unison.

"Come here," I motioned with my finger.
The driver's side window went down an inch.
"Closer," I said.
The window went down another inch.

"You win this round pinky, but the war's not over." I said firmly.
She put her lips up to the crack in the window and puckered.
I laughed and gave her a kiss. She was too adorable for words.

"Now get in, I'm buying breakfast!" announced my new arch-nemesis victoriously.

Choose Your Own Blog

Your name is Daniel, and you've been dating a girl named Ruth going on six months now. You like her, you think. She is definitely cute and has nice boobs. She is light years out of your league, but so are most women you date - this does not intimidate you. You're confident, successful, and well, arrogant. You have a way with both the spoken and written word, and can charm your way out of most situations. This is not one of them.

Oblivious to you, because you're not a woman, it is the six month anniversary of your relationship with Ruth. She's over for dinner and seems like she has something on her mind. This girl is antsy.

• If you ask her what's wrong, proceed to 1.
• If you wait for her to bring whatever it is up, proceed to 2.
• If you're a sissy boy that actually kept track of the day you met and know it's your anniversary, proceed to 6.

1 - You smile at Ruth, but in the back of your mind you're rewinding the last twenty four hours wondering what you did wrong. Eventually, the wonderment gets to you, and you ask, "What's the matter, princess?"

She sighs in your direction, "Don't you know what day it is?"
"Sunday?" you ask back.
She rolls her eyes in frustration, "We met six months ago, today."

• If you say "I thought you only kept track of these things in annual increments, not bi-annual?" proceed to 3.
• If you say "Oh, is it?" proceed to 4.
• If you say, "That's fantastic. Happy Anniversary, sweetheart." proceed to 4.
• If you're a clever man and have a random present tucked away for just such an occasion, proceed to 5.

2 - You continue to watch television while waiting for the sushi delivery guy to arrive. It's obvious Ruth can't hold in whatever is on her mind any longer as she bursts out, "Happy Anniversary, asshole!" She's only half-joking. You are an asshole for not remembering.

• If you say, "I know, baby, that's why I bought us sushi tonight to celebrate!" proceed to 7.
• If you say, "We've only been dating six months. What anniversary?" proceed to 10.
• If you just smile and nod, proceed to 4.

3 - "I'm being serious," she demands.
"I'm sorry baby, you're right." You've been in this situation before and know you cannot win.
"It's our anniversary today," she repeats herself.
"Happy Anniversary, Baby" you say.

• If you try and give her a kiss, proceed to 4.
• If you go back to watching televesion, proceed to 8.

4 - She gets a look on her face that you've never seen before. This is clearly her serious face. In fact, she's so straight-faced right now, you're wondering if she had botox done without telling you.

"Six months is a long time, and we spend almost every day together," she states for the record.
"We do spend a lot of time together, baby." You agree.
"And I love you," she says.
"Aww, I love you too, princess," you say back.

She still hasn't smiled.

"Don't you think it's time we took our relationship to the next level?" she finally gets to the point.

• If you're just a tool who doesn't consider the ramifications, and ask, "You want to get married?" proceed to 9.
• If you ask "What would be the next level?" proceed to 11.

5 - "Hold on a moment," you say as you walk into the bedroom.
A minute later you emerge with a beautiful tennis bracelet delicately wrapped and with a small card attached that reads, "I love you, signed Dan"
She blinks a few times and asks, "You remembered?"
"Of course I did, baby!" you lie.
She throws her arms around you and gives you a luscious kiss.

• Proceed to 13.

6 - You pre-emptively announce, "Happy six month Anniversary!" You hand her a gift.
She blinks a few times and asks, "You remembered?"
"Of course I did!" you say, thinking you're the shit.
She smiles and gives you a kiss.

• Proceed to 9.

7 - "You expect me to believe that?" she asks, annoyed.

• If you pause and think for a minute then concede, "It was worth a shot, right?" proceed to 4.
• If you stick to your guns and continue to pretend you remembered, proceed to 11.

8 - "That's it?" she asks angrily.
"What's it?" you reply.
"I tell you it's our six month anniversary and you go back to watching television?" she growls.
"I'm sorry, I said happy anniversary back. Did you want more?" You're a buffoon.

• Proceed to 10.

9 - That is all that is said about the anniversary that evening. You have dinner and she heads home for the night.

For the next couple days, she is busy every time you get in touch with her. You finally get a hold of her on Friday and ask her what she's doing, she tells you she has plans.

"Plans?" you ask.
"Plans." she says.
Before you can ask about her plans, she interrupts you.
"Listen, I don't think this is going to work out. You're a wonderful guy, but there's something missing, don't you think? I'd love to stay friends, because I really think you're awesome - I hope we can be friends."
Once again, before you can speak, she interrupts you.
"But I have to run, maybe we can talk next week? I'm sorry." She hangs up.

Congratulations, dickhead. You have no idea how women work and fucked up a pretty good thing. Next time, maybe you'll grow a spine and the chick won't dump you.

• The End.

10 - "You're clearly not ready for a serious relationship," she exclaims.
"But..." you start to say.
"I love you, I do," she interrupts you. "But I have no desire to be in a relationship with someone who can't even cater to my basic needs as a woman."
You just stare ahead in shock as the sushi delivery guy knocks on the door.
She gets her coat and purse as you pay for the dinner, and leaves after giving you a kiss on the cheek.

Better luck next time, champ. Look up smooth in the dictionary - it's what you're not.
This time next week she's going to be fucking some other dude. How you like dem apples?

• The End.

11 - She springs it on you. "I think we should move in together."
You can barely restrain yourself from cringing, "Move in together?"
"Yes, we've been dating for six months now and we love each other. We should take this to the next level." she maintains.
"Uh..." you stutter for a moment.

• If this chick is clearly moving too quickly for you and you decide to break things off, proceed to 12.
• If you can't seem to come up with a response, proceed to 10.

12 - Bravo, my good man. Bravo. You have intuitively stumbled upon the fundamental solution to this situation. You're clearly not ready for the "next step" with this woman, and know that whatever clever stopgap you could have come up with would only be temporary - just delaying the inevitable. You break up with her before she breaks up with you.

• The End.

13 - Congratulations, this evening you're getting laid like you haven't been since gradeschool. More importantly, you've cleverly adverted a potentially hazardous situation and are an inspiration and hero to merely average men across the globe. You'll still break up in a few months when this comes up again, but it'll be a fun ride until then.

• The End.

14 - I know there was no option 14. It's only here to serve as the moral of the story. There is no right answer like there is no spoon.

• Sometimes you're just fucked.

The Half Elvis

There we were, in San Jose, California at the end of a successful first day of a trade conference. Everything seemed to be going like they always do - tired and exhausted, everyone from our company and our attending clients were out getting smashed before retiring for the evening to repeat the process all over again the next day.

We had just hired one of our long-time friends, a marine named Spike, who was also in attendance. Spike had gotten considerably drunk this evening - because, well, as with all after-conference events, the alcohol was free and the bar was open.

We stepped outside for a cigarette as a bum approached us asking for money. Having been around similar situations in the past and somewhat sober still, I stepped back and watched in amusement at what Spike would do. Moving in the slow motion that all drunks do, he removed his wallet and pulled out a five dollar bill.

The bum's eyes lit up like a kid on christmas morning.

Spike handed him the five dollars, and as the homeless man began to thank him profusely, this hardened marine pulled this newly found, dreadlocked friend of his in for a tight embrace.

"I love you," Spike announced.
"I love you too," the bum replied, eyeing his five dollars hungrily.

The embrace lasted for a good minute before Spike finally let go. Thank you's and You're welcome's were exchanged at least five more times before the bum scurried off to buy his vice of choice.

This would have been enough fodder for jokes for the remainder of the conference, but Spike wasn't done yet. Not in the least.

He set his sites on two average looking girls who were having a heated discussion and a cigarette outside the bar next door. He walked up to them and just stood there, staring. They stopped talking and stared back at Spike in confusion.

"I'm Spike," he finally mumbled.
"We're having a private discussion," they responded.
"What about?" Spike asked, without skipping a beat.
"Our boyfriends," snapped the girls.
"You know, I used to be the guy girls talked to about their boyfriends in high school," Spike said, not giving up.

There was a momentary pause before one of the boyfriends walked out of the bar, obviously looking to corral the girls.

"Enter Mike the boyfriend, Exit Spike," said one of the pair.

Spike just stood his ground, staring. Saying nothing.

I prepared for the worst.

The group eventually went inside and Spike took a swig of his beer, shrugged, and walked towards me. Before I could even point and laugh, our group walked out of the bar, and we headed back to our hotel rooms.

Spike and I were sharing a room.

When we got back to the hotel, I decided to make one last booty call before calling it a night. A mutual friend of ours helped Spike up to our room as I sat by the pool making the aforementioned booty call.

Finally, I gave up on the notion and headed towards our room.

The door was open. I pushed it in slowly and said, "Hello?" uncertain as to why it was left ajar. There was no answer. I walked in, treading carefully, unsure what to expect.

The only light on in the room was coming from the bathroom, and as soon as I stepped foot inside the place, I was bombarded with the most foul smell known to man.

Continuing with caution, I peaked into the bathroom door which was left open, prepared for the worst. Pirates. Ninjas. Who could be certain what would pop out at me at this point.

In retrospect, I wish it were ninjas, because what I was about to witness, the Good Lord himself could not even prepare me for. This would change the both of us, and our relationship, forever.

There was Spike - pants around his ankles, head between his knees - passed out on the toilet while taking a drunken shit. A Half Elvis.

"Spike?" I asked almost timidly.

No answer.

"Dude," I said more loudly.

No answer.

"Hey man, get up and go to bed!" I shouted.

No answer.

I walked inside the bathroom, using my shirt as a makeshift gas mask.

"You ok?" I asked in my loudest possible voice.

No answer.

I shrugged and took a piss in the shower, not six inches away from him.

I shut the bathroom light on my way out and got into bed. If he were dead, I would deal with it in the morning.

Five minutes hadn't gone by when I heard an awful rumbling.

DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN!

Spike crashed face first into the wall directly opposite the bathroom door, as if thrown against it by an invisible police officer.

DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN!

Spike ran towards our beds and fell onto mine.

"Dude, wrong bed!" the homophobe in me quickly shouted.

He stood up and just let gravity drop him face first onto his bed. But like a god damn trampoline, he bounced directly back up off his nose and into a seated position on his bed.

Each time he tried to take off his shoes he fell into the lamp between our beds. A good twenty minutes later, after finally getting his shoes off, I thought maybe he was passing out sitting up.

But he had me fooled. He was lulling me into a false sense of security for his final act of terror for the evening. He shook awake, stood up, took off every lick of clothing in my plain view, and got into bed and finally passed out for good.

I laid there horrified for about twenty minutes before passing out myself.

We were startled awake the next morning by a co-worker's phone call, letting us know that we were already thirty minutes late to the conference.

As Spike threw off the covers to get up and get ready, two things happened. He realized he was buck-fucking-naked, and more importantly, he saw what I saw - a streak of shit, four inches long, just sitting there on his bedsheet.

He quickly threw the covers back on, but it was too late.

He knew I saw it.

He paused and stared straight ahead. I could almost see his hung-over mind processing this information and trying to piece together the night before, all the while attempting to come up with something clever to say.

"Well, last night obviously came to a screeching halt!" he finally said.

I relayed to him his exploits from the night before, and we laughed and patted each other on the back as we got ready for the conference that morning - knowing that our bond was now stronger than ever, and we had shared something few friends in this world would ever experience.

We were true friends, and that's all that mattered.

Two months later I fucked his ex-wife and we never spoke again.

Goonies Never Say Die

Much to the dismay of many people I know, I've been on a bit of a self-imposed seclusion for a while now. It's necessary. Believe it or not, it's social depravation that inspires me. As I said in my last blog, misery motivates.

Aside from a few, rare occasions where I've agreed to meet someone for a quick cup of Starbucks, I've been a real recluse.

The other night, however, a chink in my armor was exposed as a friend of mine forged a two-pronged attack. There was an unexpected knock at the door, and when I answered, there she was - holding a bottle of wine and two DVDs; The NeverEnding Story and The Goonies. Not unlike a temptress, she knew exactly where to strike - my inner geek.

I couldn't say no.

We laid on the couch for hours of nostalgic bliss. We laughed, we cried... and I was inspired. The next morning, I couldn't wait to write again. Armed with my new mantra, "Goonies never say die!" I was ready.

"Don't you realize? The next time you see sky, it'll be over another town. The next time you take a test, it'll be in some other school. Our parents, they want the best of stuff for us. But right now, they got to do what's right for them. Because it's their time. Their time! Up there! Down here, it's our time. It's our time down here. That's all over the second we ride up Troy's bucket."

We all go through times in our lives when things seem almost perfect. Times when you can throw caution to the wind. Times when you put your fists against your hips and stare out triumphantly over the world, your world, as your cape waves in an almost poetic rhythm with the wind.

It's during these times, when you least expect it, that the ever watchful hubris gods with their grubby, sweaty palms start grasping at your marionette strings and shift the ebb and flow of the universe as you've come to know it.

A karmic kick to the nuts.

As you regain a handle on things, your first arduous task is almost always to take an inventory of the inevitable collateral damage caused by this kismetic fallout. You'll find that the word friend is as disposable as the people it once described. Through a fog of familiar faces you'll find not an ounce of sympathy. Not a shed of compassion.

"You reap what you sow," they mumble as they slip away into inconsequence.

With no shoulder to cry on, no one to catch you fall, and no words of encouragement in earshot, you'll begin to feel exposed. You'll lose faith. There'll only be one person left for you to count on - yourself. A hollow shell of what you once were, a mere shadow of your former self, you're expected to now be stronger than you've ever been.

There are days it seems impossible.

You are now both Atreyu and Artax, watching yourself sink into the swamp as The Nothing slowly consumes you. Some days you feel like Atreyu, shouting not to give up, not to quit. Other days, you're Artax - defeated, accepting your slow demise.

"Yeah, but you know what? This one, this one right here. This was my dream, my wish. And it didn't come true. So I'm taking it back. I'm taking them all back."

You may be alone, but you're a Goonie - and Goonies never say die.

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, it is those of us who have stared bleakness in the eyes and told him, "Not today" that will reign tomorrow. A man without demons is no man at all, if you ask me - and any man worth his salt will have to face his demons not just once, but on a regular basis throughout his life.

It is overcoming the obstacle of shattered hopes, and picking yourself up to have a new dream that makes life worth living.

It's punk-fifteen in the morning...

Music is a huge part of my life. Everywhere I go, anything I do, I always have an internal soundtrack playing. A soundtrack that appears to have a library of every single song I've ever heard. Sometimes it's shit I don't even like or stopped listening to years ago, but for whatever reason, the soundtrack to my life feels like it's an appropriate time for it:

• Meeting someone you immediately know you just can't fucking stand? Ugly Kid Joe has, and they Hate Everything About You.
• Going out with a girl you don't even like and The Offspring is telling you about Self Esteem. Or God forbid you do like her, Puddle of Mudd starts whining about how much She Hates Me again.
• Maybe you're breaking up for the third time this week, so Limp Bizkit chimes in with a George Michael cover, saying you've gotta have Faith or maybe just this time you gotta Break Stuff.
• On those rare occasions when all seems to be right in the world, your old buddy Axl's got his arm around your shoulder agreeing how It's So Easy.

Over the past few weeks, as you know, I've been working on my Nicholl Fellowship submission - and the music that has been the most comfort and defining of this era in my life is punk. Which is ironic, because I wasn't listening to punk at the time.

Bad Religion, NOFX, Pennywise, Social Distortion, The Misfits, The Vandals, and Circle Jerks (to name a few) have been like old friends I've been reconnecting with these past few weeks as I struggle with this whole "writing thing."

Old friends that I have missed dearly.

There's something funny about punk. It's miserable, it's hateful, it's wild... yet, it's so honest and upbeat at the same time. It's like - Sure, I hate the world, I hate you, I want to kill you - but let's jump up and down and scream about it.

At the end of the day, my screenplay, the music, and all these experiences I've had have taught me one lesson that I guess I've always known deep down - misery motivates.

As Lester Bangs said:

"That's because we're uncool. And while women will always be a problem for us, most of the great art in the world is about that very same problem. Good-looking people don't have any spine. Their art never lasts.

Great art is about conflict and pain and guilt and longing and love disguised as sex, and sex disguised as love..."

New Plot Outline

So I took some advice and decided to re-write my Plot Outline as a scene-by-scene breakdown today. Jesus Christ, I think it made it even more overwhelming.

Anyway, I don't have much to report other than that. Armed with my new plot outline I'm going to chug away at the script.

Maybe tomorrow I'll talk about how this project has me a bit scared in general.

America: 1, Terrorists: 0

I've been all kinds of geek for as long as I can remember. Hell, the tattoos on my left arm are of Batman, The Punisher, and Pac Man. If that doesn't scream "sex me up" to the ladies, I don't know what does.

Anyway, so speaking as a geek, I was thrilled today to find out that Stephen Colbert has inherited the Captain America shield. How cool is that? First the mother fucker gets his own ice cream, and now this. What's next? Is he coming over to fuck my girlfriend? The man gets everything.

America may have won today, but brewing within us all is a little green terrorist setting its sights on you Mr. Colbert. Stop being so cool. Or we'll find you.

Other than that, I haven't even started writing for the day - but I plan to be up 'til the wee hours of the morning doing so. Wish me luck.

Same as yesterday

Not much to report. Just plugging away at the new script.

But I have been wondering - when did Ice Cube go from hard core rapper and potential action star to nothing but Are We There Yet remakes? I've lost faith. What's next? Ice T leaves SVU for Seventh Heaven?

Nothing to Report

Instead of just missing a day (which I should probably just do) this is here to simply state, "I have nothing to report today."

Easy Like Sunday Morning

It's been a pretty lazy Sunday. I haven't gotten much writing done, but that's usually the case until midnightish.

Is it just me or do you find yourself most productive somewhere between midnight and sunrise? I don't know what it is. There's just something about the dead silence of the night that brings out not only my best work, but also most of motivation to write.

Anyway, another short entry - I'm going to dick around a little online, read some forums, then try and write.

Smoochies.

Outlining

So I've begun outlining my first feature for the Nicholl Fellowship, and I've gotta say, I don't like outlining. I feel like jumping right into it and writing. But if working on that Entourage spec taught me anything, it's that I need an outline.

I guess I don't have to like it, but I do have to do it.

Other than that, I'm really liking where I'm going with the story as I flesh it out more for the outline.

Forget all that, though - it's Saturday. More whiskey.

Ernest Friday

In true Hemingway fashion, I plan to consume copious amounts of whiskey this evening. Hopefully the comparison will just end with the drinking, though, as I'm not ready to make myself a shotgun sandwich just yet.

Other than the update on my 5 year plan to become an alcoholic, I don't have much to report. I've been doing a lot of reading on various websites and blogs (everything from the ArtfulWriter.com to Ken Levine's and John August's Blogs).

Although I did exchange snarky banter with Tim Talbott late last night, and Derek Haas said I ruled. So if you really think about it, things can only go downhill from here.

I've peaked too early.

Resolve

Re·solve /rɪˈzɒlv/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciati[ri-zolv]
(v) verb

-	a resolution or determination made, as to follow some course of action.

-	firmness of purpose or intent; determination.

My favorite definition of Resolve has always been that of Dedication, and not Resolution. Not did he resolve his problem, but rather, his resolve is strong.

Why is this important? Because I've decided on my entry for the Nicholl Fellowship. I flip-flopped back and forth between what to submit, but ultimately decided it needed to be a story from my heart. One I could write passionately about - and hopefully that will show through in the work.

She has name, and it is Resolve.

Nothing to Report

Sold my 1972 Mustang today. A car I've had since I turned 16. She was blue with white racing stripes.

I'm going to miss that car.

Thank goodness I had this to cheer me up.

The Deadlines... They Loom

Much to the dismay of many of my friends, I've never been a big fan of pot. It's just not something I got terribly excited about. So you can count on two hands the number of times I've danced with Mary Jane. That being said, isn't loom a funny word? What about poundcake? Two awesome words if you ask me.

Especially if you put them together in a sentence: Looming Poundcake. Hilarious!

Anyway, looming poundcake aside, I haven't gotten any writing done today. My buddy Rick and I were supposed to have some sort of 24 hour writing contest, but we had a battle of lazy fucks instead. We both won.

I have two months until the Nicholl Fellowship and have no idea what I plan to submit.

Is that bad?

Clarification

Just to clarify - the post below was made early this morning. Therefor it counts as my post for the day, regardless of what time Blogspot thinks it was made.

But since I'm here...

Getting feedback some friends about the finished first draft. Man is it tough getting criticism on something you worked so hard on. I feel like curling up in a ball and swallowing a bottle of tylenol if I even hear the words "cliche" or "boring."

I'm going to try reading the emails stoned, maybe that will help.

My first completed script

While it may not be perfect. While it may not be funny. While it may not even be good, period... I've finished my first script. And it's mine.

I stayed up all night writing and have completed the 30 page spec script for Entourage.

I'm soliciting feedback on it from some friends and plan to do rewrites over the next couple days.

Now I gotta figure out what I wanna work on next.

Woot.

Sundays

It's 3:00 pm. Now you may be wondering what the significance of the time is, so I'll tell you:

I'm not waiting until the last minute to post this blog entry.

I know, I know - I'm as surprised as you are. Instead of letting the deadline creep up on me and at the last minute coming up with something, I'm actually just doing it without any pressure. It's a sign, I tell ya. The lazyness is being exorcised.

So I'm a little more than half way done with the Entourage spec and am really, really loving it. This is my first run-through at this, so I'm being assured that my writing process will continue to streamline itself the more I do it. Regardless, though, I absolutely love the script so far!

I can literally see and hear the true characters saying these lines, and it's flowing pretty well.

Rick has been a huge help to me throughout all this. We have a bit of a Roxanne arrangement going on - he helps me with my writing, and I give him useless advice on life that he'll probably never use. It's all very complicated and sexy.

Anyway, keep your fingers cross that I finish this first Entourage project by tomorrow. That's my goal.

• Another demerit for lack of profanity. I'm slipping in my old age.
  

Change - Part 4

This was impossible. What bizarro world had I become trapped in the last year? Drug use and knocking up girls - I was no longer the man I once was.

"How are you pregnant?" I asked.
"What?" she asked back.
"I mean you're on the god damn pill, how are you pregnant?" I demanded.
"I stopped taking the pill around when I moved out." She said.

We got into a huge fight. How could she do this to me? I was too young to have a kid. And with a girl I couldn't even stand? This couldn't be real. She had to have made this up in her insane little membrane. This wasn't the first time a girl had tried to use that line on me, so I left the house without saying a word to pick up not one, but two pregnancy tests. I returned and handed them to her.

"What? You don't believe me?" She asked like she was surprised.
"Just take the god damn test." I growled back.

Plus if she was pregnant. Minus if she wasn't.

She was pregnant.

My head started to spin, and I could barely stand. I sat down on the bed to compose myself. She tried talking to me, but I wouldn't respond. All I could think about was how my life was over, and how I'd end up having to pay child support for the rest of my life and share a child with a girl I could barely stand to look at anymore, let alone be friends with.

I had a conference to attend that weekend, but I cancelled it. I asked her to go visit her sister for a week in Georgia, and that we'd figure things out when she got back. I had to clear my head. She agreed, and off to Georgia she went.

Instead of clearing my head, though, I gambled for five straight days until I had nothing left in my bank account. In fact, I was overdrawn by the time I stopped.

Two days until she came back, and I didn't even have the rent money any more. Way to go, me. But apparently I had at least one more get out of jail free card to cash, as one of my clients accidently paid me two weeks early simply because I had sent the invoice in sooner than I usually did. With rent money in hand again, I was able to focus on what needed to be done here.

I reminded myself that family values were something that was very important to me at one point in my life, and I had promised myself that I'd never have a child without being in a loving marriage. Idealism be damned, we were going to make this work.

Natalie had a different plan.

She returned from Georgia having decided to move in with her sister who was also pregnant.

"I didn't know your sister was pregnant?" I asked oddly.
"Yeah, she's three months along." She told me.
"Three months, as in right around the time you moved here and stopped taking your birth control?" I quizzed her further.
"Yeah," she said.

Interesting little coincidence, don't you think? I definitely thought so.

Anyway, her mind was made up. She wanted nothing to do with my proposed solution, where she'd stay in California and I would pay her rent and put her through school, even if we didn't remain together. This was no longer an option for her. She was going to move to Georgia and play house with her sister.

It took her all of three days to be packed and on a plane to Georgia with all her belongings. She even took my dog.

I couldn't help but laugh at where in life I'd found myself yet again. The real laugh, though, came two days after she'd left when she called me asking for $5,000 to help with her move, because she couldn't cover all of the expenses and the moving company wouldn't release her stuff. I asked her if she was crazy, even though I didn't really need to.

She said if I didn't help her with the move, that it would be a clear sign that I was an unfit father and would never be allowed to see my child again. I told her to shove it.

Always a woman of her word, I've never from her since that day. I moved back in with my parents.

I stayed clean and worked on growing my company, out of site out of mind. Business was doing great, and I was happy again. I was making enough money and putting enough away where I felt comfortable moving out on my own again. It was time.

But in November of 2005, two things happened. One, it was the month she was due to give birth and the one mutual friend we had left told me in confidence she had a son. Two, I was offered a job by one of my clients here in Los Angeles for well over six figures - and I accepted.

As a sidenote - I'm an only child. An only son, for that matter. To make matters worse, I'm the last of my surname in my family. I was born in Lebanon, I'm not sure if I've mentioned before or not (I'm half Greek and half Lebanese) - but I point it out now because the only other men in my family who could carry on the surname had died during the war in Lebanon many years prior. I was alone on this, and now I had a boy out there who could have carried my name and become great.

Two completely different emotions overwhelmed me at once. And as we all know, I could handle major life swings with ease.

I met a group from MySpace and we went out drinking together. It was my first time out since Natalie had left. We had a wonderful time, drinking and talking smack. I felt in old form again.

As the night was winding down, one of the girls in the group suggested we get some coke and get ourselves a hotel room. Another girl in the group overheard and said she and her boyfriend would love to join us. So off we went, to some shady little motel off Sunset Blvd with a couple 8 balls in hand.

It didn't take long for the night to heat up, and before my girl and I had even gotten a chance to start making out, the other two were naked and going at it like a couple of rabbits on the bed next to ours. This was my cue that I was getting rusty and had been slacking. I kicked things into overdrive and not long after my date and I were going at it as well.

After the first round the guy looked over at me and said, "Wanna swap?" Did I want to swap? Hell yes I wanted to swap, his girl was hot! But my date put the kibosh down on that idea and whispered in my ear that she wasn't interested in him. Like a boy on Christmas morning who woke up to no bike under the tree, I had to tell him no.

So as we're taking a break and doing a few more lines before we continue, this guys phone rings. It's his wife.

You heard me right. His wife.

"He has a wife?" I ask the girl after he'd put on his pants to take the call outside.
"Yeah," she giggled like it was no big deal.

We weren't even done laughing at how awkward this just was when he walked in and said, and I quote, "My wife is being a cunt. I need to go home." We laughed even harder, this time before he left the room. Thankfully he laughed along with us instead of getting offended. "I know, I know" he said as he put on his jacket and kissed the his date goodbye.

Now it's just the three of us doing copious amounts of coke and talking when the other girl, still sitting across from us on the other bed asks, "Can I join you guys over there?" There is a God, oh yes there is. We both said yes and she hopped on over. The rest of the night was absolutely fabulous, and I don't think I need to go into too many details. The three of us had a marvelous time.

Until I got my first nose bleed.

The other girl had left in the morning to go get some sleep before work, and it was just my date and I again doing lines and having a good time when all of a sudden my nose started to bleed. I was embarrassed to say the least, this had never happened before. She looked a bit turned off. I tried to make light of the situation.

"I know guys usually say this about erections, but I swear it's the first time it's happened to me." I spit out like a true champion, holding a bloody wad of tissues to my nose.

She gave me a pity laugh. The evening was clearly over now.

I walked her to her car, but instead of checking out and getting into mine, I decided I wasn't quite done celebrating over my job offer and mourning over my newborn son. Two weeks. Two weeks I spent locked up in that hotel room, with a box of new syringes to keep me company. That and my dealer who would come by every couple days to bring me a new supply. Until he couldn't be found, that is. I had to find a new contact, and quick. I had an 8 ball of my regular stuff left, but that wouldn't last me but another day or so.

I called around and found a new hookup. A girl I had met came over and introduced me to her dealer, a nice enough guy who was a lot cheaper than my old dealer. She stayed for a day and we got high together, but she quickly got on my nerves and I asked her to leave. I kept the contact, though.

It didn't take me long to realize that the bitch did speed, and not coke. And only used me so I'd pay for some without telling me. At first I didn't notice the difference because I mixed his in with my original supply, until mine ran out and I was just down to his.

If you don't know the difference between coke and speed - the highs are not just very different, but they need to be taken in different doses. I didn't know I was doing speed, so I did it like I would do my coke.

Four hours later, and I snap out of my tweak to realize I've been poking at my grossly bruised forearm that entire time looking for a new vein.

That wasn't enough to stop me, though - as I finally found a new vein and went ahead with it.

"That was one too many," a voice said to me.

I knew he was probably right. I had been locked away in that hotel room for two weeks, staving off the pain. A blood-stained bedsheet was my only companion. My arms were bruised beyond recognition - at least they matched my pride now. Not to be overly dramatic, but time, I thought, was no longer a luxury I had.

I decided to make one phone call before I left myself to the hands of fate. I rang my parents. Much to my relief, the answering machine came on. I tried to be concise.

"Hi Mom and Dad, I guess you aren't there," I said. "I just wanted to say I love you both."

Before I could hang up, there was a click on the line. It was my mother, in tears.

"Where are you? Are you okay?" she asked.
"I'm fine. I just wanted to say I love you," I said, trying to get off the phone as quickly as possible.
"We haven't heard from you in over a week," she pleaded.
"I'm fine. I'll see you soon, I promise. But I can't talk now, I need to go." I added.

She began to cry as my father picked up the other line.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, pained.
"Everything's fine. I need to go, but I'll see you soon. I just wanted to say I love you," I said in closing, as I hung up the phone.

I didn't want to leave them like that, but it was getting difficult to speak. I looked around my stale hotel room off Sunset and Vine, everything was blurry and dark now. I could make out shapes, but nothing more. Light was my enemy. I wobbily stood up, barely able to maintain my balance, and shut off all sources of light in the room before crawling back into my casket.

"So this is where it's all going to end," I thought to myself.

My attention drew to a small streak of sunlight that found its way through a crack in the curtains. Laying on my back, almost paralyzed, I looked up to confront this intruder. As I grabbed focus on this seemingly benign ray of sunshine, it began to zig and zag painfully, like a lightning bolt streaking across the ceiling of my tomb. I thought if I shut my eyes it would stop.

It didn't.

As my eyelids met, the lower half of my body shook for a second. Not to be outdone by its neighbor, my upper body too began to shake.

I took a deep breath. It seemed to subside.

I warily opened my eyes and stared straight ahead. What I remember to have been a mirror on the wall directly in front of me, was now a fog hovering over my body. I could make out the shape of a man, sitting within the fog, looking in my direction.

"God?" I hoped. There was no answer.

"Didn't think so," I would have said, if irony was a sentiment I was still capable of. Instead, my legs shook again for a few seconds, followed by what I imagined was my final gasp for breath. My heartbeat rose dramatically, I could almost feel it trying to puncture through my chest. I put my hand over my heart, it was hot. So very hot. I could feel my body shutting down.

I started to cry.

"This is not how it's supposed to end," I managed to say aloud.

My watchful friend said nothing, continuing to stare at me.

"SAY SOMETHING!" I shouted, as my chest fluttered in pain. I grabbed a fistful of my bloody pillow as painful streaks of lightning began to dance in front of me again. I'd never felt my heart beat so fast, it was on overdrive. Molten lava where my chest used to be. I could barely breath. I looked to the man still seated in the fog for comfort, for assurance. He didn't speak.

"There's so much I haven't said yet," I pleaded. "So much I haven't accomplished. Where have you been? Why won't you speak? I'm alone, I'm afraid. Why won't you help? I'm so sorry..."

This impotent archon just sat there, doing nothing as buckets of tears escaped down my cheeks.

The room would grow dark occasionally, and more blurry. But he stayed the same.
Unmoving.
Uncaring.
My immobile deity.
My mute savior.
My incapable hero.

"Just give me a chance to make things right," I cried out in pain, still faithful. The world went black.

That lonely Thursday morning, I died.

I awoke Saturday, face down in a puddle shame. I stood up to make sure it was real. I could barely walk. I hadn't eaten in almost a week at this point. Suffering from severe malnutrition, I smiled in relief as I walked to the bathroom and flushed away the remnants of my destructor.

As I left my sarcophagus that day, I looked at my reflection in the mirror where the fog had hovered. A final, lone tear made its way down my face.

"Thank you," I said unnecessarily, as I shut the door behind me.

Good riddance old friend, I will miss you never again.

I went back home, and my parents once again took me in. The job offer was no longer on the table, as they hadn't been able to get in touch with me for two weeks straight.

I had lost everything.

Change - Part 3

No sooner than I hit the road for California, Natalie (the young hottie) and I start talking on the phone. A lot.

We talk on the phone several times a day during the course of my eight day drive to California. It took me eight days because apparently I hadn't screwed up everything quite enough yet, so I decided to stop at every casino that was even remotely close to my path down Interstate 40. Tunica? No problem. That weird little indian place in bumblefuck? Been there. Naturally, I kept this all to myself. Telling Natalie and my parents that the drive was taking longer than expected because I was tired and strung out, so I wasn't able to drive for longer than a few hours a day.

Of course, I couldn't keep the lie going once I hit Las Vegas and my remaining $6,000 was no more. I had to ask my parents to wire me fourty dollars gas money to finish the trek from Vegas to Los Angeles.

Yes, I was that bad off. Natalie and I still spoke several times a day.

I finally made it home and my parents treated me like a weird new puppy for the first couple days. They weren't too loving, but very understanding at the same time - if that makes sense. It didn't hit me at the time, though it should have, but my parents had moved from our original house to a new apartment with a spare bedroom that had all my old stuff in it. Insulting? Foreshadowing? All I knew was that I never expected to be living at home again in my mid twenties. It was crushing for the ego, but I had to get clean and find my way again.

Natalie had agreed to not do cocaine anymore, as I told her that I wanted her to quit as well. She said she did, and as far as I know, she didn't do any while I was gone - but she liked to drink. Heavily. She was an awful drunk most of the time, and it didn't take long for me to see she had a huge drinking problem.

One night, maybe a few weeks after I had gotten back to Los Angeles, she and I had started talking about her visiting in January. The original excuse was that it was an easy way for her to return my dog and just fly with him here. That didn't last long, however, because just a few days later, while drunk, she told me she loved me while over the telephone. This relationship, whatever you wanted to call it, had a very high school feel to me. The whole talking on the phone every single day, missing each other crap - it wasn't me. But I guess I needed something to occupy my mind while I cleaned up, though - so I went along with it.

Apparently I loved her too.

Keep in mind, besides the fondling on the couch and some making out, this girl and I hadn't even slept with one another yet. She had a seizure before I could get to that.

Anyway, I decide to run with my own firm and to hell with the consequences. Sure enough, within a week, I had my first client and there was no looking back after that. I was making money again, I hadn't touched drugs or alcohol for several months, and Natalie and I were "in love" and she was coming to visit very soon.

There were no available hotel rooms the day Natalie arrived (none in a part of town where I wanted to stay, anyway) so the first thing we did when she got into town was go back to my place and fuck. And when I say my place, I mean my parents house - with my father in the living room. It was very surreal. And weird. And dirty. At least the next night we'd have a hotel room.

So we go out the first night and we get pretty drunk. I mentioned previously that she was an awful drunk, and now you'll see why.

We're at one of my old watering holes in Los Angeles and the bartender is being very friendly, giving us one free shot for every one we purchase. Things are going great. Suddenly, she storms out of the bar and starts walking down Hollywood Blvd at one in the morning. If you're at all familiar with this town, this is NOT a good idea. I go after her and try to find out what's wrong, but she won't talk. She just keeps stating that she's worthless and I should leave her there.

Oh Jesus. What have I gotten myself into now.

I calm her down and drive her back to my parents place. When we get there, she says she has something to tell me. She tries to tell me how she's worthless because she slept with someone before coming out to California to see me. I try telling her that we hadn't even slept together at that point yet, and she lived three thousand miles away. In fact, I continue, if I weren't so involved with my business and staying clean, I'd have gone out and banged a broad or two myself. That should have been the end of it.

It wasn't.

Now she's telling me I need to hit her because she's so worthless. She's grabbing my hand and trying to hit herself with it. My parents are in the very next room, and this chick is getting louder and louder. I turn on the music to try and at least drown some of it out. She's getting more and more belligerent by the minute, demanding I be a man and hit her.

Much to my dismay, I was strangely turned on by all this. So much so that I finally flipped her over and just stuck it in her pooper. Not to get terribly graphic, but we're going at it pretty hard in a location you shouldn't exactly storm like it's Normandie fucking Beach if you know what I mean. Next thing I know, she starts grabbing my hand and choking herself with it. Now I like me some damaged goods just as much as the next guy, but was this really the time for it? But Fuck it, I ran with it. It was exciting. We finish off by going ass to mouth, and I go to bed wondering if I now absolutely love this girl, or hate her. I decide it's both.

The next day, while she's showering as we prepare to leave for our hotel, my mother tells me that she could hear everything last night and would appreciate it if I didn't do that in the house anymore.

I think it was the first time I'd blushed in many, many years. I said "Okay mom. Sorry." And we never spoke about it again.

The following night, as we're once again out and getting quite drunk, we decide to get some cocaine. I had no contacts in LA since I had just moved and hadn't done any since getting back, but if there's anything there's no shortage of here, it's drugs. We went to the one place you can score yourself some coke in any town, any day of the week - a strip club. Within the hour we had a guy meeting us on Laurel Canyon drive in his spiffy new Mercedes handing us two 8 balls.

If this wasn't enough, she wanted to try it the way I had been doing it before I moved, and asked me to get us some new syringes. I did.

We spent the next two days high as can be, and you couldn't even begin to imagine how disgusted I was with myself. I had my business going, I was doing great - and in one night, it all went down the drain. Even after she left, I continued using. In my parents house.

I was doing drugs at home now.

Miraculously, I kept up with my business just fine. I convinced myself I could keep the drug use under control while I maintained a normal life otherwise. I would crank out all the work I would need to within the first couple days of the week, and spend the rest of it high. I eventually stopped, and I can't exactly tell you why I did. I just woke up one day and could barely move my arms again they were so bruised and bloody, and decided I'd had enough. Again.

Natalie came out for one other visit, but at that point it was just a formality. We'd fooled ourselves into thinking we could have a normal relationship and I would continue to grow my business with her as my assistant. She was to leave school and come live with me in California. We found ourselves a great townhouse, and not a few months after her original visit, I was helping her drive out to California - but on one condition:

We wouldn't do drugs anymore. We wouldn't even drink.

Believe it or not, once we moved in together, we didn't touch drugs a single time. Unfortunately, I was completely miserable. Turns out that the sex fiend I thought I'd moved in with didn't exist outside the alcohol-space continuum. It was like I went from a cat in his mid twenties having fantastic sex every night of every day to an old married guy who had to convince his wife touch his pecker once a week, if that.

If you haven't been able to tell already, I can put up with a lot of garbage - but not having sex is not one of them. By the end of the first month I knew this was a huge mistake. I absolutely loathed this girl.

Instead of just cutting our losses quickly, though, we did what any disfunctional couple would do in our situation - we lived in mutual hatred of one another. Having promised not just my parents, but myself as well, I couldn't turn to drugs this time. For now, that lifestyle was out of the question. That didn't mean I couldn't piss away my money gambling, though.

I spent countless hours and days in the casinos, not playing poker, but the table games and slot machines. So much so that the neighborhood casinos quickly upgraded me to high roller status and gave me whatever I wanted. This put even more strain on our already-doomed relationship, because she absolutely hated gambling. I had to eventually start lying to her and tell her I was in day-long meetings when in reality I was gambling away thousands upon thousands of dollars on a weekly basis. Thank god business was good.

Our relationship got worse and worse, and eventually, it was obvious that this would not work out like my past bad relationships had - you know, where I simply just become an evergrowing asshole until they leave me. I had to put aside my complete inability to break up with a girl and just bite the bullet on this one, and dump her myself.

We had set a sex date for one Sunday morning (yes, we were literally putting fucking DATES on when we'd have sex at this point) and, as usual, at the last minute she said she wasn't in the mood. And just as the words "This isn't going to work, you need move out" were about to leave my lips, she said:

"I think I'm pregnant."

Continue to Part 4

Change - Part 2

Before I continue I should note that I grew up in Los Angeles, but had relocated to the east coast for this job.

My 27th birthday was two days away. I spoke with my attorney, who told me (off the record) that I should probably just get away from the drugs and the girl, and come back to deal with the backlash when I have my life in order. It was sound advice. So I decided to have one last celebration with my friends on my birthday and just move back to Los Angeles to get away from the nonsense.

The day before my birthday there's a knock at my door. It was the police. The drugs and gun were still in my apartment, but I had hidden it away.

Much to my surprise, I was only served with a restraining order, and not a warrant. They said the restraining order noted that I had a hand gun in the house and that it was to be confiscated until the court date. I denied the existance of such a gun and claimed the allegation was just made in spite. I even offered for the officers to look around the apartment. They declined and said it wasn't necessary. I asked them if that was it, because i'd heard about them pressing charges as well. The officers said that those usually take a few days longer, as restraining orders are approved and served immediately for safety concerns - and if such charges had been filed, I would not receive those papers until a couple days later.

The next morning, on my birthday, I called the police station to ask about my situation. Sure enough, there were two warrants out in my name - Second Degree Tresspassing, and Destruction of Private Property.

I hung up the phone and laughed. Second Degree Tresspassing, how petty.

So we're out on my birthday and I meet this attractive young girl. She's 19 and has a smoking body. More interestingly, she's paying me absolutely no attention and is just there as a high school friend of one of my buddies. A girl who paid me no attention, on my fucking birthday? I think not. I turned up the charm, pointing out her flaws and ignoring her back. Key techniques I learned in grade school that work to this day.

One of the girls shows up at the bar we're having my birthday celebration at (which we knew was a possibility since they knew I hung out there regularly) so we immediately kick in Plan B and I high tail it out of there. We reconvene at a friends house to continue the celebration.

We buy ourselves a couple 8 balls of coke, and continue to party up the night. The group goes out to get some juice and more coke as we'd run out by now, and the hottie and I remain in the house to finish the few remaining lines.

"I'll let you see my tits if I can do half of your last line." she says.
"I've seen plenty of tits before, you gotta do better than that." I don't miss a beat.

So she's straddled on my lap and I'm sucking on her nipples as the others finally get back to the house. They smile and nod in approval and make way to the back bedroom as she and I continue on the couch in the living room. I wave hello from underneath her.

Skip ahead to seven in the morning when she and I are back at my place with a brand new 8 ball in hand. We're having deep conversations as one usually does when high on coke, when suddenly this chick starts fucking shaking and drooling, and falls off her chair. She's having a motherfucking seizure on my dining room floor and now I have a warrant out in my name, and an OD'd chick on my hands.

I call up my friend Emily and tell her to get her ass over to my place immediately, as we're gonna bury this bitch if we have to.

I pick the girl up and carry her to my bed as she begins to come to, not remembering what just happened. I tell her and she shrugs and wants to do another line - not on my watch, babe.

Anyway, enough about her.

She gets better and drives home, and I head out to my local watering hole for the night. I've already decided that I'm going to bang every chick I hadn't yet before moving back, and high on the list was this cute bartender that worked there. She agrees to come over to my place.

We get there and I break out the coke when she looks at me for a moment and pauses.

"What's up?" I ask.
"Promise not to freak out?" She asks back.
"Spit it out, princess." I speed up the pace.

She pulls out a pack of brand new syringes and says that she does her heroine and coke that way, and if I'd mind.

I'm a long fucking way from Kansas for someone who went to private school and had never done hard drugs before in his life. So I do what any reasonable person who just had a chick OD in his apartment the night before would do: I say of course she can, and would she mind if I tried it too.

She hands me half the pack of fresh syringes so that we make sure not to share, and I cross the point of no return. If on a scale of 1 to 10 snorting coke was a 9, then this was an exquisite 100. I had felt nothing like it before, and had it killed me then and there, I would have died a happy man.

We do this all night and have pretty remarkable sex, and I send her on her way when the drugs run out. She asks if I wanted to keep going and try some heroine, but I somehow manage to grip onto the last tiny bit of sanity I have left and decline.

I walk her out and bid her farewell, and I get in my car to go get myself a hotel room. I know the cops are coming any minute now, and I have to sleep. Plus, I have a new habit that I'm just itching to do more of.

I crash for about 10 hours, and when I wake up I decide to call the young girl from my birthday to see how she's doing. She's well and invites me over to her place to watch a movie. I take a short break from the chaos and drugs and tell her I'd come over only if no drugs were involved. She agreed and said she wasn't interested in doing any at that time anyway. We watch a movie and have a pleasant time together.

This girl had an overdose in my apartment the first night I met her, and I'm leaving town in a week. The only reasonable thing to do is start up a relationship with her. But more on this later, right now I have more self-destructing to do.

I go pick up a ton more coke and a bunch of new syringes and head back to my hotel room. What was supposed to be a couple days in hiding to get myself in order to leave town turns out to be eight straight days of binging to the point of barely being able to move my arms because they're so sore and bloody. I can barely see straight anymore.

I'm slowly killing myself.

I go to get more money and score some more coke, when the ATM machine spits out my receipt. I have $6,000 left to my name.

I'm going to be broke and alone soon, with no place to live and no job. This was an intense realization.

I call my parents back in Los Angeles, in tears. I tell them whats going on. Everything. I don't even know what they'll say or how they'll react, I just know I need to tell them. They're both very old country, and since I last saw them, I've gotten my left arm entirely tattoo'd, pierced my ears, and now I have an increasingly bad drug habit. I tell them that if they'll have me, I'd like to come home and get my life in order.

They start crying too.

Much to surprise, my hard-ass father whom I would have never expected this from, tells me that I'm his only child and that he loves me - I'm welcome in his house any time. Pack your shit and come home, son - you need your family right now he tells me.

I throw out the drugs, dispose of the gun, and pack up all my essentials into my car in four hours time - leaving behind all my furniture in the apartment I would never give notice to. I make one final stop at the young girls house to kiss her goodbye, and to drop off my dog so she can watch over him as I drive across the country.

But this is not quite rock bottom enough for me.

Continue to Part 3