Laziness and Introversion


When I was growing up, there were always two girls who would hardcore flirt with me, Laziness and Introversion. They were definitely cute, but lots of girls were cute. What I liked about them was that they came up to me. Introversion was a girl I’d seen around since preschool, and we always seemed to have the same classes. It was rare to be in school without her. Laziness played the background for a while, but sauntered up to me as life started getting more complicated. She promised she was there to keep things simple, which was what Introversion also said, despite her bringing an unpleasant but easy-to-fuck girl, Fear, along on our romantic excursions.

I was inexperienced and didn’t know if I could handle two girls, or if they would even go for it, but me, Laziness, and Introversion all seemed to click. By the time high school came around, we were regularly fucking like wild animals. Most of the other guys in my high school seemed to have their eyes on Involvement, but I thought she was too hot for me. Way out of my league, and she seemed to change guys when she was with them.

Believe it or not, there was another girl, very sweet, who seemed to have her eyes on me. Her name was Ambition, and though I found her pretty intimidating, she was nowhere near as scary as the uber-popular Involvement. Occasionally I would go and flirt with her. It felt weird to be without my normal girls, but I got the sense Ambition and I could go somewhere. Jealous to a fault though, when Laziness and Introversion saw me talking to ambition, they went crazy, and would proceed to make all my sexual fantasies come true day after day to keep their man from straying.

Around the end of high school, a couple of buddies of mine tried to set me up with another girl. They said my off-beat personality was just what this girl Marijuana was looking for. She was a slut, and was just starting to fuck with some of my friends. My first date with her was not that great, but definitely intriguing. I decided to show her to the girls.

I’ve never in my life seen them react like that. Their vaginas went off like fire hoses, and they were ready to go. The first time the four of us, Introversion, Laziness, Marijuana and me all got alone in a room together, sparks flew. I’d never had sex like that before in my life, and the three of them, admittedly incredibly hot together, told me to cancel all my plans, that it was just going to be the four of us from now on.

In the meantime, I couldn’t stop thinking about Ambition. She was different, and I was surprised that we did seem to click on some levels. Eventually, I got the courage to ask her out, going to New York with her and actually attempting to do stand-up comedy. It had always been an interest that Fear mocked me for (what was I doing telling her my feelings anyway?), but Ambition told me to try it. I loved it, but the girls were, of course, insanely jealous. I stopped eventually when they called in Fear to berate me at our sex sessions. I got the feeling that Fear was a bitch to lot of people.

So I laid around with the five of us all fucking like crazy. No matter how much you think you get action, you’ve seen anything like the sessions me, Introversion, Laziness, Marijuana and Fear had day after day. Ridiculous orgies! Tiring though.

Eventually, it was too repetitive and I asked Ambition if she wanted to go to California. It should have been a big deal, but it didn’t even seem hard to ask. She was delighted and agreed to go.

California was great. Ambition was a loving girlfriend, a new experience after all that jealousy, and she encouraged me to actually write a novel. I had my own apartment and a job at Jons Marketplace, where I was surprised to see one of my old girls, Marijuana, fucking everybody. So yes, I fell right back into things with her, but, to my complete surprise, she had brought along Involvement, the girl who had scared me so much in high school, and we actually clicked this time. After I started fucking Involvement regularly, she introduced me to her friend, a girl I’d never met before, Cockiness. A wild girl who would’ve normally scared me, we actually got along great for this period. She even offered to hook me up with her friend, Casual Sex, but that girl, even after being with Cockiness, was still way too much for me. She was like Involvement on speed!

But those Jons orgies seem far away these days. Ambition flirts with me a lot, but seems to be more interested in other guys. When I see her with them, I can’t lie, it hurts. I liked being with her. Things were different. Maybe a little scary, but good. My old foursome came back, and boom, here I was on a different coast fucking the living shit out of the whole goddamn gang again: Laziness, Introversion, Marijuana and me all back together and always locked up in the apartment.

I feel like a married man. They’re way too clingy. But when you click you click. It’s hard to leave the girls you’ve become so comfortable with. I began looking for a way to change things, to possibly leave them, but they always called in Fear to be a bitch to me again when I thought about leaving them.

Nowadays, I flirt with Ambition in a way too obvious and needy way. I’m sure it’s a turn off to her. I don’t know how to get my three girls, or should I say wives, to loosen the leash. There is a new girl on the scene that I remember from years ago who has kind of caught my eye. Her name is Sobriety.

I feel like she might be the type of girl who would stand up to my exes if I was with her, but she scares the living shit out of me. I don’t know if I even have the strength to throw a pick-up line at her.

So for now, I keep sticking my tired and chafed penis into my harem of possessive women, fucking night after night into oblivion. As I leave the bedroom for the day, I tell them I might not be back that night.

They laugh their heads and off and say, ‘See you later’ in sexy, condescending tones.



I woke up suddenly and screamed like I never had before.

In front of my face was a face I’d seen thousands of times before, but never in real life. An image so familiar that it kept me from truly flying off the handle. Something real, and yet blurred and translucent. A scruffily handsome face with dark blood matted to it.

I was looking into the ultra-blue eyes of Kurt Cobain.

“Hi, Jason,” he said in a voice far too normal for the situation I was in.

“Mr. Cobain?” I managed to stammer out. My voice was groggy and fearful, didn’t much sound like my own.

“Oh, c’mon now. Mr. Cobain? You write about me enough for it to be considered homoerotic obsession. Let’s go with Kurt.”

“OK, Kurt….why are you here?”

He smiled, which was a beautiful and comforting thing. He had not lost the unbridled childlike enthusiasm that sculpted a Cobain smile. “I’m always here.” He paused. “You know how you always joke to people that you got into Nirvana right after I died? That was the point. I was assigned as your guardian angel.”

Immediately my fear dropped away. “Really?! Holy shit, that’s really cool. I hope I’m not dreaming because that’s honestly the most awesome thing I’ve ever heard!”

“You’re not dreaming. I was supposed to look after you and guide you on your path. The fame gods noticed something in you.”

Perhaps because of narcissistic joy, I didn’t question the odd nature of all of this, or wonder if I was hallucinating, possibly having forgotten about taking shrooms or acid, I just did a silent, cliched sports fist pump, excited over having my feeling of being meant for this justified.

“You’ve never appeared to me before though. Why now?”

“We’re a little worried about your development. Things seem to be moving along, but slowly.”

“Yeah, I know. I missed the 27 deadline.”

He laughed. “No, don’t worry about that. You weren’t supposed to be in that club. But I’m glad you brought it up.” He paused again. Looked real serious. “You know nothing of sacrifice.” He ran his fingers through the dark, matted hair on his head. “This is still from the gun shot wound. My face has been kept in tact so that you wouldn’t lose your shit, but if I were to show you the actual result…”

He snapped his fingers here and his face transformed into a horrific, distorted mess, leaking blood everywhere. I grabbed at my ruined sheets but with another snap things were back to normal, no evidence of the black liquid.

“You’ve talked about my suicide constantly, but I don’t think you’ve ever really grasped it. I gave up being able to watch my little girl grow up.”

“You can’t see her like you’ve seen me?”

“Seeing is one thing. Being able to hold, and comfort, and talk to is another. I threw all that away to have my image raised into immortality. It’s a huge price to pay.”

“I know.”

He got more serious. “You don’t know. That’s the problem here. Look down at your wrists. Look at what you have tattooed there. Quiet observer. And everyone immediately says how much that’s you when they see it.”

“It’s true. They do.”

“You haven’t dedicated yourself to anything but not letting this world touch you. I understand. I was assigned to you because we’re the same. The quiet art kid who wants to sleep in the corner, perpetually annoyed by existence itself.”

I felt an urge to hug him, but my arms would’ve passed right through.

“But we were both also possessed by a passion and a drive. You saw how far mine carried me, but I had to let this world molest the living shit out of me to reach that point. Its hands were all over me. It was horrible. I hated it. Enough to, you know…” He made a gun with his hand, pointed to his head, and made a firing noise, as darkly comedic a gesture as any I’d ever seen, especially accompanied by his smile again.

“But you know, that was what turned me from Kurt Cobain to ‘Kurt Cobain’. Sacrifice.”

“I know, Kurt. I do! I’m tortured because of it. The ambitious superstar and the lazy recluse in one body! It never stops!”

“But you don’t let the first shine enough. You have to get out there more. You have to stop resenting life itself, Jason.”

So odd to hear him say my name. I was so lost in the moment. He looked me deep in the eyes.

“By now you’ve figured out that when you got your heart broken, all the pain wasn’t because of her. It was anger over the fact that something like that could happen. The sheltered idealist’s jaw was agape over the idea of falling for someone and then not being able to have them. Your brain couldn’t cope with the idea of not having something turn out with a happy Disney ending. You felt bitter about having gotten involved at all. You wished you could’ve traded that experience for non-involvement and the peace that goes with it, right?”

Sheepish silence before I said, ‘Yeah.”

“You know that feeling you get only when you’re napping? You haven’t written about it yet, but that one where you’re halfway between consciousness and the dream world and then all of a sudden you realize what being famous would actually be like? Not that amazing daydream shit, but the reality of it? That’s me, trying to show you. Because, honestly, you still don’t know.”

He shook his head. “You just don’t. You feed yourself on the little tidbits of it you experience and that’s almost enough at times. But you beg for something that you don’t even really understand.”

“I want to,” I desperately replied. Getting the ‘you’re fucking up’ speech from friends or parents was one thing, the ghost of Cobain was another entirely.

“You gotta let the world touch you. I’ll be truthful with you: we don’t have that much faith left. You love cozy reclusion in the way you should love chasing your dream. You should put the effort you put into making sure you have weed and something to watch for the night into your pursuit of fame. You’re lying to people, aren’t you?”


He moved back and I was left breathless, terrified, sweating.

“You’re scared to get a Master Clown Shrooms tattoo, aren’t you? The thought’s entered your head, but you’re nervous about it, aren’t you? Why is that?”

He was asking, of course, already knowing the answer. Feeling like this dead rock star ghost was a school teacher, I mumbled out, “Because I want to walk away from it one day.”

“Yeah, well I can’t walk away from this gaping hole in my head. I can’t walk away from those opening chords of ‘Teen Spirit’ looping all the time. This stuff is permanent. Fame never goes away. What you’re asking for is to press a button, experience a lifestyle like an amusement park ride, and then hit the button again and have it all disappear. You want to try it on like a hat. You want to get your dream and then retreat back to the other one about being left alone. You have no guts.”

“There’s no hope?” It was the only thing I could think of to ask.

He sighed. “There’s always hope. Your complete lack of experience is made up for by choosing the ‘master clown’ prefix to your name. That was a good move. That image will work. Mock this experience of life. It’s an angle you can really sink your teeth into. Other than that, you need to rely on the symbiotic nature of your superstar side. After you perform, when the compliments, attention, and post-show buzz actually transform you into who you need to be for a few hours? You need to work that for everything you can. Always stay in environments like that because when you’re alone you retreat into yourself again.”

He glanced over at my bedside clock. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got other wannabe Cobain’s to go give pep talks to. These goddamn kids, give them some artistic talent and a misanthropic attitude and they think they own the world. Everyone wants to be a rock star but nobody wants to actually get their hands dirty.” He pointed again at the blood on his head.

“Remember….let the world touch you. Or just give up.”

“Wait, Kurt! But…this is why I’m here right? I need to know for sure!”

“Yes, it is. Otherwise I wouldn’t be wasting my time here with you, because god knows your parents and multiple friends telling you all of this hasn’t done shit. You know in your heart it is. That’s why you never have true peace, right?”

He smiled again, that wonderful boyish grin, and vanished into thin air. Before I had a chance to gather myself, my clock radio suddenly went off. It was playing Nirvana’s ‘Rape Me’. The message was instantly clear.

Those who haven’t been penetrated by the world don’t stand a chance of impacting it.

I swallowed hard and fought my urge to go back to sleep until noon, letting the slumber push away the unpleasantness of reality.

I’m not the only one…

An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus


I have a confession to make: I’ve been wanting to write about you for weeks.

My ears immediately pricked up after you indisputably grabbed the much-coveted Water Cooler Moment at the VMA’s. Some painfully traditional purists might say the purpose of that show is to celebrate music, but from Madonna’s wedding dress, to Britney’s snake, to those two kissing, to Marilyn Manson’s bare ass and all the way to Kanye’s Swift bum rush, the night is undeniably about the rare opportunity for art and/or entertainment to truly display its power as a cultural cage-rattler. Your insta-buzz was concrete proof this tradition is still alive and well.

A lot of names and descriptions have been thrown at you these past few weeks, but from the moment you set foot on that stage with a gloriously narcissistic sense of deal-with-the-fact-I’m-here gusto, I knew you were the greatest Batman villain we’d never seen. I can just picture you with white paint smudged all over you, cackling in an odd cadence, “Just look what I did to this nation with some latex panties and a wrecking ball!” Indeed I must smile while thinking of your twerking like Bane’s revolution: a gorgeously dark and overly elaborate spectacle meant only to entertain yourself as you watch the masses scramble all over one another, knowing in the end that Gotham is just getting blown to hell anyway.

Oh, how I’ve loved watching people lose their shit over you these past few weeks! And now, with this Sinead O’Connor feud, well, I know you won’t get this reference, but I feel like I’m watching Andy Kaufman and Jerry Lawler go at it! What a hoot! You see, while we all like to rant and rave and puff and babble about art, and god knows I love it to death, in the end, the purest form of entertainment is spectacle, that beautiful tradition of creating something so entrancing, so mesmerizing, so knee-jerk provocative, that no matter what the opinion of the person they won’t look away.

I’m obsessed with Jim Morrison. Is it because of his poetically dark lyrics and haunting voice seemingly coming from some otherworldly graveyard, or is it the way he always strutted onto the stage with the obnoxious confidence of the greatest absurdly over-the-top villain this soap opera we call society has ever seen? I appreciate both, but, in all honesty, probably lean more towards the latter.

I just can’t help but see the rock star/entertainer/celebrity occupation as one of the rarest opportunities in the world, a job in which the greatest perks include actually being able to get away with stuff the real world would never let you do. You know, like saying that George Bush doesn’t care about black people on live television. With your uninhibited, teen-girl-alone-in-her-room foam finger masturbation, you became the first one I’ve seen since Kanye (who’s clearly aware of the Morrison effect) to truly embrace this philosophy.

Of course debates spring up like coked-up gophers here: Isn’t it dangerous to do away with art and focus entirely on shock, spectacle and what provokes enough to bring in the cash? (In 2013, the answer would seem to be a resounding and possibly depressing ‘no’.) How do you know she’s behind this and not having the strings pulled by shady executives who have to file down their devil horns to fit in with the humans?

I guess I’ll never really know your level of involvement and creative control. And as for focusing on spectacle, well, I grew up as a hardcore devotee of Insane Clown Posse, so you’ll excuse my biased soft spot for entertainment for entertainment’s sake. I suppose I really can’t say more than that I’ve found this immensely enjoyable to play spectator to, and that I’ve been reinvigorated with the child-like enthusiasm that makes a certain type of person want to dedicate their life to getting up on stage from watching you.

In conclusion, I really hope that you are totally aware of what you’re doing, because it puts one of the most genuine smiles I’ve had in a long time on my face to picture you chuckling over article after article slamming you and endless debates blanketing the internet, all while you watch your Twitter followers and pre-sale orders go up.

So go ahead Miley, and let the citizens of Gotham buy into your class war while you keep your finger on the detonator, ready to blow the bomb and show everyone the pointlessness of it all as you come out the victor, our hair-horned, tongue-displaying, ratcheted Batman villain.

Who’da thunk I’d be finding an odd, nihilistic joy in a former Disney starlet?!

Keep on rockin’ in the free world!

Your pal,