Ghosts & Vampires

Daily Thoughts: Day 1

2021-04-24T22:43:00.003-07:00

I'm going to attempt to write something everyday, regardless of how long it is. Or at the very least more often.

Life tends to take your time and make the shortest of it.

A Dream I Had Last Night

2016-08-25T21:25:00.000-07:00

It starts with a girl waking up in the sprawling green, dewey woods to the sound of a song that sounds painfully familiar. She rolls over, as it sounds like it's coming from behind her, like that of the warm comfort of a mother, bathing her child in the song of her voice.

The lyrics go something like:
(Down tempo, slow-like, elongated note at the end of each bar, to what sounded eerily like the melody for Phil Collins' "Paradise", but possibly reversed if not a slightly different melody that also holds the last key).

I will never leave you.
I will never neglect you.
I will always protect you.
I will never let you down.

This is what she wakes to, lying on her side, as she hears it whispered from behind her. She turns (and I'm pretty sure I really woke up and looked behind me when this happened), and finds nobody. Just sprawling green dewey trees and grass.

She stands to see a girl by the name of Kelcie (she doesn't know this is her name, she just looks exactly like my friend Kelcie) and walks a very small trail that leads slightly downhill, no larger than six or seven feet and over to Kelcie who welcomes her.

Kelcie calmly explains that she is here to help the girl in any way she can and that she won't let her down. This triggers safety in the girl. As Kelcie is further explaining the territory in which they currently inhabit, the girl sees something appear about 15 to 20 feet from behind the girl. It's a black, shadow figure. Although this figure has no face or form, it has a distinctive walk, as it makes way up a second trail towards the path in which the girl awoke from. It looks directly at the girl as it begins speaking in a deep tone to her so loudly that it actually drowns out what Kelcie is saying. The girl realizes that Kelcie can't hear or see this shadow figure, even within her peripheral vision. The girl is the only one who can hear or see this. As the shadow figure becomes louder, it drowns out Kelcie completely, speaking in demonic tongue, never looking away from the girl.

The shadow figure's face takes the form of a girl with long, flowing hair as it makes way around the second trail. Before hitting the hill to ascend the six-foot hill, the shadow stops dead in its tracks, still looking directly at the girl.

The girl looks away from the shadow, attempting to focus on Kelcie again, trying to understand the words she is saying by means of reading her lips. The shadow figure stops talking which makes Kelcie audible again to some degree, until the shadow figure can be seen in the girls peripheral with what appears to be a demonic face that has been set ablaze with eyes brighter than it's face in flames. The girl can no longer look away. The figures eyes become brighter and filled with rage, the fire begins to solidify into a controlled form.

She can no longer mask her fear and in a moment of pure terror she blocks her eyes with her right arm while pressing her left hand forward as a defense, screaming, unaware that she is able to force fire from her hand which she does not once, but twice, directly at the shadow figure who can not be seen in the shroud of fire that has built and maintained floating in place.

Long Thoughts & Late Nights @ The Airport

2015-11-17T05:30:00.001-08:00

3:14am.

San Francisco International Airport

I once read that starting a story - fictional or otherwise - with the time and location is the worst way togo about creative writing; dressing the first layer with dark and stormy nights is apparently a big no-no. Whoever decided that can eat a dick.

I thought I would be able to sleep.

4:44am.
San Francisco International Airport

Whoops. I got distracted.

A few weeks ago when I was here I met Sir Richard Branson. That was insanely motivating. My entire life has pretty much been geared towards doing what I love to do. What I love to do is make art in one of several fashions, via written word, painting, pictorial, film or otherwise. That was my dream as a kid. I didn't realize you need to get paid for this shit. I just thought you picked a career, grew up and did that. Somehow I've managed to do that, so I just keep doing it because I think I'm really fucking good at it and people keep paying me to do it, so I guess I must not be that bad at what I do.

4:48am.
San Francisco International Airport

Any time I'm in an airport, I can't help but to think about "Fight Club" and "Final Destination". I don't know why, and I doubt I'm the only person who's mind morbidly drifts to thoughts of mid-air collisions and exploding jet fuel engines and whatever the fuck types of thoughts would actually swarm your head in those heart-pounding last moments before you stage-dive face first into the earth or ocean.

I wonder what people would say about me if I died?

"How did Miguelangelo die?"

"Did you hear about that plane crashing in Colorado on the news?"

"No."

"Really? It's been all over the news for the past like two or three days."

"Nah, dude. I've been working double shifts all week."

"Well, Miguel was on that plane."

"Oh my god, what? No way? Are you serious?"

"Yeah, man."

"Holy shit, that's crazy. He was such a cool guy."

And then someone within earshot says something like, "Miguel? Fuck that guy! He used to creep out Kate Brewer."

Someone else in earshot interjects, "Yeah and he was obsessed with facebook. All he ever did was post bullshit like 'Hey, look at me! I'm in some stupid movie or whatever.', fuck him. He still owes me thirty bucks, guess I'll never get that back now."

Writers Note: I don't actually know anybody named Kate Brewer.

5:00am.
San Francisco International Airport

On my way in the airport last night, I kept thinking about the travelling conveyor belts that take you from one terminal to another, and how long they are and how it reminded me of when I traveled` with my mom to California in 1999 or 2000 to drop my Grandmother's ashes in the Pacific Ocean so she could be with her first husband who died in World War II. And then I realized something... this IS that airport with the travelling conveyor belts!

This is the same place I was stuck in all night for whatever reason on earth all those years ago. I was probably just as depressed as I am now, but with like way less responsibilities to distract me from said depression.
I spent that entire night listening to Nine Inch Nails: Broken, Soul Coughing: El Oso and the Fight Club Soundtrack (which is what I'm listening to now because old habits die hard as fuck).

I lived in LA for the better part of six years and plan to make my return sometime later this year, maybe I'll be bi-coastal, who knows, but the one thing that always kept me going was knowing that my Grandmother's spirit and ashes were out here with me, as she was in spirit, making sure I didn't starve completely and all of that.

5:08am.

Talked to Allison earlier. I met her at a Blockbuster Video in Ukiah like three years ago. I think we could be ride or dies.

5:09am.
San Fran International Airport
I ate a bunch of edibles like an hour or two ago and they aren't doing much of anything but making me sleepy. I haven't actually slept since early this morning so I'm sure that has a lot to do with it, but it still sucks.

5:10am.
SFO

My plane leaves in less than an hour and I'm just sitting at this fucking table writing. The guy behind me was walking in circles earlier in the evening and at first I thought he was trying to rob me while I wasn't looking. Then I realized that I'm still soaking with east coast attitude, having just come from there. And that this guy was probably nice and I was an asshole. So I tested the theory and said hi and the response was just as expected; he was very polite and just a friendly, older, balding-type of guy with a nice smile and sunny-way about himself. He was a tad annoyed at the fact that he has so many more hours to be in this airport (about ten or so more hours), but still so very pleasant, which made me really question why I haven't been back to California in so long. I forgot how much nicer the people are in comparison, to the point where my natural position was to assume that this guy is an asshole. That's so sad on my behalf.

5:15am
SFO

I was talking to my friend earlier about how she believes she will never find a man suitable for her and what type of person she is. She's an extremely nice girl and in all fairness I really can't see why any guy wouldn't want to be with a girl like her, other than the fact that she kind of works on her own clock and schedule, and doesn't wait around for anyone to catch up. She's kind of a gypsy. So am I, though.

I was telling her a theory I have about how I'm probably doomed to be super-successful but all alone.

Last year I lost over 12 friends, including my best friend from childhood and his mother. I spent that entire year drinking literally (not figuratively) every single day, it helped me not to think, but I also got into a shitload of fights (and one everyone of em'), pissed off a lot of people, cried every day (and can cry on command now, it's crazy impressive) and the list goes on like that and almost exactly two years later, I've somehow brought my life into this crazy mecca of dreams realized and physically manifested through hard work and time, blood, sweat and tears.

And I stand here, making a living with my art, doing things I could only imagine, meeting people and becoming friends with the ones I grew up watching on film and television. My best friends are almost all gone, and I have nobody around that would truly understand how much this all means to me. And I'll probably be like this really intellectual loner-dude, doomed and gifted all at the same time. Crazy how life works out.

5:22am
SFO

I'm gonna eat two more of these edibles and get on this damn plane, because I have long day of travelling ahead of me... unless of course, I die in some freak accident ala' Final Destination/Fight Club... I'm not kidding when I say my mind always goes there.

Metaphoric Cat Food Conundrum

2015-04-17T07:17:00.001-07:00

"The End.", is the overtly cliche thing I type on the last page of almost everything I write.

I was back in Los Angeles and had just finished the screenplay for what was to be my first film. I decided I would film it in Philadelphia during the after the holidays for the remainder of the winter. So whereas I had just gone back to Hollywood after almost eight months of absence, I was heading right back. This time however, it would be for the most productive, challenging and rewarding of reasons.

On the night I'd finished the script, I was exhausted and positive that my right hand was broken from a Kid Ink music video I worked on a few days prior (turns out that I had just bruised and old boxers fracture). I typed the last ten or so pages of my script solely with my non-dominant, left hand. But it was finished no less. So I lied my head to pillow and called it a night.

The next morning was filled with a celebratory weed smoke of the Obama OG-variety as I made the announcement on facebook to all of my friends, family and colleagues that I would be filming my first movie titled, "Odyssey" in Philadelphia throughout the remainder of the 2014/2015 winter. Not even an hour went by before people started contacting me about wanting to contribute. I was in contact with at least fifty people a day, all of whom wanted to work on (or be in) the film.

My phone was ringing but I didn't pay it any attention; people from my hometown (in Philadelphia) were trying to contact me.

"Miguel, I have to talk to you. Can you call me?", was the facebook message that had hit my computer screen. I knew what this was. I had done this before.

I don't remember who messaged me, but I called them to find out that one of my childhood, best friends had passed away; Josh Smith. At this point I had already been through so much that my first initial thought was, "Well, at least I had already bought my plane ticket."

Whoever it was had obviously been very nervous about being the bearer of bad news, knowing how much I had already gone through earlier that year and how well I hadn't dealt with it. But I was more apathetic than anything and not because I had wanted to be or romanticized emoting a jaded sense of self, - I'm not sixteen anymore - it was simply just how I reacted at the time. Inside of 2014, I have lost over 10 to 15 friends. The sad truth is I had stopped counting. I still haven't tallied it all together. I'd rather not.

I don't know why but I laughed.

I think I just remembered how much me and Josh Smith used to laugh, and I mean laugh-from-the-belly kind of laugh. How I could make him grab at his sides for air and how that would make me laugh even harder. How we used to talk about the future every single day and how we planned to make names for ourselves. I looked down at the computer in front of my face. Half of it was sized for the script and the other half was to network with those who wanted to take part in the film as cast or crew. And I realized I had taken those conversations and dreams and turned them into a reality; all I ever talked about as a kid was making movies and here I was, preparing to make my first one.

Then I scoffed at the cosmic joke that is this existence. Here I was, finally getting my life together after seven or eight months of drinking the pain away of losing my best friend Dennis, and all of those I had lost before and after within that year. I was an absolute mess, drinking ever single day from the time I woke up until the time I went to sleep. The funny thing is I'm not even a huge fan of alcohol, I'd rather smoke. Whereas smoking made me more of a creative introvert, alcohol allowed me to forget the shit I was dealing with, so I chose alcohol as a way to cope. I fought a lot as well. Before that I had been in one or two physical altercations, mainly around my high school/post-high school days. Nothing major. But those were my outlets. It was all purely depression, anger and tons of crying in between. Beyond any of those emotions, I could only scoff...

I stood and paced around my room, a habit I had formed to help me think while I formulated the story to my film in my head earlier throughout that month. Throwing my hands about in disbelief, thinking to myself, "Of course, it's not over."

I had just dealt with so much and this was me, getting my life back together, taking all the steps I had started before having to fly back to Philadelphia from Hollywood in April of 2014 for Dennis' funeral. All the deaths of other close friends from childhood and otherwise who had passed away, the people I made mad while I tried to figure out how to cope with my anger.

Pacing around my living room, I had knocked the cat food bowl with my foot, spraying pebbles of cat food all over the carpet. I dropped to my knees, picking up these pebbles one by one, and it hit me... this cat food was a metaphor for my goddamn life.

Every pebble of cat food I had put back in that bowl was like a piece of my life I had let fall to the wayside while dealing with the death of Dennis. There was my place in Hollywood I had to leave abruptly for the funeral, the savings I had spent while my roommate was absent and without money after being swindled by a friend, the people I had to apologize to for my displaced anger, the missed jobs ops while in Philadelphia coping and all that could have led to, the fact that this could be my second film as opposed to the first (aka. time lost) -- a monument of things that had vanished in the shuffle to regain my reasoning for purpose of life after the loss of a loved one.

Again, I laughed. This was now my challenge.

Shortly after I flew back on a plane and ever since I have taken all the steps I can to make life whole again, but - and it's the quickest thing you'll get sick of hearing after losing someone - it's all a matter of time.

Dennis' mom passed away shortly after he did, someone I had considered a mother, someone who had considered me to be their own child, family and blood. I continue on to live to be the person Dennis and his mother knew I would be. Life had dealt me the hand I had hoped for and whereas I had put them down for awhile, I've come back to the table and am ready to play once again... I still have days where I just want to forget everything and disappear, but that wouldn't be fair to the ones who looked at me the way they did; with this strange understanding beyond any within my capacity as to the person I am meant to be and will be (in their eyes). Why should I let them down?

I've since made nice with those I was not nice with and make note to see those who truly care about me and to be kind to everyone, because you simply never know what is going to happen...

Iggy Azalea Vs. The World

2014-10-29T13:10:00.000-07:00

For the life of me I don't know why but I was just thinking about how some people don't fuck with Iggy because as rumor goes, she doesn't write her own stuff and was engineered, etc, etc, but here's where my brain spiraled; art is subjective.

Iggy's a performer, which involves one of several traits including vocal character, dance and style/personality/whatever. The ability to write songs is a bonus in my opinion, but not necessarily needed to be considered a performance artist.

For perspective, it's a different type of insincerity (if you could even call it that) then say, Clive Barker using a ghostwriter, or that author came out a few years ago and alleged Harry Potter was partially his concept. Deeming that's true, it's fucked if he gets no credit, for sure, because his craft is writing. Different art.

But it's somehow socially acceptable that Katy Perry has writers and it's cute when Snoop Dogg uses ghostwriters and outright says he does. That's cool but Iggy is a fraud somehow. It's weird to me.

Travellers: Beware!

2014-10-10T15:13:00.001-07:00

This old guy in front of me won't shut the fuck up about literally everything the guy next to him is willing to get ear-fucked with. Verbal diarrhea at its finest. Same with the college kids to my right and this foreign couple behind me. Meanwhile, this cute, younger girl sitting with me and myself have been utterly silent since we got on the bus. We even talked about how shitty that type of traveller is which is potentially why we're next to each other right meow. I wish all travellers were like this. Fuck.

Why Some Transplants Hate L.A.

2014-02-23T15:08:00.001-08:00

It bums me out to have to hear that some people don't just dislike LA, but straight up hate it with like every fiber of their being and shit, because I honestly love it here. I'm a movie and art nerd for christ's sake. The weather kicks ass, there's always some whacky Hunter S. Thompson-type adventure to be had, what's not to like? I don't know, either.

The census always varies, but normally has something to do with the people of LA (which is extra funny to me, because people who're actually from LA always tell me it's usually the "outsiders" that kill the cali-vibe, and I've seen it when NY steps in, declaring they're street/intersection at the top of their lungs. I've done it, too. I get it), but it's always something negative about the people and my thing is this; I've only ever had a handful of shitty people to deal with in like, a vast sea of awesomeness. Funny enough, one of my favorite things about this place are the people. They're always excited as fuck to be here and can't believe they made it out of whatever hell hole they're from (though, some do end up missing it/never adjusting and go back, I also get that).

I'm in a town with a bunch of talented-unknowns, stolked to collab and make shit happen on any scale. A city full of dream-chasers with an actually success rate of achieving said dream(s), all with this beautiful, sunset backdrop that embraces hard work, conviction and also, a little fucking insanity.
You live on this one chunk of earth that people dream of all around the world, their whole lives, and a weird part of you feels like you owe it to them to not be lazy or without enthusiasm for what's possible, even if it's just taking thirty seconds out of your day to look around, breathe it in and go, holy shit, I can't believe I'm actually here right now, doing this. Like, for real-doing this.

I'm not going to pretend as if I know why people have a different time than I do, that's a fool's errand. It varies for everyone. I'm of the belief that it has a large chunk to do with who you surround yourself with.

In general, anyone negative is not good for you.

You don't even have to do a check-list to figure out this type of person because you feel it the moment they approach you. You're immediately bombarded with this shower of anxiety that reigns over you as they approach, because you've already registered in your mind that they are more often negative than not. Somebody like this could be one of your best friends, but they could also just be bad for who you are or want to be. They may not even know they're putting you down when speaking generally, but it sneaks it's way in - in one case - by means of declaring a situation that doesn't work for them, even if it involves the very subject of why it is they don't like LA. You see where I'm going with this?

When you're out at a club or supermarket (two extremes, I know) and you run into a friend who is of a good nature, you're already excited to see them, even if you were having a bad day and didn't want to see anyone. This person is uplifting and generally of the good-nature I speak of when referring to those I'm friends with, have met or associate with in LA.

I also think it involves some intuition to know who it is you should surround yourself with, which is something I could never describe on any platform involving words, spoken or otherwise. You just have to feel people out and see what they're intentions are.

Simple stuff for my specific situation (which is being in LA, establishing myself in mixed medias and entertainment, etc) is that when someone tells you they're working in film as (fill in the blank, doesn't matter), ask them if they have an IMDB page. If they don't or aren't quick to answer, or there page consists mainly of short films they have done with their buddies, you know they're not really doing much. If they're reluctant to answer on specifics, it's because they don't wanna blow up their spot when you find out they wrote like... Anchorman or The Godfather, see what I'm saying? Or if they just straight up tell you they did and you ask them about IMDB and they can prove it, there you go.

If you surround yourself with seedy-types claiming they have a budget for a project and never do or offer you the world are just straight up flakey and that's all you ever deal with because you don't know the difference, than yeah, life is gonna suck for you regardless of where you go.

If all you ever see in a local supermarket - or even an entire city - are the faces of those that give you anxiety, of course you're not going to want to be there.

I have one friend in particular who once upon a time was a stripper at a nightclub in Hollywood. She recently just made mention of how she didn't enjoy her time in LA and that most of the people she dealt with were of the nature I speak of when I refer to those who always claim fame with no IMDB credits-kinda thing. I mean, the obvious point to make is that she worked at a stripclub in Hollywood and was surprised to find hospitality was short of perfection. I illustrate and emphasize on the fact that it was in Hollywood only because that involves a specific type; mainly tourists, drunks who want to go somewhere after the bar has closed, people with enough money for a cover charge with time to kill. I'm a rarity in that I actually live in Hollywood (most of the time), not many people do; it's a tourist attraction. It's like Times Square, they're might be like, five people who actually live 'in' Times Square, but unlike Times Square, Hollywood lease or rent isn't five billion dollars for a one-bedroom.

I would go to this stripclub in Hollywood because I actually live in Hollywood (most of the time), and if you've got time for the stripclub, you're either making money or you're not, it's that simple. I met her at the stripclub when I had a lot of money, but I'd be lying if I said I never found myself in their after-hours with a few bucks in my pocket like, "I'm bored, boobs are awesome and I'm not tired yet." She would commute from out of LA, so most of her experience revolved around her time in that club, so it's not totally unfair to assume that her bad time could have been attributed to that. I had another friend who lived in Long Beach and no disrespect to the citizens of Long Beach, but that place reminds me exactly why I moved out of Pennsylvania, no disrespect to Pennsylvania and while I'm at it, no disrespect to Ben Affleck... seriously, he's a pretty damn good director.

These are just my personal opinions. Everyone is going to have a totally differed experience than mine, and that's fine, but to shun an entire city based on limited exploration of a vast land in favor of a few times where a homeless guy may've screamed at you or your credit card didn't work and ruined your weekend is fair from a good reason to hate an entire city. That's all I'm really saying.

Maybe I'm just super-personable, maybe I just have't been here long enough (though I think five years is enough time to make an educated-opinion, which all of this simply is), maybe people just draw to me, but I feel like that just has to do with who I am. I'm a fan of exploration and meeting new people who are equally as weird and nuts as I am. LA is a land full of weirdos and nuts, if you can embrace that, it's pretty awesome.

I don't really have a definitive answer, but I think in terms of The Cowboy from David Lynch's 'Mulholland Drive' when he says, "A man's attitude goes a some ways."

Black Heart's Society /// Dystopia

2013-10-21T11:31:00.000-07:00

Almost a year ago while super depressed, with the help of some Hollywood fam, I started an electronic music project called Black Heart's Society. Tomorrow our first official album, 'Dystopia' will be released worldwide.

Film Still from "Dystopia", by Black Heart's Society
Directed by Miguelangelo Hexylvania
Starring Nicole Vaunt
Link: https://vimeo.com/68637854

Since it's conception, we've gained worldwide views, hella fans, an MTV profile and to top it off I'm about to get signed to a pretty huge record label that I can't really talk about yet. So I just wanted to take a second and thank the band, everyone who's ever listened, purchased, contributed or helped out in any way, because this thing is turning into a beast and you all fucking rule for helping me with that as well as helping me kind of find myself again, as corny as I know that sounds. Thank you.

The Tragedy of Darren & Christina

2013-07-30T00:39:00.001-07:00

(This was a writing excersice I just did, in which I wrote non-stop from 3:03am to 3:33am. At which point I made correction on errors, but made no changes to the prose or format. It's now 3:39am.)

Darren Farsey sat up late in his bedroom, smoking cigarettes, thinking back on the past three nights of his life.

He started with a shower at his hotel, where he spent way too much time fussing over his hair and pre-evening masturbation. He created a classic forty's waft and put on his nicest tie. Before you knew it Darren was out the door and into a taxi where he immediately headed to a cocktail lounge at the top level of the Miller-Jeffrey Building in Philadelphia.

In this lounge, Darren sat by himself, quiet as he was all day. Thinking quietly too himself about how overwhelming the red lights within the room were. Ladies wore all black; their dresses all of a different cut in a vaudeville styling.

A blue eyed girl with auburn hair approached and introduced herself as Christina. She sat close to Darren and spoke of beautiful nothingness while crossing her legs towards him with her left heel dangling from her soft foot. Darren would be a fool not to have taken note of her beautiful smile and deeply brilliant intellect and ability to keep him on his toes. She quickly gave in to his charming allure and began speaking of the dirty things she wanted to do to him once they've finished their drinks and have entered a taxi. It was only but a few minutes before they downed the last of their drinks and did just that.

Later back at Darren's hotel, Christina revealed herself to be a high-end prostitute, which Darren admitted he was not aware of, but prepared for, as he put a thousand dollars on the black dress she had already slipped off, making him second-guess if she was really even a prostitute at all or just hard-up for cash. Regardless, he slipped his clothes off and began caressing the fit and curvy body of Christina. She teased him with her feet which she knew he had been looking at all night - at the same time, retaining validity in her own interest with such a fetish - he began to kiss the arch of her foot and worked his lips up her legs and resting them between her thighs.

Within minutes of his performing cunnilingus, she was convulsing at the hips and mid-section, sending shock waves all the way through her fingertips. She was quick to grab him by his perfectly-put-together hair and drew him towards her face for a first real kiss they have yet to even partake in, all while sliding his thickly-erect penis inside of her, having had grown absurdly wet with anticipation. He tried to go slow at first, but she forced him into an even-more absurd, rapid pace of thrusting. She was beyond any state of ecstasy describable with audible words; she spewed a mess of inaudible noises, screaming and fighting all too hard to make actual words - the feeling of which through the obstacles of her breathing patterns only drew her to become even more orgasmic - she begged him to choke her. Darren did so at her request, but tread lightly until she forced him to do so, harder.

Releasing a cascade on him while inside of her, he became infuriated with orgasm and found he had came inside of her -- she didn't even care, it was a perfect end to an almost absolute defining in sex. As brief as it was for the both of them, it was anything short of perfection; beyond compare to anything conceivable before or after.

She spent about four cigarettes-worth of time in bed with him, talking about the deep-inner meanings of sex and how for them, there was none. How the disconnect for them was essentially what created that perfect orgasm and moment. But alas, neither were psychologist, nor did they consider themselves nihilists, so they were quick to move on from the subject without even a second glance into how deeply tragic their shared moment was, especially in relation to who they may or may not be.

And with that, he called a taxi for her and took her downstairs in his robe once it arrived, briefly considering a kiss,but opting for shared kisses on the cheek instead. And with that, Christina was off, Darren was back in his bed, having smoked one more cigarette before falling asleep, and neither of them had ever seen each other again...

Hollywood Nights

2013-04-19T21:31:00.001-07:00

Another day, another mind lost on the boulevard of broken dreams..

With Love, from Sasha Grey...

2013-02-23T22:48:00.000-08:00

Infinite love to Sasha Grey who just followed me on Twitter. Yes, we all know of her former history in Adult Films, but if you take the time to look at her film work, such as The Girlfriend Experience, Entourage, I Melt With You, Life, Would You Rather and the amazing short, Blackstone, you would understand that her acting abilities fall deeply beyond her work in Porno, which is honestly still pretty impressive in terms of vitality, openness and her comfort which stands so clearly bold before the camera. It is most likely her humble porn beginnings that gave her the comfort she needed to pursue the nerve-wrecking world of professional film acting.

Sasha Grey: Twitter

Make sure to check out her film work, as it stands to show her capabilities as an actual actress among the likes of the elite actresses to grace the silver screen.

The Obsession of Madison Barlow

2013-02-18T22:51:00.002-08:00

Gossiping Ghosts & Classless Vampires

by Miguelangelo Hexylvania

CHAPTER TWO

The Obsessions of Madison Barlow

(Excerpt from GG&CV Book // TBR: Winter 2012)

NYC Cluster // Photo: @Hexylvania

The closest thing to heaven for Madison Barlow is her bed. The second closest thing for her, is her parent’s joint bank account.

Her father was a wealthy man of a respectable position in politics, and if you asked Madison, that’s all she would ever tell you. Over the years Madison had grown distant from her parents, but the truth is that they probably pushed her in that direction. Madison’s father was a man who believed she should follow in his political footsteps and her mother was extremely submissive and simply wanted to please Madison’s father.

Madison’s father was a smart man, but Madison had grown to become much smarter than him. Now - at the age of 26 - she had grown wise to her parents ways. He used to drag her unwillingly to social functions involving members of upper-class, elitist groups, in which he had forced her to do all of the “tricks” he had taught her; many hours of many days spent teaching her cute little responses to a number of things people might ask her at social functions, smiling all night, regardless of how sore her cheeks might get, practicing songs on piano at the age of 5 - and knowing when to laugh at a joke that would often go way over her head. Quadrille and Cotillion classes, equestrian classes on top of a tertiary education through one of the finest private schools in all of New York City (at the very least).

Her room is plastered with family photos often with Madison, her mother and father dressed as though they’re trying to resemble The Great American Family.

But Madison was currently lounging hardcore, nuzzled deep on her bed of plush atop a mountain of throw pillows and comforters made for the likes of a King or a God. She fucks around on her laptop, surfing the internet as the TV is on, only for background noise and no other purpose. Anything could be playing; a commercial, sitcom, State Of The Union address, Emergency Broadcast or porno, but she would have no idea
anyway, as she is too involved in a Skype conversation she is currently having to care about what is actually happening on the screen...

M44D M4DI$0N (4:10): OMG, did I tell you about Adam yet?
AbigailWilliams999: (4:10): adam who??
M44D M4DI$0N (4:10): Adam Lehman, dude!
AbigailWilliams999 (4:11): oooh! no why what did he do now?

Madison’s father knocks on the door. It is abundantly clear that it is her father and not her mother, as his knock is a very distinctive, precise and almost nervously fast three-knock system. She ignores it momentarily, thinking of telling him that she’s changing before finally answering with an almost annoyingly frustrated, “Yes?!”
The father enters in Polo PJ’s and a matching, plain white V-Neck, ready for bed but clearly with something on his mind.

“Good evening. How are you, Madison?” her father asks, almost like he is preparing to negotiate.
“I’m fine. What’s up?”, Madison retaliates.
“I was wondering if you’d be attending the...” Madison’s father’s voice - much like the television - turns into background noise, as Madison has once again fixated on
the IM Chat she is having.

AbigailWilliams999 (4:13): hello?!?!?!
M44D M4DI$0N (4:13): Sorry my dad’s talking to me. what did adam do ?

“Madison,” her father continues trying to get his daughter’s attention back in the calmest manner possible, as he know’s that losing his composure will only result in a pointless argument...

AbigailWilliams999 (4:13): I wanted to go shopping earlier and I told adam
AbigailWilliams999 (4:13): he had a company car come to my apt and take me wherever I wanted, lol
AbigailWilliams999 (4:13): thn he gave me money for blow
M44D M4DI$0N (4:13): Hahahhj, lolololol!

“What are you watching?”

Madison’s eyes lift up to reveal that she has a cable music channel on and Lil Wayne’s song, “It’s Good” is playing. They lyrics blast through the television at Madison's father like sharp knives of deeply penetrating insight...

"I’m like Heeeeey!... I like the view from here!
I'm so high, I can't see you from here.
B-B-Both eyes on the money / It's looking back at me,
Man, these bitches just looking for a daddy
Pussy-gettin problems; Can't live without 'em.
The weed too loud / Turn up the volume.
Richer than a bitch, but I can't buy tomorrow.
That's why I go hard, Ho! / (That's why I go hard, Ho!)..."

Being equally awkward for the both of them to listen to, Madison and her father both attempt to ignore what they’ve just heard as she gradually turns down the volume
on the television.

“.... so would you want to accompany your mother and I to the Mayors’ Charity?”, the father asks nervously, looking for a quick answer and escape from Madison’s room and the situation alike.

Madison declined, claiming she’s not feeling well when she is clearly fine.

Her father exits the room, trying to to look as hurt as he is by his daughter’s rejection. Wondering what happened to the sweet little girl he once raised who was now blasting a Lil Wayne song that basically boasted the life of an Anarchist with an appreciation for the finer things in life.

The juxtaposition of stance in the lyrics was similar to his own daughters way of living as of recently. She was distant and did what she wanted, but was clearly aware of her situation being of a higher class than most. The problem is, Madison seemed as though this privilege was somehow deserved. She had no insight of how hard her father worked to give her the kind of lavish life suited for the likes of a princess. Not wanting to upset Madison or push her away even further, her father left the room, not saying one word further to her - not like she would actually acknowledge him anyway.

The funny thing is, Madison had been paying attention to her father and the hurt that he had felt towards her answers, or rather lack thereof. She was paying so much attention, in fact, that she had not seen that another IM Chat window had popped up from Paul - in place of Abey, who’s last words were “gotta go. ttyl”, before signing offline.

Paul was IM’ing Madison from his cellphone, as indicated by the little cellphone icon next to his name in the chat window. He has sent a photo of his naked, perfectly chiseled body. It’s as if a Greek God molded him from the clay of The Dead Sea. His abs looked as if they were photoshopped onto a realistic looking photo. His hips and V-line looked as though they led to a large promised-land of erotic wet dreams and warm wonders.

Paul (4:16): u like?
M44D M4DI$0N (4:16): I don’t hate.
Paul (4:17): lol. Are you free?
M44D M4DI$0N (4:17): What did you have in mind?
Paul (4:17): well....
Paul (4:17): I thought we could start with dinner, and go from
there.
Paul (4:17): Thoughts??

Madison thought back to nights with Paul, not too long ago. Nights where she stood helpless in a chamber he had fashioned in the spare bedroom of his apartment. Nights where her hands were suspended by a rope that was tied to a very expensive fixture on the ceiling.

Paul spanked her for a good twenty minutes. Madison cried in pain, and in joy of the delight that each smack brought to her ass, which was quickly soar and easily bruised. He would occasionally bring his rock-hard penis to her face and tease her by bringing it inches away from her mouth, only to slap her in the face and return to spanking her, sometimes pulling her hair, sometimes not. She was dripping wet with anticipation for sex, only to be teased for what felt like hours. Eventually giving in and falling slaves to hot, steamy sex... Madison thought of these nights with Paul, not too long ago and responded...

M44D M4DI$0N (4:20): …. My thoughts are we should skip dinner.

A Letter for The Lost

2013-01-10T12:56:00.000-08:00

To be so depressed that you don't even want to take the time to write it due to the fact that you will then be forced to think about it is a feeling beyond anything I could ever properly describe. It haunts you like a ghost, that watches at you from a distance, waiting for you to die or kill yourself. The things you think you want most in life are always there to turn you the wrong direction, while the things you need in life are simply never there.

We speak of relationships that last forever in a generation that is so self-absorbed that we don't even take time to look at ourselves in the mirror anymore. Instead, we eyeball-fuck the same instagram photo of ourselves for hours on end, waiting for more comments and likes, looking at the best possible version of ourself, from the best possible angle, to the best possible filter and background. Portraying a lifestyle we can't afford to attract those we don't like. In order to impress those who are never easily amused, if to even be ever amused at all.

We fall, we stand again, and then we are kicked back to the ground, left to dwell on why it is we are so weak. We seek the help of others and are left to wander the desert alone. True riders of the storm. The storm engulfs us and does not drown us, but instead tortures us, bringing us to the near brink of death, and when our bodies finally collapse and accept the great unknown, we are revived again, for the morbidly spiteful who wish to watch as we suffer, watching at us as we cry tears of hopelessness, as we are left to contemplate from the concrete why it is, that it is this way.

We hide behind manic fits of random action, unaware of the circles we run ourselves in all in the name of not being bored for longer than fifteen seconds. And then we wonder why our generation is fucked...

Owned: by Banksy (Hollywood, CA)

2012-12-23T03:51:00.001-08:00

I found this today in Hollywood on my way home. If you weren't really paying attention, you might not even see it. Im just glad I managed to snag a photo before the city has it removed from the precious pseudo-mom and pop coffee shop it's plastered on the side of, atop of a specific wax-based paint used specifically for handling situations like power washing... I hope you enjoy this as much as I do. I'm also a fan of the idea that this was probably made with the idea in mind that people (like myself) would post this on instagram, and other Zuckerberg-related websites. Cheers.

Fumes & Fantasy by Miguelangelo Hexylvania

2012-12-20T22:38:00.001-08:00

EvolovE by @Hexylvania

Thoughts of you // Thoughts of me
Thoughts that pool // To melancholy
I am weak // I am pure
I am lost // Without a cure
I am you // You are me
We are one // Unforseen
Future's peak // Ride the wave
My soul is lost // You cannot save

Time is still // Seeds of blue
Liquid falls // Flowers bloom
Velvet Grey // Beyond the fog
Found the way // But not for long
Careful say // Careless reigns
Shadows deep // Forever stains
Caught in this // This, with you
No matter what // I am, I do

Organized Chaos: Poetry Writing Tips From A Crazy Person.

2012-12-16T22:41:00.000-08:00

I've always had a funky history with poetry, and writing in general, mainly because I couldn't tell you when I began doing it, and I've never been formerly trained outside of what I would read as a kid. This mainly consisted of Edgar Allen Poe, William Shakespeare, Nine Inch Nails lyrics and Dr. Seuss books. Sometimes it's an abstract interpretation of something visual, other times it's emotionally-driven whereas other times, it's just what remains of training myself to de-mechanize my conscious thought process.

I read somewhere that there are three processes of thought when writing; What the mind first thinks, the re-interpretation of that, and finally, the third form which is when you stop to redraft what you're writing, as you're writing it. I'd call it second-guessing yourself, but it's actually the third time around.

One exercise is to take a pen and a piece of paper (or you can turn to the keyboard if you prefer, if you're a decent-enough typist), then take a moment to clear your head. Breath and think of an ocean, or blank canvas... better yet, don't think of anything at all, just focus on your breathing... and with that, take pen to paper (or hand to keys) and begin writing the first bits that come to your head and continue to write, don't stop, for anything, not to correct your spelling, not to fix the meaning in something because the whole point is that there should be no particular meaning. You're simply writing the first thing that comes to your mind and continuing. There doesn't have to be a beginning, middle or end, just writing... I'll attempt to give an example below...

"...Things happen in breezes unknown to those with minds of an unfamiliar nature. Represented in the form of chaos and undeniable unretreivable unattainable stupidity..."

And there you have it; no rhyme to the reason, no reason to be rhymed, just flowing thought. And honestly, I caught myself attempting to correct the unconscious flow at least twice, due to my innate inability to refrain from correcting my spelling and constructing the best possible form of sentence, paragraph, story, etc....

Random Tip for Storytellers (in the midst of me speaking on unconscious thought as a form of developing your poetry writing skills)... Everybody wants to write a book, but then they freeze up at the idea of actually composing an entire book from start to finish. My advice for you is this: Focus on the sentence. Make the best sentence possible. Then the best paragraph possible. And simply focus on your paragraphs, because they are in fact, mini-stories within themselves, but focused on describing the actions within the story of that chapter.
The chapter, once fully composed, will essentially represent a much larger paragraph, once compared with all the chapters that will compose your story. Those chapters, which can be looked at as paragraphs, can then be looked at as single sentences (if you were in fact capable of giving a brief description of the actions within the composition of said chapter inside of a single sentence). You can then break it down even further if you'd like, going all the way to say that each chapter is representative of the overall brief outline that should be able to compose your story. Much like when you watch TV and they have an info box with the name of the show or film, and what it is about.

Writing Rituals (Philadelphia)
Photo by @Hexylvania

Another thing I have done is mixed methods...

I've been writing for 88% of my existence; since I was a very small child. Mainly in the form of storytelling. But the way in which I write makes no sense. How it has always worked for me is quite the creative miracle, and also the reason I believe muses to really exists (possibly in the form of ghosts, which is a story for another day).

... I'm usually sitting or lying in bed, watching a film, film preview, tv show, cartoon, commercial or listening to some kind of music. And while daydreaming, I stumble upon what I like to call a "what if" scenario. Sometimes in relation to whatever form of media I'm currently absorbing, sometimes having nothing to do with anything at all. The whole process normally last about four to eight seconds in length.
The "what if" scenario could be, "what if ghosts were people and people were ghosts?", at which point a magnitude of ideas will flow through my mind somewhere inside of four to eight seconds in length that will compose the first 75% of a story, from the main character, to what kind of world he/she may live in and whatever else may accompany in the natural growth of this creative tree. Once the "what if" scenario hits my conscious, everything else pretty much write's itself. The only problem with this is that you tend to spend anywhere from days to months, possibly even years trying to figure out an appropriate ending to what is otherwise a pretty solid concept.

So as far as my storytelling goes, it's always been quiet fluid in free-form and I'm fortunate that it has always been that way. But what I find to be most important these days is quite the opposite of what I've grown into, which is to work out a story outline prior to writing anything, something I've never actually done up ever quite honestly, up until the last four or five years. I just simply never needed to. It's all in my head anyways, from start to finish, so why the hell would I have to write it down? But it really does help me to create an entire body, somewhat literally...
The bones are the concept, the "what if" scenario that creates the foundation. The world and characters, those are your flesh and blood. And the skin, the color of eyes, the features and voice that come with, that's the polish-over, the cherry on top. Once you sing the body electric, only then do you have what you are able to call a story.

Alice Glass, one of my favorite Writers/Performers

With poetry, you can take the concept of an outline and apply it to your poetry, assuming your poetry involves some type of narrative. Even if the narrative is about a boy who goes to the beach to meet his long lost girlfriend, you can write down that he started at the stairs that led to the sand and that he felt anxiety as the warm crystals of salt touched the bottom of his feet. Then, you can take that, and make something abstract with it, if you chose to relinquish from being blatant in the details of your storytelling. Simply examples for those interested in other techniques.

Another technique is writing couplets to your favorite type of music. You'll find yourself working within the tempo and scale of syllables. It's okay if your stuff sounds a little bit like your favorite artist. Every artist is inspired by a prior. I used to write heavily to the music of Trent Reznor. Because my writing and stories have always lent themselves heavily to the macabre and nihilistic parts of life and the unknown. It's just what I've always personally drawn to. Mystery has always seemed more interesting and real to me than what is portrayed otherwise. Maybe it's the analytic part of my brain unwilling to rest. Maybe that's why I have sleep deprivation. Maybe that's why I'm more drawn to the abstract. And maybe I identify with the abstract because of the fevers I had as a baby that gave me audio and visual hallucinations for years to come.

Work with what you know. Be yourself. Your true self. Not the self society wants you to be. Writing is where you unleash your inner thoughts and exercise the demons deep within (at least for me, anyways). I ask myself real questions, afraid of the answers I may find, and often am. If you're ever going to progress and transmigrate as a writer into something of true greatness, you need to first admit to yourself that there are parts of yourself you may not want to know about. Pieces of thoughts left alone in fear of what you might find. Self-exploration is dangerous because there is no filter or cap. If you want to believe something, you will do anything to believe it. If you want to forget something you will do everything in your power to forget it, from simple denial, to pathological lying-turned truth for one's self, all the way into the further extremes of things like retrograde amnesia and a multitude of personality disorders; giant spiritual and emotional complexities birthed from simple seeds of childhood bullying to much more split-second things, like one who watches his best friend die right in front of him on the battlefield...

Do you see what just happened? Things got really dark. That's where I go. It's what works best for me and I honestly find it to be more informative to express myself as best as I can, which is as myself, with no filter, and hopefully the idea is that it is much more interesting then a 1-2-3 tips-kinda manner.

Another method is to take all of your favorite advertisements from fashion magazines, art magazines, photography, anything of a creative nature, have a room in which you can freely tape these to your wall and fill every inch of that space with photos. But I warn you, make sure not one photo on that wall is anything less than breathtaking, because your eyes 'will' fixate directly on it, and nothing else. You'll begin to notice things about yourself. Things you may love and not have realized were apart of your interest or loves.

Harmony Korine, Screenwriter of Larry Clark's KIDS

Think of every quote that ever inspired you and place them on your walls, Big Print, on a single 8x11, no fancy font, colors, bold, italic or underline, just your favorite quotes on the wall. One of mines is by from the film KIDS, written by Harmony Korine. The line is said by the lead character in the film named, "Telly", who is played by Leo Fitzpatrick. It goes, "When you're young, not much matters."

My most recent technique involves using themes as the basis. These themes range from childhood dreams, obsessive compulsive disorder, people who explore pain in sex as a release, relationships, lack thereof, moonlighting, the life of a nomad, alcoholism, nihilist themes and everything else in between.

Environment plays a large part in the entire process. Where you are counts for everything. Are you comfortable and able to focus on the writing at hand, or are you sitting in a stiff chair, in a cold room, surrounded by talking people and chiming cellphones? Because if so, you may find yourself a little distracted. Get comfortable. It counts for what you're doing... unless your thing is describing the moment, and if you want to tell the tale of what it's like to be homeless, chances are you'll get your best stuff done while being 'in' that space, at that moment. Light some candles do whatever you must.

I have other techniques and methods which involve a combination of drugs. This could easily be referred to as the "Hunter S. Thompson method", especially if your style of writing incorporates any aspect of Gonzo.

But I would say at the end of the day, do your own thing.

Writing Rituals: Koreatown, LA {Photo: @Hexylvania}

2012-09-03T11:32:00.000-07:00

Part of a series of photos by @Hexylvania that can be found on Tumblr and Buzznet...

Hashtag: #WritingRituals

Writing Tips for those with ADHD.

2012-08-17T18:36:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I'll have a friend ask me about writing. When put on the spot, I'll always have an array of different answers for whatever the problem may be, but normally, it's in relation to actually getting to the point where you're writing something, as opposed to just thinking about it... I mean, it really depends on what you're writing, but for the most part, the method in which one is to get ready usually tends to remain the same.

And without any further hold-up, I'll tell you the few things I've learned...

"I have so many ideas, but I'm just super lazy and can never get to the "writing part" of writing. How do you do it?"

Well, honestly, I'm not great at it either. I tend to get easily distracted, as I have severe ADHD... and not like how most people say they do and don't. They wanted to give me Ritalin when I was 3, but had to wait two years, because the legal age is 5, just for one quick example, so, moving on....

My tips are as follows:

#1: YOUR FIRST DRAFT ISN'T GOING TO BE AS GOOD AS "THE GREAT GATSBY", meaning, you won't get it perfect the first time and shouldn't even worry about that.

Your focus is to get your idea down on paper. So take your idea, and write bulletpoints of what is to happen throughout the story. Just the bulletpoints. This is for a few reasons; it gives you a visual representation of the order of events to take place, it helps you to further create, as you will now be able to look at it and go, "Oh shit, I could have this, happen before that, which will explain why XYZ doesn't like ZYX" and so on...

They don't have to be immaculate in how magniloquent they are either. We're talking about bulletpoints, here...

Scene One or First Chapter: Dude has a horrible dream in which his legs have been chopped off. He wakes up to find his legs have actually been chopped off, but he is somehow still alive and tied to a bed. Some crazy guy enters and he's all, "You're here for a reason, if you can figure out why, you'll live, if not, I poop on your chest before I kill you."
Scene Two or Second Chapter: Flashback to went it all began. Dude's in the backyard of his suburban house, white picket fence, wife in the sun, two kids playing with bubbles, laughing. Typical suburban sunday life bullshit, followed by a plane crash.

That was a really whacky example (with some potential in there, as to where or what, I'm not sure), but an example no less, one that shows you how much you can go without care for prose or correct grammar. It's just the bulletpoints...

Then, you write a first draft, and unlike your bulletpoints, you do want to resemble a much more verbose and properly formatted knowledge of the English language (or whatever language you may speak in), but still keep it simple. Which brings me to...

#2: JUST KEEP WRITING, even if you see a spelling error, don't go back and fix it. Don't even worry about errors until you're down with a section of whatever you're writing. And for that matter, don't worry about if things sound perfect. Just keep writing. The second draft is where you will go back, correct errors, change events or names, add in extra stuff, or edit some stuff out, whatever you'd like. But for now, just... keep... writing.

#3. STAY THE FUCK OFF FACEBOOK, and any other Social Networking site. In fact, if you could just stay off of the internet all together, that will, at the very least, help to eliminate major distractions. No TMZ, no Yahoo News, real news or any news. Websites are designed for you to tumble down a rabbit hole of content featured on their site or of other sites that pay for them to advertise. It's like a Las Vegas Casino; they design it so that you don't want to leave, but in reality, they've literally built it to make it somewhat impossible for you to find an exit.

(Sidenote: Sometimes the internet "can" be a source of inspiration, but I'm writing this of the aassumption that you already have an idea in mind).

If you're like me, you might be somewhat of an internet junkie. I spend copious amounts of time on GetGlue and HSX; stuff that is fun, but super distracting at times, as it can be just as engaging as facebook if not more so. The only thing you should be doing that involve writing and the internet is if you use some sort of online service to write stuff, like Lulu or Google Docs (which is now Google Drive, for whatever reason on earth) and also, if you need to use a dictionary, thesaurus or maybe Google for some necessary research that ONLY involves your project.

So Google: (Fill in Research Criteria: Here.), look up whatever you need to look up, and get the fuck off the internet. Don't go, "Oh, you know what? Let me check my facebook/twitter/email/whatever really quick, just to see if anything blah blah blah blah -" it's you trying to distract yourself from what you want to do, so don't fall for it. It's a deathtrap.

"So, what do you think; Music or No Music???"

That's tricky. If you were painting, yes. But this is writing we're talking about.... This is my thing...
Writing involves a certain form of focus and meditation. It's also about being able to exercise your imagination (that rhymed).

So if you have a playlist that gets you into that mode, and it's already (keyword: already) put together, then go ahead and turn on some music. A lot of the stuff I write is dark, so I have a lot of darker, surreal electro-lounge, aural-toned trip-hop bullshit. My favorite (stuff to listen to in the world, as well as to write to) is Massive Attack, Tricky, Sonic Youth, Portishead, Nine Inch Nails or Trent Reznor projects in general. Right now, for instance, I listen to The Girl with The Dragon Tattoo soundtrack all the fucking time. It sets the mood, puts you in a space that involves some meditation and there's no words.

Now, if you were writing a comedy, I would say listen to something a little more up-tempo, but that you're still able to drown out as background noise. The trick is, music is supposed to be the background noise, the soundtrack to your real-life at that moment. So if it's comedy, try MIA, because she's not word-heavy so much as she is about "working the track" (although her lyrics are very political and normally disguised over pop tunes in a throwback to true Hip Hop, fyi). Also, Any kind of DJ Mixtape with just a dude scratching records over some nice beats.

I know that when I write, I can't listen to Rap or Hip Hop, especially Watch The Throne or anything like that, because a lot of Hip Hop is about the lyricists, and so the track always extenuates the voice almost more than the actual music... plus, people like Jay-Z and Kanye are more like poets than rappers (if you really look at them from an Artistic perspective), so what will happen is, you end enraptured in the lyrics, what was just said, what's being said and, "oh my god what's he/she gonna say next?!" Even listening to something you've heard a thousand times will just draw you in. Try some Frank Ocean or Domo Genesis.

Quite honestly though, silence is golden. If you can write without any music at all and just avoid the subject all together, you'll be solid.

However, if you live in a noisy place or have some roommates, go with music and headphones. Headphones will help you to keep your sanity while trying to write among noise. Also, be honest with whoever you're living with; tell them you have to write something and need a little bit of quiet or for them to just tone down a bit. If you live in close quarters with each other and can't find peace inside the house, make your way elsewhere, where you won't be bothered, preferably with an outlet for you to charge your computer in case it wants to die in the middle of your creative flow.

"What about the phone? I have to be connected to the real world. Some of us have day jobs."

Fuck your phone. Turn that shit off or on silent and have it far, far away from your line of vision, behind you, under a rock, just nowhere near you. If you're concerned about real-world situations, here's my take on that. You don't have to answer the phone for shit. If you're expecting a call, text them with a preferred time to call them back. Unless somebody is dying or needs something serious that can't wait, okay. But if that's your daily life, then maybe writing isn't for you.

#4: WRITING ISN'T A HOBBY, it takes practice, not just in the sense of learning how to write well, but being able to sit down, take a breath, look at your blinking cursor and somehow fill a white page with only the thoughts from your head. If you're answering the phone every eight seconds, or are on facebook or... basically, if you're somebody who can't live without distraction and if you so happen to be the type who can't sit through a movie, than you either want to correct your focus and patience or stop pretending like you give a shit about writing. In fact, if you've made it to this point and still have interest in any other tips, than you'll do just fine. If I lost you prior to this, well, then, they Writing Muses have spoken.

"What if I can't think of anything?"

Sure you can, just write what you know. If you have a crazy lifestyle, write Gonzo or Journalism, and account of what happened. Or take those true stories and turn them into fictitious ones with embellished situations for emphasis on broad, interesting storytelling. If you almost got hit by a car, say you got hit by a car and the guy who hit you was a TV News Reporter who took off... then cut to him on the way to stop a loan shark from killing his wife, look, I don't fucking know, I'm just spit-ballling here, but do you get the point?

And honestly, if you're one of those self-defeating types who doesn't fancy themselves to be that interesting, write about the things that interest you.. love films? Write film reviews, old ones, new ones, classics, predict how much an upcoming film will do in the box office, things like that. Or if you're political, write about that shit. Nympho? Write it the fuck down! That stuff is gold!

Chances are, if you don't lead a considerably exciting life, you more than likely have an awesome imagination, so it shouldn't be too hard to come up with stuff. Trent Reznor, Andy Warhol, Will Smith, Tina Fey, Seth Green, M. Night Shyamalan and Bam Margera all come from painfully boring places from within Pennsylvania, some of which grew up in or around farms or just long stretches of road. Others lived come from the suburbs, specifically Tina Fey, Will Smith and Seth Green all grew up within a 2-mile radius of my semi-boing hometown inside of the Philadelphia Suburbs. They are also some of the most intelligent, creative people I can think of. Tina Fey may as well own NBC at this point, Will Smith proved himself to be of incredible acting skills, both comedic and dramatic and Seth Green helmed Robot Chicken. A show that when you think about from a comedic standpoint, is pretty fucking amazing in terms of churning out new content as often as they do.

#5: WRITE HOW YOU THINK AND SPEAK, if you're not Bukowski or Kerouac, don't try and write like you're Bukowski or Kerouac.

#6: UNDERSTAND YOUR MOTHERFUCKING CHARACTERS (see what I mean about writing how you speak?)... If you're a man and you're writing about a woman, you need to have an understanding of women in general, as well as this character in general. Without getting into the excruciatingly boring shit they teach in all writing classes everywhere and every bullshit article you read on the internet about "Beginning, Middle and Ending" shit (as if that's not totally obvious), what you need to do, is right down a character list. This for me, is always the fun part, because I'm fascinated by people and notice I tend to observe everything, whether I want to or not. Gift/Curse.

Okay, you know your story, you have this little idea that starts off like, "What if this guy lost his car and found it with a dead body inside?"... okay, pretty interesting so far... so right off the bat, I'm going to say/assume/create that this character is probably a little seedy and shady. A "smiley glad-hand", if you will... Meaning, he may appear to be a normal dude, but clearly has ties with the wrong people. Or maybe he's just an ordinary dude in an extraordinary situation. The second character, maybe a wife. Okay, but who the fuck is the wife? Is she somebody he knew in the past and they've changed together or is this a good girl that he met after he "changed his life around", or, is she his High School sweetheart that promised if he "goes back to his old ways", she'll leave him (with the kids, for extra dynamic)... I could go on and on, but this is generally how it would go... also, I think, in my subconscious, what's happening right now is that I'm kind of ripping off bits and pieces from A History of Violence. Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. Who knows.

"Yeah, but seriously, I mean, is anything even original anymore?"

Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!!

There aren't many things I truly despise, but when people assume that nothing can be made new simply because storytelling has been around for so long with so many famous stories dating back hundreds of thousands of years, so what? That doesn't mean you can't create a new idea from nothing. Donnie Darko is pretty original if you ask me... I think Pulp Fiction is pretty fucking original in terms of storytelling and the way in which a story is delivered. Now, yes, many people say Pulp Fiction is just Quentin Tarantino ripping off several other films, which brings me to my final point.

#Se7en (speaking of original films): IT'S OKAY TO MAKE SOMETHING BETTER. There have been a million situations where I thought of something, because of something else I was watching or reading. Most of the times, it's going to contain bits of something else in there, like the idea I had with the guy losing his car and finding it with a dead body.. The dead body/car part never happened in "A History of Violence", the element I was referring to ripping off was the dark feel of the whole thing, as well as the mystery of the main character and a possible life prior to his current one. As well as some stuff that had actually happened in my life when I first moved out here that I plan on saving for a screenplay, so I can't really talk too much about that, but the whole thing is that I've manage to pull from several ideas and turn it into something original.

Rule Of Thumb: You can make a movie like, Star Wars. Just don't make it Star Wars.

As far as helping the creative process goes, I hope this aids in making it a little easier for yourself. If you have any other questions, feel free to ask in the comments section of this or on Twitter @Hexylvania.

The Domo Genesis Chronicles: Odd Future X No Idols (Part One: The Arrival & Review)

2012-08-11T19:45:00.001-07:00

I woke up the morning of August 1'st 2012. I was staying at my friend Travis's pad in Hollywood the night prior until I was ready to move into my new spot that day. I was super-stressed out because I was staying with an on-and-off roommate who decided after nine years, he would be leaving LA for good. Unfortunately, his mother had grown ill, so he was going home.. the shitty part about that was that I had to find a new place to live within a five-to-seven day period. It was hell and something I had sadly gone through more times than I care to mention. However, I managed and proved to myself that I'm stronger than I thought.

Finally overcoming the depression of the past week or so, I was ready to enjoy life and not be all bummed out anymore. While gearing up to leave his place and head over to my new one, Travis was showing me youtube videos of everything from new Hip Hop to Odd Future raps and interviews. Travis knew I was an Odd Future advocate; while working on the feature filmshoot we just wrapped on, he was taken back by my "Jasper Dolphin X I Dolphin-Heart Miley Cyrus" shirt that I wore to work.

Travis told me that he had seen on twitter that Domo Genesis was having a record-release party for Domo Genesis' new mixtape titled, No Idols and that all of Odd Future would be there as well.

He couldn't make it, so I decided I would go at it solo. So Travis and I drove around Hollywood and blazed until he and I decided to part ways, at which point, he dropped me off at my new place. I put my things down, changed clothes, grabbed the weed and rolled the fuck out...

Arriving at the store, I didn't realize there was gonna be a line already forming out front. In retrospect, I'm glad I got there when I did, because an ungodly line began to form shortly after I got there. The problem was it was about a million degrees outside. It never really gets this hot in LA and it felt like a regular day in August in Philadelphia; unbearable, never-ending heat. The sun was blasting on me and I had found out the store wasn't even going to open until 4:20pm. While clever in spirit, it was only like 1:00-something and the sun was as high in the air as it would be for the day.

Making the best of a hot situation, I took to making friends with the girls behind me. The most talkative of the bunch being a girl named Sarah.

I'm pretty sure they were all still in High School, so I kept it pretty PG-13 and just honestly kicked it with the three or four girls in the posse. I would make jokes all day that somehow turned into my new-found Kanye West impression (Huuuuuh?!?!). I had them laughing for awhile and it kept me distracted long enough to hold out until the doors opened up for business.

The line began a slow drawl towards the door and it was at that point that I realized that they would just be rushing people in and out of the building, so as to sell as much shit as humanly possible and to avoid crowding, but my intentions were to honestly sit in the damn store and listen to the damn record. I didn't really give so much of a fuck about who would be there, so much as I did care about getting high and taking my first day of relaxation to relax and listen to the album. That's what you're supposed to do at a record-release party, dammit.

I started thinking, maybe I could pull my proverbial Dickhouse card out of the box...

Tiny Backstory: I've been friends with Bam Margera for about 10+ years now, having grown up in and around West Chester, PA when Jackass was just first starting to blow up and gain huge controversy. Bam did his thing making CKY for years and then Dickhouse Entertainment came along and grabbed Bam for the team that would eventually become Jackass. When I moved to LA, I started making better friends with the West Coast branch of Dickhouse.... Dickhouse also happens to be the company that produces Odd Future's TV Series, Loiter Squad for Adult Swim/Cartoon Network. Currently the #1 show on their Adult Swim which they're currently filming Season Two for as I type this... literally.

So I texted one of my friends over at Dickhouse to see if they would be in the building later to check this out and he said him and some of the guys would be filming until about 7:00. Of the assumption that they're going to at least want to grab B-Roll of the growing crowd of kids outside the OF Store.

When I got inside, I found that some little kid was running the whole show.. and I do mean little, this kid had to be about 11 years of age at the oldest. He was the shop's intern and resident Head-Honcho with mad solancho, as he was the one literally controlling the crowd of people attempting to set up shop and park their asses in the store until somebody famous finally showed up.

I had a sidebar with little man aka. Lucas and told him that I was waiting on them to finish filming because I know some of the peeps at Dickhouse who might show up later. Lucas immediately separated me from "Random Fan" and started treating me like "Random Fam". He immediately guided me to the bench by the storefront window and told me I could kick it there until whoever showed up and just not to get in the way too much and I'd be straight, so shout out to Lucas for hookin it up and recognizing when somebody is or isn't bullshitting. Tyler would be proud, I'm sure. Little man runnin' shit efficiently and whatnot. I plugged in my dying iPhone and played Mahjong while Domo Genesis's No Idols played in the background.

Sarah found me hanging out inside and took it upon herself to act as though she was with me, something I wasn't too mad about and played along with because I had remembered doing shit like that back in the day my damn self... not to the level of pushiness that she did, but hey, she was cute, girls get away with everything. It's really not fair...

After awhile I found out the speakers in the shop were busted or something, so we wouldn't even be able to listen to the damn mixtape, which more than anything else in the world is why I showed up to this damn thing in the first place.

The members of Odd Future started to make their way into the building. Domo Genesis was one of the first to enter the building. I wanted to say what's up and explain my connection, but he was already being swarmed by fans for photos and whatnot. Left Brain was kickin it out front, Mike G was inside and everybody was freaking out about that. Earl Sweatshirt stepped in the building and you would've thought everybody had seen the face of God. There was no more cool left in the building, everyone started to lose their shit, and rightfully so, I suppose.

Next thing you know, Chris Clancy shows up and sometime shortly after, the speakers started magically working again. And the bass kicks...

You know those rare moments where you remember why you love Hip Hop? This mixtape brought me back to those memories. Memories of being way too young to be as high as I was, in some basement with a girl you just met all of twenty minutes ago, in a basement full of kids from different middle schools and high schools around the county who decided not to go up to school that day and show up to Vicky's house in Clifton Heights. You didn't even know where the music was coming from, but it was blasting and you didn't know who it was, but you loved it. Later that night you'd end up in a car, going 80mph down i95 to the races on Front St and watch others drag as "mostly" everyone tried to synchronize there radios, unless someone had the hot shit, then you'd just let him play... this felt like that hot shit. This felt like I should have a 40 in one hand and a blunt too big for me to smoke in the other.

The mixtape (which you can download for FREE right here) is an incredible collab between Domo and the legendary producer, The Alchemist. It opens up with the somewhat chilling "Prophecy", a track with no drums, allowing Domo to show off how his lyrical skills and timing has picked up greatly.

Notable line (Prophecy):
When your days become your dreams and your dreams become reality
Sleep is obsolete because your mind is working rapidly
When people who laugh taking success as a causality
When you get that feeling like your vision is in fact in reach

The title track, No Idols, featuring Tyler, is insane, and not to take away from Domo, but Tyler uses his verse to build a lyrical sandwich... literally...

Excerpt from Tyler's first verse on No Idols:

But since we're on the subject, I'm good bruh it's, nothin'
Lettuce in my pocket, salty niggas need to, catch up
You're full of bologna if you do not think my, bread's up
But let us get this cheese, you musta heard Rella
Never mind, you don't even like sandwiches fella

Although this isn't the first time I've heard someone make a sandwich or even a whole meal or crack recipe in a song, I feel like this recipe stemmed from the Ham Sandwich freestyle I just saw recently...

The next track, "The Feeling" is a bouncy, summertime anthem something you listen to as you light a blunt; a product of coincidence or very clever arrangement.

In juxtapose, this album has tons of what I like to call "Cat Burglar Basslines" aka. Heist Music. A lot of 70's jam session, dark funk if you will. Specifically with tracks like, No Idols, Fuck Everybody Else, The Daily News and Gamebreaker ft. Earl Sweatshirt. This Cat Burglar bass shines brightest on fuck Everybody Else and "Elimination Chamber ft. Earl Sweatshirt, Vince Staples & Action Bronson (who has also worked heavily with The Alchemist)", the first single prior to the mixtape's release...

Then there's what I refer to as the "Pool Side Hip Hop" part to this mixtape. Specifically found on tracks like Power Ballad, Me and My Bitch, Till The Angels Come ft. Freddie Gibbs & Prodigy...

My favorite song (possibly for biased reasons) is All Alone, which to put it simply talks just about that. There are too many lines to pick just one amazing snap-line from within, but the track basically talks about how despite everything that's going on with Odd Future's success and his closeness to the group, he still feels like he's by himself in a Every-Man-For-Himself world. And for having that insight may be a little too deep for somebody his age, but a realistic way to look at a scenario when your own has never maintained any promise of success on that level and just coming in what seems like such an effortless manor. Talent, a posse for life, fame, girls, endless weed and everything else doesn't fill the void he still feels. It's a very deep fucking track and it's said in true Odd Future fashion; keeping it 100%, despite how anybody else might take it... I also give him props for being in the shop all day as the album (and this song) played on repeat throughout the day. Like a true artist, he's extended his honest words for the world to visualize as they see fit.

Left brain arrived but sat outside on his bike, just kickin it and smoking cigarettes, possibly trying to figure out something to do with his bike. I walked up and introduced myself, telling him we first met at The Warfield in Downtown SF when he did a stage dive and Van Damme-kicked me in the side of the face and jaw, knocking my glasses clear off my face and almost into the Moshpit Graveyard. We then talked about how wild that theater was and I agreed because everybody was smoking up inside from the stage to the audience. In all fairness, this was a legendary theater, everybody from Iggy Pop to you-name-it has played there. Anybody else is really inconsequential because Iggy Pop pretty much beats anything you can think of.

I finally introduced myself, telling him my affiliation, as weak as it is and he seemed pretty cool about the whole thing, introducing himself and shaking my hand. He was bouncing around with energy, feeling good about the release and turn-out of the crowd. Glad to hear considering earlier in the morning he had tweeted about how he was so nervous he had actually puked... Again, going back to the traits of a true artist, only a handful of people I know would get that nervous. I don't know why he was, because apart of him 'had' to be aware that the overall feel of the album was dope, but again, a true artist is never done painting. You just have to know when to stop.

The day continued, I made jokes with Domo about how Elimination Chamber sounds like a track you listen to on some Heist shit, Heat/Michael Mann-type stuff and he was laughing a genuine, deep laugh... That's another thing I'd like to talk about really quick...

Everybody has this misconception of Odd Future as a bunch of lucky kids who don't appreciate their fans, and that's just a bunch of bullshit. Domo didn't know who the fuck I was and we had never met before, aside from the time I stood front row at their 2012 show at The Warfield (Him and the rest of the crew had smoked themselves stupid and Domo was in that fade, sitting on a giant speaker presumably trying not to get too dizzy).
The reality is, they're just a bunch of kids, having a blast, enjoying the fruits of their hard labor and amazing social networking skills. Domo wasn't shy at all about involving me on the bashing's that went down between all the Odd Future heads and staff in the shop. Nobody was left safe, not even little man aka. Lucas...

Things got crazier towards the second half of the day, but that's just something you'll have to read in Part Two of The Domo Genesis Chronicles...

Top Five Tracks On This Album/Mixtape:

1. No Idols
2. Fuck Everybody Else
3. All Alone
4. Elimination Chamber
5. Gamebreaker

Check out this article from LA Weekly on Fairfax.

Golf Wang.

written by this guy...

I guess...

2012-07-09T00:19:00.001-07:00

I guess I should put sound behind thrown, book in through the loser. Minds day off, no worries: Ferris Bueller.

Time is a factor and I'm laughing at the toll gates. Freight trains fall on mountains like some stupid snowflakes. Teeth are pretty dirty, guess I shoulda used Colgate. Soul: Baked. I'm losin it like vicodin for soar aches.

The Hollow (Thoughts @ Midnight)

2012-07-09T00:10:00.001-07:00

Things seem to work at paces impossible for one to work out within the timescale allowed, but time waits for no man and hell's river runs deep with the decay of strong men.

Speed is the weapon of giants but the tongue is the weapon of a King. A King is not always honest...

Sabotage and temptation play puppet master on the backs of good men.

The mind is strong, but the body must follow. The nightmares are dreams of the lost and the hollow.

The Brunette In Blue Velvet Heels. Written by @Hexylvania.

2012-06-26T15:00:00.001-07:00

"Fucking shiesty-ass Jew-bag." said one of the Crew.

He was referring to the owner of the apartment we were shooting at for a film titled, "Belle's Blood", some piece of shit directed by this overrated hack, Calvin Michael. Calvin was an growing force in Hollywood, trumping Max Roux who is considered Hollywood's youngest royalty, having directed his first major blockbuster at twenty years of age, his achievement eclipsed by the youth of Calvin, directing his first million-dollar film at nineteen.
These are the details, birthed from the gossiping rants of an independent film crew, spoken over cigarettes in the lobby of the complex, between the late hours turned early mornings. Livid with the crescent, lunar cascade in the age of Aquarius.

Slightly bored, tired and offended at the care-free nature of the crew's racism, I decided to make my way back inside, next to the Director, where I should've been anyways. Calvin was speaking to a fairly famous actress who fancied herself to be much more in the grandiose scheme of things than she actually was or had ever been. I stood next to them, but far enough away that it at least seemed as though I was unable of hearing them, even though they were perfectly inside of earshot.

The actress - possibly nervous from me standing by the two of them, pretending not to look at them - turned to me and asked, "Can you do me a favor and get my sunglasses? They're in the main bedroom of the second tier, you know what I'm talking about, right?", not even having given me more than the single tick of a second to answer. So I nodded like an over-stimulated, masturbating monkey and darted up the stairs at speeds completely unnecessary for such a non-conducive request, almost taking out the 1'st AC, bear hugging a Red camera as he slowly made his way down the staircase of the second tier.

I almost flew right through the door, but decided to knock first, as there was a sign that read, "IF YOU VALUE YOUR JOB, KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING. THANKS!!! :)".

I knocked on the door out of courtesy for the fact that anybody could've been anywhere. I looked left and starring at me was one of the actors, gripping a Styrofoam cup with coffee in it. I nervously smiled, attempting not to make too much eye contact. An evil, maniacally smile took over the left side of his mouth.
"Come in!", a voice said from inside the door. I opened the door and flew in like Kramer, expecting to find Art Department arranging flowers. That was not the case...

I opened the door, which swung to the left, revealing a pair of RayBan's on an oak dresser. As I reached for them my peripheral made sense of something on the right; a pair of Royal-Blue, velvet suede platform heels. These belonged to the legs of a slender, flawless-skinned brunette, wearing the shortest skirt you would ever hope to see a girl wearing when resting on her flat-stomach. She swung her legs back and forth, playing around with her iPhone. She looked like a sexier version of Mia Wallace being framed for the Pulp Fiction poster. She wore a cut off top, revealing both the top and bottom of her boobs. Her nipples pressed against the thin material of her white shirt.

Caught completely off guard, I was left lost, searching for words by the room door. Searching endlessly for anything suave or James Bond-ish to say, anything at all, really. The Brunette in Blue Velvet Heels was clearly capable of deciphering when a guy was nervous, as I'm sure she's seen the look on my face thousands of times before.

"I'm sorry. I was just looking for the actresses RayBan's. I didn't mean to -"
"It's fine.", she said, cutting my embarrassing attempts at using the English language to my advantage.
"You're hair's dope.", I said.

The Brunette in Blue Velvet Heels looked at me for a moment and was clearly working something out in her head.

What's your name?, she asked.
I'm just the Director's Assistant.
That's huge. You make it out like it's not a big deal.
One of the crew told me I'm a glorified PA.
And who told you that, a PA?
I couldn't help but laugh. "Touche'.", I said smiling, "That's pretty funny."
It's not funny. They're just jealous and that's the truth. Trust me.

The silence of the room took over. The lunar light came through the window, soaking her, reflecting the sheer blue fabric of her heels and tan skin. Hidden in shadows, smiling a sinister smile. Tempted by the fruit of another. Blind to the evol ways of seduction.

I was comfortable, but I began sweating at the palms,"... What's your name?", I asked.
Alexis.
That sounds like a porn star name.
That's because I 'am' a pornstar.
.................................... really?

She sat up and inched her way towards the front of the bed, crossing her legs, making sure to go slow enough for me to see that she wasn't wearing any underwear. She took her already-revealing top off, showing off her magnificent objects of desire. Her nipples were at attention.

She looked me dead in the eyes and said, "If I wasn't a porn star, do you think I'd just take my top off like that?"

Searching too hard for the answer to a rhetorical question, I replied, "I don't know. you might just be wild like that."

She looked at me as though she were almost mad. But she smiled when she understood the fun-nature of my response. I looked at her heaving breasts as she laughed, she couldn't help but notice where my eyes kept falling to. Alexis uncrossed her legs and began to rub her clit. Once wet, she began to reach inside herself with three fingers, masturbating with a ferocious demeanor that begged for me to run over to her with my raging hard-on and fuck her senseless. I didn't realize it at the time, but I had been standing there for about three minutes with a bulge in my pants that pumped so much blood, it threatened to spit the seam of my pants.

I slowly walked towards her as if I had back problems, taking my time with each step to ensure safety. Alexis arched her neck up at me to look me in the eyes. She pulled me in closer by my ass with her hand and palmed the bulge in my pants.
Alexis wasn't just putting on a show for yet another porno, she was legitimately into this right now. She was into the thrill of being caught. The door was unlocked, she wasn't being discreet about her moans, even her body language begged for someone to walk in the door, as she would occasionally glance over at it.

My dick came flying out the zipper like an F-15 being shot into the sky. She was definitely one of the hottest girls I had ever encountered in my life. Alexis didn't waste any time going to town. The second her saliva-filled mouth hit the end of my warm cock, I went weak in the knees. Living inside an orgasm, it was strange-enough at that point that I had realized Alexis had been hired for the sex scene in the script to this film. Before my brain could drift too far into thoughts of any kind, I was moments away from coming.

In the heat of it all, I asked her if I could come on her face or chest.
"No fucking way, dude. I'm on in ten minutes.", Alexis said while giving me a death-stare.
Trying to plead with Alexis just seconds before the eruption I frantically asked, "Where can I come?!"
Without an ounce of care for the situation she looked at me, almost offended, "I don't know, just not on me.", she said half-disgusted, but still masturbating

The primal part of me wanted to come on her anyway, but then logic and jail time flashed before my eyes. I turned around and ran to the corner of the room, aiming for the floor, I ejaculating before I could make it to the corner. The distance in which I ejaculated was tremendous with force. I came on the floor, part of the dresser and the very end of the actresses RayBan's. I cleaned them off.

"Oh, shit!", I aid, looking at the RayBan's, realizing why I had come upstairs almost twenty minutes ago, "I have to go! I totally forgot that -"
It's cool. I need to get ready anyways.
... Would you maybe wanna hang out some -
Honestly? I would, because you're super sweet, but I have a boyfriend.
Oh... it's cool.

Alexis, having been aware of my inabilities to start or end a conversation, had decided to do so for me... "You better get going.", Alexis said in a sweet tone. "You don't wanna get in trouble."
Totally.

I exited the door. Some of the crew was looking in my direction. I walked by them trying to act casual and probably failing miserably. I walked back over to the director and the actress. They were still in the middle of a heated argument.

Sensing me approaching the actress goes, "You know, you don't have to stare at me all the time."
Sorry... I didn't mean to -
Just walk away for a little bit, please?
Calvin, displacing his anger turned around and yelled at me as well, "Go stand over there for a minute!"

I went mute. The actress snatched her glasses from my hand like I stole them from her and waved me off with one hand like an King would wave a peasant clear of his presence.

I walked away to the other end of the room, pass the snickering crew members, as if all of them haven't been yelled at before in front of everyone. Regardless of this, I couldn't help but smile...

Herbs and Raspy Vocals

2012-06-26T12:05:00.000-07:00

Ellie Goulding - High For This (Weekend Remix)

Age of Aquarius / Photo By @Hexylvania

2012-06-26T06:40:00.002-07:00

shit to say...

2012-06-23T02:35:00.004-07:00

Why do you do this shit?
Level with me, are you happy?
Is this what you thought it would be like?
Is the juice worth the squeeze?
How do you reserve your anger / what do you do with it?
Where the fuck's 'my' punching bag?