Todd Michael

What Kind Of Rape Is Your Favorite?

2012-08-21T15:02:00.001-07:00

Forcible, Legitmate, Sleeping-kind, Surprise Rape, Happy Birthday Rape, Rape on Wheat, Rape-in-a-blanket, Rape Days a Week, The Wheel of Rape: When's it gonna stop? Nobody knows!, Craigslist Rape, Adult Friend Finder Rape, Verbal Raping, Aqua Raping (raping underwater), Death by Raping, The Reaping Rape, or being raped by Paul Ryan's beautiful blue eyes.

looked at a listing

2012-08-19T02:39:00.000-07:00

and we thought, why? Tomorrow'll be better than the one before it.

Laycation?

2012-08-18T20:32:00.000-07:00

Vocation Vacation

Cheeseburger

2012-07-08T00:13:00.000-07:00

Most dependable menu item.

This Blog Is Badly Written

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

I don't need to uphold the character of this blog anymore than i need to uphold the content, and therefore, lack of content, even if should the said content have been necessary for the compre-
hension of the content itself, which therefore justifies that the lack of content is responsible for
the content itself, and is therefore also part of the content.

Is it badly written content?
Or is it just that the reader isn't engaging the author?
Hurt, am I?
I couldn't be hurt because I know that it's painful.
I usually let go after I've successfully
revalidated myself, usually through
a series of Twitter statements, and things I say to bret.
(Why do i think names should be lowercased?)

Even If I Am What You Think I Am

2012-07-05T03:39:00.000-07:00

There isn't a distance I won't go
for the ones that I love and hold
To be the true victors of this world
The ones that make waves whirl
Make twisters turn
And fires burn
And look serene
Like that one girl and that young man
Or Patrick, or the grass that's so green
From a Lennox, I know
Cause Yuki likes him so
I guess my point is
Not something that you did
Not anything that you heard
It doesn't even say a word
You feel this
You feel it
And you kind of take a step back
And say, this is how I ought to act
For all that is gold, can't stay
And I refuse to fade away
Or let him go
Oh I love him so
I can't let anyone know
Cause it would take years ago
For me to have begun
And maybe it'll come when it comes
But if I refuse
Than i live with my choice
To lose half of my voice
(Celine Dion
sings a Dianne Warren Song)
And I can't just keep it secret
So bear with me and hear it
Cause i'm not disappearing
I won't let myself fall to my knees and
That's NOT another story
It's the story of my life
Like the story about
That husband and wife
And i give nothing excessive
in a blog so suggestive
Because this is more soft
And I like it to reflect
The person I am oft
Even If I am What You Think I Am

Dear Charles, Seriously?

2012-07-03T11:20:00.002-07:00

Dear Charles,

Somehow you manage to follow up one of the most confusing nights with one of the most intellectually and emotionally taxing nights. Thanks for that, buddy. I can say a few good things about our "dinner", the one we didn't have enough cash for. The one you had invited to. The one where you're supposed to pay pretty much, I could endeavor to assume.

The waiterss, you say was your ex-girlfriend, you sat there like a retard with no balls when they threatened the cops. You had no right being in that booth with me. You hadn't earned it and you hadn't prepared, and you were all too prepared to be something you just ain't, kid.

I like you, Charles. But I can't say I really know who you are. I think you might be a pleaser who had a bad childhood just like I claim. (a half-truth, at best, my own admission). You are not me, though. And you had an ability to just to agree with everything that came out of my mouth. You never challenged me once, but perhaps it will all work in the end. Perhaps you'll a little more careful next time you parallel park someone else's car. Or perhaps when they ask you, "Dude, i'm not too good at parallel parking, are you okay taking this spot? Don't do it unless your sure." You assured me. You assured me.

Oh Charles, don't be such a phony. You're so much smarter than that. At least you recognize how smart I am, and unfortunately, I now recognize your capacity for hiding inconvenient truths. However, you did strike me as a screenwriter. You had the messenger bag, you have listenership of a person who truly does want to tell another's story. You financed a film this week? (I'll need details.)

Oh, Charles, Charles. You should move to where your subjects are, because you're a catastrophe. Everything that could have gone wrong, from being threatened by a bartender, to being threatened by a big fucking bouncer, and then not being able to get a sorry in edgewise as your "ex-girlfriend" screams at me never to come back (Not a chance in hell, lady. I'm sorry for calling you a name under my breath, which I apologized for, but you were asking for it with your attitude. You started the scene, not Charles, and not myself. You had no compassion for the situation. And you were at fault for much. Not for not accepting a credit card without my name on it, mind you. That's perfectly acceptable, but to not be able to even discuss, like adults, while I was trying to meet ya halfway...

You took my license and made me drive. That is a liability. But you don't know that. Neither does the guy working the bar, who's much cooler than you. I don't you, but you were rude to me. Personally. And impersonally. Don't you think I wanted to resolve the situation? I think you didn't. I think you caused that, for some reason. I'm probably wrong, and there's no excuse for ever calling a lady by a name less sweet, but you are the customer service. I am the customer. It is your job to serve me, not the bartenders. And for 6 dollars. AND FOR 6 DOLLARS. You don't have enough faith for 6 dollars when a stranger promises, with big sad blue eyes, and a blushed face, you still demand the 6 dollars.
You got more than that 6 dollars. It was 28 total. Charles has 20. I gave you around 2 dollars in quarters. And you still treated me like the scum of the Earth because it was your intention to.

I, came back in, to pay you in full, you never gave me my change. You basically owe me 4 dollars. or 4 dollars and some change. May I hold your ID? If a customer yells at you because you basically tell them they can't leave, or they must do this or that, I promise you, you were not within your rights, and I will never return to that hole in the wall again. Not because you told not to return, but because the fries were nasty.

And you don't like apologies. You don't like good in people that you "know" are evil, like me. You don't listen. You just talk. And you've taken to much of my letter to the shmuck who's really at fault.

The man behind the wheel, the man of the night, the listener, the "i better damn well be a screenwriter": Charles. Seriously? Did you really expect me to pay for it? That doesn't sound very Hollywood at all.
But it was an entirely bizarre night, which i won't look back at fondly, not because of the restaurant, the bartender, the waitress, or the bouncer, who didn't like to talk either, but because you claimed to be what you weren't. A good parallel parker.

Can't wait to read the script!

Love,
Todd

testing - Housekeeping

2012-07-03T02:14:00.001-07:00

I remember the scores only vaguely, though they seemed rather honest.

In math, 90s
English, 90s
Science 80s or 90s

I scored lower on a few (and english may have been one of them, but i don't believe).
But the best part of those tests, was really, that it showed me how inept some of my teachers were.

They'd proctor the tests, and then snap at children for the slightest movements (depending on the teacher) and act as though they could do any better than any one else in the class. Teachers can be stupid, too. I suppose a child's word, keeping in mind people like Mrs. Constanance. Her very name was an insult to the alphabet.

And make a crazy ass wish this year Tiffany. You got good friends (i.e. Christa. I woulda done more except some shmuck scratched my car. Happy Happy BDay! I don't even care what age you are. Obviously.
-25yo

Dear Charles, Love Todd

2012-07-02T00:35:00.000-07:00

Charles,

I'll acknowledge that you standing me up has upped the intrigue. That's a truth. And here's another one:

I never read this email. You wanted to know what I could bring to the table: well if we come up with a concept hat's worth doing, which we wil. We're two young guys (your 31?) who have more success with commercial credits as writers (lyrics are most definitely words), and I don't know about you, but i've but up through Hollywoods anus and come out the mouth, ending up at a party Larry Gagosian is holding for the Golden Globes at Dave Grohl's house (Smoke a joint with Woody Harrelson and some models or strippers, hang out with LiLo and our mutual friend, the billionaire Roberta Hanley -maybe theyd just shoe up 50 grand - tell Owen Wilson I loved him in Hall Pass, when he's nominated the very next night as lead actor in Midnight In Paris, which I've never seen. And don't get me started on the hotspots: soho and the chataeu... oh oh the chateau...)

In any case, alongside my Hollywood education, I happen to stand by an original Kickstarter film, written by my boyfriend, and it rakes in 160k. (I think to myself, Kickstarter is a game, really. Find prizes, get your movie funded. Let's make some prizes. I coudl think of a dozen that don't involve being that guy/boyfriend (I think you know what I mean, and you were totally averse to it anyway.)

I do remember you calling me everyman, which at the time I thought meant I wasn't brought up to believe that I was better or worse than anyway (maybe worse truthfully/definitely.) I thought you'd meant that I hadn't become jaded by any success, or coincidences. But it could just the same mean I'm like every body else. But the fact of the matter I'm unlike anybody else. When I set myself out to do something, I don't always succeed, but that's because I pussy out, get confused or bored.

Honestly, I think I'm smarter than at least 99 percent of this fuck fest (earth I meant, and most of my childhood testing would affirm what I said) To my unfortunate surprise, I was a particular brand of intelligent. I couldn' multiply extremely large sums in my head, I was no computer. I barely understood anything in high school chemistry (still managing an A+ one semester due to a prolblem with the staff.) I was singing in the shower in 2007, March sometime, I was in Iowa, I was coming down from mushrooms, and I was singing a song (which I can't remember at the moment, but am certain will eventually come back to me) and I had shocked myself. I was good at writing songs. At least the melodies. In truth, I was only, and maybe still am only in theory, brilliant with melodies. Some say I can sing great... most actually enjoy it at the very least (my recording capabilities are terrible, remind me at the end of this that I want to buy a mike).

It's always a shock to the system when I encounter the like mind. The other, theoretical, genius. "Well, if he's as smart as me and he's only that old, (obviously I don't equate the two, only recognize that with age comes with wisdom, and for some, stupidity) I must not be that intelligent myself," I'll confess    to myself, and anyone in the room, including Twitter. (Twitter being not just one person, but depending on who you are between 42.... I'm sorry, I was going to compare two people but I got caught up and
ended messaging Sky Ferreria, a young pop singer (electro pop, I'd say, but definitely not the most
mainstream pop, and not the least.) whose name I can't even pronounce. And there I am, right back in that anus of Hollywood. Messaging Sky Ferreria because I've seen one video a couple of years ago that made me think (truthfully, I bought the video, a rare thing for anybody to do, buy a music video and showed it to just about every straight guy that'd come through. I wanted to use her, at the time, as a metaphor for teen angst, which I was full of at 23.

They'd watch the video, comment on her bod, she's 17 we're told and she wants to do bad things. I think that was the start of my fall into wanting to write a fucking (i'm already so far in the email it's like you know me, so cussing shouldn't be a big deal.) horror film. A horror film? What in the identity-fucks-sake was I wanting to do a horror film.

We were with these two other fags, at their place in palm springs (we don't go there anymore after some ill will amongst us, which is over, but so are the chances that we will return to that beautiful house in the movie colony (i'm sure that's what it's called). And somebody brought out... "Have you two heard of this movie called The Human Centipede?" A double 'No'. Upon being explained to the horrid thing that was Tom Six's concept for a movie (doesn't it seem weird that nobody thought of that....).

"I will attach section A's, ripping out the incisors, and attach you three via the gastric system," the crazy doctor (it's a crazy doctor movie, and Dieter Lazer is the best crazy doctor ever. The crazy German dude attaches two American 20 somethings, the pretty one first (at the
time I was sure Ashley Williams would be the star to emerge from that film, but Ashlyn Yennie. I think her name was Jenny in the film surprised us all by becoming The Queen Human
Centipede, having played the ass in first, a wretched role for an actor in terms of physics,
They were all three crawling on their hands and knees, each girl (Williams first, then Yennie
at the end. She never takes a shit by the way, and I think her ass is only partially available.
I'm pretty sure she gave the goods for the second one but I guess gay guys don't remember
beautiful young horror tits).

I was horrified by the thought of The Human Cenitpede. I took to my boyfriends lap, to close my eyes in, to hide for just a moment, from the fact that there was this movie called The Human
Centipede, and it's tag line is that it's 100 percent medically accurate (I think the actual
procedure would end two dead bodies attached to a, body type of your choice [it's
a pet, the German Doctor lets us know, when we find the unfortunate three locked in a kennel
as though it were a German Sheppard]). That's what was scary, was that Six had made
not just a movie, but a threat to everyone in the world, that they might end up eating
shit and shitting it out into your best friend's mouth for the rest of your short life (you die from blood poisoning like Jenny did. The doctor announces her death to the trio with a hint of
anger, and a hint of excitement, for now, the dead ass of the human centipede isn't
a bad thing. It's a blessing, no curse. The doctor decides to add two unlucky cops to the
pet, failing with everyone but Williams, I think her name was Jenny now, they're basically
Jennie A and Jennie B (or of course Jennie M, which is for middle, and Jennie B. which is
for butt)..

The moral of that story was something along the lines of don't take it for granted that somebody
won't drug you, and stitch you like an immigrant in a dress shop, to an Asian guy's ass. (I have
to say, if I had to be attached to an ass, an Asian guy would probably be something to consider.)
But what I got out of it was that giving people shock value is a good thing. If you provide them
with enough of it and a good looking-ness, which is usually referred to by film buffs as it's
"technical merit" (it means whether or not the movie looks professional or amateur. That's
essentially the spectrum that I'm referring to.)
really).

It wasn't just the commercial aspect of the torturous violence I enjoyed so much, really. (though it was a good deal about it's marketability - built in audience mother fuckers) What I had realized
was a desire to take things further, make things worse, make being stitched to an ass while still
being medically as healthy as any Bulldog (Did you know the Bulldog is so inbred, and it's face
is so smashed in, that it can barely breathe. Some of them live through torturous months, or
even years, breathing through two holes the size of the smallest blueberry in the box. maybe
smaller. Maybe Six was commenting on humanity's whimsical and flippant desire for things
that create tragic life stories (i.e. a dog who can't breathe for 3 or 4 years, women requesting
BLOOD DIAMONDS, [and you almost every women I know that's married wears a diamond,
a diamond which so easily been the cause of multiple deaths] or a child solider in Uganda
or Heidi Montag).

In any case, my desire to shock and awe should be of no concern. It's perfectly normal, in
fact. (Some of the biggest Youtube hits are pretty fucked up... did you see the one where
the guy throws a pair of scissors and it pierces right through his best friends arm, who, in
shock, and not quite feeling the pain yet, tells his horrified friend (a chubby kid if i'm not
mistaken. I felt bad for him and got the feeling he had been picked on one too many
times [like that time when I punched Danny Goldfield in the face at Obi Ikemafuna's
house. Later, he would go on to pierce my back with an air assault gun while we
played Hunter in the creek that our gated community was centered around...

That game of Hunter was fucking scary as hell. They were my friends, not my best
friends (except maybe Andrew Berkovitz), not my "family", just my friends at 13
because we all lived in the community and Berk and I had been friends for so long
I just tagged along. I guess what's terrifying is not knowing, right? That's what
they always say. We're just afraid of not knowing.

Well, I came around. I took Socrates advice and decided that I knew nothing at all,
and so now, I can conclude I am among the most intelligent. But fuck intelligence
for just a good god dam second. Look at John Travolta. He still thinks we think he
is not gay. He probably uses his Scientology skills to block himself from the fact that
he's only and intensely into men and boy's (I'mm not even insinuating children. I mean
   those 18 19 even early 20 somethings who are just, for all intents and purposes to most
of us, boys.) I believe with a firm hand that Travolta is what he is accused of. Seriously,
   if I get sued from this... you'll fucking really owe me.

   I'll let you know how I want it signed after
   I hear your excuse for not showing (i
   was sort of hoping it was a
   practical joke.)

   Love,
   Todd

The "Paragraph?"

2012-06-29T03:32:00.000-07:00

I'm so in love with my routine that I'm just going to continue, at least, the working out one. It works out if you do. Nobody but me says that. I should probably TM (ya know trademark, copyright, the whole shebang) is. If any website continues to use anything along the lines of "I love routine" it's mine. I'll probably prosecute, because I know Google takes an imprint of this. BAMN! EVIDENCE MOFO.

Therefore, thanks to a wonderful film of a friend of I can now say and with for certain that this is the trademark.

and it applies immediately. good think I have a lawyer

* While the above peace is literally insanity, it is fiction and at best,.... a paragraph.

My Opinions

2012-06-29T02:46:00.000-07:00

The Hoppers is going extremely well. Everything is going to be okay. There's a few weird adjustments, but come to think of it, there are always adjustments (I at first thought the lead for a female was awful, I was plain jane wrong).

It's absolutely the most fascinating tale of contemporary cinema. I just read the script. The writer takes the reader on a ride, whether or not you relate to the morals, everyone has their own code. For it's life with twists and turns (I'm reminded of the saying "we know what's gonna happen, but just don't know how it's going to happen.") It's fun.

I'm gonna do a "There are two kinds of people in this world" :

There are two types of people in this world. Those who particpate. And those who watch. I think they're never both when it comes down to sheer practicality.

Give It A Rest Paul

2012-06-27T19:09:00.001-07:00

"I had forgotten-
"I HAD FORGOTTEN TO THINK ABOUT WHAT I WAS SAYING."
"I had forgotten to, to - uh THINK about what I's saying."
"I HAD FORGOTTEN TO THINK ABOUT WHAT I WAS SAYING."
"I Have to forgotten i think."
"I HAD FORGOTTEN TO THINK ABOUT WHAT I WAS SAYING."
"Would you, uh, - ugh give it a rest, Paul?"

Matthew Herz: Gamer Bringing SNES Back With The Power of Mac

2012-06-27T02:51:00.000-07:00

Honestly, if you're 25, 24, or even 26 27, you know that SNES was, by far, a superior to every console. It rivals the playstation, and i would say rivals playstation 2 where it's very own predecessor doesn't.

It stands the test of time. It's games graphics are unique and fully inhabit the imagination. The role playing games of SNES were like the best fantasy books ever. The gorgeous characters like Sabin and Terra from Final Fantasy III (I could go on... shout out to Locke, btw), to the very integrative nature of being in control of their destiny's within their dynamic, hospitable, dangerous, adventurous, intriguing, beautiful, graceful, self-enclosed world that was all accessible to us only through SNES and of course SNES emulators (what gamer wouldn't love a newly wrapped SNES for Xmas?)

It is for this reason that I am telling you, you must pay attention to Matthew Herz.

Matt Herz intimately and lovingly understands the collective love for the SNES RPG, and he captures the look and feel of being in those worlds with his first, what i'll call a mini-game, taking about 30 minutes to beat for the best gamers.

The story revolves around Thaddeus (You already know it's going to be good), a rabbit like character who is turned into another creature after eating a mysterious carrot. When an old lady finds that Thatddeus the Cabbit, that's half rabbit half cat, ate up her precious, ripe vegatables, she knocks him into the underworld. Taking a cue from Zelda's A Link In Time on SNES, the room designs are what give this game such great staying power. It provokes the "journey" sensation that gave those SNES games their awesomeness (i honestly can't think of a better word).

Interview With The Twisted Sisters

2012-06-25T22:06:00.002-07:00

I decided to give an exclusive to The Twisted Twins.

"And What If I Don't"

2012-06-25T02:57:00.000-07:00

Katherine and her mother were usually silent on the ride to school. While Katherine was up and ready by 7 AM, her mother was far more cumbersome at this hour. Her mother was actually a fascinating figure: A two-time best-selling non-fiction author on "The Habits Of The Most Successful", and she was successful: financially, she pulled in more than half a million in book royalties every year since her first self-help book, "How To Prove Your Potential". She'd taken dozens of courses on the subject of success, and read just about every publication available, until one day, she decided that the answer wasn't in these books, or magazines; it was these books and magazines. (She'd written and sold the book to a major publishing house with 2 months and it felt like even less.)

Still, with all of the advice her mother had doled out over the years, at seminars, on the internet, and through her best-selling hardbacks (not to mention the paperbacks and e-books), she was, and never intended to be a "morning person." It was actually one of the tenants she wrote in her second book (The 5 Pillars To Pulling Off The Impossible). It said: Be who you are, and don't struggle to be what you're not.

Her mother would cite herself whenever Katherine's voice became to excitable during that 20 minute car ride to school. Generally, she knew to keep quiet, and when she was successful, she couldn't help but wish for a brother, or sister, or even a cousin to keep her company. And it wasn't just that car ride in which she needed an ally (or a playmate as she could imagine her mother would have put it), it was those awkward dinners with her, her mother's boyfriend Kent, and her mother. Those nightly formalities that were really kept going by her mother's ego, rather than any real desire to spend time with anybody.

"Some people like people, some people like books, and some people like work," is how Kent put it once, when Katherine had just begun to realize just how much attention her mother had diverted to her "empire". It was a shabby empire, full of poorly designed websites, and a monthly column in the Wall Street Journal (Mother's Making Money it was called). The column was her pride and joy just as much as Kent or Katherine, thought this was something she'd be less than likely to admit, even with the toughest psychologists (which they had started seeing from time to time after Katherine was caught with marijuana at school in 9th grade. Although, she actually was just holding it for a friend. Katherine had never ingested anything one could consider a drug in her entire life, save the morning Ritalin her mother required that she take (she was no clear cut case of the disorder, either. This was just a precaution.).

"Are you going to teach me how to drive soon?" Katherine asked her mother, only half-expecting a serious answer.

"I'll have to schedule some time for that."

"Why don't I driving us to school."

"Oh, honey, you know I'm not a morning person."

"But the drive to school is probably the most important drive I'l have to make until after high school, anyway."

"Oh honey. I just don't know if I'd really be the best teacher at this time in the morning. You know I'm not a morning..."

"I know, okay!" Katherine, in a slight rage, began to push her argument. "You're not a morning person. You never have been. When you were in grade school, you nearly got kicked out cause you were late so many times! But maybe sometimes you don't do things, or you do do things just because..."

"Just because," her mother said, glancing at her. As if.

"I'm not trying to argue with you. I'm just trying to tell you that from my perspective, from the perspective of someone who'll be getting their license in a matter of months."

"7 months, honey" Her mother interjected.

"Months, still," Katherine said. "Besides, maybe it would be good to stop all this "morning person" crap anyway."

"Excuse me?" Her mother shrieked.

"I'm sorry," Katherine said, looking straight ahead. "I just think that maybe there are things about the morning you're just not giving enough credit. Like the cool air, or the foggy sky."

"I've had enough cool air and fog in my day," Her mother said, still angry about her daughter's use of the word 'crap'. "I've built my career off trusting my instincts, and one of those instincts tells me that I just wasn't meant to be too cognitive..."

"Cognitive..." Katherine said, rolling her eyes and scoffing with her mouth.

"Conversation postponed until dinner."

"I can't wait," Katherine said sarcastically.

"Please just accept that I am NOT a morning person."

"And what if I don't?"

Let's start kicking ass milennials... or whatever we're called.

2012-06-25T01:43:00.006-07:00

Mid 20's Sucks

All of my friends who are around my age, who are still living with their parents, or working dead-end jobs... yes that was an extremely cliche sentence, but is also something that has become extremely cliche, I always tell them the same thing "DO WHATEVER YOU WANT TO!"

That means dropping the act that you love going into the office day to day, or that you love interning for free or whatever the hell you're doing. There's gotta be something you like, and if you can make a website devoted to that thing you like so much, you can make it a career.

Click Here If You Want To See It Already

This is called Member Snap. They teach you everything you would normally learn the hardway.

I couldn't recommend taking a course like this more. It's one thing to be able to build a site using blogger or wordpress, but making it into a full fledged business, which is possible, takes experience or good teaching. I've gone over the product and for the sake of loving your life, either sign up with Member Snap or learn everything that you can.

Seriously. WORK AT HOME! LOVE YOUR JOB. I sound like a damn advertisement, but I just know how soul crushing it is to do a job you don't love and being an underling at the same time.

We're smarter than the Empire generation. Let's prove it. Start here. If you can't afford it, don't. But if you can, this is real knowledge. Not college or high school. It's like a vocational school. The one's that actually lead to jobs!

Let's All Be Our Own Bosses

I really believe in this whole make your website thing because I've seen it happen. I want you to be happy. I want our generation to be happy and to be home as much as possible.

2012-06-23T11:12:00.002-07:00

They just referred to a terrorist off of his Facebook page.

CNN

Producers

2012-06-20T21:09:00.001-07:00

The best producers are the ones who have such taste in movies, that they literally decide to live in them. They marry actors, actresses, or they obsesses about them (see Pauline Kael). They are the impetus for the creators. And they don't enter in the creating process, and they damn well not say too much once it's done, but the thing they should say, should be... well, something like leveling a crooked picture.

More Than A Million

2012-06-20T18:41:00.002-07:00

They say a picture is a worth a thousand words, but i'd say a million or infinity. We are gone, fleeting creatures, that are shoved through time and forced into circumstances (some good, some bad). But you know what. You can take a picture of anybody.

What I Really Look Like

2012-06-20T14:56:00.001-07:00

This is what I look like sometimes.

Broken Doors

2012-06-19T04:16:00.002-07:00

“The door hasn’t been fixed,” I mutter to myself, stepping
into the condo. The Author, as I like to call him from time to time, wasn’t
home. 

“Business dinner with Charlize Theron and Richard Branson,” or something like
that. It’s all fine and good, except for the damn lock on this door. It’s not
only been broken for months, but it doesn’t shut right and I don’t know if you
can lock it yet.

“This place is CRAZY!!!” I get a text from The Author and I three quarters
smile before plopping myself down on the couch.

I wasn’t tired in the way you are when you want to sleep, but I was exhuausted.
(Why do I associate coming home with a big sigh of relief?) 

The fucking door is open, just a crack. There’s nothing I can do but fiddle
with the metal parts until the door at least covers the kitchen it opens into.

It’s a clean looking play, though I tend to muck it up on a regular basis (I
spilled a bottle of bright red win on a 10 thousand dollar couch just last
week. Not even the fucking professionals could get out that last length of
purple (It was less red than the win, anyway.

(I took some heat for it, but boy, did I have fun that night. The Author was in
the office, and I was getting hammered and stoned in the living room, doing
lines off the kitchen counters every 5-10 minutes (How the hell long is a line
supposed to last anyway?)

(I’m playing piano, I’m watching some T.V. The Facts of Life is on repeat all
night, and I’m on my third (yes third, and if you know anything about a Jewish
boy’s constitution than you can guess what I felt like waking up.)

(He was quiet about the couch, though I knew it must annoy him daily. In order
to make breakfast he has to walk past the now, nearly bleached, white circle on
his beautiful tan couch (which is damn gorgeous and I think anyone would say
so.)).

So I’m home. The Author should be home in an hour and a
half. If there’s one thing I could say without a doubt about him is that he is
punctual. Comes in at the same times week after week. Mon Wed Fri 4:15 on the
dot. Ever other Tuesday: 2 on the dot. And when he says he’ll be back in an
hour and half that means he’ll without a doubt in my mind be back for 2 hours
maximum.

I manage to close the door (though the way it wiggles is
worrisome. Especially because if you press hard enough it pops right open.)
“We’ve got to get this fixed.”




I text him, “We have to fix the door.” He doesn’t text back because he’s at a
business dinner with so and so. What’s more important the door or the dinner?
The dinner pays for the damn door anyway, and it’ll pay for the dudes to fix
that fucking lock. I swear, if we didn’t live in a building with a doorman, I
don’t know that we’d still be living (thanks to all kindred spirits the Author
has. The Author’s only kindred spirit is tequila, by the way.)




I don’t know what I even ate that night. Some unit of tamales that you
literally just throw into the microwave without puncturing and bam your food is
up after 3 and a half minutes (which is just about a minute longer than I’ll
spend eating it. I’m no foodie, shall we say, though I can tell when a dish is
up and beyond because of the years of being wined and dined by… well I guessa
few of them did. One day, people are going to wake up and realize that you
cannot force someone to love you, and that they can fall out of love with you
while you’re still blissfully ignorant. I’ll bet the majority of dumpees get
cheated on right before they get dumped. God
damnit I wish I could fix that fucking lock.



I cut myself off from think about the door and I sit on my white spot on
the couch and watch The Rachel Maddow show, which I think has way too much
sarcasm. Say what you mean and mean what you say, I always say (I mean, I
would/should. Do you ever get called out for saying “sorry.” I think “sorry” is
one of the sorriest words in the English language. In any language it’s in.
Maybe Mandarin’s translation is “I regret what occurred” or “Rock and roll,
deal with it.” I think I’m able to deal with The Rachel Maddow show, though
tonight’s episoe will not receive a world class attention from me. 




I pick up my guitar, which I know his horribly out of tune, and I start to play
some song or other I wrote, when I hear the door shake, at least four times.
The bizarre layout of the condo pushes wind around and sometimes shuts doors,
but it’s a one-time thing. It doesn’t shake the door three or four or however
many times it just shook.




“It’s open!” I yell, assuming something as the business dinner went wrong, or
horribly right, or they were just done and The Author didn’t know it. There’s
no answer and the door is still again. “Come in, babe!” I yell. No answer and
then the door starts to shake wildly for four seconds. It was long enough to
make me think earthquake, and short
enough to know that someone is fucking with me because in the past 2 years The
Author has never fucked with me. Not even a pop scare here and there (I revel
in those.)




But this is scary and I know that The Author’s admirers are numerous (to which
one of his friends rolls his eyes at… actually most people don’t take the
“numerous admirers thing to kindly. Rock and roll?...) I know nothing’s wrong.
The door has stopped rumbling. The “10 dollar apartment with the million dollar
view,” as he once put it, was now dead quiet. A half eaten Smores Pop Tar is
sitting on top of it’s foil wrapping over on the kitchen table, and I begin to
forget about the door and seriously consider eating the pop tart.




(Pop Tart’s are strangely better in theory than in reality. They are pretty
much, never as good as you hope they’ll be.
Maybe it’s because I don’t toast them?”




I heard in this inspirational movie or book or something once that we are only
one step away from being the perfect version of ourselves. I’m going to attack this person behind the door. I start to justify
assault (but your honor, he came to my premises and purposefully… whatever I
need to say, right? I mean, I’m not going not going to fucking jail… something
I’d feared since childhood. What if I
accidentally killed someone? I would then imagine myself in the showers. A
big black guy turns to me and asks why I have an erection.  I don’t even try to explain it. I shrug
and he violently rapes me. That latter part is not a fantasy I like by the
way.)




The door is still again. It did move with the wind again? How does wind circulate through here when there isn’t a window open…
maybe in the office? So when I see it move in it’s typical winded fashion,
I start to think that I should lay off the weed. But then the door opens, and
it’s a tall man. He’s not the tallest man I’ve ever seen, and somehow he’s
masked in silhouette (isn’t that
impossible?) He’s got a cane and I can see the gold tip at the bottom.




He vanishes, (I really should lay off the
weed and the cocaine.), but the door is still open and broken. I stand there for, I suppose quite a
while, because he, The Author walks in and says ,”Hey.”




“Are we ever gonna fix that that lock?” I ask. I don’t care that much, there’s
a doorman anyway. 




“Yeah, we’ll ask Harry (our doorman) to send someone up tomorrow.”

2012-06-09T21:19:00.003-07:00

I'm playing piano and I'm working on the sunshine girls. Here's a little bit about them

Anyone wanna hear their theme tune?
It's the song that started it all:

"We Are The Sunshine Girls"
Coming Soon

2012-05-10T18:03:00.000-07:00

I just had a really good bowl of cereal.
It turned my milk pink!!!!!!!!

Lena Dunham's Girls Is Great

2012-05-01T00:19:00.001-07:00

Wanna watch Girls with @breteastonellis?

Better get your "How To Be The 25-Year-Old"

Tweet your email to @gotoddgo

Email HowToBeThe25YearOld@gmail.com

Click below to order the first edition.

NEW REVIEWS ARE IN!

2012-04-30T15:45:00.000-07:00

Here is what The Twisted Twins behind "Dead Hooker In A Trunk" Jen and Sylvia Soska:

If you aren't familiar with The 25 Year Old, then you aren't up on your twitter stalking of the iconic author of American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis, as we are. For shame. Other than intelligent discussion on Empire and post-Empire, we were introduced to his boyfriend, The 25 Year Old. We read these tweets daily, obsessively, for something honestly refreshing with no cadence of bullshit, but we don't have to rely solely on tweets for this as How To Be the 25 Year Old is now available as an e-mag for to get our fix.

We recently read the free edition, weed problems - being local Vancouver girls aka people come to work in our beautiful city for the tax breaks and the amazing green - we must admit we were more than thrilled with the content of the zine. Get stoned, but not stupid - follow The 25 Year Old's advice because the man knows his weed and has good advice. If it were on print, we would roll it up and smoke it, but not with a Sativa before bed - we just learned that. Thank you, The 25 Year Old, and, fuck yes, to seeing Bret holding a puppy like a baby.

-The Twisted Twins, Jen & Sylv

Get "Dead Hooker In A Trunk" is Available on iTunes and Amazon

Look forward to these Terrifying Twins to make appearances in future editions of
"How To Be The 25 Year Old"

[peace]