I Wish I Was Like That.

It's weird talking to an ex-girlfriend. The conversations are so bland, so boring, so straight-forward. But the funny thing is nobody stops texting. Why is that? What is it that triggers our brains to keep talking to the only person we don't have the desire to even talk to in the first place? Is it the coffee we drink? The food we launch down our throats? The movies we watch? The music we listen to? What is it that impales our minds to do this?

But then as you start talking more casual, things start to get weird. You two start to talk about life and how one another is doing. This is always the worst part because you then soon discover she's totally doing better then you and your life is nothing but shit after you two broke up - so you have to lie. 

"My life is great", you respond with regret. 

I wish I was like that, but I'm not. I have this strange urge to tell anyone what is happening in my life...including an ex-girlfriend. Not knowing nor thinking about the consequences of my actions, I take full force with a four-minute tale on how my life blows and how I wish I never did the things I've done for us to break up. Blah, blah, blah. I sometimes feel like I'm on auto-pilot because some of the things I do make me wonder, "am I retarded?" to answer my own question yes, yes I am.

I find it strangely awkward that I blog. It's funny, I'm always on a roller coaster with this thing. I write for a couple of months, get a few hits, people like it, I start to realize it's weird for a guy to blog, I write about how weird it is that a guy blogs, and then I stop blogging. Cut to a couple of months later, I wonder why I stopped blogging, start blogging again, write for a couple of months, get a few hits, people like it, I start to realize it's weird for a guy to blog, I write about how weird it is that a guy blogs, and then I stop blogging. It's a non-stop cycle I find myself in.

I have a fairly rough time finishing things. I have at least four or five unfinished screenplays and more unfinished homework assignments then Bender from "The Breakfast Club". It's a terrible habit that I hate picking up. But it's usually not me that starts to get disconnected from it, it's the world around me. I always have the sudden tenancy to follow the universe and write every step along the way. I basically write about my own life, and once my life starts to change, I start to drastically change the script.

But this isn't necessarily a bad thing. I sometimes need space from this writing thing. Being a writer is a dangerous thing. Now some of you who are reading this are probably like; "oh yeah I'm sure being a writer is SOOOOO tough" but it really is. It takes you to some pretty dark places, especially for a guy like me who just wants to be funny. Like Freshmen year when I started this whole blogging thing. I didn't want to do it, my friends told me to give it a shot because of all the times I would tell people my stories and the positive reaction I would get from many people. So I tried it... at the worst possible time at my life. You see Freshmen year wasn't a good year, I mean it was a good fucking year but it just had a lot of dark elements in it. Like this one time I found myself tearing up my whole room looking for crumbs of weed off my floor. I found myself being that guy who smokes pot just to show off the illusion of his happiness, but with all honesty I wasn't. But now things are different. I now know I'm not happy, and I smoke pot just to smoke pot, not to be happy. 

That makes no sense, but roll through with me.

I was also in a fucked up relationship, which led to me cheating numerous amount of times with slutty girls, but I wasn't the only one as she shared a fair amount of cheating. So in other words - I was fucked up. I needed a break from it all. Being a writer made me feel like Hunter S. Thompson. Because I wanted to be like Hunter S. Thompson. For those of you who don't know this man, if you've seen "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" with Johnny Depp then you now know who he is. I wanted to be a druggie. A guy who gets into trouble and writes about it. Has trippy times with his friends and goes home like it was nothing. But I wasn't that guy. And it took my Dad creeping on my Facebook to finally stop me from being such a fend.

You see I'm a clueless mo-fo sometimes, and there was this small period of time in my life when I discovered the habit of me never logging out of Facebook, so my Dad could basically go through my entire profile. But it wasn't me forgetting, it was me thinking that I can trust them. Wow, I was wrong.

It was 2 am and I had just gone to sleep. My mom walks into my messy room. She kicks around the empty soda cans as she reaches my bunk bed. I'm on the bottom bunk. She shakes my body to awaken me.

Mom: Justin, Justin. Come down stairs now.

I did it. I got up, going down stairs not knowing of the time or the heated situation. I thought Devon, my brother was in jail or something. But nothing could have prepared me for this. 

Seeing your Dad looking through your Facebook messages and almost to the point of crying is a sad image to see. But I didn't care. I was fucking pissed off.

Justin: What's this?

Mom: We know you're smoking pot.

I was furious. I knew I was caught, so I was going to skip all of that.

Justin: So you guys got me up at 2 am to tell me you went through my personal shit and found out I smoke pot? Cool. Thanks for getting me up.

I started going back upstairs.

Dad: Justin.

Justin: No, you don't have to say anything.

The reason why I said that is because my Dad is a major pot smoker. For him to go through my shit, tell Mom and then call me out like that was just plain fucked up.

Dad: Justin, stop, please. We're not mad at you.

Mom: I am. How could you do this? I thought you said you would never do drugs.

Dad: What drugs is he doing? He's just smoking pot.

Mom: And popping pills. What are bars?

Justin: Oh my god, I just don't want to talk to you guys.



I ran to my room, locking the door. I knew I was fucked. So I went to my dresser drawer, grabbed all my weed, and threw it under my bed.
I couldn't believe it. I started pacing back and fourth thinking of ways to get them back on my side. I got it. I know what I'm going to do. I cried.
Did I mention I'm a compulsive bullshitter? Yeah, I bullshit to get my way out of shit, and if that means to cry like I'm trying for an Oscar, so be it. It always works.

Now I should say that locking doors on my Mom is her biggest pet-peeve. There was literally a time, when she ripped down the door with her bare hands just to yell at my brother, Devon for not putting away the dishes. So I knew I had to get tears fast.


Tears started falling, and falling. I started weeping and weeping but me weeping made me finally realize: Being a druggie, leads to nothing but trouble. I mean having my Mom pissed at me is nothing. I get her pissed weekly. It's like clock work. But to have my Dad be mad at me is like having Gandhi be mad at you. You just don't want that. So it was right then I realized writing about me doing trippy drugs isn't my thing. Because A) my Dad and B) looking back at that stuff I was a really bad writer when I was on bars. But there was no time to waste, I had to open the door before she became the Hulk.

Me: (crying) I'm sorry. You - you just don't understand what I'm going through.

Mom: Well what are you going through?

Let's see what was I going through again?