Adam Womack

My room still smells like flat coke. It’s kinda gross. I’m fairly certain that someone must have poured it into the air ducts or something. It doesn’t matter. I’m more worried about my brain (and why my computer has glitter all over keyboard, did it come that way?)
This damn logic course has me thinking in different number systems. I randomly think of things in base 12, or hexadecimal, or binary. I can figure a 6 digit number from hex to binary to octal in like 15 seconds. It’s getting pretty crazy, like to the point where I can’t even focus on anything for more than a few minutes before I start thinking about equations, set theory, or stupid puns/jokes regarding 2’s compliment in binary. Don’t even ask me about the cartoon I drew. I mean the highlight of my day was a joke about why the number two and three couldn’t see the number eight’s new best friend the square root of -1. HA!

I need to find more sleep. That’ll solve it. Right? I’m looking forward to this weekend. Maybe I’ll get some rest. Gotta Go it’s almost 1010. (…yeah…)

Snapped out of a dream by the alarm clock, I reach over and silence my pest. Buzzing alarms always remind me that there is somewhere I don’t want to be looming in my near future. I stare at the perfectly rounded numbers 08:00. The Chinese believe that 8 is a lucky number. Fuck the Chinese. Before I could even drift back to sleep I hear my phone calling to me, like a child that knows exactly when the parents awake, my electronics today refuse to let me miss this occasion. Fuck me, right?
I roll over to see what important penis enlarging offer was in my inbox that my spam filter found necessary to allow through, like a sentry heralding great news to the monarch of the land that is my groin. Or what great video online that my mother finally saw (after everyone has already forgotten about from it’s viral celebrity back in the ether of history that was 6 months ago.) Turns out it was neither, worse yet, it was a phone call.
I hate the phone. No one ever calls with good news, that’s what texts are for. Phone calls are always “we need to talk.” It was Andy.

“Dude, I’m here. Let’s go.”
“You said 9:00” I remind him
“I said 8.” He reminds me.
“I heard 9.” I lie.
“We’re gonna be late.”
“Let’s not go then. Nothing worse than showing up late.”
“You have 10 mins, shower and shave, I’m gonna get us come coffee.”
“Ugh, I hate coffe… sound great.”

I stumble to the shower and turn on the water. I stare at my reflection as the water beings its evolution from unbearably icy to managable tepidness and weight the decision of my shave. My three day shaddow had the distinguished look of a prisoner and the tender caress of sandpaper. All in all the look I was feeling, but was it what I wanted to put out there? How would that be recieved? Maybe they’d send me home. Or maybe I’d just be looked at as the pathetic loser I was. Shave it is.

By the time I shower and shave and found something decent to wear my coffee was is and Andy doesn’t seem to happy.

“We now have 15 mins to get across town” He chastises me.
“You’re right, we should just go to the casino instead.”
“We’re going, you’re gonna smile, and tell her you’re happy for her.”
“But I’m not.”
“Well it’s her wedding and she really wants you there.”
“Just not next to her.” I mumble; luckly the sound of his truck was louder.

The blade drags across the young boy’s palm. As the seam in his skin opens behind it, the blood flows. The other boy follows suit. After all, they did everything together what’s one more thing? They were already joined at the hip, what’s wrong with being joined at a wound? They shook hands, sharing the blood. Sealing the bond. “…No matter what.” That was the rule.

I was 14 years old when my best friend and I made the arrangement to die. We agreed that if either one of us died prematurely; that is, before the other one did (because after all, isn’t everyone’s death “premature” in our own minds? Save for the rare occasions of someone’s grandmother knowing she was going to die or was “ready” for it or some bullshit, feel good, “in a better place” kinda crap) the other would follow by their own fruition.

Suicide always seems like a great idea at the time. I mean, in the romantic way. Not the romance between and man and a woman. More like how the words “alcoholic” or  “drink” always seem to sound more wonderfully warm and delicious than the abrasive liquid it represents. But now, holding the New York Times, reading of Matt’s recent overdose in his Manhattan apartment, I suddenly question ever agreeing to such a thing.

I mean, we were just crazy kids. It was dumb stuff, right? I doubt he even remembers that night by the fort we used to play in. When he snuck his that old Remington folding knife from his dad. I mean, I haven’t even talked to Matt for six year. Not since Samantha.

Samantha was a gorgeous blonde. Matt always had an affinity for blondes. I guess it made the dating scene in high school and college easier for use. Whenever we would see any girls we just knew that he’d take the blonde. Even if they were both blonde, they still wound up with him. Since I had absolutely no luck with the girls, I used the excuse that I had a thing for redheads. 

See, our high school only had two girls with red hair. And both of them were rather unattractive (but that’s the redhead curse: the girls are either gorgeous or gross.) But the truth was, while I did like red hair- maybe I just watched too much Jessica Rabbit as a child- I mostly used this “fetish” as an excuse for never going after a girl.  I was shy, but at least I was creative about it.

  But that all changed the day we were all hanging out at Matt’s house. Matt,  Samantha, Samantha’s friend, Deb, and I were sitting around drinking. We had opened some O’Doul’s that Matt had stolen from the liquor store on the corner. We were all too oblivious to the fact that the non-alcoholic stuff looked and tasted the same. And thanks to our psychosomatic intoxication, It was just as good as the real stuff. As Deb got up to use the restroom, I took another swig of the awful fizzy swill.

“So…. Do you like Deb?”  Samantha asked, jabbing me in the ribs

“Uhh…” I suddenly realized this was a set-up. That’s why Deb was invited. She never hung out with us before. Damn it.

“She’s not a redhead.” Matt said, rescuing me.

“What?” 

“He only likes the fire crotches.”

“HAHA. Oh, is that so?” Samantha’s emerald eyes sparkled as she grinned. 

It was the next day at school when Samantha showed up in her white skirt, green low cut top, and fiery red hair.

Matt and Samantha were off and on throughout the rest of high school and the first two years of college, other than when we were picking up blondes for Matt during the “off” periods, when one night Samantha confessed to me over a bong and a six pack that she dyed her hair- and kept it- red for me.

The next morning I awoke with the slam of a door. Samantha’s red hair flamed across my pale, white skin. I was in ecstasy. Then my mind shot back to the sound, the door, Matt!

That was the last time we were ever in the same room again. He transferred out of our dorm room and the next semester he went to NYU.

Now here I am, sitting on my sofa in Los Angeles with the New York Times (pretentious as it is, it was a necessity for my job in advertising, and I had it delivered to my house mostly because everyone at my office stole it and I liked being the only one in the neighborhood getting it.) reading the story of Matt Lawson, age 24, the haunted and tragic ending to his rock star life. Apparently overdosing, with intent, as he left this world with a simple suicide note. A chill ran up my spine and I dropped the paper.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Asked Samantha, hair red as ever.

According to the paper, the suicide note read: “No Matter What.”

Standing up from the bed, He takes the covers with him. His nymph, the pixie, little blonde with the cute upturned nose and big gorgeous eyes flies for her shirt. Even after the ways he’s defiled her, she still feigns shyness. Maybe that’s what he likes about her. That innocence, her modesty  that appears only when he’s not inside her. 

He gets a glimpse of her right breast, her favorite of the two- she’s weird like that and it’s another thing he finds adorable- as she dons her white tank top and clad in her matching white boy short panties, the stark contrast of her school girl prudishness and his “look at me” bravado makes him laugh. Standing in the afterglow of passion with sweat and bodily fluids making their way down his legs, soaking into the carpet. The same carpet he had just paid three hundred dollars to have cleaned last week. 

A price to pay indeed, but one he’d willingly do again, his little cohort was worth the out of pocket upkeep of his newly christened flooring. 

As she viewed the object of her affections, she does her best to keep her eyes up, but absentmindedly she looks down between his thighs, licking her lips longingly. 

“Like what you see, babe?”

“It’s alright, I guess.” She retorts with her sprite-like smile. 

“Alright? You can call Merriam Webster cuz this is definition.” He says striking a pose.

She knew Merriam-Webster wasn’t a person, but she found his puns adorable. As pathetically obvious as they could be at times, there were the rare exceptions of true brilliance here and there. But hey, they can’t all be gold.

He cycled through all his poses, learned no doubt from his childhood watching all that cheap professional wrestling. His biceps deflating slightly as her giggles filled the room. He turns his back to her, as to bluff being upset with her lack of adoration of his body, after all he did work on it quite a bit.

She noticed what looked to be a mark, maybe a hickey on his left buttocks. 

“Don’t get butt hurt, it looks like your other girlfriend has been kissing your ass enough.”

“What?” 

“L-O-L, It looks like you got a love bite on your ass.”

Quizzically he looked her off and went into the bathroom. He was greeted in the mirror by himself. Other than a few “battle wounds” he thought he looked perfect. His eyes traced down his abs, as he silently worshiped his waistline. Thinking back to the cheerleader from high school who taught him how to throw up to tone up the muscles without having to waste time with crunches- after all “They are like totally bad for your back and stuff.” He grinned. Looks like cheerleaders were good for two things now. 

As he spun around to check his rear, he noticed the mark she was referring to. It was a red outline of a circle. Not quite like a hickey, for they usually leave bruising and fill in the circle, this looked like a ring. He noticed how it looked to be cut into the skin, how it seemed to be burnt into him, like a brand. And it was glowing- like lava.

What was most curious about the wound was that it didn’t hurt, he hadn’t felt the bite or whatever it was that was causing this, but the more he paid attention to it, the bigger it seemed to be getting. What was once the size of a quarter has become the size of an orange and before he could be sure it was growing it was the size of a mini-basketball. You know the kind. The ones you try to win a theme parks but the rims are always misshapen. He spent three summers as a game jockey at the local amusement park so he knew all the tricks. Except the rings on the bottles. Those were just impossible. 

As like most of his life, his tendency to lose focus caught up with him in a bad way, as he snapped back into reality as he saw the large ring glowing, The charring skin crackling and rolling away from the burning ring. Panicked, and not to mention slightly intrigued as to why this horrible devastating injury wasn’t causing any pain he reached for the burn. As his finger met the skin, the skin around the wound, while looked crispy was actually gooey and adhering to his digit. He quickly pulled away, fearing the fire spreading, but also unsure of what was happening, but the skin that had stuck to him started peeling away from the glowing ember ring. 

He was unwrapping himself. His skin folded away like a candy cane of flesh and lava. Spiraling up and around his gorgeous body. He started to scream for his dainty comrade in the other room but his voice was not coming out. He yelled, silently and his flesh continued to char and ooze away from the lava-like stripe encircling his body as he slowly watched his demise in the mirror. His thought: Thank God this wasn’t on the carpet.

It’s hard to believe it was just yesterday 
When that airplane took you so far away
And I’m left here all alone without knowing why
I was just ten mins from giving my heart
Now you’re hanging out under that Gateway Arch
And my bed’s so lonesome I swear that I could cry

All the things I’d do, Just to get to you

I’d fly three hours on an east bound plane
Or spend three days on an amtrack train
Just to get me back for one more night with you
I’d drop four grand on a taxi cab
Just to kiss those lips that I want so bad
You have no idea what I’m willing to do, Just to get back to you

I stay up late watching our old game shows
But I can’t seem to answer the ones you know
And the cartoons aren’t the same without your smile
When I lean over to kiss you goodnight
I’m forced to remember you catching that flight
And how we’re separated by over two thousand miles

All the things I’d do, Just to get to you

I’d fly three hours on an east bound plane
Or spend three days on an amtrack train
Just to get me back for one more night with you
I’d drop four grand on a taxi cab
Just to kiss those lips that I want so bad
You have no idea what I’m willing to do, Just to get back to you

With my necklace around your neck
Girl you know you make me a wreck
And forgive me for this pun but you see
You’re in St. Louis but I’m in misery

All the things I’d do, Just to get to you

I’d fly three hours on an east bound plane
Or spend three days on an amtrack train
Just to get me back for one more night with you
I’d drop four grand on a taxi cab
Just to kiss those lips that I want so bad
You have no idea what I’m willing to do, Just to get back to you

Someone drew a picture of me on a napkin. I don’t see any resemblance

I walked in to work and asked a co-worker of mine for a word to get my 10 mins of writing done for the day. I only got about 8 but it was a good 8 mins for me.

Floating, falling, soaring, tumbling, the wind’s hands grab and throw the beautiful creature through the sky. With a small, insignificant twitch of a single feather the direction changes course. Tossing beautiful aerobatics into motion. All the world below like a static, stoic statue underneath it. Miles fly by in seconds, altitude changes in the blink of an eye. I yearn for the freedom and grace. The carefree splendor of a creature alone in his world of the open blue. Jealously I watch him paint the sky with his tail. his ease mocks me as I sit waiting to go into work. I won’t have the fresh air and sunlight. The sound, the ability to sing to my heart’s content. Instead I’m like the domesticated version. Grounded forever, my wings clipped, locked in a cage, society’s cage for me. With toys and mirror that don’t hold my attention. I pine for the sweet taste of freedom that will never come.

This is a poem I found the other day looking through some boxes. I’m not saying it’s a gem. No real rhyme scheme and I have no clue when I wrote it but I like it.

It’s 12:37 I bet you’re asleep
I hold my breath through your door I creep
Slowly and shutting the door carefully till
An audible click seals your fate

You don’t even stir as I fill the syringe
I’ll end our live as you ended my dreams
We’ll die together like shakespereian teens

I re-read your text “Let’s just be friends”
And we will, friend’s till the end
Stupid little girl, who are you to hold my heart?
Why I care so much about you, I’ll never know.

As I draw the needle from your neck
I watch the blood run down. I taste it
And load again for me to join you.

You look so peaceful as I enter my vein.
Maybe it’s the chemicals, but
I’ve never been more in love with you
As I lay down next to you I whisper in your ear “I’m sorry.”

I got my friend to try this 10 min exercise with me…. I won’t publish his for reasons untold, but this was mine.

Writing Exercise- Polyester

The satiny, smooth highway my fingers travel across, slipping and sliding around like a drunken ice skater on the freshly zambonied surface, sends a scratching, tingling sensation up my digits. I can hear the ever increasing pitch of the my fingers zipping across the tightly weaved material. This bastardization of clothing, trapping me in, not allowing precious air to touch my skin. I am plastic wrapped inside myself. My faux fabric prison embracing me. I hear my arms rub against my sides, the scratching of an invisible DJ in my head. Thinking back to my holographic baseball cards I rip a little tune against my chest. My brightly colored shirt, held together by white plastic buttons is like a siren in a storm. Calling out. I wish I had a volume knob on this thing. My ears are ringing with the severity of its loudness. My voice is all but a whisper in a tornado of my machine washable, tumble dry only confinement. This torturous material seems to press the sweat against me tighter. Like the t-shirt worn by the fat kid at the pool so he doesn’t feel like everyone is looking at him, my shirt makes me stand out, clinging to my body. A decaying smell of burned fabric tickles my nostrils. How many water bottles were shredded to make my cage?

So my first writing exercise was to write for 10 mins on a topic and stop when the timer went off. The topic was Holding Your Breath and this is what I got:

For the first few seconds, the rush of cold, clean fresh air feels like you can hold it forever. As you stand there, your will binding your lungs holding on tightly to the saving life inside you begins to tremble. The cells of your body, no longer refreshed begin to ache, begging for more. The sweet, smell has left your nostrils and blood surges to your ears. The black ghosts in the corner of your vision encroach upon you, overtaking you. Panic has set in, trembling, shaking, pulsing your heart echoes in your hollow body. The thumping reverberates in your temples. Space begins to spin and time focuses on one second. The clock hands stop moving as the periphery fades. Tiny details, the missing paint chipped off the corner of the wall you never noticed before become so glaringly obvious. Shouting across the room at your. What should be so small and far away is somehow in your face screaming. You can feel air caressing your skin. Air begging to be allowed into your dry, cracking lungs. The stinging in your chest has moved into your ears. You can’t remember if your holding something in- a scream, a cry- or if you are keeping something out. As the sights and sounds blur to one your will breaks, shatters. Air spews forth and is just as quickly replaced. Blood drains from your face and is recirculated through your blood thirsty vampire-like cells. Your muscles drink it in with lust…

Some friends have read this/ want to read more. I want to see if it’s worth working on. Let me know.

As I make my way down the strip, I can smell women. Girls to be precise. Young, drunk co-eds or fresh high school seniors girls who come here to celebrate graduating, or better yet, stuck here away from their friends on a family vacation. Vacationers are the best, see, in Vegas the family thinks since their sweet sixteen year olds are old enough to saunter through the mall alone they can do the same at the Miracle Mile Shopping Center just outside of the Planet Hollywood Casino (formally the Aladdin.) Well they can saunter all they want. I love them shaking their perfect teenage asses as they walk, laughing, or better yet absent-mindedly texting their friends. Sometimes their boyfriends.
You can always tell when a young woman is communicating with someone they are infatuated with. They smell differently. The release of pheromones sings to me. Similarly to how a dog’s ears perk up, my cock leaps to attention. This young, sweet, innocent, thing in front of me with her expensively faded and tattered yellow shirt, tight black pants and a green thong- don‘t ask me how I know, I can just sense it. As we reach a cross walk, I am surrounded by people. Men telling bad beat stories, women talking about how wasted they are and always that incessant clicking by the Mexicans trying to sell me smut.
What they don’t seem to understand is that I’m already a customer. The prisoner of another beauty in front of me. This one is not on a card, where lonely men can pay money to be screwed in his hotel room instead of at the tables. This young, blonde, pixie in front of me has me infatuated. My instincts have kicked in. I need her.
As the throng of people press me towards the street, my prey has not been paying much attention, thank you Verizon. Unlimited texts are a great way to distract the young and beautiful. I slide my way over to her, and pretend I have been pushed and have accidentally bumped against her. My cock brushes against her ass, just as firm as I could imagine it. I should have put my hand down and felt her tight pants. If you want to call something that skin tight a pant.
She turns to look at me, wide eyed and shocked at my audacity. I smile my patented panty melting smile give her a facial expression as if to ask if these people could be any more rude? She smiles her sweet smile, and returns to texting. I push up against her again as we wait for the red hand to disappear she doesn’t seem bothered by it anymore, knowing that I’m “not doing it on purpose.”
Before the light even turns green, the massive group of people start to cross the street anyway. You’ve got to love the mob mentality of people at a stop light. If you start to cross the street someone will inevitably join you, sending everyone off the corner while the little red hand shine in vain.
My girl, eyes still glued to her phone, follows the group. How I love the impressionable. I tend to hate to follow a group like that. I don’t mind waiting for the green man to show up, but I can’t afford to lose her. She smells of Bath and Body Works’ Cucumber Melon body spray and my mouth begins to water. I allow a few people to filter in between me and my target. As to not be too obvious. After a few block we wind up at the MGM as I follow her into the casino. She walks towards the elevators for her room. I follow her, closing in.
A lot of casinos try to keep people out of the room areas that should not be. Honorable, but it can be a pain. Most of the time they ask for a key card to verify a guest’s stay at the hotel. A simple enough solution, I’ve stayed one night at every hotel on the strip, and I always seem to “lose” my key card. Needless to say my wallet looks like a hotel registry. I have my key card in hand as she stops to pry her key card out of her tight pants. I stop next to her and flash my key card. Smile to the little old lady who’s working the desk area
“She’s with me, Gail.”
“Go on ahead honey.” The old lady says smiling.

In the elevator my prey stands next to me. I touch her hand as if to accidentally reach for the same floor button at the same time. We laugh.
“You must stay here a lot.”
“Why would you think that?” I ask.
“You knew her name.” She looks at me smugly. Damn she’s cute.
“I know everyone’s name.” I state simply and pretend to look disinterested.
“You know don’t mine.” I can tell that she’s warming up to me.
“ I don’t need to.” I smile at her, she pouts playfully. “Besides, it was on her name tag.”
“Oh that’s lame, I thought you were special..” She pushes me slightly with her left hand.
“I’m very special.” I say seriously
“Yeah right.” She rolls her eyes.

We stand in silence for a bit, as I see we are only a few floors away from our floor. As the doors opens and fills the elevator with fresher air I move out of the way to let her go ahead of me. Even though I’m happy to get out of this unventilated tease chamber, it’ll be sad to have her go.
“It’s Clair.” She says.
“What’s Clair?”
“My name.” She says with a laugh.
“Good to know.” I smile back at her with a little wink. And we both laugh.
Her phone goes off in her pocket and she whips it out and opens it quicker than I could blink. Sure, she can get a phone out, but a simple, thin keycard was like trying to remove Excalibur from the stone. I peek over her shoulder, as I pretend to hold the door open, to read her text.

From: Mom
Dad & I r going 2 dinner & show @ Bellagio. B back really late.

I know I’ve been doing a lot of photos lately, but this turkey meatloaf I made looks great in this picture. It might not have been the best tasting meatloaf I’ve ever made, but it was good, and healthy so deal with it.

I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted one of these. I’m so super excited to have this magnetic strip in my new kitchen.

Here we have my herb garden. Including (but not limited to: Rosemary, Three types of thyme, two kinds of mint, cilantro, sage, fennel, oregano, parsley and more.

Ok, so I’m moving into the new place and we have an avocado tree.