Bro’s before ho*’s

bro's before h**sThere is an ipod that follows me around. I didn’t buy it, I don’t want it, but It’s mine and I own it completely. It doesn’t have the apple trademark, but comes with plenty of space. It can hold songs, pictures, videos, memories. It even has storage for smells, tastes, textures, dreams, languages and dates, however, I do not rely on it as a calendar. For reasons (pot) I cannot fully understand it stores numbers and dates like coins in a pocket with a hole. There are also three main drawbacks. 1, you cannot plug it into anything. 2, it doesn’t come with an instruction booklet. 3, You cannot turn it off.

Ever.     

The fun part is you make all kinds of discoveries through the life of the product. I’m 31 years into mine and recently found out my mechanism is controlled by my current mood and like a cult, turns all memories, smells, and videos into similar matching moods. Right now I’m listening to You’re Not Doing Enough With Your Life, by Elan Zafir. Great song. It kinda fuses Rage Against the Machine with early Paul Simon. Per that cult thing, it’s got me reading So You Thought You Were Going to Act? a memoir, and watching You Used to Write Everyday, a short filmboth by Elan Zafir.I need to change the song. Every time I’m happy. Every time I reach some level of gratification. In the quietest time of the night, in the song creeps. Negative thoughts spill out in my mind like a turned over can of marbles and the marbles act like small patches over my eyes………You haven’t written your one man show in awhile… Where are all the sketches you started…….Write another play……Be a better improviser……. get a better job…. take more vitamins….. be single again…… be a better father…… didn’t you use to play chess….. make sure you’re someone you can look up to…. grow more hair…… swim more laps…… eat better food…. be a better cook…. love better…… write poems…… sit straight…….. and up and up and up, go the marbles. Like leggo they stack up on top of one another so after the 21st unfinished assignment, personal letdown, rejection of the present; my eyes are leaden but not sleepy. I find it difficult to breathe, but haven’t exerted myself in the least. I might seek help. Whether it works or not is irrespective cause I will mock the shit out of myself and write it all down. Although, (the way background checks are going now) my future psychiatrist will go on facebook, this website, and decline to accept me on their roster. Maybe I just want to be on someone’s roster. A basketball league. Little league baseball. I look at these two kids and they are in heaven. Doing? Did-ily Dickerstein. The big one is holding the little one’s pacifier. The little one sees his shadow in the sun. Maybe I’m asking too much. Maybe I’m a major underachiever. Maybe I’ve got a kid now and have to accept my limitations. Whatever the case, I feel like I’m not living up to my potential. My wife is going to read this and yell at me cause she’ll think I’m once again blaming her and the baby for the thoughts in my head, but she needn’t yell cause those thoughts were there way before the condom broke (the condom didn’t break) {she’ll yet at me for that, too}. This isn’t about my son or my wife. It’s about my inability to accept the now. It’s a good thing to want more and better and faster and smarter but perhaps the Elan I dream of being already exists and who am I to take away what made him who he is right now? In an alternate dimension, somewhat linear to ours, Elan is standing in the basement of an old church in the coldest district of downtown Vienna. He just watched a rehearsal of his new play. The curtain comes down and the actors look out into the audience to the director and the director looks over in the aisle to the writer and the writer is standing with a bent copy of a newly minted program in his hands, figuring out why the lead actors picture is that of a young boy with pale skin and blue eyes sitting on a bench eyeing his shadow in the sun. The Writer, not realizing he’s being watched, doesn’t notice his mind drifting. It’s looking through the picture of the boy, to the curtain, to the wall, to the streets, to the trees, to the sky, to the hazy creatures that appear when you blink too hard. His spirit floats like a loosely tied balloon on a child’s wrist. Up, up, up, into the recess of his brain he sees an Ipod that seems to follow him around with that damn song telling him he needs to start a family.

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