Thursday, January 29, 2015

sorta like jan of 15

Springfield, MO: I punch my shower until it shatters. 

Joplin, MO: Drinking and driving. 

Somewhere on Route 66: Gas is $4.99 and everyone is from 1950. 

Santa Cruz, CA: Ambient apathy. 

Santa Cruz, CA: infamous hammock. 

Santa Cruz, CA: mandala soup makes old man hands. 

Santa Cruz, CA: preaching the gospel of blue mountains to curly headed folk. 

Santa Cruz, CA: since named "green shit" AKA brandy and monster. 

Somewhere, NM: that mountain wears halos. 

Phoenix, AZ: a challenge to warm every heart. especially mine.

Tucson, AZ: Pannie-B and his own green. 

Phoenix, AZ: I start drawing again.

Phoenix, AZ: changing tires, rotors, and break pads. 

Tucson, AZ: before I punched someone i've known for almost 20 years, after Pannie-B was done with this shit. 

Tucson, AZ: punched him too. but he wanted it. 

Tucson, AZ: drew again. 

Tucson, AZ: underdressed for every event; having drinks bought for me. 

Tucson, AZ: PANNIE-B.

Tucson, AZ: digger digs 6 strings. 

Tucson, AZ: J and B. 

Tucson, AZ: Pannie-B's Ma. She got me drunk and gifted me a lighter. Obviously a God. 

Tucson, AZ: Diablo Burger. 

Tucson, AZ: relevant stall work. 

Tucson, AZ: spicy pickle from a glass jar. 

Cliff Castle, AZ: "Luke" the dishwasher hunchback and vanilla shake.

Tucson, AZ: Hell is for Heroiks PT 2. 


New Mexico 15

I had a dream in New Mexico that I was sleeping with my good ear to the stars. My kneecaps creaked in a rusted way against the rocking of the 2008 KIA over a pothole stricken stretch of highway. There wasn’t a sound. When I lifted my head, fluorescent suns caused my eyes to yawn in reverse. It had been pitch black a few seconds ago, maybe. There was about a hundred miles of water that needed to get gone, so I punched the door open and attempted to take in some air before I started walking. It was a gas station with no customers, despite being a small illuminated planet on a starving interstate. A man was pushing a broom; he looked at us, almost past us--disinterested. A short pot-bellied creature that had a skull with a sharp drop from the back of his crown to his neck that seemed forlorn beyond being employed at a gas station in the middle of nowhere.
He gripped the mop with his other hand and pointed to a dark hallway, speaking low and without emotion, “Bathroom.” It took me a moment, but I realized he had been talking to me, despite having not quite let go of the door yet. At the moment I can’t remember the name of the gas station or even where we were at the time. Sheriff took his leave the opposite direction and I cautiously creeped into the women’s restroom, which until I made my way toward the back wall, was entirely pitch black. Lights came on as I treaded to a stall furthest from the door, buzzing and clicking to life like what happens when a moth meets man. Over the speakers, a country song plodded away: “Going home to Missouri, going back…” I hadn’t noticed it until a few seconds after I flushed the toilet, and honestly, didn’t quite think it was real until I came out and saw Sheriff’s face. “Did you hear that? That song?”
“Yeah, you too?”
“Isn’t that creepy?”
“A little.”
I yawned and rubbed at my eyes while he looked around the hallway. It was something out of a prop corridor for old movies from 1960. Masks, horns from bulls, arcade machines, and collections of toys stuffed in every nook and cranny. We stood there trying to wrap ourselves around it all. That’s about the time my eyes met something I hadn’t seen in years--Rehoboth Beach salt water taffy. I grew up on the stuff, it’s not something you can just get. Next to it sat a candy counter featuring rock candy, the ones that look like stones; a candy I used to eat when I lived in Georgia and hadn’t seen since. Sheriff and I stood there for a few seconds more while I repeated, “I hate New Mexico; it’s creepy as shit!” over and over. Still not believing I was awake, I looked around for coffee. That’s when the little man finally spoke.
“What you look for?”
“Oh, um. Coffee.”
“Here, I get for you. Nothing to do now, anyway.”
“Well, thank you.”
We took a few steps back as he made his way apathetically around a space station looking machine that produced the hottest coffee I’d ever stuck my mouth near. While paying for it, I turned to Sheriff.
“He sounds Japanese.”
The man turned his head, “I am Japanese.”
“Honto? (Really?)”
“Hai, honto. (Yes, really.)”
“Watashi wa no namae wa, Raki Rosu. O namae wa? (My name’s Lucky Rose. What’s yours?)”
“Hitoshi desu. (Hitoshi.)”
“Yoroshiku, ne. (A good pleasure to meet you.)”
“Yoroshiku. Why you learn Japanese?”
“I wanted to go there.”
“Culture. Art. History.”
He slid his palms around reflective countertop, “Yes. Culture.” Hitoshi took his time detailing where in Japan he was from, why customers weren’t around, and how America needed culture. Sheriff, being the flesh manifestation of the American Flag, took it all in good humor. We said bye and made our way back to the car feeling supremely surreal. The parking lot was piled high in snow, which we failed to see anywhere else.
“If we turn around right now, will we see the lights of that gas station?”
“Was it even real?”
I laughed. Nothing shakes the bear. Seeing him like that warmed a part of my fingertips.
“Let me get this right; A Japanese man in New Mexico. A song about going back to Missouri. Your candy. Was it real?”
“It had to be a dream.”

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

Zero To Hunnet Real Quick

No one understands me. I mean, I speak English, so statistically there are people on earth who can understand what I’m saying. This isn’t one of those melodramatic statements, either. The language I speak is different. I’m actually one of those people who get spoken to and not necessarily with. Unless you’re a woman, and I’m arguing with you. That’s a two person sport and a sport in which I have climbed the ladder to achieve skills in the highest echelons of bastardry.
The difficulty I have is when it comes to trying to give advice. I’d say that’s the place I have the most issue communicating to the people around me, who in most cases really don’t want to be there anyway. All and all I feel like I give pretty good advice; I have some critics---but those who don’t appreciate my advice typically didn’t want to be bothered at 4am with a phone call detailing a better way to dispose of pen ink.
I’m never sure if my advice was a learned skill or something I was born with, having been born in a Italian family, which nods automatically into people who break noses by flailing their hands in conversations and eat way too much. It’s not a stereotypical Italian family--we have the loudness, the physical conversations, and certainly aren’t lacking in letting people know how we feel, no matter what feeling it happens to be. We love to talk, and when you’ve got a lot of people who like talking, you’re bound to hear some things you should and should not hear. But we aren’t that close to one another. It’s why I believe I have no real issue with being talked to and not with.
This has bled to online, where I’m viewed as an entirely relaxed if not “zany” individual because I wasn’t hereditarily born with that thing that says, “You shouldn't say that.” Coupled with my disregard for social tact, it leads to all sorts of mixups.

I went downtown a couple of days ago to walk around and listen to normal people talk about normal things. It’s sort of like listening to white noise, except occasionally someone shoulders their way in your door and tells you that your pants stink and you need to shower. That’s me giving advice.
As I was rounding the corner from the square with a new girls number in my pocket, I had decided that I would give advice to the first complainer I heard. It didn’t take long, sitting at the bus depot, before a stranger sat next to me and starting in on why his life sucks. He said a myriad of minimally interesting things, and after awhile he told me he wanted to kill himself. My first reaction is to scream, “Do it. Don’t waste air.” but this time I took a different approach. Turning in the seat I started to slowly explain, “No you don’t. Pain keeps us real. Did you know that if they gave you the amount of pain medication that you would need to not feel anything in a hospital, it would kill you? Yeah, really. Your body’s adrenaline keeps you enduring and alive. If you try to quick-solve pain, you die. Isn’t that interesting? Don’t think the pain you’re feeling is something unbearable. You’re bearing it now, you know? Every second that passes is more proof that you’re surviving in places others people probably wouldn’t.”
I felt a little proud. It was really hitting home. Except that’s what I was trying to sort out to say and not actually what I said. What came out was, “Don’t be a pussy, maggot.” which was met with absolutely no thank you or well wishes. This isn’t a rare example. I have tried a lot of times.

Setting: woman doesn’t want to tell her husband she’s pregnant with another man’s child.
Me: What you did was spiritually and ethically wrong, but you’re a grown woman and you need to treat this with the respect you didn’t give anything else when you let it happen. Talk to your husband and work out what happens next. Ask yourself if you want to other man to be in your child’s life, and consider the circumstances: did he cheat on his wife, too? is he already a good father? is he financially stable? that kind of thing.
What I actually said: You’re a heartless whore. Now you’re a pregnant heartless whore. Good job.

Situation: your best friend tries to seduce you and you’re not interested.
Me: I’m flattered that you would feel this way to me, and I do really love you, but I’m not interested in you that way. You’re a good guy though, thats why we’re friends. If you’re upset, I understand, and I’ll try my best not to make it worse for you, but I can’t lie to you. I’m sorry.
What I actually said: Why are you being such a little bitch right now?

Situation: someone you trust stole from you.
Me: You know what you didn’t wasn’t right at all, and because of that I can’t trust you. Tell me what you needed it for, and we can work out how to get it if you really need it. But I won’t allow you to be near my belongings or carry money for me ever again. Let’s work this out and piece together what we need to do and we’ll go from there.
What I actually said: Give it back, before I gut you with the back end of this cheese block.

Situation: a one night stand drank too much and is embarrassing themselves at your house.
Me: Are you okay? Let’s get this out of your system and make you comfortable. You had a little too much to drink and you shouldn’t drive, so I’m taking your keys. You can sleep in my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch until tomorrow. Here’s a shirt and pants you can get messy.
What I actually said: (laughs uncontrollably)  

Situation: your girlfriend of three years ruins your ability to give a shit about anyone, with a story so complicated and interwoven to a previous four year relationship that you can’t explain it in one blog post.
Me: I’m not going to lie and said we gave it our best, because we didn’t. You didn’t try to understand me and I didn’t want to be a cookie-cutter lesbian couple who buys a big house and raises several children. At first you wanted me to marry you and it was a big thing, then you said you wanted to just get married. Then we argued. I didn’t want to. I stood firm on it. I left a state with at least $60,000 and an escalade and came back to that state after moving away with debt to a landlord, an old KIA, and some cheap bookcases. You wanted me to play nice to your family who I knew would turn on me on a dime, and I wanted you to see that it was the truth. The second I stood up for you when you needed it, they persecuted me. I wanted you to respect me and see how much I do for you, you wanted to sleep with other people who have done nothing for you. You told all my friends I abused you; I told all my friends not to talk shit about you. I paid $4000 out of pocket in addition to turning in the escalade for that KIA, you talked me into putting it in your name. I told you the man that raised me is dying of cancer and became upset, you said “why are you acting like I don’t understand?”. You cheated on me with a guy that had herpes, I forgave you. Your mother said, “What you really needed was a man.”, you didn’t speak to her for 3 days and somehow you still thought her and I would be friends. I worked a dead end job for a shit paycheck in a town that wanted me dead for being smart, you told me you wanted to go out to eat more. I wanted to see you on my birthday, you invited a guy you were interested in to my birthday party, where he was rude to me and left early. You texted him intermittently through the night. You literally broke my ability to give a fuck about anyone; to have any trust in anyone ever again. I text you when we have plans and wait for you to tell me good morning on the day you and I set aside for each other. You spend the morning with him, who literally has done nothing for you and never would.  

What I actually said: “Have fun! :)”

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

No 1 Wts Ur Mixt8p

I started writing this really bad poetry; it took up a good chunk of my idle time. Like many great young bloods out there, lookin’ for a break, I was determined to make someone read my horridly interpreted words and suddenly feel everything I felt while writing it. Although I didn’t know how to play a guitar, my friend thought she could fake her way through it. We were set to become another grand emotionally outbursting band that performed absolutely drunk with little to no direction on how to actually play an instrument. The only real drawback was that neither of us could sing, so we had to change our genre from “slightly unstable lesbian suffrage” to “sexually curious women who can’t handle any of the situations unfolding right now”; read: Emo band with boobs sings about pussy n’ phone calls. But what--if anything--can you write about at that age that people haven’t already heard a million frustrated times before? Keep as close to your mind as possible, my friend and I weren’t trying to be famous. We were very bored.
No? Can you think of something? Its a bit difficult when you have to factor in curfews, drinking age, and high school. Applying any or all of those in one song makes it country. Still no? Well, I’ll tell you. I sang about observations. My desires spawned directly from how many questions that popped up when I went about watching people do things. If it was a girl I knew, and she kind of liked me, then she was going to be hyper observed; see also: stalking, harassment, restraining order. At the height of my life as a musician, I was popping oxycodone like M&Ms, drinking more whiskey than water, and generally being an asshole about everything I could even see straight. I had accomplished in two short months that which takes normal musicians at least one good song and several years of repetitive drug abuse. Even after we retired to pursue our different dreams of graduating high school and becoming a police sketch artist, I persisted in the drug and alcohol abuse. Why the hell not? How exciting can a life as a police sketch artist really be without copious amounts of narcotics?
By the end of my career as a musician, which I didn’t even learn to spell until just this moment, we had a few tracks floating on the internet. Our entire album was a piece of memorable angst, captured in all the glorious quality of free track editors and coffee can solos.

Teacher Only Fucked My Friends: Tales from a free GED classes in Joplin by The Rubburbands

Track 1: She Doesn't Own A Landline
Track 2: In Monotone
Track 3: I’m Gay
Track 4: Everyone’s Lips In Arizona are either Too Fat or Too Skinny
Track 5: Homeless People Only Take Exact Change  
Track 6: Eat that Faster, Slut
Track 7: Water Temple Ain’t Shit but Liquid and Bricks
Track 8: Chinatown Has Nothing To Do With WWE
Track 9: Called her Mom on Accident
Track 10: Her Cheap Brazilian Waxed my Moustache  
Bonus Track: Didn’t Fuck In San Francisco

Sunday, November 2, 2014


At exactly 9:43p.m. I was sunk back-first in a mattress with a single, unforgiving spring pressing a knot in my shoulder blade. This is not when the event occurred, and actually if I’m remembering right, it wasn’t the place either.
The event itself was documented on a frail, practically transparent diner napkin, about 3’’x 4’’, during a shift change I wasn’t present for. It is written in temperamental black ink courtesy of a pen charitably pilfered from a doctor’s office against its will. And this napkin is what I was thinking about at around that time. What I am sure of, is that the event has occurred, and that it’s forever going to be considered occurred, as long as the napkin doesn’t get wet.

I was invited to a wedding, and to my relief, it wasn’t my own. Someone had dressed me up for the thing, and I wasn’t unsure I had been asleep for it. When I came to, I was standing on a cropped grass hill that blocked the eighteenth hole of a ridiculously large golf course. I only know this from the blanket memory of looking over my shoulder to see a congregation of infuriated men in hats. Golfers hats, maybe. But definitely hats. My first thought was apologetic, seconded by the burning desire to run as fast as humanely possible away from them, in case they were the Bride’s side and this fiasco was a shotgun wedding. I have this innocuous warmth about being drawn into situations where this happens; where I’m blamed for something biologically impossible. Like pregnancy or sobriety or something. I believe they kissed, the Bride and Groom, or at least I hope it was the proper people for the environment. If not I had been one of many witnesses to their first reason to be divorced.
A hoard of well-dressed immigrants took to hiking back up the hill to reception, and I waited until one reappeared with something wet before I made my own way up.

“Do you have beer?”
“I’ll need your ID, and we aren’t even open yet.”
“I uh, but there’s people walking---”
“They’re Bride’s side. You have to wait.”
“I’m Bride’s side.”
“Really? You weren’t at the rehearsal.”
“I was late. I’m always late to events with ‘hearse’ in them. For good luck.”
“Right. Well, you’re going to have to wait. Sorry.”
“Is that a keg?”

I left the fat lady to deal with herself and found a table. I needed a goat, and the table my shoes tripped me in happened to be cropped with two registered nurses and a man with a mop for a face. Good timing, really.

“Where did you get that?”
He sipped the foam, “From the keg.”
“Get me one?”
“Are you old enough?”
“How are we counting?”

This entire thing was morose. How long was I going to have to suffer this shit? My slacks were cutting of circulation to valuable parts, and the nurses had decided to wear almost no makeup, which gave me nothing to focus on. The alcohol was kicking in, and no one was fighting. What kind of chess club was this?
Mopface never came back to the table. I had seen this kind of thing before, when I went to prom with myself because my date braved downtown Key West for beer and never came back. I mean he never came back. Ever. No one has seen this kid and it’s been eight years.  

When the going gets tough, the tough resort to petty whining until something is done about their grievance. One of the nurses took it upon themselves to get me several plastic cups worth of keg beer to shut my mouth, and with all due respect, she deserved it. But once our livers were all sufficiently doused we arrived at the same area of conversation as before, with less understanding.
The event I’m attempting to write down is what happened in the women’s restroom in the hotel. You see, after quite a few beers I excused myself from no conversation whatsoever to get some peace and quiet. I’ve learned in few years of existence that women’s bathrooms are neither peaceful or quiet, but I was counting on the fact everyone was dancing or dying or whatever happens at weddings.

In the bathroom, I bumped shoulders with a woman who very forcefully claimed she was with the wedding party. Though she wasn’t wearing dress clothes and her face was pot marked from overuse of meth, I decided to believe her. Mostly because she made this claim while passing a drunk stranger in the bathroom, and partly because I hadn’t said anything that would merit the outburst. She stopped while holding open the door, “Do you believe me?” I held my beer to my mouth and nodded. Typically this means the conversation is over, and all parties can disperse. There was a big enough pause for me to make my way into the handicap stall, sit down, and light a cigarette. Her face suddenly appeared in the gap between door and frame.

“Do you believe me?”
“You don’t look like you believe me.”
“Lady, I don’t care if you’re in the wedding party or not.”
Her feet shifted weight under our shared wall, “Why not?”
“Because I have no idea who invited me, but whoever it was would have known I hate these things, ergo it doesn’t matter who you are because it doesn’t matter who any of these people are.”
She stuck her wrist under my door, “Can I bum one off of you?”
I sighed loud enough for it to echo; or I burped as my hand lethargically stuffed a cigarette pack in her palm. Then her feet were gone, and the women’s restroom was quiet.
That meth head jacked my entire pack of American Spirits.
“Son of a bitch.”
“You, too?”
If I had not been sitting on a toilet, there would have been more of a mess then there was happening in my nerves. “Jesus!” I said, dropping my smoke into a crack of the tile.
“What the hell do you mean, ‘you too’?”
A pair of feet suddenly appeared in the stall next to me. “She asked for toilet paper from me. I’ve been stuck in here since.”
“She took an entire roll of toilet paper from you?”
“Well, no…” the voice said, shying away from further questioning. I decided to circumvent an entire exchange by unraveling my entire roll and tossing it over the separation, then unhinged my lock and started out.
“Um, thank you.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome.”
“No, I mean for the smokes.”
Before I could turn around, the meth head zoomed by me at probably an average speed for addicts, cackling at something in the air. I stood there for a few moments, trying to get ahold of what the fuck had just happened to me at this wedding, in this bathroom, with that woman.

I returned to my table in an understandably disagreeable mood, and took out a pen, writing down what had happened. At some point I did look around for that woman, and when it failed I asked about her. Nothing returned any answers. It stands to be one of the more alluring moments I’ve had in a bathroom, but certainly not the most vexing. 

Thursday, October 23, 2014


I don't have much experience in dealing with men who want so badly to release buckets of glue all over their keyboards. Although I was born in the 90's, I've never been really good at the whole cyber sex thing my fellow 90's babies seem to be into. When I say "never really been good" I mean to say I've legitimately wanted to make people shoot loads with my words, only to be told that they had starting watching porn instead in the time it took me to write something back. It's probably one of those top-secret things no one tells you when you aspire to be a writer.
"Sure, if you try hard enough, one day you  might actually hit a bestseller list. But um, before you go on with this thing, uh, you know that you'll never be able to use written word to get anyone off, right?"
--and I do mean, atrociously bad. Even after my angsty hormone driven danger days of scouring the internet for people to exchange words with me in the hopes of finding some release, I still couldn't compose a text message to my girlfriend without her telling me about how funny it was later.

It could just be me, actually. I'm sure there are some people out there who are pretty bad at it, but when I think about it, I make a pretty funny joke of the physical act too. If I had a penis and said, "All my lovers laughed in the bedroom." there would probably be more reason to worry. As it stands, I just still get so nervous navigating myself around people I've been seeing for years.
90% of the time, there will be something I say that makes her laugh until she get's so sick of my shit she just grips my mouth with hers to shut me up. There have been situations where I'm between a woman's legs, and just post on her mound with my hand under my chin like I'm taking headshots for modeling, starting a conversation about why I think leprechauns are an understated race. Thier frustration is merited, although I have yet to meet a woman who would debate me on that leprechaun thing. Hope's out.

Tonight I got a random message from one of my friends on Facebook asking for something that I both couldn't give, and didn't want to. Friend is a loose term, he used to cyber with my ex-girlfriend. He hated the shit out of me, and for a long time running, the feeling was mutual. Started this whole "forgiveness" hippy shit awhile ago and have nothing but trouble with it. But to his credit, he tried really, really hard.

At this point, he's not saying anything different from what I hear from most of my male friends on a semi-daily basis. It's part of their charm. Whoever said men weren't expressive was obviously not friends with several of them with access to the internet. Most of the time they say "i'm horny" and then I don't hear from them for six minutes. 

  Oh you want to play a ga-----...........We...Well, I'm flattered. Uh. I mean, thank you. That's nice. That's a nice thing to say. Very specific. Leaves no room for imagination. Pretty solid statement.

Jesus christ, I'm the nicest person who isn't stoned on the entire planet. Ghandi has shit on me. Here I make reference to my ex, who he would cyber with almost on a daily basis. Why this isn't her baggage to handle right now, I have no clue. But since I'm obviously a saint, I'm attempting to deal with this as humanly as possible.

When it didn't work out, I resorted to methods the ASPCA defines as "humane", not the Oxford English Dictionary.

He states again, how distraught his jeans are about having to be pushed up against his fly.

I've seen this method used before! Oh my god, if this were a trivia show I'd never apply and be really awkward watching the shows because it could have been me up there.

Might have failed math, so it was probably a bit insensitive to use fractions in this case, but I think the measurement holds up. I can't discern if the frantic line of questions marks are confusion or because I use correct grammar and punctuation, but somewhere failed in repeating my thesis statement.
So at this point, I've asked Pan Blanko what he thought I should do. He said I should do it. I take this advice and gear up all my old, dusty methods of cyber sex.

Livin' life as a freudian wet dream since nineteen ninety summin'.

---and for a bit, he thinks he can back out. You're in my clutches now, bitch. I'm about to hit your juice button so hard.

You'd think I would have lost him by now. I'm a writer, god damn it, and I won't let that stop me.


I'm drunk on power. I am God. I am everything. I am the sun. I am the universe. I am doing what every money hungry camera whore does everyday and I'm averagely good at it. Power. So much. 

I am the death knell. I am the limp dick incarnate. I am the fire that doesn't start. I am the toilet paper on the wrong way. I am stubbing your toe drunk as fuck on a Monday morning. I am a lesbian that can't play the guitar. I am futility. I am a WRITER.

 He never responded after this. I'm not sure what went wrong? I thought we had a real connection happening here. Looks like my curse still stands. I'll never be Anne Rice, or that person who wrote that one book everyone reads with a lot of sex.

                                                   Try harder, asshole.

Wednesday, September 17, 2014


For a short moment in my life, I lived in Tucson. Met a bunch of unique people. So many in fact, that I realized later that it wasn't that hard. Every person in my network located in the strip of desert from Phoenix to Tucson is what I like to refer to as a horizontal philosopher.
Each of them has this incredible unique personality that doesn't stop to deal with outside bullshit. They're smart, judged by their cover, and keep you thinking. The blend of bohemian rigged lifestyles paired with whatever they can afford to get them stoned or drunk makes them some of those most resilient, depthy, ingenuitive people I've ever met. Seriously, one of my friends survived as long as he could on the desert, eating berries and small game because he wanted to.

This may not be a special thing if you know a lot of hippies or live in Oregon. Kind of a neat thing to me considering it's the desert and Pan is literally insane.

I went to visit them a couple of months ago and managed to take a few pictures in moments of sobriety.

This is a point between Prescott and Phoenix where you can smoke and not be arrested for almost starting a fire. Its meant for tourists.

The greatest thing I discovered in that visit was realizing how many people lay down. I took tons of Pan sleeping because he sleeps literally anywhere comfortably. I've only ever seen this with Nardo before, but Pan takes it to another level entirely.

I mean it's like as long as he can rest his belly on something remotely soft, he's good. Like a snake or a small child.
and then there's Atmos, and people who don't even care where they're lying:

In two out of three occasions, they laid on me.

Conversation among my philosophers is key. If you can't hold one, they typically don't want anything to do with you.

Any space, wide or closed, is used for drinking, writing, dreaming, smoking, yelling, fucking and crying. 

Some of them are quiet, and share their thoughts only when they're finally sure you'll understand. 

Unafraid to share their treasures once you've earned their trust. 

Or to be themselves; unashamed. 

They enjoy their lives in the desert that forged them,

made them famous... 

and taught them valuable lessons.