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.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Let Me Suck On Your Kneecap

For my birthday this year I decided I that I wanted everyone in the world to give a shit. Because I'm alive, and that makes me very important. Really, no one in the world is like me. They might look like me, but they aren't. They're imposters and should be shot.

To commemorate this holiday, I invited a very select few women to submit their legs to me for my viewing pleasure. I'm going to keep my word, so the winner is getting a prize, but can we just take a moment to appreciate how good my taste in women actually is?
I'll go down the list of legs and rate them according to the only scale that matters: my erection.

Filtered, bare wall, painted toes. Composition (who the fuck cares? ...shut up, boner.) Muscular, but very feminine.
There is only a small limit to the things I would do to these legs. Certainly wouldn't blow them up. I would however, let Sara strangle me to death with them.

Bare wall, hosary, straight-legged and rotated photo. For as clean as this image is, it makes me feel dirty. Her choice of hosary is really just icing on the cake, which is where I would have Addy sit. Naked. On my cake. With her ankles thrust through my ribcage.

Two words: mirror selfie.
In addition to having a very nice bathroom, her legs are silky. You can just see the silkiness sheening off her calf and down her leg. Definitely would have her oiled up in a mud puddle; which may or may not be overkill, but really, you can't have this one wet enough.

NATURE SHOT. When I think nature, I don't typically think of grass. Not in context of getting pictures sent to my phone, anyway. These legs are playful. Which I don't mind at all.

There's something to be said about tattoos above the knee. It's all good things. Painted nails. Pure white skin. Pure. White. Skin. *adjusts pants*

She gets hot points for the long shot, which show cases the muscles she's gained in squat therapy. There's a kid in the shot, which means she's a family woman, and fingers crossed: house wife.
Lord grant me serenity not to bang your wife, amen.

Typically I'm not so down with super skinny legs, but she doesn't look hungry. She looks thirsty. Which I can help with. Either she's naked or skinny enough to wear those thongs that excuse themselves as short-shorts. Either way, I'd be gentle. Very gentle. As to not snap her caps on accident.

Pure white, baby toys, hopefully another housewife. There's a beauty mark behind her kneecap, which is the second most attractive things since individually packaged condoms. Stating the obvious, these legs are sturdy, most likely able to snap my neck. If given the opportunity, I would let her make me a paraplegic. Bliss.

That's a towel covering her mousse. A towel. Don't even try to tell me that she might be in a bathing suit since this picture is taken in the grass outside. I won't hear it. She's outside because she's a exhibitionist, and she's wearing a towel because her mousse would make a grown man die of need. These legs carry a tattoo on her right inside ankle, and get whiter the higher you travel up the thigh: like my face. She has earned the right to step my face into dirt.

I don't care if that's a skirt or the bottom half of the shortest dress ever made, the sight of these legs alone make me want to travel the slightly tan brick road. Really, she's just adorable. Look at those socks. Ankle socks. ANKLE SOCKS. Oh, right. and a cat. whatever.

There's so much right happening here. Her pants have been taken off, and she left her sports hoody on. This shows me her enjoyment in making me squirm. Tattoo above the knee is immediate initiation into the hottest women alive category. Painted nails means she cares. Bathroom selfie. So much right in this image, so much pleaseletmesmellyourknees in those legs. I'd let her tickle me until I'm dead.

These legs are on a train, which when you think about isn't as common as you think. Ankle socks and lace-up shoes. Not entirely sure if those are shorts, but DO YOU SEE THE FRECKLES. SHE HAS FRECKLES ON HER KNEES. Freckles and beauty marks anywhere near/on a knee is I can't even explain it? It's ridiculously attractive and rare. A+


Socks that bear a team sports logo on women is the reason countries go to holy war. I would. I would wear nothing and charge reckless into an entire army if an entire army is what was keeping me from touching these legs. There is NO LIMIT to the amount of people I would punch in the face to get inches closer to them and if I died or was cut in half within a mile of getting to them, I would use my teeth to crawl the rest of the way.

This woman is sitting on a black leather couch in shorts, with the sun coming in. There are people that pay thousands of dollars to get this kind of image and she just snaps it willy-nilly. If you can just take a moment to look at these--really look at these--you will slowly start to realize why it makes no sense that women aren't all totally fucking each other all the time. Really. I dream of this picture.


       ********CONTEST WINNER**********

There are not enough words in the English language or any other language to describe the feeling a person gets when this type of picture is sent to them for personal approval. No, not this type of picture....just this picture. It came to my Facebook Wall with "Army Strong Legs" as a caption, and for a split full-hearted moment, I considered signing up for the opportunity to be near these.
Her knees have contours I've never seen in my life. Cute, womanly feet; just enough calf, and thighs that would make celibate monk's dick cry. There's a depression in the comforter that makes me wish it was my chest. I literally want to be the furniture in this picture. I want to be her furniture for probably the rest of my natural-born life. Holy shit. Just, holy shit. *slow clap*

To all the women that submitted pictures:
You're all beautiful inspirations to those around you, and you're all my favorite people to look at. Thank you for playing this year and don't feel shy about submitting next year. Trust me, I'd love to see what you have hiding under your pant-legs.
I love you silly beautiful reasons to still be having sex with this gender.
Thanks for playing.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Salt The Water

There comes a time in a woman’s life when she must above all things, realise a limit to her expertise. A percent of women are very good at cooking, others may be skilled in the art of fashion, some are even considered the best chefs in the world. But these women will experience a speed-bump--a self-driven, self-promoting, hateful little fuck up by the name of “that one”.
That One is papa fuck up.
It’s that one thing.
Maybe even, several things at once, that one time.
It embodies different things and takes many forms, all in which are stories you later tell other people; to warn them. They find it funny. They even laugh. But that one time is not a secular issue that you simply persevered. It’s a learning tool from which all of your future decisions to do nothing out of your comfort zone derive. In a single fell movement, it has forced you scared and alone into a box of it’s own design, where you will stay, because even recognizing the pattern that may repeat that one time leaves you sitting on your couch afraid of sounds.

What I’m trying to tell you is that I made soup today. At midnight a couple of days ago I decided I wanted to make an entire chicken. This would have been a good idea if I had a clue how to go about it. After a few Google searches it went in the oven, but I treated the recipe list sort of like a yellow light if I were on crystal. It said 425 degrees, so I totally nailed that. But I get nervous with meat so I kept checking it, letting the heat out. Instead of the hour and a half cook time it took somewhere near three. Either way, the bird was cooked.

Today upon entering the kitchen to look for my remote, I decided that it would be a great idea to make the left over into a soup. As far as I know, they put entire solid things in a pot and stew them for several hours and when served it looks pretty. My day sort of turned out like Investigation Discovery after my mind was made up.

Here’s the recipe for “Red Solo Yolo”:
1 entire chicken
Miso Flavored Ramen Noodles
Leftover Onions From Vietnamese Take Out  
Vietnamese Peanut Sauce
Chili Paste
Canned Potatoes
Canned Mushroom Soup
Chicken Broth

Instructions for cooking:
1. Purchase 1 chicken at Wal-Mart around 12-1a.m.
2. Put chicken in disposable tin. Lather liberally with chili paste, peanut sauce, pepper and salt.
3. Freak out about it’s tail flap thing.
4. Shove about two grips of mixed onions and parsley up it’s ass.
5. Stick it in a 425 degree oven for 1 hour and 30 minutes.
6. Every 15 minutes, open the oven door to make sure it’s cooking.
7. At the third 15th minute, realize there isn’t any oil.
8. Take it out, put something oily on it.
9. Wait another two hours or until skin is nearly black.
10. Serve piping hot to your best friend.
11. Wrap whatever he won’t eat and put in fridge. Wait exactly 2 days. Think of Jesus and his resurrection. This will be the chicken.
12. Get a huge pot from your brothers house, fill ¾ of the way with water while having a phone pressed to your face.
13. Make sure the conversation is both deep and requires your full attention.
14. Remember you oversalted the chicken, so there’s no need for more.
15. Add chicken stock to water, plop in cold chicken.
16. Realize you don’t have a can opener, put the potatoes back.
17. Dump all other canned goods with pop-lids in pot.
18. Wait exactly 3 hours. *during this time you will take the lid on and off to make sure it’s cooking.*
19. Taste it and you will be able to tell it needs more salt.
20. Add 2 packets of Miso Flavored Ramen; literally. Like, add the flavor and noodles and little freeze-dried bits.
21. Wait 30 minutes or until noodles are cooked.
22. Serve by dipping a Red Solo cup in the pot.

In about 30 minutes I’m going to dump the entire thing in the Springfield Lake. This is now that one time I made chicken soup, and probably why I’ll never cook again in my life.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Restart? -->Yes/No

Through a lot of my life I've had to ask a third party about what I've lived; this is because I have a horrible memory. 50 First Dates resembles the somewhat daily routine of what I go through. There are a handful of theories about why I work that way; some people claim it was my early and thoroughly enjoyed alcohol use. Other blame it on one or multiple of the following:

-frequent blows to the head from fights/general clumsiness
-not finding anything outside of my interests memorable
-having the attention span of a contemporary artist in 1983 at a corporate gala
-exposure to tinfoil use outside culinary atrocities
-odd need to smell things regardless of chemical makeup
-same equally important need to touch/punch things that are kawaii/ugly regardless of weight class
-the odd hours i sleep

And for all of those gifts, I'm awarded the right to not remember your name. That's why I nickname you. I probably can't remember your real name. You're not boring or uninteresting, but you probably are honestly, its just I don't care enough. Really. It's not you, it's me. If you're angry, that's okay. Remember that you're not 23 and constantly losing arguments because you forgot what your point was.

Yesterday morning I had this brilliant idea to attempt remembering parts of my past based on the games I was playing at the time. Normally this isn't something I would be thinking about while trying to sleep, but I was shooting for falling asleep counting titles instead of sheep.
All of these should have been books, and to be frankly honest I want them to be, but I didn't have time to read a book in 1998, my live-in maid did.
She was Hispanic so it gave all the characters the best accents. Did you know Peter Rabbit and Mr. McGregor sound like Cheech & Chong? She even elaborated on them by telling me she knew a Flopsey, Mopsey, and Cotton-tail. Said they were all her husband. I didn't get it then, but these days I understand the confusion my classmates had when I tried to tell them Black Beauty was Denzel Washington.

Spyro the Dragon:  Oct 1998
Where I lived: Summerville, Georgia
Why is this game important?
Spyro is a title I tried to play by myself but couldn't manage to play correctly. Uncle Jim would play it instead on nights where it was his job to get me to sleep. This was the game we were playing when I was first introduced to my irrational fear of being struck by lightning, and how it was coincidentally explained to me that it was practically impossible. Uncle Jim taught me to count how many seconds between the flash and thunder while Spyro's dragonfly occasionally buzzed idly. To this day I still freak out during thunderstorms, but now I know how far off God's aim is.

Tarzan Action Game: 1999
Where I lived: Summerville, Georgia
Why is this game important?
This is the second most hated game I've ever owned. It was addictive in the sense that McDonald's can be, and about as good for you. Seriously, if I didn't have anxiety issues before this title, I had it afterwards. Nothing in life or made by the hand of a higher power could or want to craft such a frustrating piece of shit. Only man. Only man would do this. After Uncle Jim and I beat it, we stomped it to death. First time I raged on something.

The Sims: Feb 2000
Where I lived: Tucson, Arizona
Why is this game important?
At the time I was attending a private school that catered to children who didn't fuck around with their super powers. It was like X-Men except we couldn't fly or grow claws unless we took a leap of faith off the jungle gym or taped coffee straws to our knuckles. These were the times of plenty; when my imagination really took off and I met a little boy who altered my perception of people for the rest of my life. He played The Sims, and introduced me to the world of naming your enemies and then killing them in swimming pools very slowly. (One of the expansions for this game is called "Hot Date"; He asked me to be his girlfriend by loading a save where his avatars of him and I were in an endless "woo hoo" session.)
*these were the infamous days of "Sugar Cookies & Coke"*

Darkstone: Evil Reigns: Jan 2001
Where I lived: Tucson, Arizona
Why is this game important?
Because I never beat it. In this era I spent most of my time with a man named Cary who bought me anything under the sun as long as I wasn't mean to him. As a child, I exploited this to a ridiculous proportion and looking back I feel a little bad. He would sit next to me and do paperwork while I played, before I got smart and asked for a new console for my own house. Then he took me to Mexico after school in a convertible, teaching me how to haggle for jewelry. It was the best Tuesday of my life.

Shenmue II: 2003 
Where I lived: Casa Grande, Arizona
Why is this game important?
Shenmue II is the first game my mother ever bought me without asking for it. She went out of her way to pick something out that I would enjoy based on my interests, which was just fucking out of this world for my level of understanding back then. I never managed to beat this one outright; back then you didn't have such easy access to game guides unless you bought them and Shenmue was a pretty understated title. It played like a Chinese version of Grand Theft Auto, except all the roads were written in kanji. The idea of being able to kick the shit out of my enemies gave me a high like no other.

Dead or Alive Extreme Beach Volleyball: Jan 2003
Where I lived: Casa Grande, Arizona
Why is this game important?
In the spring/summer of '03 I stayed with my childhood best-friend, Em. We attended the same school together, ignored homework together, played games together. This one was her brother's I think, and it introduced me to a whole new perspective of sexuality. Those beautiful nanas bounced with each push of a button. Where as I had completely ignored my awkward feelings towards women before, it was around this time I started really looking at the girls around me. 8th grade is interesting for a gringa who isn't shy about wanting to pick up chicks-- and by interesting, I mean I learned to fight and appreciate piano music.  

Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind: 2004
Where I lived: Phoenix, Arizona
Why is this game important?
I didn't know it yet, but this titles and it's expansions would be the ever-constant video game in my life. Anything that happened would occur while I was playing, waiting to play, or installing one of these. For this one in particular, it's a story about moving and my exploration in to exploitation. The year I played this game would be the year I learned to lie, charm, guile, and cheat my way to victory in and out of real life. Also I met a songwriter who was a senior at our high school. He really like me. I really liked his girlfriend. It got weird.

Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion: 2006
Where I lived: Key West, Florida
Why is this game important?
I'll be honest with you, the reasons this game is so integral to my life are too long to list. Like I stated above, the Elder Scrolls series has been a cornerstone since I picked it up. I have bought and sold this game a counted total of 36 times since it's release. Had I kept a singular save file it would have 61,355 hours on it, minus the hours I needed for sleep, eating, flirting and changing my shirts. That's a real number, people. Look it up. I can beat this game in less than three hours, accomplishing 100% storyline, all guilds, and 60% of the sidequests. There is nothing to show for my dedication other than the neat trick I  do where I shut my eyes and navigate out of the first dungeon without looking.

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare: 2007
Where I lived: Phoenix, Arizona
Why is this game important?
Among all of my friends I can honestly say this video game changed my life. I don't mean it as in this game is blow-your-mind-or-your-boyfriend good, but it literally altered what the rest of my years would have been like. I was in a car crash that resulted in the loss of most functions; speaking, walking, writing, etc. Over the course of 8 months this game and a headset gave me back the ability to reason, deduce, have reflexes, and process multiple bits of information at once. I couldn't just press the thumb-stick to make a soldier move, I knew where I was going. Maps were memorized. If you were to ask me about any of the maps today I could tell you anything you needed to know. Eventually I could stand up and vent my frustrations properly. Unfortunately, it left me a couple of gifts I didn't need to keep. The ability to win every hand-eye coordination game in the world, and the skill to memorize a cities road layout after riding through it once. Except Boston. Boston is fucked.

Persona 4: Dec 2008
Where I lived:  Springfield, Missouri
Why is this game important?
At the time Avis and I were living on the graces of a woman who let us sleep in the backroom of her trailer. It was the middle of winter and the woman didn't have anything to give us, so Avis and I cuddled under a towel we found and plugged in the Playstation 2. This is a game I bought before we lost everything and I was determined to hold on to it, but I couldn't give you a reason. We played this and Final Fantasy 10 back-to-back until my brother took us in, where we finished them both in another backroom. It's an excellent game and probably my favorite of all time; not only was it solid, but it kept our minds off the cold and hunger we felt.

Catherine: 2011
Where I lived: Springfield, Missouri
Why is this game important?
First let me key you in; this game is about a guy who is dating a woman named Katherine, while being helplessly pursued by an extremely sexy woman also named Catherine. Throughout the game you deal with puzzles and decide which (K)Catherine you want pursue or stay with. I bought it because I like puzzles. I kept it because I was in the same situation.
Though it didn't help me out and really made me want to just be single for eternity, it does provide perspective on who you are as a general asshole.

Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim: 2011
Where I lived: Springfield, Missouri
Why is this game important?
It didn't really change my life, but a ton of severely important things happened in my life when this game came out. I believe it ushered in a new age for both myself and the video game industry; completely reinventing what we thought were norms. it's the next installment of Elder Scrolls, so at this point I really just duck my head when Bethesda announces things. Fun fact: I saw more drama happen around this game's pause screen than I've seen in 23 years of watching Lifetime, Hallmark, and MTV combined.

Persona 4 Golden: 2012
Where I lived: Mesick, Michigan
Why is this game important? 
PS Vita came out and I bought one before my first semester of college started; I bought it for this title. A remake of the game I played when times were rough, remastered with new missions, new socials, and new bosses. It means more to me than it did originally, now that I realize the coincidence of playing the same title twice while living the same situation twice. Dr. Ashley and I would take turns between Persona and Hot Line Miami before humanities class started, and sometimes during humanities. Those cold winter days during the long trek to campus were made easier in good company with good things to talk about. Anytime it gets cold I think of the good shit that happens when this game is on.

                                                         THE GAME FROM HELL

I HATE this game. This is my #1 most hated game in the history of video games. Everyone should hate this game. Don't even play it to see. Don't give it the time. Tell everyone you know that you hate this game and that the developers should be drugged and made to strip for the money this company theoretically owes you. Monks should grow their hair back in protest against this game. Republicans and Democrats could VOTE UNANIMOUSLY  on the hatred of this game. It's scarred my curiosity towards any title with "metal" or "dungeon" in it for the rest of my life. If I ever see this game I will break it into a thousand shards and use those shards and my blood to summon satan so I can tell him to Godzilla curb stomp the creators of this game. Fuck this game. DON'T EVEN FUCK THIS GAME JUST KNOW THAT YOU HATE IT.