Josh Hilden's Blog, page 29
September 11, 2012
It’s good to be the King!
Four years ago this month I thought that my writing career was over. I decided in September of 2008 that I would walk away from a staff position at a publishing company rather than support something that I did not agree with. At the time there were more than a few people that told me that I was making a giant mistake and that I should have just bitten the proverbial bullet and compromise my vision and my principals so that I would be guaranteed to see my name in print.
I kid you not that happened more than once.
The climb has been difficult since then, difficult but rewarding. In that time I have produced freelance content for another publisher and I have written a three novel series, a trilogy if you will. I made the attempt to interest agents and independent publishing companies in my books but nobody even wanted to look at my work. To say it was disheartening is an understatement. Then at the beginning of this summer I decided that I didn’t even want to have someone else publish my work, I had already traveled that road and found it not to my liking. There is a massive difference between doing work for hire for a company and having someone assume control of your creative property for more of their benefit than yours.
I began the process of getting the trilogy ready for self publication and founding my own publishing company. It became quickly apparent that while I could do a bare bones publication of my books with little to no advertising for relatively cheap I did not want to go that route. I looked into crowd funding and decided to set up a Kickstarter in order to raise funds. I figured I needed a thousand dollars in order to afford some professional editing, high quality cover art, and some advertising in a format beyond the social media matrix.
I set the time frame for the Kickstarter at sixty days fearing that it was going to be a squeaker when it came to hitting the goal. I worried that there would not be enough people that were even remotely interested in my project or that Zombie Fatigue would kill interest and that even after sixty days I would not hit my goal. Well I have twenty days left for the Kickstarter and as of this afternoon I am 100% funded, anything else is the gravy that will make it all so much more awesome.
I just want to take a second to give all the thanks and gratitude in the world to everyone who backed, shared, and morally supported me in this Endeavour. By the first week of November, although I am hoping for before Halloween, the first book of The Shores of the Dead (The Shores of the Dead Book One: The Escape) will be available on Kindle and in Print!
That’s right folks my books WILL be available in print format.
I never thought I would be to this point I my life, I never thought I could do something this amazing. And the bald truth is that without the support of my friends, family, and the people that have enjoyed my work and supported me I never would have.
There will be a new public and a new backer’s only update on Kickstarter either tonight or tomorrow.
I will be considering whether or not to set a stretch goal to raise more money for the project.
You guys and gals all rock!
I kid you not that happened more than once.
The climb has been difficult since then, difficult but rewarding. In that time I have produced freelance content for another publisher and I have written a three novel series, a trilogy if you will. I made the attempt to interest agents and independent publishing companies in my books but nobody even wanted to look at my work. To say it was disheartening is an understatement. Then at the beginning of this summer I decided that I didn’t even want to have someone else publish my work, I had already traveled that road and found it not to my liking. There is a massive difference between doing work for hire for a company and having someone assume control of your creative property for more of their benefit than yours.
I began the process of getting the trilogy ready for self publication and founding my own publishing company. It became quickly apparent that while I could do a bare bones publication of my books with little to no advertising for relatively cheap I did not want to go that route. I looked into crowd funding and decided to set up a Kickstarter in order to raise funds. I figured I needed a thousand dollars in order to afford some professional editing, high quality cover art, and some advertising in a format beyond the social media matrix.
I set the time frame for the Kickstarter at sixty days fearing that it was going to be a squeaker when it came to hitting the goal. I worried that there would not be enough people that were even remotely interested in my project or that Zombie Fatigue would kill interest and that even after sixty days I would not hit my goal. Well I have twenty days left for the Kickstarter and as of this afternoon I am 100% funded, anything else is the gravy that will make it all so much more awesome.
I just want to take a second to give all the thanks and gratitude in the world to everyone who backed, shared, and morally supported me in this Endeavour. By the first week of November, although I am hoping for before Halloween, the first book of The Shores of the Dead (The Shores of the Dead Book One: The Escape) will be available on Kindle and in Print!
That’s right folks my books WILL be available in print format.
I never thought I would be to this point I my life, I never thought I could do something this amazing. And the bald truth is that without the support of my friends, family, and the people that have enjoyed my work and supported me I never would have.
There will be a new public and a new backer’s only update on Kickstarter either tonight or tomorrow.
I will be considering whether or not to set a stretch goal to raise more money for the project.
You guys and gals all rock!
September 7, 2012
Shit that Pisses Me Off! Aka the Josh Rant (Volume One)
So I am taking a break from the therapy posts. I know that I still have stories that I want to tell but the stories that I NEED to tell or I will go insane have at least been touched upon. Last night I tried to write one and after a half dozen attempts I realized that I was trying to force one. I could have pumped one out and it may very well have been entertaining and informative but it would have been less than genuine. I am a firm believer that if you have to force yourself to create something then maybe you should walk away. It’s better to wait until the muse is whispering in my ear and the words flow from my fingers in that magical way that brings me to the edge of ecstasy. So I have decided to start doing a new segment on the old digital journal. It is a segment that most people will want to smack me across the back of the head for not doing sooner, a rant.
Since I have entered the world of better living through chemicals I have noticed that the number of little things that irritate the fuck out of me has decreased. Before the medication when my mind was maelstrom of chaos it seemed that there were a million little things that made me want to kick the elderly and hold puppies in captivity. Now there are many fewer things that get on the wrong side of my membrane but the few things that do get deep under my skin and inject me with poison really piss me off!
One thing that has angered me more and more in the last few years is the distinct lack of readily available ketchup at the fast food drive thru.
I worked for two years straight in the fast food industry when I was in high school. Back then it seemed that ketchup flowed like water and it was far from uncommon for the drive thru worker to stuff the customers back with enough ketchup to coat a hooker, a cute girl one not one of the manish ones with an Adam’s apple and a five o’clock shadow, in a nice red sheen … and not one made of blood. It was like cocaine in the 1970’s, everyone had a few lines (or packets) that they were more than happy to share with you.
Now fast forward to last week and the McDonalds two blocks from the secret and nebulous location of my day job (at night). I go through the drive thru there about once a week. Sometimes I am just getting a Coke before work, because fuck me there is nothing better than an ice cold fountain coca-cola, but usually I get a burger and fries. And no lectures about how bad for me that is because fuck you I work hard for my pennies and if I want to get a greasy salty orgasmic treat that’s my business.
Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that I treat ketchup like Catholics treat communion wine. As far as I am concerned it IS the blood of my god the great LORD HEINZ he who was juiced for my sins and bottled for my enjoyment on potato products, meats, noodles, and pizza.
I love McDonalds French fries, I mean I fucking LOVE them I would smack a bitch up to get them into my gob. But I really only truly enjoy any fries with ketchup. Hot French fries with the right amount of salt on them dipped into preferably ice cold ketchup is like sex in the mouth.
I guess what I am trying to say is that I like ketchup and fries.
So this fucking McDonalds by my work seems to think that ketchup holds the cure for death or something because they horde it like one of those fucks on A&E. I go through there every time and I have to say “Can I have some ketchup please?” and every time I get this eye roll from whatever drugged out fucking teenager happens to be working the drive thru window. Then they huff and reach under the counter to retrieve a couple of packets of delicious god blood. They act like I am asking them to whip off their clothes and dance naked for my entertainment.
Trust me boils and ghouls I love nudity more than the next guy but I do not want to see any of those slack jawed, slope browed, carnie rejects naked.
I mean seriously they leave the stuff out in the dining room for customers to practically drink straight from the nozzle. But ask them at the drive thru window to give you something that at any other restaurant considers as necessary as water and you would think you were Hitler. An it’s not like that McDonalds is unique, every fucking McDonalds that I have been to seems to have the same policy towards condiments.
Fucking assholes … hope they get busted by the INS … seriously.
Since I have entered the world of better living through chemicals I have noticed that the number of little things that irritate the fuck out of me has decreased. Before the medication when my mind was maelstrom of chaos it seemed that there were a million little things that made me want to kick the elderly and hold puppies in captivity. Now there are many fewer things that get on the wrong side of my membrane but the few things that do get deep under my skin and inject me with poison really piss me off!
One thing that has angered me more and more in the last few years is the distinct lack of readily available ketchup at the fast food drive thru.
I worked for two years straight in the fast food industry when I was in high school. Back then it seemed that ketchup flowed like water and it was far from uncommon for the drive thru worker to stuff the customers back with enough ketchup to coat a hooker, a cute girl one not one of the manish ones with an Adam’s apple and a five o’clock shadow, in a nice red sheen … and not one made of blood. It was like cocaine in the 1970’s, everyone had a few lines (or packets) that they were more than happy to share with you.
Now fast forward to last week and the McDonalds two blocks from the secret and nebulous location of my day job (at night). I go through the drive thru there about once a week. Sometimes I am just getting a Coke before work, because fuck me there is nothing better than an ice cold fountain coca-cola, but usually I get a burger and fries. And no lectures about how bad for me that is because fuck you I work hard for my pennies and if I want to get a greasy salty orgasmic treat that’s my business.
Anyone who has known me for any length of time knows that I treat ketchup like Catholics treat communion wine. As far as I am concerned it IS the blood of my god the great LORD HEINZ he who was juiced for my sins and bottled for my enjoyment on potato products, meats, noodles, and pizza.
I love McDonalds French fries, I mean I fucking LOVE them I would smack a bitch up to get them into my gob. But I really only truly enjoy any fries with ketchup. Hot French fries with the right amount of salt on them dipped into preferably ice cold ketchup is like sex in the mouth.
I guess what I am trying to say is that I like ketchup and fries.
So this fucking McDonalds by my work seems to think that ketchup holds the cure for death or something because they horde it like one of those fucks on A&E. I go through there every time and I have to say “Can I have some ketchup please?” and every time I get this eye roll from whatever drugged out fucking teenager happens to be working the drive thru window. Then they huff and reach under the counter to retrieve a couple of packets of delicious god blood. They act like I am asking them to whip off their clothes and dance naked for my entertainment.
Trust me boils and ghouls I love nudity more than the next guy but I do not want to see any of those slack jawed, slope browed, carnie rejects naked.
I mean seriously they leave the stuff out in the dining room for customers to practically drink straight from the nozzle. But ask them at the drive thru window to give you something that at any other restaurant considers as necessary as water and you would think you were Hitler. An it’s not like that McDonalds is unique, every fucking McDonalds that I have been to seems to have the same policy towards condiments.
Fucking assholes … hope they get busted by the INS … seriously.
HELP ME!!! (shamelessly begging)
Today is Friday and what better way to celebrate the end of the work week than to help an author publish his trilogy of novels? The Shores of the Dead Trilogy Kickstarter has 24 days left to raise $135 and be fully funded! I have added a new $5 Backer Reward and will be sending out print versions of the books along with free PDF versions. So please back my project so I can afford amazing cover art by Mike Mumah and can hire a professional editor, because nobody wants me to edit the books.
:P
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/j...
:P
http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/j...
September 5, 2012
The Story of Josh Part Forty Three: Government Cheese and Monopoly Money
When we reached a town of more than ten thousand people I bid the kids and the dog in the van bon voyage and set out on foot. They were good traveling companions but I decided that I needed to shake things up a bit, it was getting entirely too comfortable. So with a pack on my back I started down a tidy New England road heading nowhere in particular.
Half an hour later a nondescript truck passed me and then pulled to the side of the road. The driver stuck his arm out the window and motioned me toward the opposite side of the vehicle. I hesitated for a minute, give me at least that much credit, and then decided that if the guy wanted to kill me and wear my skin he could just run me over with his truck.
I opened the door and he greeted me warmly. He introduced himself as Joe and said that he was on his way to see his folks and that he could drive me into town. He looks very familiar to me but I let it go just being happy to have a ride. When I ask him why he picked up a stranger he tells me that in this area they tend to want to help people out and that he knows what it’s like to not be “In Funds”. I think that I should be offended by the assumption that I am poor but there is no sense of pity or derision in his voice so I am not offended.
I tell him that I have never really known any other life and he asks me what I mean.
As always this is a therapy session, I don’t know if he is a doctor but apparently he is in.
We have always been a family of working poor. There are exceptions to that statement, some people have been more successful than others and there have been times when we have had more money than we needed to subsist. But I have known the life of government cheese and money that looks like it was rejected from a monopoly set in the Philippines. This is not to say that people in my family are lazy. Sure we have some useless fucks in our ranks on both sides but I like to think that we have a strong work ethic in our family … no, you know what? We DO have a strong fucking work ethic in my family. Even some of the people in my family that I cannot stand have some of the best work ethics of anyone I have ever known.
So suck it!
Where was I? Oh yeah, I grew up poor and I have lived most of my life as one of the working poor. This is not a plea for sympathy or a desire for people to feel sorry for me. There are people that are considerably worse off than I have ever been.
When I was a kid we didn’t have much money and for stretches we were on the dole. But it never felt as bad as I now realize it was. My mother made sure that we had food on the shelves and someplace to live. Even when she was battling her own addictions and demons she was able to feed and clothe us. Mom always made sure that our birthdays and ESPECIALLY our Christmases were better than they had any right being. But when she reached a point where she knew that we were in real trouble she was able to see past pride and ask my grandparents for help, I do not see that as a weakness I see that as strength.
My father also never shirked his responsibilities unlike so many other men that seem to think that the care of children is the sole responsibility of the mothers and will hardly lift a finger to help their children. My dad paid his child support, my father always used all of his visitation rights, and my father never assumed that someone else was caring for his kids. Even when dad was drinking when I was a kid I never felt that we were anything other than his first priority.
When I moved out on my own (with roommates and that is a story I am getting real close to telling) I had to make it on very little. It was hard but I took pride in being able to take care of myself and pay my bills without asking for help. I cannot say the same for one of my roommates but I will save that story for another time.
Karen and I have had a hard financial row to hoe in the last going on seventeen years. And while that is a story that needs to be told it needs to be told as part of the larger narrative that is the story of me and Karen.
I don’t take money for granted. I do not think that there will always be money to cover all of our expenses. I worry everyday that we will again melt down financially and that next time there will be nothing that I can do about it. If it were not for my wife the worry of money would drive me to an even more severe depression. She keeps me grounded and takes much of the burden off of my meaty shoulders.
I wish I could buy my wife the life that she deserves. I wish that I could buy my children the things that they want. I wish that we did not have to live paycheck to paycheck. I wish that I had never been forced to borrow money from others and I wish that BOTH sides had handled that situation better.
It sucks to be poor …
As I finish the narrative I realize that we have driven clean through the town and are now approaching a gated house. I ask Joe where we are going and he tells me that he didn’t want me to stop and he figured that I wouldn’t mind having dinner with his mom and dad. We pull up to the gates and the pit falls out of my stomach and ice fills my body. I have seen pictures of this house before, the stone gargoyles are a dead giveaway.
I am terrified. They say you should never meat your heroes.
That’s then for today, we have no more time to spend.
Half an hour later a nondescript truck passed me and then pulled to the side of the road. The driver stuck his arm out the window and motioned me toward the opposite side of the vehicle. I hesitated for a minute, give me at least that much credit, and then decided that if the guy wanted to kill me and wear my skin he could just run me over with his truck.
I opened the door and he greeted me warmly. He introduced himself as Joe and said that he was on his way to see his folks and that he could drive me into town. He looks very familiar to me but I let it go just being happy to have a ride. When I ask him why he picked up a stranger he tells me that in this area they tend to want to help people out and that he knows what it’s like to not be “In Funds”. I think that I should be offended by the assumption that I am poor but there is no sense of pity or derision in his voice so I am not offended.
I tell him that I have never really known any other life and he asks me what I mean.
As always this is a therapy session, I don’t know if he is a doctor but apparently he is in.
We have always been a family of working poor. There are exceptions to that statement, some people have been more successful than others and there have been times when we have had more money than we needed to subsist. But I have known the life of government cheese and money that looks like it was rejected from a monopoly set in the Philippines. This is not to say that people in my family are lazy. Sure we have some useless fucks in our ranks on both sides but I like to think that we have a strong work ethic in our family … no, you know what? We DO have a strong fucking work ethic in my family. Even some of the people in my family that I cannot stand have some of the best work ethics of anyone I have ever known.
So suck it!
Where was I? Oh yeah, I grew up poor and I have lived most of my life as one of the working poor. This is not a plea for sympathy or a desire for people to feel sorry for me. There are people that are considerably worse off than I have ever been.
When I was a kid we didn’t have much money and for stretches we were on the dole. But it never felt as bad as I now realize it was. My mother made sure that we had food on the shelves and someplace to live. Even when she was battling her own addictions and demons she was able to feed and clothe us. Mom always made sure that our birthdays and ESPECIALLY our Christmases were better than they had any right being. But when she reached a point where she knew that we were in real trouble she was able to see past pride and ask my grandparents for help, I do not see that as a weakness I see that as strength.
My father also never shirked his responsibilities unlike so many other men that seem to think that the care of children is the sole responsibility of the mothers and will hardly lift a finger to help their children. My dad paid his child support, my father always used all of his visitation rights, and my father never assumed that someone else was caring for his kids. Even when dad was drinking when I was a kid I never felt that we were anything other than his first priority.
When I moved out on my own (with roommates and that is a story I am getting real close to telling) I had to make it on very little. It was hard but I took pride in being able to take care of myself and pay my bills without asking for help. I cannot say the same for one of my roommates but I will save that story for another time.
Karen and I have had a hard financial row to hoe in the last going on seventeen years. And while that is a story that needs to be told it needs to be told as part of the larger narrative that is the story of me and Karen.
I don’t take money for granted. I do not think that there will always be money to cover all of our expenses. I worry everyday that we will again melt down financially and that next time there will be nothing that I can do about it. If it were not for my wife the worry of money would drive me to an even more severe depression. She keeps me grounded and takes much of the burden off of my meaty shoulders.
I wish I could buy my wife the life that she deserves. I wish that I could buy my children the things that they want. I wish that we did not have to live paycheck to paycheck. I wish that I had never been forced to borrow money from others and I wish that BOTH sides had handled that situation better.
It sucks to be poor …
As I finish the narrative I realize that we have driven clean through the town and are now approaching a gated house. I ask Joe where we are going and he tells me that he didn’t want me to stop and he figured that I wouldn’t mind having dinner with his mom and dad. We pull up to the gates and the pit falls out of my stomach and ice fills my body. I have seen pictures of this house before, the stone gargoyles are a dead giveaway.
I am terrified. They say you should never meat your heroes.
That’s then for today, we have no more time to spend.
September 3, 2012
Doing a Dry Run
I am marching closer and closer to the publication of the first book of the Shores of the Dead Trilogy (Book One the Escape). I have paid the brilliant artist Mr. Mike Mumah (www.artof mikemumah.com) for the first of four covers. The three books of the trilogy and the omnibus edition will all have distinct covers done by a man that I believe is one of the most talented relatively unknown artists working today. I consider it a real coup that he instantly agreed to do the work and cut me a really amazing deal considering the quality of his work. I do not care if others like his work as much as I care that I like it.
And I love it.
OK enough of stroking the ego of a dude that will never read this anyway. On to the dry run that has, for me, cut the channel to make the publication of the trilogy as easy as possible.
Back in 2008 I wrote a short novella (about 15,000 words) called “One Way Ticket”. I shopped it around for about a year but the only responses I received were either that it wasn’t right for the publication or that it exceeded the space limits available. But I still love the story and had always been planning on including it in the first collection of my short stories despite its length. As I was reading through the process of self publishing via Amazon I decided that I needed to do it on a test piece before sending my novels through the mill.
It took me four days to do what should have taken one and that is why I did it. Now when I assemble the first book of the trilogy next month I know what I need to do and how to do it. The bonus is that “One Way Ticket” is available for purchase ($0.99 for eBook and $3.56 for paperback) on Amazon. The editing is choppy because I violated my number one rule, I edited myself. I know I should have had someone else do it but I was so anxious to try the process out and I didn’t want to compensate someone for editing it considering I don’t expect to really make any money on it.
Say sorry.
And that is where I stand at the moment. The first book is with the editor and the cover is being worked on. As of today the Kickstarter is 86% funded and there are still 28 days left. So I think we are in very good shape!
And I love it.
OK enough of stroking the ego of a dude that will never read this anyway. On to the dry run that has, for me, cut the channel to make the publication of the trilogy as easy as possible.
Back in 2008 I wrote a short novella (about 15,000 words) called “One Way Ticket”. I shopped it around for about a year but the only responses I received were either that it wasn’t right for the publication or that it exceeded the space limits available. But I still love the story and had always been planning on including it in the first collection of my short stories despite its length. As I was reading through the process of self publishing via Amazon I decided that I needed to do it on a test piece before sending my novels through the mill.
It took me four days to do what should have taken one and that is why I did it. Now when I assemble the first book of the trilogy next month I know what I need to do and how to do it. The bonus is that “One Way Ticket” is available for purchase ($0.99 for eBook and $3.56 for paperback) on Amazon. The editing is choppy because I violated my number one rule, I edited myself. I know I should have had someone else do it but I was so anxious to try the process out and I didn’t want to compensate someone for editing it considering I don’t expect to really make any money on it.
Say sorry.
And that is where I stand at the moment. The first book is with the editor and the cover is being worked on. As of today the Kickstarter is 86% funded and there are still 28 days left. So I think we are in very good shape!
August 29, 2012
The Story of Josh Part Forty One: Pigs in SPACE!!!
There are no therapists today. I have decided that I am going to treat this one like a twelve step group.
Hi, my name is Josh …
… and I am a Trekkie.
Actually I am a complete science fiction fiend and I can carry on a knowledgeable discourse about the genre in general. And I can do it with a tremendous amount of glee. But today let’s forget that I watched and loved both incarnations of Galactica with wide eyes, that I wanted to be in the trench with Luke, that I have always wanted to go through the fucking Star Gate, that I would follow John Sheridan into hell and back, that I want to ride with the Doctor on the Tardis and do it with Captain Jack, that in my dreams I am still on the Satellite of Love and living in Deep 13, that Mal Reynolds is the perfect man, and that I’m a leaf on the wind … watch me soar. Today I am on the Enterprise. Today I return to my first love in the sky. Today I am a Trekkie.
I think I am very lucky when it comes to my fandom. Most Trekkies (and yes I use the term Trekkie with pride, none of that fucking Trekker bullshit for me) my age tend to cite The Next Generation (TNG) as their primary exposure to Start Trek. For me my first exposure was at about 11:00 pm sitting on the couch next to my dad while mom was working. When I was little my mom got a job for a short time working at the Singer Sewing Machine factory when America still built things. Dad would let me stay up late and we would watch TV.
One night we watched Star Trek.
I probably had watched Star Trek before this but I don’t remember. Dad was a Trekkie from the old school and I think that he really enjoyed introducing me to Captain Kirk and the crew of the Enterprise. From that day on whenever Start Trek was on TV I would watch it, it did not matter if I was alone or if there were other people around I was glued to the screen. I preferred that dad be there when I watched Star Trek because there were others that would give me guff for watching it.
Through the 80’s I watched all of the Star Trek Movies. These I actually saw thanks to my Pseudo Step Father. He was also a Trekkie but he was a closet one, I had no idea of his love of star trek until we got our first VCR and he rented the Star Trek movies. Thanks to Steve I got to see the awesomeness that was the return of Kahn Noonian Singh!
In the fall of 1987 we had just moved in with my grandparents in Ohio and I was miserable at school and hating my life. To this day I know that Star Trek TNG is the reason that I did not have a true mental breakdown in the years from summer of 1987 till the summer of 1990 when I moved in with my father. TNG is the single show that has had the most influence in my life. When Tasha Yar dies I cried like a bitch, I roamed the halls and corridors of the Enterprise D with Wesley Crusher (and I will defend my love of that character till my dying day) and when he became an Ensign I sported a fan boy boner, I was pissed when Gates McFadden left the show and overjoyed when she returned, watched Worf loose his mate and I watched him become a father, I watched Data chase humanity, I watched Riker be a smooth space pimp and yet nail the ugliest chicks in the Alpha Quadrant, I lusted for Deanna Troi, and I watched Captain Jean Luc Picard go from a dry and somewhat boring Captain to what I consider a Gentleman Badass!
I have loved every iteration of Trek Deep Space 9, Voyager, Enterprise, and even the animated series. Many nights and lonely afternoons have been filled imagining the Star Trek Universe and sculpting my own stories. The first fan fictions that I ever wrote were for Star Trek. Star Trek allowed me to escape when life seemed to hard, Star Trek allowed me to dream that the future did not have to be dark and dystopian it could actually be bright and hopeful. I maintained my love of Trek all through the years of being mocked and through the derision that many Trekkies have felt over the years.
Things came full circle when I met the woman that is now my wife. Karen Hilden is a Trekkie. One of the things that we first bonded over was our love of Star Trek this love has lasted through our entire relationship.
That’s it, no more needs to be said. All of you go away so I can jerk off.
Hi, my name is Josh …
… and I am a Trekkie.
Actually I am a complete science fiction fiend and I can carry on a knowledgeable discourse about the genre in general. And I can do it with a tremendous amount of glee. But today let’s forget that I watched and loved both incarnations of Galactica with wide eyes, that I wanted to be in the trench with Luke, that I have always wanted to go through the fucking Star Gate, that I would follow John Sheridan into hell and back, that I want to ride with the Doctor on the Tardis and do it with Captain Jack, that in my dreams I am still on the Satellite of Love and living in Deep 13, that Mal Reynolds is the perfect man, and that I’m a leaf on the wind … watch me soar. Today I am on the Enterprise. Today I return to my first love in the sky. Today I am a Trekkie.
I think I am very lucky when it comes to my fandom. Most Trekkies (and yes I use the term Trekkie with pride, none of that fucking Trekker bullshit for me) my age tend to cite The Next Generation (TNG) as their primary exposure to Start Trek. For me my first exposure was at about 11:00 pm sitting on the couch next to my dad while mom was working. When I was little my mom got a job for a short time working at the Singer Sewing Machine factory when America still built things. Dad would let me stay up late and we would watch TV.
One night we watched Star Trek.
I probably had watched Star Trek before this but I don’t remember. Dad was a Trekkie from the old school and I think that he really enjoyed introducing me to Captain Kirk and the crew of the Enterprise. From that day on whenever Start Trek was on TV I would watch it, it did not matter if I was alone or if there were other people around I was glued to the screen. I preferred that dad be there when I watched Star Trek because there were others that would give me guff for watching it.
Through the 80’s I watched all of the Star Trek Movies. These I actually saw thanks to my Pseudo Step Father. He was also a Trekkie but he was a closet one, I had no idea of his love of star trek until we got our first VCR and he rented the Star Trek movies. Thanks to Steve I got to see the awesomeness that was the return of Kahn Noonian Singh!
In the fall of 1987 we had just moved in with my grandparents in Ohio and I was miserable at school and hating my life. To this day I know that Star Trek TNG is the reason that I did not have a true mental breakdown in the years from summer of 1987 till the summer of 1990 when I moved in with my father. TNG is the single show that has had the most influence in my life. When Tasha Yar dies I cried like a bitch, I roamed the halls and corridors of the Enterprise D with Wesley Crusher (and I will defend my love of that character till my dying day) and when he became an Ensign I sported a fan boy boner, I was pissed when Gates McFadden left the show and overjoyed when she returned, watched Worf loose his mate and I watched him become a father, I watched Data chase humanity, I watched Riker be a smooth space pimp and yet nail the ugliest chicks in the Alpha Quadrant, I lusted for Deanna Troi, and I watched Captain Jean Luc Picard go from a dry and somewhat boring Captain to what I consider a Gentleman Badass!
I have loved every iteration of Trek Deep Space 9, Voyager, Enterprise, and even the animated series. Many nights and lonely afternoons have been filled imagining the Star Trek Universe and sculpting my own stories. The first fan fictions that I ever wrote were for Star Trek. Star Trek allowed me to escape when life seemed to hard, Star Trek allowed me to dream that the future did not have to be dark and dystopian it could actually be bright and hopeful. I maintained my love of Trek all through the years of being mocked and through the derision that many Trekkies have felt over the years.
Things came full circle when I met the woman that is now my wife. Karen Hilden is a Trekkie. One of the things that we first bonded over was our love of Star Trek this love has lasted through our entire relationship.
That’s it, no more needs to be said. All of you go away so I can jerk off.
August 28, 2012
The Story of Josh Part Forty One: Welcome to my Nightmare
We sacked out in a seedy motel in the middle of nowhere. The girls and the boys separated into different rooms and I got my own, in the middle of the night I could hear the sounds of the kids switching rooms as Ascot and Red joined each other and the Dirty Hippy and the Hot Brainy Chick slid into the same room. A few minutes later I heard a scratching at my door. I got up and opened it to see the dog looking irritated and in the distance I could hear the two couples giving performances that would have done porn stars from the 70’s proud. I took pity on the poor put upon mutt and invited him to stay with me. He jumped up onto the double bed but he was polite enough to stay on his side.
We settle in and I quickly drift off into sleep.
The next thing I know I am walking down a dark hallway with metal walls and a wet concrete floor. The smell of dank and burned coal fills the air and I can hear the rumble of an ancient boiler system in the background. Something about all of this seems really familiar and I am not very surprised when I hear what sounds like giant nails being raked down a chalk board.
A fire in an ancient cast iron furnace erupts to life ahead of me and the silhouette of a man in a fedora with a deadly glove on his hand that I have seen a hundred times before appears. The smell of burnt flesh and wet dog fills my nostrils.
I fight down a giggle … he never scared me, even when I was a kid.
His gravely guttural voice fills the air, “I didn’t bring you hear kid. So it’s your dime say what you have to say.” Standing almost at ease he does not seem very menacing and he sounds slightly amused.
“You were always my favorite.” I tell him and am rewarded as he steps into the light revealing his burnt visage. A dark smile spreads across his broken and blistered face.
This is a therapy session and as always the therapist is in … and this time he feels like an old friend.
The first horror movie I can remember watching is Carrie on TV. My mom let me stay up and watch it when I was really little and it scared the ever loving piss out of my. I don’t remember more about the experience beyond being afraid and prom sequence but fuck did it make an impression on me. Also my dad for years kind of blamed my fear of horror and my concurrent attraction to horror on my mom.
If you NEVER did another thing for me mom I will always love you for laying the foundation for my love of horror.
I have documented my experiences with zombies and the genre of the undead in an earlier essay and I will not rehash that experience here. When I was in third grade my middle brother, he who must not be named (HWMNBN), convinced my mother to rent a Nightmare on Elm Street for us after out aunt had rented it for him one weekend when he stayed with her. I fell in love with Nightmare and watched it four times in the three days that we had the tape. There was nothing about the film that terrified me, it was scary and it made me jump but it also made me laugh. To this day the Nightmare series may very well be my favorite horror series ever.
When I was in the fifth grade HWMNBN and I spent the night at my great aunts house. Out cousin Sam rented movies for us and HWMNBN chose Friday the 13th part 3. I had never seen a Jason Voorhees movie before and it scared the living shit out of me. I mean I was filled with terror, other than the night that I watched Night of the Living Dead for the first time the nigh I was introduced to everyone’s favorite hockey masked killer was the most scared I have ever been. I did not sleep a wink that night, I stayed up in my cousin’s bed reading comic books and jumping at every noise. I was so scared that even though Sam had a stack of porno mags just sitting out in his room and I had been jerking off for years I never touched them. Just let me repeat that for you.
A perpetually horny ten year old boy that pounced on every opportunity to see nipples did NOT touch the magazines less than ten feet away.
After that I watched every scary movie that I could get my hands on. And every time I watched one I was terrified. And every time I was terrified I felt alive.
There was a downside to this. For many years sleep was a problem for me. I always had to go to bed before the adults did because if the house was dark and quiet I would lay awake for hours imagining the monsters that lurked in the darkness and in the corners. My Step Monster always seemed to find this amusing, I am pretty sure when no one was around she laughed about it.
My love of horror movies transitioned to a love of horror novels which quickly lead me to the works of HP Lovecraft and Stephen King. To this day the book The Shining is the single scariest thing I have ever had the honor to read. The works of King and Lovecraft left an indelible mark on me and helped to shape the direction that my writing style took. I would never say I can write as well as either man but I believe I owe the way I write more to them than to any other source. Although I would have to say that Mr. Isaac Asimov gets an honorable mention on that ledger sheet.
In the late 80’s and early 90’s horror returned to television in a big bad way after years of painfully vanilla fare. Tales from the Darkside, Tales from the Crypt, Monsters, Freddy’s Nightmares, and Friday the 13th the Series were my favorites. I would stay up every Friday and Saturday night when the shows were on and gorge myself on B Grade TV horror. They were not necessarily scary or terrifying but in my mind they were a hundred kinds of awesome.
But the reality was that as much as I loved horror it still scared me on a fundamental level. One night when we were staying at dad’s house HHMNBN rented Friday the 13th part 5. Later that night the Step Monster decided after we went to bed that she wanted to watch it see what dad was letting us watch. I tried to sleep but they had the volume up high, or maybe I was just so freaked out that I imagined it was loud. Finally I went out there to tell them that I was scared. My goal at 12 (yes I was twelve years old at this point) was to get them to turn it down or hopefully have it turned off. What happened instead was that I got to listen to a righteous sermon from the Step Monster and see the look in my dad’s eyes … I think he was a little embarrassed of me.
I don’t blame him.
But I am a man now and I still love horror. I still get the same wicked thrill of fear that I got when I was a kid. Oh the thrill is a little muted because it is not the thrill of a child but of a man that can still find joy in the thrill of being scared.
“So you still feel the fear?” He asks me.
“Yes” is my only reply.
He tilts his head and then asks, “If you are scared then why do you subject yourself to it?” He grins as he asks because he already knows the answer.
“Because when my blood is pumping I feel alive.” I say returning the grin.
He chuckles and then turns to walk away. Before he does he looks over his shoulder and says “See you in your dreams kid” then he laughs and strides off.
I awake, the dog sleeping peacefully behind me.
We settle in and I quickly drift off into sleep.
The next thing I know I am walking down a dark hallway with metal walls and a wet concrete floor. The smell of dank and burned coal fills the air and I can hear the rumble of an ancient boiler system in the background. Something about all of this seems really familiar and I am not very surprised when I hear what sounds like giant nails being raked down a chalk board.
A fire in an ancient cast iron furnace erupts to life ahead of me and the silhouette of a man in a fedora with a deadly glove on his hand that I have seen a hundred times before appears. The smell of burnt flesh and wet dog fills my nostrils.
I fight down a giggle … he never scared me, even when I was a kid.
His gravely guttural voice fills the air, “I didn’t bring you hear kid. So it’s your dime say what you have to say.” Standing almost at ease he does not seem very menacing and he sounds slightly amused.
“You were always my favorite.” I tell him and am rewarded as he steps into the light revealing his burnt visage. A dark smile spreads across his broken and blistered face.
This is a therapy session and as always the therapist is in … and this time he feels like an old friend.
The first horror movie I can remember watching is Carrie on TV. My mom let me stay up and watch it when I was really little and it scared the ever loving piss out of my. I don’t remember more about the experience beyond being afraid and prom sequence but fuck did it make an impression on me. Also my dad for years kind of blamed my fear of horror and my concurrent attraction to horror on my mom.
If you NEVER did another thing for me mom I will always love you for laying the foundation for my love of horror.
I have documented my experiences with zombies and the genre of the undead in an earlier essay and I will not rehash that experience here. When I was in third grade my middle brother, he who must not be named (HWMNBN), convinced my mother to rent a Nightmare on Elm Street for us after out aunt had rented it for him one weekend when he stayed with her. I fell in love with Nightmare and watched it four times in the three days that we had the tape. There was nothing about the film that terrified me, it was scary and it made me jump but it also made me laugh. To this day the Nightmare series may very well be my favorite horror series ever.
When I was in the fifth grade HWMNBN and I spent the night at my great aunts house. Out cousin Sam rented movies for us and HWMNBN chose Friday the 13th part 3. I had never seen a Jason Voorhees movie before and it scared the living shit out of me. I mean I was filled with terror, other than the night that I watched Night of the Living Dead for the first time the nigh I was introduced to everyone’s favorite hockey masked killer was the most scared I have ever been. I did not sleep a wink that night, I stayed up in my cousin’s bed reading comic books and jumping at every noise. I was so scared that even though Sam had a stack of porno mags just sitting out in his room and I had been jerking off for years I never touched them. Just let me repeat that for you.
A perpetually horny ten year old boy that pounced on every opportunity to see nipples did NOT touch the magazines less than ten feet away.
After that I watched every scary movie that I could get my hands on. And every time I watched one I was terrified. And every time I was terrified I felt alive.
There was a downside to this. For many years sleep was a problem for me. I always had to go to bed before the adults did because if the house was dark and quiet I would lay awake for hours imagining the monsters that lurked in the darkness and in the corners. My Step Monster always seemed to find this amusing, I am pretty sure when no one was around she laughed about it.
My love of horror movies transitioned to a love of horror novels which quickly lead me to the works of HP Lovecraft and Stephen King. To this day the book The Shining is the single scariest thing I have ever had the honor to read. The works of King and Lovecraft left an indelible mark on me and helped to shape the direction that my writing style took. I would never say I can write as well as either man but I believe I owe the way I write more to them than to any other source. Although I would have to say that Mr. Isaac Asimov gets an honorable mention on that ledger sheet.
In the late 80’s and early 90’s horror returned to television in a big bad way after years of painfully vanilla fare. Tales from the Darkside, Tales from the Crypt, Monsters, Freddy’s Nightmares, and Friday the 13th the Series were my favorites. I would stay up every Friday and Saturday night when the shows were on and gorge myself on B Grade TV horror. They were not necessarily scary or terrifying but in my mind they were a hundred kinds of awesome.
But the reality was that as much as I loved horror it still scared me on a fundamental level. One night when we were staying at dad’s house HHMNBN rented Friday the 13th part 5. Later that night the Step Monster decided after we went to bed that she wanted to watch it see what dad was letting us watch. I tried to sleep but they had the volume up high, or maybe I was just so freaked out that I imagined it was loud. Finally I went out there to tell them that I was scared. My goal at 12 (yes I was twelve years old at this point) was to get them to turn it down or hopefully have it turned off. What happened instead was that I got to listen to a righteous sermon from the Step Monster and see the look in my dad’s eyes … I think he was a little embarrassed of me.
I don’t blame him.
But I am a man now and I still love horror. I still get the same wicked thrill of fear that I got when I was a kid. Oh the thrill is a little muted because it is not the thrill of a child but of a man that can still find joy in the thrill of being scared.
“So you still feel the fear?” He asks me.
“Yes” is my only reply.
He tilts his head and then asks, “If you are scared then why do you subject yourself to it?” He grins as he asks because he already knows the answer.
“Because when my blood is pumping I feel alive.” I say returning the grin.
He chuckles and then turns to walk away. Before he does he looks over his shoulder and says “See you in your dreams kid” then he laughs and strides off.
I awake, the dog sleeping peacefully behind me.
August 27, 2012
The Story of Josh Part Forty: Later Day Terror
We are in a Diner of some god forsaken road in the boonies when the subject of real fear comes up. These kids are always going on about being afraid of ghosts and spooks. They talk about the abominable snowmen and the loch Ness Monster but they never mention real fear. They never mention the rapists and the serial killers. After twenty minutes of listening to their back and forth I had to interject.
I asked them what they were the most afraid of and they sputtered and muttered but wouldn’t give me a straight answer. Finally when I won’t let the question drop ascot turns to me and asks me what I am the most afraid of.
I look him right in his eyes and tell him that if he wants to know I will tell him … but he better be goddamned sure he wants the truth. The air seems to drop thirty degrees in temperature and the night feels even darker.
As always this is a therapy session … but this time there is no doctor. This time I am in charge.
I have been having a reoccurring dream most of my life. In the dream I am five years old and I am in the back seat of a school bus. The bus is almost a mile long and is loaded with screaming children. As the children get louder and louder everything warps with a funhouse mirror effect and the air gets thinner and thinner. I try to scream for help but nobody can hear me over the noise of the children … children that seem to look more and more like giant rats as the air gets thinner and thinner.
This dream has terrified me since before my parents separated.
The dream has been my constant companion throughout my life coming with more and with less frequency over the years. I have other dreams that have returned now and then since I was young but they have all mutated and shifted as time has passed and my soul has matured. The bus dream has remained nearly 100% intact from the first to the most recent manifestation.
I would like to say that over the years I have learned to make peace with dream and to integrate it’s reality with my life. I would really like to say that but the fact of the matter is the fucking dream still has the power to wake me in a cold sweat with my heart hammering and my nerves on fire. But this ancient, and in some perverse way, welcome traveling companion through the years is an old friend compared to what I have now.
When my little girl meets a new person she says, “Hi my name is Katie!” and when she says it the world lights up. Her words and her smile are enough to turn my darkest night into my sunniest day. I love all of my children equally if differently but the other five came into my life at joyous moments. Katie Bear came to me when I was at one of my darkest and lowest points. She has helped bind our family back together when the stings were becoming frayed and loose.
Six months ago I started having a dream.
Six months ago I started having the worst nightmare I have ever experienced.
In the dream Katie is standing in a nearly dark room with a dim light flickering across her face. She is looking at a dark and menacing shape that is approaching her but I can never make it out. She starts out saying “Hi I’m Katie” to the shape but with every step it takes towards her she begins to sound more and more afraid. The tears start to flow and she keeps repeating the words but I can hear the words under the words.
“Help me poppa.”
“Save me poppa.”
Just as the shape is almost able to reach her and her cries are deafening in my head I wake. The tears running down my face and sobs choking in my throat. I have been having this dream for most of 2012 and I go to bed every night a little more afraid that I will have it again.
Ascot looks down when I finish. I don’t think he can bring himself to meet my eyes. That I tell them is real fear.
And that is all I have to say tonight. Thank you for listening.
I asked them what they were the most afraid of and they sputtered and muttered but wouldn’t give me a straight answer. Finally when I won’t let the question drop ascot turns to me and asks me what I am the most afraid of.
I look him right in his eyes and tell him that if he wants to know I will tell him … but he better be goddamned sure he wants the truth. The air seems to drop thirty degrees in temperature and the night feels even darker.
As always this is a therapy session … but this time there is no doctor. This time I am in charge.
I have been having a reoccurring dream most of my life. In the dream I am five years old and I am in the back seat of a school bus. The bus is almost a mile long and is loaded with screaming children. As the children get louder and louder everything warps with a funhouse mirror effect and the air gets thinner and thinner. I try to scream for help but nobody can hear me over the noise of the children … children that seem to look more and more like giant rats as the air gets thinner and thinner.
This dream has terrified me since before my parents separated.
The dream has been my constant companion throughout my life coming with more and with less frequency over the years. I have other dreams that have returned now and then since I was young but they have all mutated and shifted as time has passed and my soul has matured. The bus dream has remained nearly 100% intact from the first to the most recent manifestation.
I would like to say that over the years I have learned to make peace with dream and to integrate it’s reality with my life. I would really like to say that but the fact of the matter is the fucking dream still has the power to wake me in a cold sweat with my heart hammering and my nerves on fire. But this ancient, and in some perverse way, welcome traveling companion through the years is an old friend compared to what I have now.
When my little girl meets a new person she says, “Hi my name is Katie!” and when she says it the world lights up. Her words and her smile are enough to turn my darkest night into my sunniest day. I love all of my children equally if differently but the other five came into my life at joyous moments. Katie Bear came to me when I was at one of my darkest and lowest points. She has helped bind our family back together when the stings were becoming frayed and loose.
Six months ago I started having a dream.
Six months ago I started having the worst nightmare I have ever experienced.
In the dream Katie is standing in a nearly dark room with a dim light flickering across her face. She is looking at a dark and menacing shape that is approaching her but I can never make it out. She starts out saying “Hi I’m Katie” to the shape but with every step it takes towards her she begins to sound more and more afraid. The tears start to flow and she keeps repeating the words but I can hear the words under the words.
“Help me poppa.”
“Save me poppa.”
Just as the shape is almost able to reach her and her cries are deafening in my head I wake. The tears running down my face and sobs choking in my throat. I have been having this dream for most of 2012 and I go to bed every night a little more afraid that I will have it again.
Ascot looks down when I finish. I don’t think he can bring himself to meet my eyes. That I tell them is real fear.
And that is all I have to say tonight. Thank you for listening.
August 26, 2012
Freelance RPG Writing … from my point of view
I have freelanced for going on five years in the Role Playing Games industry and I have learned a thing or three. I by no means think that I am an expert on the subject or that I have a substantial portion of the answers. But I do know a few things and I am confident enough to speak from my experiences and from the conversations I have had with my peers. From this level of discourse I want to speak on one topic.
Freelancers don’t just get to write what they want.
I have read on the message boards of an unnamed RPG Company that I used to work for that one of the bottle necks to production is that Freelance Writers work on speculation. Posters and employees have stated that Freelancers work on the project that they want to work on and that dictates the publication schedule to a degree.
This is both true and false.
In the RPG industry there are freelance writers, artists, and editors. Freelancers handle more jobs than that in some of the company’s but those are the big three. Here is my question do freelance artists and writers only get to work on the projects they want to work on? Of course they can refuse work that they don’t want to do but a freelancer that turns down offered work will probably find that they are not offered so much work in the future.
So why is it assumed that writers can pick and choose at will?
When you are working for yourself you can write whatever you want. But when you are working for a publisher you do the work that they need you to do or you don’t work. Of course any publisher worth his word processor encourages a writer (and an artist) to work on their own ideas to offer for publication. But while you are working on your OWN project you need to work on what the company needs you to work on.
Writing is work and the vast majority of freelance writers have a primary job that pays the bills and spend their free time writing. I do most of my writing on breaks and lunches at work and when the baby is still sleeping in the morning. It takes time to churn out the words that are needed to fill the pages of any given work. I personally produce 1500 to 3000 words a day. That seems to be my average barrier before my muse stops whispering in my mind. I am not denigrating artists and editors (I can’t draw to save my life and when I edit my own work I’d like to gnaw my arm off) But I believe writing takes the longest. If there is no written product there is nothing for the artists and the editors to work off of.
Real writers want to write!
I have yet to meet a freelancer that would refuse to work on a project offered to them if they have the available time. Sure there are writers that will turn down work for no other reason than they don’t want to write … but I don’t want to know them. And no, I do not consider dislike of subject matter as an invalid reason to turn down work. I know there are things I don’t ever want to write. But damn that list of things I won’t write id tiny.
I guess the point of this ramble is that there is work out there. You might need to work on something (or many something’s) that don’t “WOW” you in order to do the one thing that fucking gets your juices pumping.
But you know what?
It’s fucking worth it!
Freelancers don’t just get to write what they want.
I have read on the message boards of an unnamed RPG Company that I used to work for that one of the bottle necks to production is that Freelance Writers work on speculation. Posters and employees have stated that Freelancers work on the project that they want to work on and that dictates the publication schedule to a degree.
This is both true and false.
In the RPG industry there are freelance writers, artists, and editors. Freelancers handle more jobs than that in some of the company’s but those are the big three. Here is my question do freelance artists and writers only get to work on the projects they want to work on? Of course they can refuse work that they don’t want to do but a freelancer that turns down offered work will probably find that they are not offered so much work in the future.
So why is it assumed that writers can pick and choose at will?
When you are working for yourself you can write whatever you want. But when you are working for a publisher you do the work that they need you to do or you don’t work. Of course any publisher worth his word processor encourages a writer (and an artist) to work on their own ideas to offer for publication. But while you are working on your OWN project you need to work on what the company needs you to work on.
Writing is work and the vast majority of freelance writers have a primary job that pays the bills and spend their free time writing. I do most of my writing on breaks and lunches at work and when the baby is still sleeping in the morning. It takes time to churn out the words that are needed to fill the pages of any given work. I personally produce 1500 to 3000 words a day. That seems to be my average barrier before my muse stops whispering in my mind. I am not denigrating artists and editors (I can’t draw to save my life and when I edit my own work I’d like to gnaw my arm off) But I believe writing takes the longest. If there is no written product there is nothing for the artists and the editors to work off of.
Real writers want to write!
I have yet to meet a freelancer that would refuse to work on a project offered to them if they have the available time. Sure there are writers that will turn down work for no other reason than they don’t want to write … but I don’t want to know them. And no, I do not consider dislike of subject matter as an invalid reason to turn down work. I know there are things I don’t ever want to write. But damn that list of things I won’t write id tiny.
I guess the point of this ramble is that there is work out there. You might need to work on something (or many something’s) that don’t “WOW” you in order to do the one thing that fucking gets your juices pumping.
But you know what?
It’s fucking worth it!
August 24, 2012
The Story of Josh Part Thirty Nine: I still like the McDonalds Breakfast
After the adventure at the amusement park the gang decided that they wanted to get a bite to eat. The Hippy kept telling the dog that he would get him some kind of “Snacks” but I couldn’t understand the word and I didn’t want to be rude and ask him to repeat himself. Twenty minutes later we pulled into an Arby’s and I groaned silently, I am not a big fan of Arby’s. So when we ordered I just got a coke and some fries.
Later as we were once again motoring down the road, apparently there is an old abandoned camp ground that Ascot Boy has a hard-on to check out, the Hippy asked when I didn’t get anything else.
I sigh, this is an old story for me and it was one of the first realities of my personality that I ever confronted. I will forgo my own comfort for what others want and yet I am a man that usually knows exactly what he wants and what I want rarely changes.
But I suppose that I need to get this out one last time.
This, as always, is a therapy session and the smelly hippy doctor is in.
I worked at McDonalds for two years while I was in High School. I believe that I have told that story already and besides my employment is not really the issue. The best part about working at McDonalds was the free meals and the best meals were the breakfasts. My favorite McDonalds breakfast is the sausage McMuffin with egg always has been always will be.
That’s just who I am.
I like pizza with onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, and green peppers. I like coca-cola but when I was diagnosed with diabetes I had to switch to the miracle that is Coke Zero. I like Star Trek better than Star Wars. I like Hockey and Baseball and I loathe Football and Basketball. I fucking hate clowns but I love midgets (and yes I know they prefer little people but uhhhh … fuck you that’s what). I think just about every woman has something about her that’s sexy but when it comes to men I am a fickle son of a bitch. I like Heinz ketchup and I am less than a fan of Hunts. Rye Bread is amazing and Pumpernickel pisses me off.
Like I said I know what I prefer and what I don’t want.
But in the past whenever the question would come up of what does everyone want (food, entertainment, sex) I would just knuckle under and just go with whatever the dominant person wanted. Fuck most of the time I would never even voice my preferences. But I would always hate myself when I was forced by my own inability to express myself to scarf down an unwanted burger, watch a movie that bored the fuck out of me, or have some of the most unsatisfying sex ever. Seriously teenage boys are supposed to be so full of testosterone and cum and that it might kill them, but there were times that would just fake it in order to get some of the awful sex over with. And let’s be clear it wasn’t awful because my partners were awful, it was awful because I never did anything I wanted to do I just … let it ride. I am sure most of my former lovers would say I was the worst lay that they ever had.
The worst part was with my friends. I love my friends like family and they always ask me what I want to do. When we were kids they asked me and as adults they always ask me. And until recently I would just go with what they wanted. They never knew that I was bending to them, how the fuck could they? They love me and if I had said hey I want to do this or hey I don’t want to do that they would have told me that was cool.
They wouldn’t have stopped loving me, but fuck that is what I always thought would have happened.
So we were at Gen Con and I got see my best friends for the first time in months. These people (Bill, Jessi, and Mikey) aren’t just friends they are family. Anyway on Friday night Billy asks me if we want to go to a restaurant with them to eat. At first I said yes, because that is what I always do and because I wanted to see my friend, my brother. But as time went on I decided hey I don’t want to make the trip and spend the money to eat somewhere that while I am sure is delicious I have no desire to eat at.
So scared so much about his response that I thought I might vomit I told Bill. His reaction was a simple that’s cool we will get together later on. And we did and for a few hours we had an awesome visit. I did not get to see my friends as much as I would have if I had just done what they wanted to do and not what I wanted to do. But the time I did spend with them was better for it.
So now I try to speak up and express what I want to do when I am with people who are not my wife. For the record Karen has always be able to get me to tell her what I want to do even if she has to threaten me to do it. We don’t always do what I want to do but we always do what WE want to do. It is hard with others and I have to make a conscious effort to do it, in the past I would have just avoided seeing people if I didn’t want to do what they wanted to do. I would rather have hidden in my bedroom and just stayed isolated than risk having to tell others what I want. Now I try to see them and work through my issues in the moment instead of sweating it and pussying out.
I am happier this way, even if it’s not as comfortable as staying in the bedroom instead of going out.
But I still love the McDonalds breakfast.
The smelly hippy nods a lot as I talk and acts as if he is listening but I think that he might be a little too stoned to appreciate the words coming out of my mouth. But regardless it’s nice to get the story out … and I think that dog was actually listening again.
We seem to be all out of time today.
Later as we were once again motoring down the road, apparently there is an old abandoned camp ground that Ascot Boy has a hard-on to check out, the Hippy asked when I didn’t get anything else.
I sigh, this is an old story for me and it was one of the first realities of my personality that I ever confronted. I will forgo my own comfort for what others want and yet I am a man that usually knows exactly what he wants and what I want rarely changes.
But I suppose that I need to get this out one last time.
This, as always, is a therapy session and the smelly hippy doctor is in.
I worked at McDonalds for two years while I was in High School. I believe that I have told that story already and besides my employment is not really the issue. The best part about working at McDonalds was the free meals and the best meals were the breakfasts. My favorite McDonalds breakfast is the sausage McMuffin with egg always has been always will be.
That’s just who I am.
I like pizza with onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, and green peppers. I like coca-cola but when I was diagnosed with diabetes I had to switch to the miracle that is Coke Zero. I like Star Trek better than Star Wars. I like Hockey and Baseball and I loathe Football and Basketball. I fucking hate clowns but I love midgets (and yes I know they prefer little people but uhhhh … fuck you that’s what). I think just about every woman has something about her that’s sexy but when it comes to men I am a fickle son of a bitch. I like Heinz ketchup and I am less than a fan of Hunts. Rye Bread is amazing and Pumpernickel pisses me off.
Like I said I know what I prefer and what I don’t want.
But in the past whenever the question would come up of what does everyone want (food, entertainment, sex) I would just knuckle under and just go with whatever the dominant person wanted. Fuck most of the time I would never even voice my preferences. But I would always hate myself when I was forced by my own inability to express myself to scarf down an unwanted burger, watch a movie that bored the fuck out of me, or have some of the most unsatisfying sex ever. Seriously teenage boys are supposed to be so full of testosterone and cum and that it might kill them, but there were times that would just fake it in order to get some of the awful sex over with. And let’s be clear it wasn’t awful because my partners were awful, it was awful because I never did anything I wanted to do I just … let it ride. I am sure most of my former lovers would say I was the worst lay that they ever had.
The worst part was with my friends. I love my friends like family and they always ask me what I want to do. When we were kids they asked me and as adults they always ask me. And until recently I would just go with what they wanted. They never knew that I was bending to them, how the fuck could they? They love me and if I had said hey I want to do this or hey I don’t want to do that they would have told me that was cool.
They wouldn’t have stopped loving me, but fuck that is what I always thought would have happened.
So we were at Gen Con and I got see my best friends for the first time in months. These people (Bill, Jessi, and Mikey) aren’t just friends they are family. Anyway on Friday night Billy asks me if we want to go to a restaurant with them to eat. At first I said yes, because that is what I always do and because I wanted to see my friend, my brother. But as time went on I decided hey I don’t want to make the trip and spend the money to eat somewhere that while I am sure is delicious I have no desire to eat at.
So scared so much about his response that I thought I might vomit I told Bill. His reaction was a simple that’s cool we will get together later on. And we did and for a few hours we had an awesome visit. I did not get to see my friends as much as I would have if I had just done what they wanted to do and not what I wanted to do. But the time I did spend with them was better for it.
So now I try to speak up and express what I want to do when I am with people who are not my wife. For the record Karen has always be able to get me to tell her what I want to do even if she has to threaten me to do it. We don’t always do what I want to do but we always do what WE want to do. It is hard with others and I have to make a conscious effort to do it, in the past I would have just avoided seeing people if I didn’t want to do what they wanted to do. I would rather have hidden in my bedroom and just stayed isolated than risk having to tell others what I want. Now I try to see them and work through my issues in the moment instead of sweating it and pussying out.
I am happier this way, even if it’s not as comfortable as staying in the bedroom instead of going out.
But I still love the McDonalds breakfast.
The smelly hippy nods a lot as I talk and acts as if he is listening but I think that he might be a little too stoned to appreciate the words coming out of my mouth. But regardless it’s nice to get the story out … and I think that dog was actually listening again.
We seem to be all out of time today.
