Let’s all start talking about our feelings. If you find that hard, just put I feel like in front of everything you say.

I feel like a sandwich.

I feel like I’m gonna get an ulcer.

I feel like deactivating from Facebook for the third time today.

Self awareness. See if by the end of the day you either want to hug everyone or have a nervous breakdown from talking about your feelings so much.

Together, I feel like we can change the world.

Is anyone else getting sick of how all online articles look the same? When did this happen? Why does everything have to be 10 things I hate about you? 11 reasons why people are sad? Are you happy? Here are 3 ways to find out. 7 best ways to get a boner?

It’s killing style, America. It’s sucking the soul out of our words.

  • What ever happened to flow? Why does
  • Everything have to look like a power point?
  • Here are 10 reasons why bullet points can suck a dick.
  • 1. They smell bad
  • 2 they kill
  • 3. It’s lazy
  • 4. It’s making us more stupid
  • Stupider?
  • Top 10 most common grammatical mistakes

In conclusion, hash tag article.

angel-behind-the-bar

He looks at her. Now he can’t stop looking at her. She’s… so damn cute, but more so an animal magnetism draws him towards her. He needs to talk to her. But suddenly he’s shy. Do the right thing, he urges himself. Be a…

“Hey man! Where the hell you go? I got a shot for you.” He looks up into the concerned eyes of a curly haired stranger who holds a shot out for him to drink. He doesn’t recognize him. Must have acquired some dude love earlier in the night. He hugs the curly haired man, burying his head into his chest as he wraps his arms around him. He releases his hold to slam the shot of 12-year-old courage.

Next thing he knows, he sees he’s in conversation with the angel behind the bar. He doesn’t know what he’s been saying to her but he’s glad to see her face and that she’s responding.

“I’d like to take you out some time,” he hears himself say.

She smiles. Brushes her hair back softly as she looks away for a moment. She grabs a napkin and slides it over to him.

“Write five good reasons why,” she says.

He didn’t expect this. He has no words. The challenge is too existential for his drunken state of mind. How can I show her my worth as a man in five lines? He stands there at the bar stumped because that last shot of Jameson from Stranger Love stunted his vocabulary to one word.

“I’m awesome” he writes for number one. “You’re awesome” he writes for number two. “We’re awesome” he writes for number three. He scratches his head. Now what? He streaks a line across four and five because his mind has drawn a blank. There, he says to himself. I got to the root… the heart and soul of her question. No more reasons necessary. He scribbles his number and the line “NO EXPECTATIONS!!!” with three too many exclamation marks. He knows it’s not good enough. He’ll have to regroup and try again some other time. Hopefully he doesn’t lose her to the void known as NYC, a vacuum of black skinny jeans and casual encounters.

He hands her the napkin, flashes her a grin and walks off. I’ll be back, he says to himself. I’ll come back a changed man.

He sits off to the side of the bar to reflect on the turn of events, occasionally sneaking blurry glances at her, watching her mix drinks as she glows… the Buddha light sashays off her silver shaker. She’s beautiful, he tells himself. And she’s got some punk to her. How can I show her I’m more than a drunken fool? That I could be her fool. That I’d slap a ninja for her. That I’d get slapped by a ninja for her.

Girls only like guys with skills. He sighs. He gets up and walks to the dance floor. Off to bootie dance with the Friday night Fat Buddha Bar crowd. Let’s make it a Funky Buddha tonight. Bootie dance and be one with the Universe. He sneaks one last glance, hides his grin… and slips off into the night.

third eye key

I walked down Wall Street, wallowing around in my khakis and blazer. I used to always joke I was a white-collar bum. Graduated from Harvard with a BS in philosophy. Filled to the anus in debt so that I could sit in a low income cubicle all day. Even now if you ask me what I did, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. A Brooks Brothers get up with a dollar pizza diet? 

My stomach growled, filled only with self pity as I asked God how life had come to this. I always thought I was meant for adventure. Like slaying dragons with my wiener or frolicking naked with nymphs touched by the Yellow Fever.

But nay, son. The all too real truth was earlier that day, I gave a bum my last dollar and payday wouldn’t come for another two nights. Didn’t realize it was my last dollar. But when I saw that old ass Chinese lady hunched over on a plastic stool in the subway, all I could think about was how she could have been my grandma in another life.

It wasn’t until I gave her the dollar that I saw her hunching from the weight of a wad of cash in her hands. She sat in her own world, counting spaces between paper over and over again.

So there I was in the Financial District, in the abyss of a grumbling belly when I heard what sounded like a Mexican catcall. I looked over my right and saw the best dressed homeless man ever emerge from a cardboard box in the alley way. He had golden rings on every finger, a diamond encrusted rolex on his wrist, and an Armani suit with a red velvet cape.

 Psst. He said.

I pointed to myself.

Yea you. Come here.

I looked around to see if anyone else was seeing this. No one paid attention, really. New Yorkers are like horses with blinders on during the 6:00 pm commute back home. I walked over to the face of the alley and glanced at his dilapidated cardboard box.

Sorry man. I said. I don’t have a dollar.

Foolish boy. I don’t need a dollar, he said. A dollar is not what I need.

What do you want then? I asked.

I want to give you this.

In his outstretched hand I saw a shiny golden piece of metal. It took me a few moments but I gasped when I realized what I saw.

It was the Key to the City.

Yea, THE Key to the City. It looked just like it did in the history books. One of those old school keys with three prongs at the tip, a sleek gilded neck, and a golden triangle sheathed in an amber medallion at the end. If you looked carefully, you could see the shape of an eye etched into center of the triangle.

How do I know it’s real? I asked.

You don’t. You just have to have faith, he said.

Everyone thought the key was lost long ago… long ago when They first appeared. Somehow the Key ended up in my timeline. I didn’t know what to do.

It can open all doors, he said. But it couldn’t unlock the window… to her heart.

He wept, leaning on my shoulder while passersby chose this moment to stare at us.

Its ok man, I said. You’ve got the Key. You’ve got access to every employee bathroom in the city. You can get into any grocery store. And it looks like you already had a go at Macy’s.

I don’t want it. He said. Just take it.

He tossed the key. The amber twinkled in the setting sun… frozen in time before I caught it.

I don’t know how to thank you. I said

You’re the one doing me the favor, he said. Just promise me one thing.

Anything. I said.

Don’t try to duplicate it.

Ok, I said. I wont.

I turned to walk away.

One more thing, he said.

Don’t feed it after midnight.

That one doesn’t make sense, man. How do you feed a key?

He looked past me, a glazed look in his eye. I shrugged his crazy off and turned to walk away.

One more thing, he whispered.

What?

Don’t swim for two hours after eating.

 I looked down at the key. Was I imagining things or was the key faintly pulsating in my hand?

 So many rules, I said. What are all these rules for?

 But when I looked up, he had already vanished. No alley or cardboard box in sight.

New York doesn’t even have alley ways. That’s why all the trash sits on the sidewalk. What just happened? Where did he come from?

All I knew was that I now had the Key to the City clasped in my hungry and uncertain hands.

Neon Light Show GA 2

“What are you drinking?” They ask.

I look down at the whiskey and water clasped in my palm. People chatter all around us as bartenders clatter metal, ice, and booze.

“Life,” I say. I can’t stop grinning. They smile back.

I can tell Maria doesn’t understand what I mean. It’s understandable because I barely understand what I mean.

“What are you drinking?” Maria asks again.

“I’m drinking life.” I say. I raise my glass up high and stare past it. Maria and Josephina look up with me.

“What does that mean?” Josephina asks. The two girls glance at each other.

“It means life tastes good.” I say.

I pop a grape sucker in my mouth and walk away. Existential nonsense is one of my favorite nighttime festivities when I can’t stop grinning.

I walk towards the dance floor. Off to the side I see a lone beauty. I should talk to her before a man returns.

I lean towards her as I walk past.

“Stay beautiful,” I say. I walk away.

A file of girls walk through the dance floor in my direction towards the bar.

“Stay beautiful,” I say to one.

She frowns at me like I’m some kind of shit stain. It hurts my feelings so I divert my attention to another. I see a blonde haired beauty walking my way. She looks at me and smiles. Is that smile meant for me? I hope so.

“Stay beautiful,” I say. She brightens and tosses a flurry of wavy lightning behind her ear.

“Thank you,” she says.

“No… thank you.” I say.

“For what?” she asks.

“For staying beautiful.” I walk away and I think I hear her say something else. But it’s too late. There’s no turning back.

I see my friends at the dance floor towards the stage. Jazz handfuls of neon tunnels gyrate above our heads as thick bass beats bump to our bums. There are groups of people to meet before I can reach the people I know.

“Happy Birthday!” I yell to the girl dancing next to me.

“It’s not my birthday,” she says.

A sad cloud rolls over me.

“Every day should be your birthday,” I say.

She giggles.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Molly,” she says. “What’s your name?”

“Sick Denim,” I say.

I wait a moment to see if she judges me for my strange name. She starts to laugh.

“The illest!” she yells.

I love her.

“Hey, I have to go now but you’ll dance with me later,” I say.

“Haha, ok,” she says.

“Bye, don’t get lost,” I say.

I get to the crowd of my familiars. Immediately, 6 foot 5 Tony bear hugs me and lifts me up into the air while he dances. My legs dangle in the air while I momentarily consider using one to kick him in the nuts. Last time he tried this, he lost balance and we both fell. I wait till he puts me back down. I go behind him and pick him up. He’s only an inch off the ground but now we’re even.

We all dance our faces off. Using our booties to touch the universe. Eyes closed and fists pumped in earnestness. Dancing, creating circles that include everyone willing. Doesn’t matter if you can dance or not.

“It’s about the motherfucking lifestyle,” I yell.

“Fuck yea!” someone yells.

As if he knew what I was thinking, Tony backs up. Together we spread people out into a circle by pressing into those behind us. I point to a coffee skinned girl in a sparkling black dress and wave her towards the center. She obliges and dances a trail to the party nucleus. Oh wait! I know her. That’s Molly.

I watch her dance. Her dark curls fan out and absorb the darkness around her. Sweat glistens her neck as she twirls, her almond shaped eyes momentarily release me as she twists around to meet mine again. Someone pushes me from behind and now I’m in the center with her. I’m scared. I’m not ready to…

I…

I…

I pop and lock. Dance moves that are available to me only when I can’t stop grinning.

“I like your dance moves.” She shouts.

“I like your face,” I say.

The dance circle closes in around us. Now I’m dancing with her and her friends. But I have this sense that I’m losing her so I brush my fingertips against her side every now and then to let her know I’m still there. She occasionally looks back over her shoulder to smile.

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