Listen, Missy: Don’t Get All Pissy



One bleary morning after an all-out rager, we see this post on the MySpace page (remember those?) of our friend, Blue. My sister left it for Blue to find upon awakening.  Doing a mental re-check of the night brings us to our last stop: a food truck.  Starving after a night of drinking and dancing, most of us got hot dogs.  Blue got fresh with an officer of the law (you read that correctly—it was the sheriff) and smacked him square on the ass.

It’s a Friday night in the balmy spring weather. My roommate and I gather all of our enthusiastic twenty-something peeps over for a party. Blue and her roommate, Green, are invited but they’re already full speed into their 30’s.  They decide not to hide from their advancing age and to party within the limitations of their age group. 

Blue and Green show up to my apartment with coffee and Bailey’s; this is the extent of their planned alcohol consumption.  But, as they watch the rest of us whipper-snappers GO IN on a few rounds of flip cup, some sort of switch flips within them and they decide they need to play, too.

As the competition ramps up, Green celebrates a win with too much zeal. She knocks into Blue.  The force of their impact sends Green flying backwards into the wall.  Green bounces off the wall and BACK into Blue, who is hurled to the floor on impact.  Unable to stop her momentum, Green lands on top of Blue.  They’re laughing so hard that neither of them can get up.  The rest of the party suffers fits and spasms of laughter as we try to make sense of what we just witnessed.  Blue crawls out from under Green and then crawls away into my bedroom, laughing the whole way.  Blue tries to tell us something but we can’t make it out over the hysterics.  Green remains on the kitchen floor, flopping from one side to the other while she waits for her laughter to subside. 

We regain our composure and continue our game.  Blue runs back in and announces that she pissed in her pants as a result of Collision Cup.  We barely stop our game to listen to her and she gets annoyed with us. Green decides to check on Blue and ambles back toward my bedroom.  But Green immediately SCREECHES out of my room and back into the kitchen.  She waves around some sort of flag/garment, laughing and crying:


Green is waving Blue’s pissed soaked capri pants around in the air. We’ve all assumed that Blue just eeked out a couple drops during all the mayhem.  The loud, saturated stain on her discarded pants begs to differ: Blue dumped the whole bucket and soaked right through her pants. 

As party-goers move through varying degrees of hysterics, Blue yells at us. “I JUST TRIED TO TELL YOU A**HOLES HOW BAD IT WAS AND NO ONE LISTENED TO ME! YOU NEVER LISTEN TO ME!!”

Too deep into Operation: Reclaim Youth to back down, Blue and Green decide that yes, goddammit, they are going out clubbing with the young kids. I walk into my room just in time to see the two of them rooting through my closet.  My clothes fly every which way as they pick something out that’s suitable for a night of debauchery and a far cry away from the Murder, She Wrote marathon that they originally dressed for. 

Green picks a cute top that matches her own pants.  Due to the, um, circumstances, Blue’s re-dress was more of a chore.  She picks out a top that shows off her enviable cleavage and a casual, flowing black skirt that should do just fine for the evening.  

We shut down the pre-game party and all hit the town with a vengeance. We make our way through several clubs. 

Blue is her typical Force-Of-Nature self; she spends much of the night on the dance floor—her natural habitat.  She chats up dudes, dancing up on a couple of them.  She stumbles and trips over some steps, or perhaps over her own two feet (you just never know with her) Her and Green dance up on each other.

At the aforementioned Hot Dog Stand, we run into one of our old friends from the neighborhood.  The rest of us stop to say hi.  I am standing back and remembering that said old friend is now a sheriff in our city. Blue takes this tip in good faith and decides to plant a big, open-palmed “Great Skate, Thanks For Comin Out” directly in the center of his authoritative ass. 

As we round everyone up to leave, Blue and our friend Grizz reunite in the middle of the street.  She dances over to him.  He dances over to her.  He triumphantly holds his hot dog over his head and bounces along to the beat. Blue grinds her way down to the ground, poppin and lockin down by his ankles.  They are both shouting, “HAYYYYYYYYYYYY!” as they get their groove on. 

Just as we are about to get in the car, Blue asks me to hang back with her for a second.  She needs to tell me something she’s only just discovered.  The full night’s activities replay in my mind as she leans into my ear and drops a bomb.

"Totally just realized I’m not wearing any underwear."

melancholily24 said: Hey Chuck! Love your work. What advice would you give for young writers?


Okay, long answer here.  A writer friend, Doug Coupland, recently told me about medical studies that suggest the final developmental changes in the human brain occur around the age of 31.  When asked, most people — for the rest of their lives, regardless of their actual age — will say they feel 31 years old.  I’d written for several years, but at 31 I wrote ‘Fight Club’ and that age seemed to allow me the peace to sit and concentrate.  A peace I didn’t have in my 20’s.  My advice is to live a rich, interesting life, practice writing if you want, but don’t beat yourself to produce your best work until after the age of 31.  Okay?  Okay.

Over the last few years I struggled with how I only just started to really like my writing after I turned 30. But most of my counterparts/classmates etc, were all college age kids.  I was talking to one of my teachers about it and she told me not to worry one bit.  “These kids have nothing to write about compared to you.  They’re 20.  They have no life experience. They’ve never struggled to pay bills.  Probably never lost anyone close to them.  None of life’s weird little heartbreaks. They can’t write things half as interesting as you can.” And her advice did a lot to calm me down.


You don’t want the opinion of another writer.

Ha! This!

This is pretty accurate.  However, I find that the more confident (read: older) I become in my own writing, the easier it is to appreciate excellent writing and feel awe in place of jealousy.  And it’s just like tennis.  When you play with people who are better than you, you are forced to up your game and that’s when things get really fun.

(via fixyourwritinghabits)

UM so I’m pretty much all of these








(via backonpointe)


Maria Shirinkina  Mariinsky Ballet



Maria Shirinkina
Mariinsky Ballet


(via backonpointe)


Types of Commas [thenamenononehas]

Oh, this is splendid.

(via yeahwriters)

My Turn

Had lunch with an old pal and she walked into the restaurant, threw this essay on the table and said, here, I found this among my college essays. It’s yours. Here’s to (19 years of) friendship. The pressure we put on ourselves for those essays!! We were cracking up as I read. *****************************

I met Taylor about three years ago. The first day of ninth grade. I found myself completely lost. I had no idea where to go, or when to go there. The friendly face at the locker next to me was more familiar with the building, and helped me find my way. I later learned that the caring heart belonged to Taylor T. Within a month, Taylor and I were friends. My most memorable moment with Taylor from freshman year is when we had to make a video of “Romeo and Juliet: The Western.” Taylor has many great qualities that I experienced for the first time taping the project. We spent over seven hours on it, trying to make it perfect. I’ve never had so much fun working on any homework assignment. Taylor has the remarkable ability to make anything fun and still get the job done. Due to her perserverence and wit, we recieved an A and had a great time in the process.

Taylor’s great sense of humor is my favorite quality about her. I can always count on her to cheer me up or make me laugh. She can tell any story and make it funny. I love to hear her melodramatic stories about her latest episode at work, “the dramas of babysitting” or her “traumatic incident” at the mall. Of course, none of these situations are quite as dire as she makes them out to be, but she can definitely capture and entertain an audience.

Over the past six months, I have had the opportunity to get to know Taylor much better, and I would now consider her one of my best friends. I’ve seen another side to Taylor. She is one of the most responsible people I know. Her younger brother has been having a lot of trouble in school. He confides in Taylor and she has helped him through many difficult times already. She has a weekend job, cooks for her family, babysits, plays tennis, watches out for her younger brother, and takes three Advanced Placement courses on top of her other schoolwork.

Taylor is extremely caring and a great confidant. She’s the first one I call when I have a problem, not only because she cheers me up, but also because she is always able to put herself in my shoes and see where I am coming from. She is the only one of my friends that can truly relate to me all the time. She never seems judgmental because she always tries to understand why a person acted the way they did. I have a very difficult time getting mad at her because she is the first to admit her mistakes and apologize for them. She is trustworthy, loyal, and a great friend.


Ari Voukydis, you just gave the best final Jeopardy answer ever.
Watch the full episode with this hilarious Jeopardy answer here. 

Owned it, Trebeck.


Ari Voukydis, you just gave the best final Jeopardy answer ever.

Watch the full episode with this hilarious Jeopardy answer here. 

Owned it, Trebeck.

Little Boy Lost

Over the holidays, my dad was telling family friends one of his stories.  He threw in the line, “you can’t do two things in two different places at the same time when you have little kids around” and then shot me a knowing look.  What follows is the story that illustrates what he meant when he said that. 

It’s a Saturday afternoon and I am about 5 years old.  My sister is 3 1/2 years old, my brother is 2.  My mom is working the weekend, leaving my dad in charge of all three of us for the day. 

Unfortunately (for my dad), this is also the only day he has designated in his schedule to hang wallpaper in my parent’s attic bedroom.  It is your typical attic bedroom with high rafters, weird angles and unreachable spots.  It’s a difficult assignment and it tests my dad’s patience from start to finish. (And, off the record, the wallpaper is hideous, in hindsight.  It is light brown with blue and white thin stripes and it looks like linty coffee. Just horrible. I know it was the 80’s, but, oof.)

He brought us all projects—my sister and I have coloring books, my brother has his GI Joes.  We all sit in the corner of the room playing quietly where dad can keep a close eye on us while he actively tries not to hang himself over this annoying project. 

Things are moving along uneventfully for the first hour or so.  My dad is doing his best not to swear; I’m coloring, all thoughtful and silent; my sister is talking about 80 different things at once—spazzy non sequiturs, non-linear thoughts, and with no one listening to her.  I only say this because she still does this.  I can only assume she came out of the womb spewing at the mouth.  It takes my dad a few minutes to realize, however, that my brother has disappeared.  My dad asks us if we saw our brother leave? Where did he go?  No one knows.  No one saw him leave.  No one noticed he was gone.  No one knows how long ago he left. We know nothing. 

We all do our best to hide our panic.  Yes, I knew how to have adult level anxiety at the age of 5; call me gifted.  My dad is trying to remain calm as we begin to call for our brother.  My sister is probably prattling on about chap stick and ponies and did we think that Gargamel and Papa Smurf would be a good pair to help us find our brother and also, she likes raisins. 

We move through the rest of the house.  The entire attic.  The second floor bedrooms.  The bathroom.  The first floor.  All our regular hiding spots in the pantries and closets in the kitchen.  We move out to the outside of the house.  The front porch.  The back deck.  Calling his name.  Yelling down the street.  All three of us, searching together. 

My dad starts to get more and more tense.  His voice raises a bit in volume as he begins to worry.  I was born worried so I’m dialed in for just such an emergency.  My sister is chasing a ball of rubber bands and yelling out all the verbs in the English language that rhyme with our brother’s name.

This goes on for a good 15 minutes.  But, when you’re certain your brother escaped from the house, ran into the street and was immediately run down by a furniture delivery truck, 15 minutes can seem like a lifetime. 

My sister must  have remembered that she had an inflatable alligator on a leash who needed a walking and returned to our shared bedroom to go get him.  All of a sudden we can hear her yelling that she found our brother.  She straight up makes shit up sometimes, so me and my dad decide independently that we should both go check it out before we take for granted that my sister is telling the truth.

We’re all gathered in our bedroom.  My sister swings open our closet door and reveals our brother.  He looks a little nervous and a little giggly.  It’s a weird combination.  He’s staring up at all three of us as if to say, “heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Fancy you guys showing up here.”

He was in the closet the entire time.  He never answered any of our calls.  Reason being that he wanted some alone time and was in no big hurry for visitors at the moment.  Cuz at that moment, homeboy was shitting in his pants. I don’t mean that he was scared or anxious about the way we all swarmed in on him.  I mean that he is literally shitting in his pants.  Like, instead of using the toilet. 

This was right at the height of potty training season for my brother.  He was a difficult case.  My parents were out of their minds.  They had two girls who were prodigious and fast learners when it came to anything, and then they get this alien set of male chromosomes and traits to deal with and they have no idea what to do.  He didn’t talk as soon as the two of us, didn’t walk, wouldn’t follow directions as well, was less prone to just throw himself into new things.  The differences in raising a boy vs. a girl really hit hard.

He would not take to potty training and it was frustrating. And on this day, he saw an opportunity to keep doing things his way and he flippin took it, dammit!


(Having such supportive sisters probably had a lot to do with his attitude. Hindsight being 20/20 and all.)

My dad cleans up my brother and brings us all back up to the third floor so he can finish his project.  He is still rattled by what happened, the adrenaline surge of thinking maybe the baby got kidnapped or worse….His nerves are shot, but he pushes on with the wallpaper.

And that’s when it happens.  The know-it-all smarty pants opens her mouth.  I’m back quietly coloring in my book and lost in my thoughts.  Without looking up from my crayons, I address my dad with all the hard won wisdom that I’ve accumulated in my 5 trying years on this glorious rock.

"You know, dad—if you had been watching us, like you were supposed to, things like this wouldn’t happen."

My dad used all his remaining power to restrain himself from launching me out a window. 


Incidents and remarks like this will continue all throughout my life.  If you mess up, I’m right there, taking notes and shooting you glances to let you know how dumb you are.  This will prompt my dad, whenever he introduces me to anyone, to say this:

"This is my oldest daughter, Taylor.  She keeps everything in order and everyone in their place.  Let me just put it that way."

You only live once! (And, let's face it: once is too much.)

Writing & humor is how I process all things. (Perplexing topic #1: Mi Redunkulous Familias)

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