my name is rick i'm from kansas city but i live in chicago.
google dictionary’s definition for “tactless” is “having or showing a lack of adroitness” and i feel like that doesn’t help anybody.
also- don’t get me wrong, i love romantic comedies. but if i never hear another shania twain song again, i’ll be stoked. sheryl crow is one thing, but come on
it’s hard to convince yourself that you’re watching “must love dogs” ironically when you’ve got your okcupid page pulled up alongside john cusack’s wikipedia page in a separate tab.
so i was stumbling around pilsen, fucked up drunk. i wasn’t sure where i planned on going, but i remember that wasn’t much of a concern at the time. i was upset because my friends had somehow found a way to make cocaine notfun. this guy in a sleek black audi pulls over next to me and asks me if i know where “spy bar” is. i didn’t, but one thing led to another and i got in the car with this greasy latino dude named pete, giving him directions to downtown. not in my most lucid of states, it took me a while to realize that his car was probably obtained through illegitimate means. the center console was missing, and at every stop sign or light he had to push some lever and fuck with a bunch of shit where the gearshift was, in order to re-start the car. the seatbelt didn’t work either, which would’ve been nice because he had a tendency to take turns at 40 miles per hour. i think he was drunk, because he told me that chief keef killed his brother or something. we get to “spy bar” somewhere around chicago ave and franklin. valet was $20, as was the cover. he gets in, and when the bouncer asks me for $20 i just sort of shrug. he tells me some version of “well, fuck off” and i drunkenly turn and make for the street, about to throw in the towel and take a cab home. but before i can, a babely girl motions me over and tells me she likes my leather jacket and all my pins. from what i recall, i replied with some version of “i’m a rocker, blehhh,” to which she seemed to respond well. she tells me to follow her, and for lack of a better option, i let her lead me past the bouncers and into the club without paying. the room is dark and crowded and fucking loud. everyone was dressed in nice, expensive-looking button-up shirts and pressed, black slacks, or flashy cocktail dresses and less-than-tasteful jewelry (to which gender was nonexclusive). the girl and her friend (who had a startlingly large ass; i was into it) head straight for the dj booth in the back of the room, climb onto it, and start dancing. i just sort of lean on the wall, giving a “haha, well, okay, you guys do that, i’m gonna stay here i guess” look, until some big bald dude whom i assume was wearing entirely armani, down to his overtly-exposed wifebeater, offered me a drink. he beckoned me back to his roped-off VIP booth- the kind you’d expect to see p. diddy relaxing in, pouring champagne on a bunch of large-breasted black chicks that are terrible underdressed for the weather- and poured me some sort of noxious yellow cocktail. i don’t know what the fuck was in that thing, but it kicked my fucking ass. i mean, it knocked me to the goddamn floor. i was really drunk already, but nursing that drink all night had. me. fucked. eventually he goes to dance with some number of scantily-clad babes, and i go back to leaning on walls and watching people engage in what i suppose could be described as “outercourse.” i remember thinking that i should probably leave, because i had no business being in this claustrophobic, sweaty, gin-and-tonic hellhole. but on the other hand, i eventually decided, i’d already amassed a pretty interesting story and there was no sense quitting after having gained this much momentum. besides, for some reason everyone i had interacted with in this strange place had been enigmatically nice to me (except for the bouncer, but i can’t blame him, it’s his job to kill the necessary buzzes). in retrospect, it must’ve been my leather jacket. suffice it to say, i was the only one in a 10-mile radius wearing one, and my tight black jeans and dirty boots did little to keep drunk heads from turning during the course of the night. a friend of mine suggested people might’ve thought i was some sort of celebrity, being that i was in that sort of environment. i should’ve introduced myself as joey ramone or something. but as nice as my newfound acquaintances had been, i never saw them a second time. well, save for pete- he and i exchanged a surprisingly not-awkward hug after running into one another (literally) at some point, and then parted ways once again. i went back to leaning on the wall, and shut my eyes briefly out of drunken necessity. when i opened them again, i was making out with some black girl. i don’t know if my eyes were shut for two seconds or 20 minutes, but that took me by surprise. i was into it, though, and was disappointed when she told me she was going to the bathroom to freshen up. i was like, “oh, uh, okay, i’ll be here. please come back.” ten minutes later, unsurprisingly, she had not returned. but it was about 3:30 in the morning at this point (i wasn’t sure, my phone died somewhere between pilsen and downtown), so i started drunkenly piecing together a departure strategy. i didn’t remember which door i entered through, and couldn’t see any potential exits because of the drunken masses. using my catacomb survival skills acquired from the internet, i scoured the club’s internal perimeter with one hand on the wall until i found a way out. the fire escape, to be exact. i don’t know if an alarm went off, because the music was still thumping inside and outside of my head, but i wound up in the back alley. i still had my glass, which had become less of a beverage and more of an accessory, and threw it at the brick wall of the building next door. i made my way back to the initial strip of valets and bouncers in the front, and got in one of the cabs parked out front. except, it wasn’t a cab, it was just some dude’s car. he gave me a weird look and got out of his car, then came back with a bunch of weirdly upset friends who helped me correct my mistake. i crawled into the next cab. now, a lot of the components in this story sound fake. i understand that. if my phone hadn’t died, i would’ve taken pictures to document the evening. but believe me when i say that my cab driver was a fourteen-year-old russian kid. honest to fucking god. for the extent of the ride he was talking to whoever the fuck it is that cab drivers talk to at 4 in the morning, until we arrived at my apartment, i tripped getting out, paid the kid, and went upstairs to pass out.
what the fuck.
Anonymous asked: are you into men?
i think their first two albums are pretty cool
Anonymous asked: i want to stick stuff up your asshole
franz kafka - advocates
I’m not in the right place - alas, I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I’m not in the right place. I ought to be in a place where all kinds of people meet, from various parts of the country, from every class, every profession, of all ages; I ought to have an opportunity of choosing carefully out of a crowd those who are kind, those who are able and those who have an eye for me.
Perhaps the most suitable place for this would be a huge fairground; instead of which I am hanging around in these corridors where only these old women are to be seen, and not even many of them, and always the same ones, and even those few will not let themselves be cornered, despite their slowness; they slip away from me, float about like rain clouds, and are completely absorbed by unknown activities.
Why is it then that I run headlong into a house without reading the sign over the door, promptly find myself in these corridors, and settle here with such obstinacy that I cannot even remember ever having been in front of the house, ever having run up the stairs!
But back I cannot go, this waste of time, this admission of having been on the wrong track would be unbearable for me. What? Run downstairs in this brief, hurried life accompanied as it is by that impatient droning? Impossible. The time allotted to you is so short that if you lose one second you have already lost your whole life, for it is no longer, it is always just as long as the time you lose.
So if you have started out on a walk, continue it whatever happens; you can only gain, you run no risk, in the end you may fall over a precipice perhaps, but had you turned back after the first steps and run downstairs you would have fallen at one - and not perhaps, but for certain.
So if you find nothing in the corridors open the doors, if you find nothing behind these doors there are more floors, and if you find nothing up there, don’t worry, just leap up another flight of stairs. As long as you don’t stop climbing, the stairs won’t end, under your climbing feet they will go on growing upwards.