My therapist told me that if I’m to deal with my porn addiction I should start a “Masturbation Journal” chronicling every time I touch myself.

It sounds like a good idea in theory, but really I’m having a HARD time COMING to GRIPS with it.

I LOVE YOU BUT YOU'RE BRINGING ME DOWN.

Penn Station, New York City.

A portly black woman had just yelled at me for not knowing what the hell she was talking about.

I was standing on line waiting to hear anything regarding the delayed train I was supposed to take and stretching my calves, just for the hell of it, when a cutie patootie walked up and asked what I was doing.

So I told her.

Turns out we were to board the same train whenever the hell it arrived and that was that, but until then who knows what was gonna happen and for how long we'd be there!

She confided in me this was her first time alone in the city and I could see she was flustered with the delay.

Truth be told it was my first time as well but having just gone toe to toe with a couple Latin Kings on the sub ride over I was feeling refreshed; spritely, some might say.

So standing around in a line was no big whoop so long as I got to stretch my calves every now and then.

After exchanging pleasantries I offered my travel companion services in exchange for some "face time" along the way.

Now I'm not the kind of guy to judge someone as melodramatic, but her running for the exit while shrieking was a bit much.

And I felt awful when the cop with the K-9 tackled her.

So much so that standing in line afterward was a total drag; listening to everyone's complaints boiled my blood.

I mean, we were all going to reach our destination eventually.

We would all meet our families safely.

It's just that some of us weren't gonna get it wet.

Me being one of them.

That's why I slapped the broad who referred to our experience as "traumatic."

After that I snuck off into the bathroom and touched It.

Then I took a good long nap and had fanciful dreams.

I love New York.

The day you broke my heart I found my first grey pube.

Coincidence?



I think not.

Up in flames.

Jimmy’s shoulders were speckled gray with flecks of ashes. The monochrome confetti which rained upon him was composed of memories; photo albums, marriage certificates, souvenirs of the life he had to leave.

Behind him, his dead wife with her unborn son cradled in embers. Their Chocolate Lab, not only melted but burnt to a crisp.

Before him, a path forged by violence, vengeance, and retribution.

Yes. The Bastards had found him.

But it wasn’t over.

This was just the beginning.

Every day I breathe

Every day I wake

I find myself sparring with memories of you.

I find myself speeding through red lights.

Shouting at librarians.

Drinking coffee before bedtime.

Wondering why you no longer lie beside me

Why you find some illiterate with a speech impediment handsome

Why you gotta leave me hanging with my dick in my hand and a tear in my eye.

So I clench those fists.

Gnash those teeth.

And yeah, maybe I shadowbox a bit.

But that's cause you cut me up on the inside and I can't just shove Band-Aids up my ass, you know?

I fight through the pain.

I chew through remorse.

Head-butt walls of self-doubt.

Slam dance regret into submission.

Because your Camel Clutch has lost its grip on me.

And I'm a man. On a mission.

(LOL)

I wrote a poem for you, my failed mistress.

Yeah, I wrote it. And it was for you.

What don't you get about that?

I don't care if your father won't let you answer the phone or the door.

I'm not some stupid asshole who gives up easily.

Believe me. You'll be hearing from me.

Sometimes I think the sole reason I was born was to get drunk and snort hand sanitizer.

I slow danced with your ghost tonight and wept because it didn't end with a handie.