I look at a country today 9 years removed from a cowardly act of misplaced and warped retribution and I see that the grass still grows green and the trees still bloom in Spring. We still get our coffee each morning and watch football on weekends. Time may have stood still that horrible morning as airplanes streaked across that piercing blue sky into the towers, but it cannot be stopped. It can only be paused at these defining moments to allow us a moment to reflect.
I have a hard time remembering life before 9/11. That time seems so distant to me. I felt so young then and feel so very old now. I find myself missing that time more and more today. I see children born after 9/11 who through no fault of their own were born to an age of hate. I pity these children for the innocence they will never have. This fear will ever be a part of their lives as the mushroom cloud was part of mine. All they will have is hate. To them it will be normal. This will be their lives.
I scan the television today, as I always do on this day. Everyone is doing something to memorialize and commemorate. Me? I try every day to forget the horrors I saw that day. People leaping to their deaths. People crushed. People incinerated. Alcohol has been my traditional method of amnesia for 9 years now. Others cannot forget, Will not forget. For them, the memory is all that sustains them. Today, they are in their element. I often find myself amused at man’s desire to assign blame and marvel at his creativity. But not here. Not now. Not today. Red? Blue? They are so similar yet consider themselves polar opposites. Good and Evil incarnate. But personally, I see little difference between the two. To me, it’s the same as Chocolate or Vanilla. There was a time when that was a life changing decision for me.
When I see people on the television or on street corners ripping open the wound to drive their own personal narratives, it sickens me. I feel the anger build up inside me like a tea kettle. Then something happens. A singular image appears in my mind. While I didn’t witness this event, it remains as clear to me as if I had watched it in person. I see people flying down the stairs fleeing the burning building and the horror above as a fireman races past them up those same stairs and into the Mouth of Hell itself. I see the collapsing building on my mental screen. The camera cuts to the people flying down the stairs as they scream and cry and beg their Gods for forgiveness. The camera then cuts one last time to that man sending himself into harm’s way as he looks up and sees the weight of civilization crashing down towards him.
I often have to pause and draw a deep breath when I think about this. Tightness wraps around my chest like a Boa Constrictor. My vision contracts into a singular line of sight. I feel pressure building around and behind my eyes. These reactions, reflexive in nature, wash the building anxiety away from me. And just like that, I regain my focus. If I had a wish that could be granted instantly, it would be for all others who remember that day to experience something similar. Be it the passengers fighting back against their kidnappers fully aware that they are doomed but refusing to allow any more lives to be lost, or the doctors and caregivers who stitched and bandaged each physical wound, or the friends that salved the emotional ones that awful day, everyone has such a moment and for those that do not, I wish they could find one. Instead of living inside that noxious, grey cloud where once a building stood and where time stopped cold, I wish they could take a deep breath and look just inches past that point where the sky is still so blue it hurts your soul and realize that time moves on regardless of our efforts to bunker ourselves.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
This Enormous Egotism. (AKA The Parasite)
Some people seem to need a brick to fall on head for them to realistically look at themselves. In my case, I just found out my father has lung cancer. Just found out this afternoon. He had throat cancer a while back so forgive me if I don’t seem overly alarmed. I have been here before and have been expecting this day for a while now, but still…a funny thing happened to me this time around. Today’s discovery made me realize just how away from normal I really am. I am not complaining. I’m not bragging. It’s akin to learning you have a tail and that everyone has known forever, but you are just now finding this out.
A normal person, and I am guessing at this one here, would immediately think about the fragility of life and begin the step process of grieving, thinking the whole time how much they love their father. Me? I thought about how good a story this would be. I am a writer, you see. I take the Raw emotion of real life and run it through my public school taught filter, where I distill it into something entertaining. It still has the same emotion, but when I get done, it’s New and Improved. All I do is supply a few cleverly turned phrases and sew together the rest.
This realization disturbed me to the point of self-doubt; something that anyone who knows me will find shocking. I looked as myself, the writer, for the first time without the benefit of my own tinted vision and what I saw sickened me. I am nothing more than an emotional parasite, sifting through the dumpster of the Human Condition for trash that I can repurpose and regurgitate. I take the Real Life in all it’s core emotion and spin itso that you, the reader, are entertained. Got a death in the family? That’d be a great story…really drag out the tears for that one. Your dog died? I smell a movie deal. Add in the misery of a young child and we’re talking Oscar! All I have to do is spell the words correctly and keep the grammar clean. What’s a little self-flagellation between friends anyway?
(self-flagellation: Definition from Answers.com
n. The act of severely criticizing oneself. The act of punishing oneself.)
Were I the writer I wished I was, I would have one, perhaps two great stories inside me that were completely original and would be loved by all. As soon as I got those out, I would put down the pen and consider myself done. Judge me based on that alone. But I am not that writer. I’m not even close. I am a scab picker. I take the festering open sores of the world and allow you to peer over my shoulder as I disrupt them. I am more of a reporter than anything, spreading the news scrubbed clean by my own internal filters. It is said that a writer writes. It is also said that you should write what you know. Little did the genius that penned both of those little gems know the life he was dooming me to, but here goes nothing.
“I stand leaning against an open door. The sun is directly overhead now and busies itself with heating all around me to a steady simmer. The breeze blows just enough to wick away half of the sweat that darkens my shirt. After a few seconds of staring off into the distance at nothing, I put on my sunglasses. I am too distracted by the fact that my father will die to notice how painful the glare bouncing off of the concrete is. I look across the street at a field of weeds. They are tall weeds, the kind that months of neglect call their own. They almost look like they are there on purpose. They sway too and fro in the wind. It almost looks like the mob dancing in Times Square at a New Years Eve celebration. The cars and trucks interrupt this vision like a busy commuter, not even bothering to say ‘Excuse me.’ as they roar past. Powerlines twist in the wind as Bob Seger sings about a long and lonesome highway east of Omaha. I see all this instantly. But I still take in none of it. I am too distracted by my father whom I love and respect deeply. I’m not about to waste time pining over the end of this life he has lead. It was his life, after all…not mine. Perhaps that makes me a callous man in that regard, but I don’t care. I learned a long time ago when it was time for tears and when it wasn’t. This isn’t that time. I know for certain it will come eventually, but for now, I will be satisfied with quiet contemplation on my father’s life and how happy I am to have known him.”
Even something that simple leaves me feeling dirty. Like I am taking my own personal pain and cashing in on it somehow. The thought of cheapening my own life by committing it to paper puzzles me. I find myself for the first time in my life wondering aloud whether I want to be a writer anymore.
A normal person, and I am guessing at this one here, would immediately think about the fragility of life and begin the step process of grieving, thinking the whole time how much they love their father. Me? I thought about how good a story this would be. I am a writer, you see. I take the Raw emotion of real life and run it through my public school taught filter, where I distill it into something entertaining. It still has the same emotion, but when I get done, it’s New and Improved. All I do is supply a few cleverly turned phrases and sew together the rest.
This realization disturbed me to the point of self-doubt; something that anyone who knows me will find shocking. I looked as myself, the writer, for the first time without the benefit of my own tinted vision and what I saw sickened me. I am nothing more than an emotional parasite, sifting through the dumpster of the Human Condition for trash that I can repurpose and regurgitate. I take the Real Life in all it’s core emotion and spin itso that you, the reader, are entertained. Got a death in the family? That’d be a great story…really drag out the tears for that one. Your dog died? I smell a movie deal. Add in the misery of a young child and we’re talking Oscar! All I have to do is spell the words correctly and keep the grammar clean. What’s a little self-flagellation between friends anyway?
(self-flagellation: Definition from Answers.com
n. The act of severely criticizing oneself. The act of punishing oneself.)
Were I the writer I wished I was, I would have one, perhaps two great stories inside me that were completely original and would be loved by all. As soon as I got those out, I would put down the pen and consider myself done. Judge me based on that alone. But I am not that writer. I’m not even close. I am a scab picker. I take the festering open sores of the world and allow you to peer over my shoulder as I disrupt them. I am more of a reporter than anything, spreading the news scrubbed clean by my own internal filters. It is said that a writer writes. It is also said that you should write what you know. Little did the genius that penned both of those little gems know the life he was dooming me to, but here goes nothing.
“I stand leaning against an open door. The sun is directly overhead now and busies itself with heating all around me to a steady simmer. The breeze blows just enough to wick away half of the sweat that darkens my shirt. After a few seconds of staring off into the distance at nothing, I put on my sunglasses. I am too distracted by the fact that my father will die to notice how painful the glare bouncing off of the concrete is. I look across the street at a field of weeds. They are tall weeds, the kind that months of neglect call their own. They almost look like they are there on purpose. They sway too and fro in the wind. It almost looks like the mob dancing in Times Square at a New Years Eve celebration. The cars and trucks interrupt this vision like a busy commuter, not even bothering to say ‘Excuse me.’ as they roar past. Powerlines twist in the wind as Bob Seger sings about a long and lonesome highway east of Omaha. I see all this instantly. But I still take in none of it. I am too distracted by my father whom I love and respect deeply. I’m not about to waste time pining over the end of this life he has lead. It was his life, after all…not mine. Perhaps that makes me a callous man in that regard, but I don’t care. I learned a long time ago when it was time for tears and when it wasn’t. This isn’t that time. I know for certain it will come eventually, but for now, I will be satisfied with quiet contemplation on my father’s life and how happy I am to have known him.”
Even something that simple leaves me feeling dirty. Like I am taking my own personal pain and cashing in on it somehow. The thought of cheapening my own life by committing it to paper puzzles me. I find myself for the first time in my life wondering aloud whether I want to be a writer anymore.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
That Old Tree.
That old tree just stands there by those rusty railroad tracks. It's dead. It stands apart from all the other trees like some kind of rebellious teenager. It just picked up its roots and moved as far away from the rest of the them as it could. It's not much good to anyone nowadays. I don't remember if I mentioned it's dead. It provides no shade to anyone. There is no tire to swing from. Its branch would probably break if you tied one on it now. It just stands there alone and solitary, like it's guarding something. Maybe it wanted to get away from the other trees so bad that it tried to just jump on that train, only to realize too late that it couldn't pull its roots free from the ground and hop on. The train's stopped running by. For a while it was the only thing that tree could see. It moved too far away from the other trees. The only thing it saw was them two rusty tracks spiked down to one of its cousins amid the crushed rock. In a way, I kindof feel sorry for that old tree. Not because it died. I don't feel sorry because it's all alone neither. I feel sorry for that tree because I like to think that it had a dream once. Maybe that dream was to move where there was a creek or a house where people watered it and played around near it. Maybe it wanted a tire swing tied to that long branch. Maybe it wanted a treehouse built inside it. Maybe that tree just wanted to get away from the trees it grew up around so bad that it was willing to do just about anything to get away. Maybe that's what made it move beside that train track where there wasn't no water. Maybe that's why it went there. To die. That's what makes me feel sorry for that tree. I'm standin here looking at a dead tree that no one but me seems to care about and that's just the thing. No one cares. That's why I gotta wipe this tear from my eye. A tree stands alone by the rusty railroad tracks. It is dead and no one cares.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Done
Dear God.
I have had a very tenuous at best relationship with God through my life.
I have dropped to my knees more times than a Tenderloin whore to ask for this and beg for that...all designed to make my life more pleasant and bearable. I grew up with the image in my mind of God as some cosmic wish granter who took care of good little boys and girls, like a full-time Santa Claus.
That time is done. I have thrown the gauntlet down.
God.
If you are listening, If you exist. You have this one chance to make my mind up. You have this one brief opportunity to reward my obstinant resolve and make this right.
Your refusal will be accepted as incompetence, impotence or ineptitude on your part.
For every soul insistent on pointing out your plan to me in the future, they will be greeted with the same cold reception that every human being that crosses my path for the near future will experience.
I will accept no IOU's.
I will accept no "Hey...I have a plan."
Say something...ANYTHING, or so help my immortal soul, you and I are officially done.
I'm not trying to shake anyone and their beliefs here so leave this one alone if you care.
This between me and him.
So help you.
--rog--
I have had a very tenuous at best relationship with God through my life.
I have dropped to my knees more times than a Tenderloin whore to ask for this and beg for that...all designed to make my life more pleasant and bearable. I grew up with the image in my mind of God as some cosmic wish granter who took care of good little boys and girls, like a full-time Santa Claus.
That time is done. I have thrown the gauntlet down.
God.
If you are listening, If you exist. You have this one chance to make my mind up. You have this one brief opportunity to reward my obstinant resolve and make this right.
Your refusal will be accepted as incompetence, impotence or ineptitude on your part.
For every soul insistent on pointing out your plan to me in the future, they will be greeted with the same cold reception that every human being that crosses my path for the near future will experience.
I will accept no IOU's.
I will accept no "Hey...I have a plan."
Say something...ANYTHING, or so help my immortal soul, you and I are officially done.
I'm not trying to shake anyone and their beliefs here so leave this one alone if you care.
This between me and him.
So help you.
--rog--
Monday, July 12, 2010
How Perfectionism is both my anchor and my albatross.
I have often been called a perfectionist in my life. Most of the time it has been said by people attempting to find a polite way of saying I am hard headed and opinionated. Every time I hear this it reinforces the notion in my head that I haven't been trying hard enough. The thing is. most of the things I do often come naturally to me. I have an inate ability to adapt and adopt just about anything I put my mind to. I've held a lot of jobs in my life. None of them have been difficult to me. That's not to say that others have done the same job without struggle. It just means I've found them quite easy. But sometimes when faced with a simple task, I want more. I want to do something that transcends the ordinary. Even if it's something as simple as cutting out a cardboard box to sit atop a copier at Kinko's that streamlined their printing or a reinvisioning of an HTML design on my company's website that just simplified things to an almost spartan elegance. There lives within me a spark that flares up at odd times and insists that I do more. It's when I want to take things one step further that the perfectionist in me takes over. I see this spark in me as both a blessing and a curse. It helps me achieve more with the limited skills I posess, but it cuts my achilles heel when it comes to just getting it done.
How does this translate into the real world from this hastily typed page? Simple. Take my comics for example. I am a creator of comics. That alone sentences me to a life of creative chaos; constantly bombarded by deadlines imposed by myself and others, and of criticism; often given by people with limited understanding and the best intentions. Because drawing and writing comes so easily to me, I could write and draw several comics in the time it takes another artist to draw a single one. It's not that I am better, it's just the ease of familiarity allows me to breeze through steps that slog others down. Other artists are better at drawing. Other writers are better at writing. But my comfort with them both allows me to meld the two and opens the possibility for me to churn out comics like a grinder spews out ground sausage. I don't do that though. And this has confused some people.
"Jack Kirby did it."
"Stan Lee did it."
First off, When it comes to humility, I have it. But when it comes to arrogance, I have that too. Sometimes I have more of the former than the latter, but often vice versa. Regardless. I don't see someone comparing me to those two as the stretch that someone who doesn't know me does. It's not that I am now great. It's that I recognize that I have the POTENTIAL to be great. That is precisely WHY I don't churn out comics like alley cats have kittens. The perfectionist in me will not allow that.
The perfectionist in me thinks that only "Hacks" (How I hate that term and what it implies) churn. The perfectionist in me tells me that I must focus. I must do what no one else has done before. The perfectionist tells me that if I miss the mark, my attempt will end in failure. I don't argue with him. In fact, I agree wholeheartedly. I understand that putting forth anything less than 100% of my best effort all the time will allow me to rise to the upper echelon. Failure to bring 'it' will only result in my continued application of comics as a hobby. But the perfectionist isn't happy with this victory. He wants more. The perfectionsist sees my willingness to give everything I have and dangles the dreaded "Yeah, but..." with everything I do. Others tell me they never see this in my work. They tell me my writing is good. They say that my art is good. The perfectionist tells me they are lying...or they don't know any better. When the people who DO know better tell me that they like what I am doing, the perfectionist tells me they are lying, or they are jealous. It's envy guiding their words.
I'm not paranoid. I know that envy exists. I feel it personally anytime I lay eyes on the artwork of those I admire. I see the way these guys handled that particular issue and wonder how I would have done it. The perfectionist in me tells me I can do better.
He inspires me at the same time as he buries the seeds of self doubt.
Sometimes I shut him out entirely and just slam the keys or scratch the pencil. Often when I finish, I sit there and admire my handiwork as if I were watching the smoke clear, sometimes unaware of what I was even doing. The perfectionist in me simply says "Why can't you do that all the time?" It's almost as if I can never win with that guy. He constantly pushes me to improve at the same time as he reminds me I'll never be as good as THAT guy or THAT guy.
I told him to go fuck himself once. I took my pencils and my notebooks and I locked them away. I focused on being a proper adult, with a proper job and a proper outlook on life. I even got a proper girlfriend and almost got married. But that didn't shut up the perfectionist. He was always there telling me "But if you do it THIS way.....". There was no pleasing him.
I found myself pulling the pad out and doodling at first. He told me "You can do better than that."
I started drawing the panels and writing the books. He told me "What took you so long?"
It's not a big stretch to say that my inner perfectionist is my muse. He inspires me to take everything I do one rung up the ladder from where I was. Browning wrote "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what else is a heaven for?" That sounds like something he tells me when he sees me put in a substandard effort. This keeps me going at the same time as it acts as a limiter on my output. My perfectionist will not allow me to put out something with no redeeming quality. This is NOT to say that I haven't laid a few turds. I have. But I can look back on even the worst effort I have put out and find something it that made my perfectionist happy hidden among all the other stuff that makes me cringe.
I have this recurring fear. It's not a dream (I have managed through practice to weed those out for the most part). The fear starts out as a simple glance across all the folders that lie in my studio. These folders represent a volume of work that would stagger the average person from the sheer workload involved. If I ever got that golden ticket and was able to make a living sharing the derranged musings I have with like-minded people, I could work from those folders and never have to come up with an new thought for at least a dozen years. My fear is that something will happen to me that will keep me from getting TO that pile of folders. I've always had this fear...as far back as I can remember. "What would happen if I lost my hand?" "What would happen if I went blind?" When I shoved a broken bar glass into my wrist in 1998 during my time as a bouncer in Dallas' busiest bar, severing the tendon and almost paralyzing my fingers in the process, this fear looked like it was manifest. This was a very dark period for me, and I shared this with noone. Who would understand? I could tell someone "I may never be able to draw again." and how could they be expected to understand the implications of what that meant? Nah. Better to keep that inside and will myself to find a way. When I eventually sawed my cast off 2 weeks before the doctor was due to remove it, the first thing I did was pick up a pencil and draw Daredevil. I still have that drawing and yes...after 5 weeks in a cast, it sucked. But this time the perfectionist told me something that I will always remember. "It could be a LOT worse." That one thing set me at an ease that filled me with a reason to get started and get this done. The following 3 year period was one of my most productive (Till recently). The fear was still there, but I was operating on what I saw as borrowed time.
I had a wreck back in 2003 that by all rights should have punched my card. Head on collision on a wet highway at +60mph with a driver that was going the wrong way. I walked away without a scratch, but this only spurred the fear into action again. It is the perfectionist that keeps me from that pile though. He is the gatekeeper. He tells me the time isn't right for that pile. He's right, I think...but his reasons are sketchy. he tells me that once I jump into that pile, I will lose whatever momentum I have built up to this point. He stands off in the distance, just out of sight but within earshot and says one thing to me when I reach for that pile. "Hack." That is all it takes to keep my hands to themselves for now.
How does this translate into the real world from this hastily typed page? Simple. Take my comics for example. I am a creator of comics. That alone sentences me to a life of creative chaos; constantly bombarded by deadlines imposed by myself and others, and of criticism; often given by people with limited understanding and the best intentions. Because drawing and writing comes so easily to me, I could write and draw several comics in the time it takes another artist to draw a single one. It's not that I am better, it's just the ease of familiarity allows me to breeze through steps that slog others down. Other artists are better at drawing. Other writers are better at writing. But my comfort with them both allows me to meld the two and opens the possibility for me to churn out comics like a grinder spews out ground sausage. I don't do that though. And this has confused some people.
"Jack Kirby did it."
"Stan Lee did it."
First off, When it comes to humility, I have it. But when it comes to arrogance, I have that too. Sometimes I have more of the former than the latter, but often vice versa. Regardless. I don't see someone comparing me to those two as the stretch that someone who doesn't know me does. It's not that I am now great. It's that I recognize that I have the POTENTIAL to be great. That is precisely WHY I don't churn out comics like alley cats have kittens. The perfectionist in me will not allow that.
The perfectionist in me thinks that only "Hacks" (How I hate that term and what it implies) churn. The perfectionist in me tells me that I must focus. I must do what no one else has done before. The perfectionist tells me that if I miss the mark, my attempt will end in failure. I don't argue with him. In fact, I agree wholeheartedly. I understand that putting forth anything less than 100% of my best effort all the time will allow me to rise to the upper echelon. Failure to bring 'it' will only result in my continued application of comics as a hobby. But the perfectionist isn't happy with this victory. He wants more. The perfectionsist sees my willingness to give everything I have and dangles the dreaded "Yeah, but..." with everything I do. Others tell me they never see this in my work. They tell me my writing is good. They say that my art is good. The perfectionist tells me they are lying...or they don't know any better. When the people who DO know better tell me that they like what I am doing, the perfectionist tells me they are lying, or they are jealous. It's envy guiding their words.
I'm not paranoid. I know that envy exists. I feel it personally anytime I lay eyes on the artwork of those I admire. I see the way these guys handled that particular issue and wonder how I would have done it. The perfectionist in me tells me I can do better.
He inspires me at the same time as he buries the seeds of self doubt.
Sometimes I shut him out entirely and just slam the keys or scratch the pencil. Often when I finish, I sit there and admire my handiwork as if I were watching the smoke clear, sometimes unaware of what I was even doing. The perfectionist in me simply says "Why can't you do that all the time?" It's almost as if I can never win with that guy. He constantly pushes me to improve at the same time as he reminds me I'll never be as good as THAT guy or THAT guy.
I told him to go fuck himself once. I took my pencils and my notebooks and I locked them away. I focused on being a proper adult, with a proper job and a proper outlook on life. I even got a proper girlfriend and almost got married. But that didn't shut up the perfectionist. He was always there telling me "But if you do it THIS way.....". There was no pleasing him.
I found myself pulling the pad out and doodling at first. He told me "You can do better than that."
I started drawing the panels and writing the books. He told me "What took you so long?"
It's not a big stretch to say that my inner perfectionist is my muse. He inspires me to take everything I do one rung up the ladder from where I was. Browning wrote "A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what else is a heaven for?" That sounds like something he tells me when he sees me put in a substandard effort. This keeps me going at the same time as it acts as a limiter on my output. My perfectionist will not allow me to put out something with no redeeming quality. This is NOT to say that I haven't laid a few turds. I have. But I can look back on even the worst effort I have put out and find something it that made my perfectionist happy hidden among all the other stuff that makes me cringe.
I have this recurring fear. It's not a dream (I have managed through practice to weed those out for the most part). The fear starts out as a simple glance across all the folders that lie in my studio. These folders represent a volume of work that would stagger the average person from the sheer workload involved. If I ever got that golden ticket and was able to make a living sharing the derranged musings I have with like-minded people, I could work from those folders and never have to come up with an new thought for at least a dozen years. My fear is that something will happen to me that will keep me from getting TO that pile of folders. I've always had this fear...as far back as I can remember. "What would happen if I lost my hand?" "What would happen if I went blind?" When I shoved a broken bar glass into my wrist in 1998 during my time as a bouncer in Dallas' busiest bar, severing the tendon and almost paralyzing my fingers in the process, this fear looked like it was manifest. This was a very dark period for me, and I shared this with noone. Who would understand? I could tell someone "I may never be able to draw again." and how could they be expected to understand the implications of what that meant? Nah. Better to keep that inside and will myself to find a way. When I eventually sawed my cast off 2 weeks before the doctor was due to remove it, the first thing I did was pick up a pencil and draw Daredevil. I still have that drawing and yes...after 5 weeks in a cast, it sucked. But this time the perfectionist told me something that I will always remember. "It could be a LOT worse." That one thing set me at an ease that filled me with a reason to get started and get this done. The following 3 year period was one of my most productive (Till recently). The fear was still there, but I was operating on what I saw as borrowed time.
I had a wreck back in 2003 that by all rights should have punched my card. Head on collision on a wet highway at +60mph with a driver that was going the wrong way. I walked away without a scratch, but this only spurred the fear into action again. It is the perfectionist that keeps me from that pile though. He is the gatekeeper. He tells me the time isn't right for that pile. He's right, I think...but his reasons are sketchy. he tells me that once I jump into that pile, I will lose whatever momentum I have built up to this point. He stands off in the distance, just out of sight but within earshot and says one thing to me when I reach for that pile. "Hack." That is all it takes to keep my hands to themselves for now.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
105 Pickup Lines
(Taken from http://www.romancestuck.com/pickup-lines.htm)
1.I'm a raindrop and I'm falling for you.
2.Baby, you must be a broom, cause you just swept me off my feet
3.I must be a Snowflake, becuase I've fallen for you.
4.I know somebody that thinks they might like you a lot. And if I wasn't so shy, I would tell you who it is.
5.Can I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?
6.Are you religious? [Why?] Because you're the answer to my prayers.
7.Can I lick that film off your teeth?
8.Can you give me directions...to your heart?
9.Did they just take you out of the oven? [No, why?] Because you're hot!
10.Do you have a map? [No, why?] Because I just got lost in your eyes.
11.Don't be so picky... I wasn't!
12.Falling for you would be a very short trip.
13.Hershey factories make millions of kisses a day, but I'm asking for only one.
14.I suffer from amnesia. Do I come here often?
15.Is it hot in here or is it just you?
16.Let's go behind that rock, and get a little boulder.
17.Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that was a Braille name tag.
18.Remember me? Oh, that's right, I've met you only in my dreams.
19.Want to play conductor? You be the engineer and I'll go choo choo.
20.What do you like for breakfast?
21.You be the tree, and I'll wrap you like a Koala.
22.You don't need car keys to drive me crazy.
23.You might not be the best looking girl here, but beauty is only a light switch away.
24.You sure have a great looking tooth.
25.I wish I were sine squared and you were cosined squared, because together we could be one.
26.I'm feeling a little off today. Would you like to turn me on?
27.Do you have a mirror in your pocket? [No, why?] 'Cause I can see me in your pants.
28.May I have some kisses up here, please.
29.If a star fell from the sky every time I thought about you, then tonight the sky would be empty.
30.My love for you is like diarrhea. I just can't hold it in.
31.Haven't I seen you before? Maybe in my dreams?
32.If home is where the heart is, then my home is in you.
33.You must be a magician, because everytime I look at you, everyone else disappears.
34.You want me. I can smell it.
35.If you were a drug, I would overdose!
36.If you gave me a penny for my thoughts I'd have just one penny, because i only think about one thing and that's you.
37.[Note: for use when someone you know is getting married] Hi, I'm throwing the bachelor/bachelorette party for a friend of mine, and I need a stripper. Interested?
38.Is your dad a baker? [No. Why?] Cause you have some nice buns.
39.I don't speak in tongues, but I kiss that way.
40.If I were to ask you for sex, would your answer be the same as the answer to this question?
41.Do you know what winks and screws like a tiger? [No.] Then wink.
42.You know, we were born without clothes.
43.Did the sun come up or did you just smile at me?
44.Like alcohol to the alcoholic,
Like chocolate to the chocoholic,
You are the [name] to the [name]holic.
(preferabally for use on men/women that have an A or O as the last letter of their first name.)
45.If I bit my lip would you kiss it better?
46.Will you read my palm? [I don't see anything.] I didn't expect you to because love is blind.
47.Did you drop something? [What?] Your conversation, so let's pick it up right here.
48.Can I have your picture? [Why?] So I can show santa what I want for christmas!
49.Damn.....your ass is fine! Want to come see mine?
50.You dropped something. [What?] My jaw.
51.That's a nice dog/cat/pet. Does it have a phone number?
52.Do you mind if we share this cab to my house?
53.Baby, you're sexier than socks on a rooster.
54.Do you have a band-aid? [Why?] I hurt my knee when I fell for you.
55.What do you say we play some football? You can have first down!
56.You're like pizza. Even when you're bad, you're good.
57.You had better phone the firefighters in advance, cause when you're done with me, we'll be on fire!
58.Lets make like fabric softener and Snuggle!
59.Do you believe in love at first sight or do I have to walk by again?
60.Are you a parking ticket? Cause you got FINE written all over you.
61.Hi, who's your friend?
62.Are you an Alien? [No, why?] Because you just abducted my heart.
63.I lost my teddy bear, can I sleep with you?
64.If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put U and I together.
65.Can I borrow your library card? [Why?] Cause I'm checking you out.
66.Drop an ice cube and say 'Now that we've broken the ice, my name is...'
67.Are you bored? [No, why?] Because i really want to nail you.
68.Do you believe in love at first sight or do you want me to walk by again?
69.Are those astronaunt pants? Cause that ass is out of this world!
70.Are you sure that you're not a microwave oven? Because, you sure make my heart melt!
71.Your feet must be tired, because you've been running through my mind all day long.
72.If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put U and I together.
73.If I followed you home, would you keep me?
74.You must be the cause of global warming!
75.Are you from Tennessee? [No, why?] Because you're the only 10 I see!
76.What's your sign?
77.I lost my phone number. Can I have yours?
78.Nice pants. Can I test the zipper?
79.Got any raisins? [No.] Then how about a date?
80.Kiss me if I'm wrong, but isn't your name Guadalupe?
81.You know what your remind me of? [what?] Lucky Charms, You want to know why? [why?] Because you're magically delicious!
82.I can read palms. {write your # on their hand} Oh it says your going to call me soon!
83.So long as we're in the theatre....why don't we get some play?
84.If you were ice cream and I were hot chocolate I'd pour all my love onto you.
85.You must be Jamaican, cause you Jamaican me crazy.
86.Is there an airport nearby or is that just my heart taking off?
87.It's my birthday! How about a birthday kiss? "Is it really your birthday?" No, but how about a kiss anyway?
88.I'm not drunk, I'm just intoxicated by you.
89.Darling, if you were cocaine I'd OVERDOSE!
90.If you were a wedgie, I'd pick you!
91.Milk does the body good, but damn how much did you drink?
92.I lost my virginity... can I have yours?
93.Do you sleep on your stomach? [yes/no] Can I?
94.Are your parents retarded? 'cuz DANG your special!
95.Do you have a quarter? [Why?] I told my boyfriend/girlfriend that I would call him/her when I found someone better.
96.Whenever I see you my heart races. I hope to win first place.
97.Do you have a bandage? I hurt my knee when I fell in love with you.
98.You are like a glass of milk... you do the body good.
99.Fat penguin. [What?] I just wanted to say something to break the ice.
100.I'm not feeling myself today, can I feel you?
101.Are you a light switch? Cause I want to turn you on!
102.Where is your mother? [Why?] Because you're too young to be here without an adult.
103.You spend so much time in my dreams I should charge rent!
104.Want to get some air? You took my breath away!
105.How much does a polar bear weigh? [I don't know, how much?] Just enough to break the ice. Hi my name is ____.
1.I'm a raindrop and I'm falling for you.
2.Baby, you must be a broom, cause you just swept me off my feet
3.I must be a Snowflake, becuase I've fallen for you.
4.I know somebody that thinks they might like you a lot. And if I wasn't so shy, I would tell you who it is.
5.Can I buy you a drink, or do you just want the money?
6.Are you religious? [Why?] Because you're the answer to my prayers.
7.Can I lick that film off your teeth?
8.Can you give me directions...to your heart?
9.Did they just take you out of the oven? [No, why?] Because you're hot!
10.Do you have a map? [No, why?] Because I just got lost in your eyes.
11.Don't be so picky... I wasn't!
12.Falling for you would be a very short trip.
13.Hershey factories make millions of kisses a day, but I'm asking for only one.
14.I suffer from amnesia. Do I come here often?
15.Is it hot in here or is it just you?
16.Let's go behind that rock, and get a little boulder.
17.Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that was a Braille name tag.
18.Remember me? Oh, that's right, I've met you only in my dreams.
19.Want to play conductor? You be the engineer and I'll go choo choo.
20.What do you like for breakfast?
21.You be the tree, and I'll wrap you like a Koala.
22.You don't need car keys to drive me crazy.
23.You might not be the best looking girl here, but beauty is only a light switch away.
24.You sure have a great looking tooth.
25.I wish I were sine squared and you were cosined squared, because together we could be one.
26.I'm feeling a little off today. Would you like to turn me on?
27.Do you have a mirror in your pocket? [No, why?] 'Cause I can see me in your pants.
28.May I have some kisses up here, please.
29.If a star fell from the sky every time I thought about you, then tonight the sky would be empty.
30.My love for you is like diarrhea. I just can't hold it in.
31.Haven't I seen you before? Maybe in my dreams?
32.If home is where the heart is, then my home is in you.
33.You must be a magician, because everytime I look at you, everyone else disappears.
34.You want me. I can smell it.
35.If you were a drug, I would overdose!
36.If you gave me a penny for my thoughts I'd have just one penny, because i only think about one thing and that's you.
37.[Note: for use when someone you know is getting married] Hi, I'm throwing the bachelor/bachelorette party for a friend of mine, and I need a stripper. Interested?
38.Is your dad a baker? [No. Why?] Cause you have some nice buns.
39.I don't speak in tongues, but I kiss that way.
40.If I were to ask you for sex, would your answer be the same as the answer to this question?
41.Do you know what winks and screws like a tiger? [No.] Then wink.
42.You know, we were born without clothes.
43.Did the sun come up or did you just smile at me?
44.Like alcohol to the alcoholic,
Like chocolate to the chocoholic,
You are the [name] to the [name]holic.
(preferabally for use on men/women that have an A or O as the last letter of their first name.)
45.If I bit my lip would you kiss it better?
46.Will you read my palm? [I don't see anything.] I didn't expect you to because love is blind.
47.Did you drop something? [What?] Your conversation, so let's pick it up right here.
48.Can I have your picture? [Why?] So I can show santa what I want for christmas!
49.Damn.....your ass is fine! Want to come see mine?
50.You dropped something. [What?] My jaw.
51.That's a nice dog/cat/pet. Does it have a phone number?
52.Do you mind if we share this cab to my house?
53.Baby, you're sexier than socks on a rooster.
54.Do you have a band-aid? [Why?] I hurt my knee when I fell for you.
55.What do you say we play some football? You can have first down!
56.You're like pizza. Even when you're bad, you're good.
57.You had better phone the firefighters in advance, cause when you're done with me, we'll be on fire!
58.Lets make like fabric softener and Snuggle!
59.Do you believe in love at first sight or do I have to walk by again?
60.Are you a parking ticket? Cause you got FINE written all over you.
61.Hi, who's your friend?
62.Are you an Alien? [No, why?] Because you just abducted my heart.
63.I lost my teddy bear, can I sleep with you?
64.If I could rearrange the alphabet, I would put U and I together.
65.Can I borrow your library card? [Why?] Cause I'm checking you out.
66.Drop an ice cube and say 'Now that we've broken the ice, my name is...'
67.Are you bored? [No, why?] Because i really want to nail you.
68.Do you believe in love at first sight or do you want me to walk by again?
69.Are those astronaunt pants? Cause that ass is out of this world!
70.Are you sure that you're not a microwave oven? Because, you sure make my heart melt!
71.Your feet must be tired, because you've been running through my mind all day long.
72.If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put U and I together.
73.If I followed you home, would you keep me?
74.You must be the cause of global warming!
75.Are you from Tennessee? [No, why?] Because you're the only 10 I see!
76.What's your sign?
77.I lost my phone number. Can I have yours?
78.Nice pants. Can I test the zipper?
79.Got any raisins? [No.] Then how about a date?
80.Kiss me if I'm wrong, but isn't your name Guadalupe?
81.You know what your remind me of? [what?] Lucky Charms, You want to know why? [why?] Because you're magically delicious!
82.I can read palms. {write your # on their hand} Oh it says your going to call me soon!
83.So long as we're in the theatre....why don't we get some play?
84.If you were ice cream and I were hot chocolate I'd pour all my love onto you.
85.You must be Jamaican, cause you Jamaican me crazy.
86.Is there an airport nearby or is that just my heart taking off?
87.It's my birthday! How about a birthday kiss? "Is it really your birthday?" No, but how about a kiss anyway?
88.I'm not drunk, I'm just intoxicated by you.
89.Darling, if you were cocaine I'd OVERDOSE!
90.If you were a wedgie, I'd pick you!
91.Milk does the body good, but damn how much did you drink?
92.I lost my virginity... can I have yours?
93.Do you sleep on your stomach? [yes/no] Can I?
94.Are your parents retarded? 'cuz DANG your special!
95.Do you have a quarter? [Why?] I told my boyfriend/girlfriend that I would call him/her when I found someone better.
96.Whenever I see you my heart races. I hope to win first place.
97.Do you have a bandage? I hurt my knee when I fell in love with you.
98.You are like a glass of milk... you do the body good.
99.Fat penguin. [What?] I just wanted to say something to break the ice.
100.I'm not feeling myself today, can I feel you?
101.Are you a light switch? Cause I want to turn you on!
102.Where is your mother? [Why?] Because you're too young to be here without an adult.
103.You spend so much time in my dreams I should charge rent!
104.Want to get some air? You took my breath away!
105.How much does a polar bear weigh? [I don't know, how much?] Just enough to break the ice. Hi my name is ____.
I'm Not The One
By Roger A Wilbanks
It happened in a bar, that closet where they hang their desires like costumes and put them on as the opportunity arises. I was tired. The day had treated badly, leaving me reckless and distracted. I sat down on the stool that was always open and ordered my usual dark beer.
She sat beside me and was attempting to engage the bartender in idle chatter. He wasn’t helping. She tired of this and looked around, finally settling on me as the target for her attention.
“Hello, handsome.”
I sipped my beer and lit a cigarette. I didn’t answer.
“I said ‘Hello’. Aren’t you going to say something”
“I’m not the one.” I said.
“What? What on Earth are you talking about?”
I looked deep into her eyes and repeated myself.
“I’m not the one.”
“You’re not the one what?”
“I’m not the one you’re looking for.” I answered.
She laughed. “How would YOU know what I’m looking for?”
“It’s simple, really. You’re looking for someone. I’m not that someone you’re looking for.”
“And how would YOU know THAT?”
“You’re out at a bar for Happy Hour. Yet you’re dressed like it’s Nighttime. You obviously didn’t wear that to work unless you work in a brothel. That tells me you are out looking for a man. While I’m not against hooking up for a one-night stand every once in a while, that isn’t what you're after. You have a lot of jewelry on, more than a normal person would feel comfortable with. This tells me you want people to know you like nice things. This also tells me you’re not into one-night stands. You’re looking to hook up, yes. But on your terms and for a long stretch.”
She just stared at me, slack-jawed.
“What are you…”? I waved her silent.
“Suppose I do take you home. Suppose we make love all night long. What happens next? We exchange phone numbers. We set up a date the next day. Possibly for lunch or an early dinner. That turns into a long dinner and another night together. Pretty soon we’re going to movies and meeting each other’s friends. But eventually, I will start getting busy. I won’t call you every day. You’ll begin to get suspicious. You’ll think I’m avoiding you. You will start to nag and snipe at me. Eventually I stop calling altogether and you get the picture. You stop calling me, but only after leaving a few nasty voice mails on my cell phone. One night, you will see me out with another girl and you will become enraged. You will call me every name in the book. You will call me an asshole.”
This left her speechless.
“Well, sweetheart, I’m telling you this, as plain as I’m able. I AM that asshole. I’m not the guy you think I am. I’m not the one.”
She sat there in stunned silence for a solid five minutes before mustering the ability to speak again.
“Marry me.” She whispered.
“Go away now.” I replied.
It happened in a bar, that closet where they hang their desires like costumes and put them on as the opportunity arises. I was tired. The day had treated badly, leaving me reckless and distracted. I sat down on the stool that was always open and ordered my usual dark beer.
She sat beside me and was attempting to engage the bartender in idle chatter. He wasn’t helping. She tired of this and looked around, finally settling on me as the target for her attention.
“Hello, handsome.”
I sipped my beer and lit a cigarette. I didn’t answer.
“I said ‘Hello’. Aren’t you going to say something”
“I’m not the one.” I said.
“What? What on Earth are you talking about?”
I looked deep into her eyes and repeated myself.
“I’m not the one.”
“You’re not the one what?”
“I’m not the one you’re looking for.” I answered.
She laughed. “How would YOU know what I’m looking for?”
“It’s simple, really. You’re looking for someone. I’m not that someone you’re looking for.”
“And how would YOU know THAT?”
“You’re out at a bar for Happy Hour. Yet you’re dressed like it’s Nighttime. You obviously didn’t wear that to work unless you work in a brothel. That tells me you are out looking for a man. While I’m not against hooking up for a one-night stand every once in a while, that isn’t what you're after. You have a lot of jewelry on, more than a normal person would feel comfortable with. This tells me you want people to know you like nice things. This also tells me you’re not into one-night stands. You’re looking to hook up, yes. But on your terms and for a long stretch.”
She just stared at me, slack-jawed.
“What are you…”? I waved her silent.
“Suppose I do take you home. Suppose we make love all night long. What happens next? We exchange phone numbers. We set up a date the next day. Possibly for lunch or an early dinner. That turns into a long dinner and another night together. Pretty soon we’re going to movies and meeting each other’s friends. But eventually, I will start getting busy. I won’t call you every day. You’ll begin to get suspicious. You’ll think I’m avoiding you. You will start to nag and snipe at me. Eventually I stop calling altogether and you get the picture. You stop calling me, but only after leaving a few nasty voice mails on my cell phone. One night, you will see me out with another girl and you will become enraged. You will call me every name in the book. You will call me an asshole.”
This left her speechless.
“Well, sweetheart, I’m telling you this, as plain as I’m able. I AM that asshole. I’m not the guy you think I am. I’m not the one.”
She sat there in stunned silence for a solid five minutes before mustering the ability to speak again.
“Marry me.” She whispered.
“Go away now.” I replied.
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