I'm gonna write this thing starting at 10:38 on a Thursday night, after getting a full 11 hours of sleep the night before, but also after working a full day of bullshit and taking two Benadryls right now. This is what I'm turning into the Writing Group tomorrow. I apologize if it's crap.

And now I bring you:

The Drowsy Writing Experiment

I saw Sammy walkin' down the street and I go up to him and I says, "Sammy, what's goin' on man?"

And he looks back at me with these red eyes and these bags under 'em and he says, "Not too good, man; not too damn good. My girl left me and my roommates are fuckin' in the apartment doggystyle. I had to get outta there."

I tries not to chuckle, but I does anyway and I tells him, "Hey now, Sammy, how'd you know they were fuckin' doggystyle?"

And get this, this is what he says, he says, "Peep hole." No joke man, no joke, so I look to him and I says,

"Sammy, come on now, what are you doin' lookin' at your roommates fuckin' through the peephole?"

And he tells me, "They weren't fuckin' through the peep hole, they was fuckin' through the ass hole!"

But I digress, and that wasn't funny, but I had to put it out there. Anyways, we're walkin' and we're talkin' and he says, "Yeah man, she left me. Can you believe it?"

I wanna tell him, "Yeah man, I do. You were an asshole to that girl. You were always pickin' fights and carryin' on and all that. What'd you ever do to keep her?" So I did.

He don't take too kindly to that kinda accusations n' shit, so he barks back, "What do you mean I was an asshole? I treated that girl like a prince ... ess! I treated her like she was a work of art and I was the fuckin' curator. Whatchoo talkin' 'bout I was an asshole? Fights? You wanna know about fights? I'll tell you about fights!"

And so he goes carryin' on about how she'd fuck the livin' daylights outta him, then roll over and tell him he had a small dick and she didn't feel a thing. I told him, "That's too bad, man, but she ain't never lied." And then he goes to slug me, but not in that 'I'm-a kick ya ass' sorta way, more like, 'I'm-a snatch-that-ass sorta way.' Playful n' shit.

Then he tells me, "I gave the world to that girl. I'd buy her flowers; I'd buy fancy dinners; I'd smoke her out on the Bubonic-est chronic she'd ever seen! Still nothin', man. No respect. Treat me like the damn fool."

When I ask to inquire about such Sam-foolery, he goes on and says, "Bitch, man, bitch done made out with my brother man. Brother's only 14, man! Brother ain't even got pubes! And she's over there all touchin' on his knob and askin' him if he's ever hit the g-spot; man I swear I was about this close from smackin' that ho!" And then he shows me his thumb and finger about an inch apart and I'm like,

"Is that your temper or your dick size?" That's when he slugged me for reals, but it only hurt a little, so I socked him in the shoulder and the repartee continues. So I says, "Then why didn't you?"

"I was! But, I remembered my moms, she always said, 'You never hit no girls.' So I didn't. I just dragged the girl by her dreds out that damned house; and you know what? My moms called me a punk!"

"You are a punk, man! My woman tried to get off with my little brother, believe me, it'd be the last time."

"What woman? You ain't never had no woman!"

I laughs and says, "Yeah, I know."

"Anyway, we get back to my place, and damned if she didn't tell me it was over right then and there. Fuck it, man. Who needs it?"

"You said that," I says, and as we headin' up to my apartment, I asks, "You think she ever found out?"

"Found out what?" he says back, and I give him the look. It's that look that says, 'You know what,' and he nods, then shakes his head,

"No, she don't know. She's just a dumb bitch." And he had his hand down my pants before the door could close behind us.

When we finish, we layin' there and I ask him, I says, "Sammy, so tell me, your roommate hung?"

He gives me this grin, looks like he just ate two spoonfuls of shit and's goin' back for thirds. Says, "Why you think we roomin' together?"

So then I have ta say, I says, "Then why you two ain't just be together? Nobody'd ever have ta know! Why you gotta get yo ass from the likes of me?"

Of course, you know he tells me, "I can't let the secret get out. That boy's a blabber mouth fo sho! He's got a different guy in there every night; I don't want that kinda heat. Sure, I could get me plenty of sloppy seconds. Hell, I could join in! But, I let that kinda shit get out? Hoo boy, you just watch!"

"Watch what? Man, nobody know you! You just a homophobe, that's what you is!"

"Ho- ... hom- ... are you crazy? How can I be ... you know? How can I be that, and a homophobe?"

"You proud of who you are?"


I says with convictions, "You proud of who you are?"

"Yes!" he says, makin' it sound like he means it.

"Then, let's go outside and fuck on the lawn."

He don't take too kindly to this thought. "Naw man, we'd get arrested."

"Fuck that, let's go. Let's let everyone see us doin' it."

"No man, that ain't the way. Just ... just give me time."

"You've had time! You've had nothin' but time!"

"Don't push me! I ain't ready," he says, to which I reply,

"Will you ever?"

He looks down, puts on his shirt, gets up, and leaves. Before he lets the door close, I yell out, "This is why your woman left you, man!"

Sammy gave me another look, pensive and sad. He said, "I know," and that was it. He never came back. He never called. Too proud to admit he's wrong. Too stubborn to let the truth come out.

I saw him the other day, arms around another girl. He saw me too, but neither of us said a word.

It's 11:10pm. The damned, whatever that's inside those damned pills has started taking effect. Affect? No, no, that's the verb. It's effect.

Let me see if I can't come up with something else. The Drowsy Writing Experiment, Take Two:

Wondering where the stench was coming from, Samuel sniffed the neck-hole opening of his t-shirt. Yep, that's classy. Three days without a shower will do that.

He sat alone in his room, feeling it most unnecessary to get up and leave. What's the point? No one he wanted to see out there anyway. Samuel turned his ringer off hours ago, but still obsessively checked the light to see if it would start blinking orange. Or red. Anything but that steadfast green, indicating a full charge, sans incoming call or voicemail message.

The solitude wasn't what got to him. It was the fact that no one felt the need to break that solitude. He remembered the days when he had a close friend by his side; then he recalled how he fucked it all up.

"You don't make friends by spitting in their Coke." That's what his grandma used to tell him. She had a million of 'em, the old bat. Damned if Samuel didn't spit all over Ingrid's fucking Pepsi, though.

Yet, he still waited for her call. Like a dog whose owner has left town for good, on the hunt for the next great adventure, Samuel waited patiently. Obediently. Subserviently. Loyalty was always big on Samuel, and he wore it like a parka in the rain: sure, you don't need it, but damned if it don't keep out the water.

He knew what he did, though. He called her a cunt and he kicked her out of his car one night. Of course, she didn't know why, but he did. Ingrid fell in love with the bar bouncer instead of Samuel.

How was she supposed to know she was supposed to fall in love with Samuel? It's not like he grabbed the brass balls off the dusty old shelf and actually told her!

So there he waited. And out she was. No call would be forthcoming. He chugged down another gulp of the iced tea. She laughed at another one of the bar bouncer's lame jokes. Back and forth.

Sure, Samuel thought about calling Ingrid. Thought about it every day. But, it wasn't gonna happen. Not tonight. Tonight was all about living vicariously through someone else for a change.

He called all his other friends. The ones he hadn't talked to since meeting Ingrid. Since they'd become the best buds money can't buy. Everyone was busy. Of course, it's Saturday night, what was he thinking?

"When the wind shifts directions, you've got to stop shovelling the sand in your face." Grandma was fucked up on Vicodin when she came up with that one, but it seemed to make sense here. Samuel picked up the phone. The call when straight into voicemail. He thought that was odd; after all, Ingrid always has her phone on.

Except when she's having sex.

Maybe she's in trouble!

Dude, get over it. It's done. Move on.

But, I can go over there. I can help her.

Man, listen to yourself. The writing's bleeding into the fucking wallpaper. Give it up.

What if I can convince her to see it my way?

It's not going to happen, you know that.

What if I change her mind?

You won't.

What if -

There's a world full of women out there. Pick someone else. You'll never have this one.

Samuel grabbed for another whiff of his body odor and crawled down into his bed. His loving, comforting bed. It took absolutely no energy at all to simply wrap himself in his blanket and sink to sleep.

No energy at all.

It's 11:33 now, and I can hardly go on writing at the top of my head like this. Pretty much, I have just enough fortitude to e-mail this to myself so's I can print it out at work tomorrow.

Here's to hoping this hasn't sucked horrible balls.