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Dear…You know who the fuck I’m talking to!


Dear… You know who the fuck I am talking to…

Look at you now, trying your hardest to come back in, not going to happen, you are the scum of the earth. I used to feel sorry for you, now you just disgust me, the only thing that I can know for sure is that I am going to bash your fucking head in with a bat. All you ever do is walk around, fucking moaning all the time and trying to get back in, clawing at my door. Bitch, get it through your fucking head, you are dead to me and next time I see you, you are going to get a bullet straight in the your shitty eye. At first I thought that I could help you and give you the benefit of the doubt and that this wasn’t your fault. But now, all you are to me is just fucking ugly and a waste of space, your heart is cold, and I am going to kill you before you can start trying to wreck someone else’s life. I watch you through my window everyday, planning on how I am going to end you. I left this note on the door for you so that, if you can read, you will get the hint and know that there is no peace here, this is going to end in blood. I knew right when you turned up on my doorstep that it was going to take a major act of violence to get rid of you. Fuck, as I am righting this I can smell your stink all around my house. FUCK I HATE YOU. By the way if any of your friends are out there roaming the streets, tell them I am coming for them next. Jesus I hate fucking Zombies. Assholes stay dead.

Yours truly
Jason Miller

Getting Older


I am having a very hard time getting over my denial that I am getting older.  Here is a list of reasons that I know I am aging…

1.  I have noticed that my ears and my nose are enlarging.  I heard this never stops!!!

2. I see many, many fine lines around my eyes, so much that I believe a spider could get lost in them.

3. I get irritated at teenagers for doing the same things I had done.

4. My thick locks are not as thick as they used to be or as think as I still think they are.

5.  Instead of 2 weeks in the gym to get back into shape it takes me an average of 3 months. (P90X)

6. Never getting I.d.’d for anything is a constant reminder.

7.  Thinking about my fiber and eating all of my fruits and vegetables. (started looking at Ensure for the vitamin factor)

8.  The hang overs seem to be more catastrophic, takes days to get over them now.

9.  I need glasses now to watch TV and read.

10.  My shoulders, knees and back are now my worst enemies.

11.  My golf game is getting a hell of a lot better.

12.  I am no longer looking for acne, I am looking for age spots.

13.  The sun has become an enemy. If I wasn’t so damn cool I would take an umbrella outside to block th UV rays.

14.  I am too old to wear shirts with designs on them although I never did before.

15.  Your more apt to find me at the bookstore than the dance club.

16.  I call it a dance club

17. Eight hours of sleep just never seems like enough.

18.   I am seriously considering time share.

19.  My annual physical keep getting more elaborate as the years pass ( a couple more years, I am gonna be a lot ‘closer’ to my Dr.)

and  20. I can make it to number 20 without stopping and wonder if I should take this list to fifty.

Feel free to add your own on the comments. 

Introducing The Lebonese (not all of them)


Yes, the Lebanese…This group of men ran an illegal LEVIS cartel.  What?  Yes, Levi Cartel.  We had three apartments, each one having a couple of older Lebanese gentlemen (“chaperones”).  All which by the way were either named Sam or Al.  Along with the chaperones was anywhere from three to six young teenagers living in each apartment also.  It was a sort of interracial halfway Brady bunch house.  All the kids were around my age, fourteen, fifteen drop outs, junkies although there were a couple of normal ones (well who seemed to be normal compared to the lot of them).

In exchange for the roof over our heads we would all pile up into three or four, filthy, minivans and travel from state to state, store to store and buy as many pairs of Levi 501 jeans on sale as possible.  This was so that by the end of the month after we had filled up an entire bedroom to the ceiling wall to wall, we would shove them all into as many U haul trucks as needed, drive it down to San Diego, throw it on a ship so that they could send them to Lebanon to get a disgusting return on their money.

The retail stores and the Feds started getting savvy to our little operation.  So most stores in the greater north-west, because of yours truly, implemented a maximum amount of jeans that could be sold to one person and that number was three.  Before this we were getting paid one dollar per pair of jeans we bought (with their money) and each of us was pulling in hundreds of pairs per day, so this new rule tossed a monkey wrench in our income.  Now we had to change our tactics drastically.  Now instead of six people in each van we had to fit suitcases of clothes, hats and even fake mustaches in with us.  We would all run into a store get our three pair maximum, run outside change clothes and do this as many times as we could before the store was either out or security escorted us off their premises.

Now these stores being as smart as they are changed their policy again and added not only a cap on the amount but now anyone that wanted to buy a pair of jeans needed to have a I.D..  This did not have the effect they were expecting, because after we all got our plethora of fake I.D’s we pretty much drained the Levi 501 market…Washington, Idaho and Montana were the next in line for our 501 supremacy, but you get the picture.

I don’t really remember how long I was with them, but it was a while.  Enough time to learn enough Arabic to get me by.  I also learned that if you are in the back of a mini van going 80 mph and the driver wont stop to let people use the bathroom, you get pretty good at going out the window. Always felt bad for the people driving behind us.

Eventually the IRS was able to catch up to us and deported our chaperones back to their own soil, forcefully I might add.

The Cart Before The Horse


Everyone knows the popular saying, “The cart before the horse”. As it turns out I have lived most of my existence with this exact ideal.

Such as this blog, one of my most infamous acts of outrunning my horse;  I am in the process of writing a book and a friend of mine turned me on to blogging.  “It will be a great tool to help you in writing techniques”, he told me.  What I am sure that he did not realize how ambitious I am with new ideas.  So as it goes by the end of the night I had my first blog site started with Word Press.  I loved it so much that by the end of the week I had three blog pages, after two weeks I had four blogs, one video blog site, bought my first domain name and started building a ten page web site.  All before even putting finger to keyboard on the writing front.

On my next big adventure I whizzed past as my Clydesdale still lay sleeping on the sidelines;  I love the sound of a guitar, so much so that I decided to take up learning how to play one.  I bought a mid level Yamaha that sounded great with the intention to teach myself to become the next Eric Clapton.  One just wasn’t enough so I bought another and another and, yes, another.  I have four guitars, one of them being a visual and acoustic masterpiece. I now own more guitars that most seasoned guitar players.  Don’t forget the accessories; the amps, picks, books, metronome, and the pointless thumb pick.   This all sounds great, you might say.  Problem is that I know only about ten chords and can play songs that only my three-year old loves to hear.  On a positive note I  started playing daily and I have my first appointment for lessons with a guitar vet this week.

Maybe it is not that my cart is too fast, I may just need to check my horse for a pulse;  Next comes Pod-casting.  A great friend of mine and I decided that it would be a great idea to start a podcast.  So of course the next day we had our first mic, our headphones, and even some pod-casting software.  You can check us out at We Interrupt This Broadcast. We are now on our 23 episode and out of all the buttons that our software has, record is the only one we seem to know how to use..  Our next step on our escapade in entertainment is a cartoon pilot.  We are in need of animators and of course we have already got the software.

I think I need a horse whip ’cause this pony wont budge;  So now I decide that it would be fun to start mountain biking.  Of course once again I now have the bike, the helmet, all the accessories  and yes with much harassment from friends I bought that little mirror that clamps on to the side of your helmet.  I probably will not use it from fear of ridicule.  I will risk that sharp left hand turn without that little masterpiece of an invention.  Funny story, my friend and I decided that we should take them out for a test ride.  So off we go, us and our fresh off the showroom floor bikes.  Wouldn’t you know it the first HILL we found my friend decided that we would all enjoy a stint at the hospital when this little joyride became a funniest home video.  Now a broken collar-bone four broken rib and a punctured lung is all that has become of that biking expedition.  Now the furthest height that my mountain bike sees is the upper balcony.

I am sure that by later in the week I will find a new niche to start, maybe bungee jumping, maybe piloting an aircraft (damn, that would be costly), or maybe even a wedding planner.  All in all i have a love for trying new things.  Maybe it is bass-akwards but you can say this for me, I am ambitious.

The Boy Who Thought He Could Fly


The event that changed this young mans life…

I assume it was the alcohol or the pressure from his peers that made him feel that he needed to impress the lot of them. It started out as a place to test your fear by jumping off some high rocks, that at the time was a death-defying experience in itself. To evolving to the bridge that lay 100 yards away. Always having to up the ante was the straw that broke the boys back. Tying a rope to the bottom of the bridge wasn’t enough, jumping straight off the bridge, although intimidating, seemed elementary. Where else to go but up. The scaffold, standing on a five-inch beam above the crowd, cheering, egging, pressuring. It seemed safer to jump than to climb back down.

Learning to fly comes easy to birds, with a bit of schooling for pilots, but not the case for a teenager with no other agenda then to impress. One foot is all he needed for gravity to take its revenge on stupidity. A four-second journey toward demise seemed to take hours. Enough time to be enlightened about the fact that he was not immortal. Enough time to meditate on how dumb this act of bravery was.

Most know that they have hit rock bottom when their bank accounts have dwindled or when the only time they can function is when they have had a couple of beers. For this young man it was literally when he hit rock bottom, his head still peaking over the water line. At first he believed that all was good and that he had escaped the rigged jaws of death.

A civilian should always have a marine present in the clutches of danger to pull you out from a swift current. On the other side of the token one should never have a comedian at his side during times of peril, for the simple fact that at a cold temperature and with a crushed vertebra, a woman can never make it better by playing around in the dominion of shrinkage, but that’s another story.

It seemed like an eternity for the medics to arrive, enough time to watch a great friend rush from the other side of the river to your aide, with two thoughts in his mind: 1 help your friend he is in pain and 2 make sure the forty ounces of grade-A beer does not dip below the water as he swims to his side. Time to watch others jump from the same altitude with no knowledge that a boy lay on the banks with a crushed spine and a world of embarrassment. Finally after a nauseating capade with the paramedics trying to make it down a steep cliff with a stretcher and an even more frightening rise to the top finally he was transported by who had to have been a student driver to the first hospital that seemed about two states away.

For your information, there is a certain height you can jump from before it becomes an act of suicide, so remember to allow a certain white lie of altitude if ever in this situation. This young man had never been blessed with this jewel of info, so beside the fact that he had lost a couple of inches in height due to three vertebrae being compressed, he also was given the gift of the psychiatric ward after being strapped to a wheel chair with what can only be explained as a suit of armor to prevent him from being in any comfortable position he was in the midst of bonified lunes.

Just Another Day


I was on my way toward my computer to do my 500 plus words a day of writing practice, when I stumbled into my closet.  What a disaster it was.  I finally, after I don’t know how long, decided to trash the hundreds of different articles of clothing that I have not worn in ages.   I had found so many shirts that I loved that I forgot about (or maybe it is because I had stuffed them in the midst of the cotton abyss never to be seen again).  Well of course I had to go throw all those in the washer immediately.

Then there is the laundry room, organized as it may be, it was time for a clean out.  I do not know were my mind was at when I made the decision to keep as many extra cable, antenna, RCA, and  phone lines as I could (rationing for the day that we have a global TV and phone crisis, I suppose).  I have not played monopoly in years but in this dismal room I have collected two of them.  I have achieved world record status in that I have the biggest ball of lint  sitting just  behind my dryer, ill get that some other time.

Now that I have accumulated all of my junk into five overstuffed garbage bags, I had to take them out to the car and drive them to the donation center.  Seems rather ambiguous to bring the needy a bunch of cable wires, but at least they will have a jolly old time playing monopoly with only half the pieces.  In retrospect I guess that I could have joined the two games into one.  After a daunting two block drive to the donation drop off truck, I am finally able to get back home and to my computer.  Nope..

I am inches away from pulling into my apartment complex when I see a full service car wash.  I know I need gas  and my, extremely economical mid-sized SUV can use a good bubble bath, so why not. So of course I pulled away from my complex, did a death defying ninety degree angle and pulled into  the car wash.  The young man who worked at the  front desk should have been a real estate broker.  With my intentions being a half tank of gas and a quick scrub down, turned out to be a full car detail, a full tank of gas, at least two sodas, and a air freshener shaped like a pineapple.  All in all though they did a great job with the wash.

Finally home sitting at my computer, ready to start jotting down what I should have done six hours ago, and now I have writers block.  I can write about politics I suppose, just not in the mood.  I should write about the war in Afghanistan.  Darn my battery is dying, I am going to have to go and get the power cord off my nightstand…… wait maybe I should write about procrastination.

WOW 500 words exactly…..hee hee hee

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