Hiatus

I'm taking a break from the blog for a month or three. I'm gonna try to write a script. I don't know what it's going to be about, but it'll be fun to do.

Blue Line

 He's sitting next to me in his Pacific Life windbreaker and stained Dockers. He looks like he could've been somebody at one point, but now is another broken man riding the Blue line. His messy hair indicates that today was a long day, and his furious note taking shows that it's not quite over. He's been jotting things down in his notebook since Clark/Lake. We're at California, or as I like to think of it, the last chance for success. 
 Once you get past California on the Blue line, hope begins to dwindle.You've said your goodbye to the business man with both an iphone and a Blackberry. That cute hipster girl has gotten off yet again without your number. After California, you're either a tired immigrant, or a depressed tourist whose vacation has ended. The smiles end after California. All that is left are weathered faces and clunky suitcases. I suppose I relate more with the tourists, for my stay in the world of possibility has ended for the day. 
 As the train moves from Logan Square to Belmont, I keep watching Windbreaker. His eyes are glassed over, as he appears to be in deep thought. His chewed-up Bic pen is slipping out of his hand, and I catch it before it hits the floor. As I hand it to him, he looks at me and whispers a barely audible "Thank you." Then he turns away and goes back to his own world.
  The train stops at Addison, and Windbreaker puts away his notebook. He half smiles at me and nods his head as he gets off. The doors close and the train leaves him. I wonder to myself what will become of this note taker.All I did was catch his pen, but I feel as if that's the most human contact he's had in a good while. As I ponder what motivates men like him to go on, the train approaches Jefferson Park. As I get up, I notice the man across the aisle staring at my New Balance shoes.

I didn't know how to end this.

There's only so much masturbating a guy can do before he starts to question his own sanity. Or so I've heard, I'm not the type of guy to do that sort of thing. I got Mr. Johnson blown off by an IED in Afghanistan, so I haven't got much to say on the subject. But heroin can be pretty stressful. So if jerking it is anything similar to heroin then yeah, that shit can be pretty crazy.
 I fell down a well when I was a kid. My parents say that afterwards I was never the same. I was three. Who the fuck was I before I fell? How sophisticated could I have been at 3 years old that could change so dramatically? I know I did have a curiosity with fire after that, maybe that's what they're talking about. But that's more an addition than a change in my personality. 
 I fucking hate it here. Los Angles. The shittiest place in the world. But it's tough to live anywhere else as a porn star. I can't really be in any videos if I don't live somewhere in So. Cal. Now, I know what you're thinking: "How the hell does this guy do porn without a dick?" 
 I wish I had an answer for you that I understood. Allegedly, not having a dick is a fetish for some women (and men). All I have to do is take off my pants and dance around all sexy-like for a little while. Then they give me money. Usually like $15,000. I know, right? It's the only career I could get coming out of the army. I've got buddies from the service that can't find work anywhere. Doctors, pilots and college graduates are hard pressed to even find an interview, but the guy without a dick? He makes $75,000 a year making porn. This is the country I fought for.