Sal’s Club

The Sal Densen Is Not Allowed Club is the shittiest name for a club and I’m not just saying that because my name is Sal Densen. The name has no catch. It lacks flair. Nothing about it makes me want to go inside.

The word club means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. To many, the word club means an establishment that you show up to to have drinks and dance and socialize.

To me, the word club means a gathering of people who have come together for a common cause. And when people would come to Sal’s, (the original Sal’s, the only true Sal’s, the one owned by me) they were coming, well, to be with me– Sal!

Me and the townspeople have had a few minor disagreements about the way things run at Sal’s over the years, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s always been great!

Some of the complaints were that I’m too buddy buddy, that I spill too many drinks, that I photobomb too much, that I talk too loud, that I only play music that I want to hear, that I’m overwhelming, etc. Small stuff, no big deal.

But then one night, this one guy, this one real big hot shot stood up and yelled at me,

“THAT’S THE 6TH FUCKING BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE THAT YOU’VE POPPED. EVERYONE’S SOAKING WET BECAUSE OF YOU YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!”

It hurt. Still does.

I can never forget that.

I hear constant echoes of it looping in my head — it never stops.

I run a club for years, never once ask a cover charge, never once close for holiday, never once cut a customer off for drinking too much. And then one night, after popping 6 bottles of champagne, 6 bottles of champagne that came out of my pocket for everyone’s enjoyment, you’re gonna then yell at me and call me an asshole in front of all my friends?

That was when everything started going down hill.

With my position in local politics once upon a time, I was in charge of everything. Everything went through me. All the permits went through me. If you wanted a liquor license you had to go through me…

And with that — I was on top of the world.

But then the people revolted.

I tried to change the town name to Saltown, and they said that that was the final straw. They dissed me. I said “What? You don’t like Sal?” They screamed and cursed at me more and then 96% of them went out and voted against me.

It started with that one guy.

And with me out, there was no longer only one bar allowed in town.

It used to be that if you wanted to go out and party, you had to party at Sal’s. Things were so much better in those days. I had so many friends back in those days.

But I guess people just don’t like having fun anymore.

They got this new club now. A club that is based in discrimination and hate and cruelty towards a fellow man. It’s sick how they’ve all turned against their caring, loving, and generous neighbor Sal.

And they never even gave a chance to look at the blueprints I had made for projects in Saltown.

Since then, I have turned the music down a few notches. I started putting out bowls of peanuts, sometimes even pretzels. But rarely does anyone ever show up.

Travelers pass through and stop for a drink. They ask me where everyone is. I tell them, “You missed them. Everyone is dead. This town here used to be booming, but sadly, now it’s a ghost town.”

Sal’s Club is now just a relic of a simpler, better time.

Everyone calls this new place Sal’s for short, and I know they’re just doing it to hurt me, and honestly, it’s working. The Sal Densen Is Not Allowed Club will only last so long though, I’m confident in that.

It lacks the one thing all club’s need — a Sal.

Fam

I ran into some festy friends at the hospital who had just had a new born baby born and I was like “Whaaa? You guys got a baby? That shit is a lot of responsibility you know that right? You know you’re gonna be taking care of that kid for a long ass time?”

They humbly responded and were like “yes.” They appreciated that I acknowledged and marveled at their child, but I wasn’t exactly saying a congratulations.

I was like, “Glad you like your baby, but summer’s coming up and there’s mad festivals to attend. We always travel the road and the circuit together, we have been for years. So what’s up? You gonna keep that kid in the tent, or leave it at home with a babysitter?”

They said “No festivals for us this year” and I don’t know how they could even say that. We’re supposed to be fam. Summer is what we live for. It’s the only time we all really see each other or talk. What about all the Molly we’ve done together, or the matching bracelets we made? Are we still fam?

I got flashed a couple summer bracelets and was told “We’re still fam, we’ll always be fam. Those moments are something we can never forget.”

And honestly, the forgetting part isn’t the problem. I can hardly remember large chunks of my summers, or even my life for that matter. What I care about is raving all night until the sun comes up with close ones. What I care about is us laughing and bonding through weirdness. What I care about and look forward to the most are the “Survivor’s Breakfasts,” where those of us who didn’t pass out or fall asleep during the night share a celebratory meal together in what is, unquestionably, an epic marathon of bizarre behavior and madness.

And what I heard….. “How can we forget about the blueberry pancakes?”

Whatever.

We’ve always said there’s only two seasons: festival season, and the remaining bullshit season. It seems as though with the birth of this baby, festival season will here on out contain some bullshit as well. That’s it. It’s over! Nothing good lasts forever!

I couldn’t help but audibly sigh and say “Kids suck” under my breath. Seeing two of my favorite festy pals do something like this? It honestly felt like a stab in the back.

“But…”

“Next summer the baby will be a year old…”

“And of course we’ll take him on the road with us. He’ll be ready then!”

I needed a moment to think.

And more time.

Maybe I am the one giving up on the fam here? Maybe my response has been, well, a bit selfish? And this baby could be a prodigy baby, you know? Growing up at the festivals and in the right environment, it’ll likely develop extraordinary skills and rhythm, and could easily become like, really really good at the bongos or something. He’ll have the headstart that I never had—that I wish I had.

I needed many more minutes to think…

But eventually…

“It’s a boy!?! Congratulations!”

We sat and began talking excitedly about how cool the kid is gonna grow up to be, and how we’ll all help raise him and give him water and teach him how to glowstick.

And like that, it felt like fam was back together all over again. This baby is only a minor setback. This upcoming summer might be a bit less exciting, but things will bounce back and be better than ever. The fam will have a new member next year.

It was then that a nurse came in in a panic and escorted me back to my room. She was saying there was an alert that I went missing. But really, I found what I needed to.

Winning Hearts And Holding Court

I’m going to be the first Supreme Court Justice elected out of popularity. Everyone will be like, “Dude, you got the sickest posts. Your takes are always spot on. You have great consideration for process and detail. The vast majority of America couldn’t be happier to make you a member of the United States Supreme Court.”

Just for me, they’ll make a court seat in some never before done, American Idol “vote now the numbers on your screen” bullshit. Every online poll will already be proof of my unquestionable approval, and the amount of likes on all my posts will serve as proof as well, but the TV event will make things official and double as a fun ceremony to kick off my court residency.

I’ll be up on stage with confetti falling from the ceiling, all the biggest names in pop culture will be in attendance, and Erin Andrews will say to me, “You have made history. You have provided this country, and maybe even this world with the greatest Cinderella story ever heard. What do you have to make of all that?”

And I will answer her, “This is the first day, for the rest of our country. The way I broke down and handled arguments online, I solemnly promise to bring that same level of judgement and professionalism to the United States Supreme Court. I will stay committed to my same values and principles as before, and you can expect to see a noticable wave of justice sweep across this great nation.”

Erin will thank me, and will even go on later to say, once retired, that her interview with me was the greatest interview she ever gave, and also the highlight of her career.

My induction is going to be one of the greatest TV events of all time. It’s going to become one of those “Where were you?” questions for the ages. There will be DVDs and merchandise for sale, commemorating the spectacle.

Forget Superbowls.

They’re not even close.

So yeah, that’s the vision I have imagined for myself, or as I like to call it, the game plan. It’ll probably start picking up momentum anytime now; my hot takes can’t be trashed and ridiculed forever. And I am listening to some of the more coherent and pointed criticisms, and I am trying to improve.

I don’t think it would even be so bad if people began liking and praising my posts ironically, maybe eventually the joke would run out and I’d be taken seriously.

Or maybe I need to try to find some young and impressionable followers. I can target them and they could even grow with me and my brand of opinions…

But for now, everyone still shit posts me, and trolls me, and tries to send me viruses… but being popular isn’t always being right.

And eventually, popular will be right. And I will be popular. And when that happens, I will distance myself from the slime which I have risen up from.

And I will rinse myself off too.

And I will keep posting.

I’m here to declare, to make things official, that I’m upping my game. From here on out, my takes are only going to be delivered with more and more passion…and always less restraint. If you’ve think you’ve mocked me good already, well just you wait, my next “garbage” opinion is going to reek so bad of truth, you’ll be crying and begging me for forgiveness.

I imagine.

And to everyone who thinks I’m hysterical, they’re right, because I’m laughing hysterically. My future is so bright, I can’t even blame anyone for being jealous.

I’m impressed with myself too.

So I continue to press send.

Every Event Planner’s Worst Nightmare

I know people don’t like to hear excuses, but a bunch of teenagers really did beat me up and knock me into a coma. This was not my choice, and has likely been just as inconvenient for me as it has for you.

At this time, I would appreciate a little mercy, and I would like for you to try to understand, and quit giving me negative reviews online.

I couldn’t have possibly forseen this, and I’m terribly sorry that it happened.

Please forgive me.

I sent this message to 8 different couples.

Those who did respond, didn’t make much of my requests for mercy.

But what else can I say? What could I have done to have prevented this?

Being a wedding coordinator is tough; there’s countless expectations of you, and just about no room for error. People put their “Big Day” on your shoulders, and they demand nothing less than perfection.

Also on my shoulders — a brain with a consciousness lying dormant.

There’s not much worse than getting yelled at on the phone while youre still recovering in a hospital bed.

Besides maybe getting knocked into a coma in the first place.

But heck it’s been a struggle.

I only answered because I thought I would hear, “Get better!” or a “My God, that’s terrible!”

Boy was I wrong.

How exactly did I “ruin everything,” when I was in a condition where I couldn’t do anything at all?

My misfortune wasn’t any sort of “cruel and intentional sabotage.”

I worked hard to get where I was, and it seems now I’ll have to work extra hard to restore my reputation.

And I’ll have to be more cautious of teenagers too.

Damn.

My Judgement Versus Theirs: A Battle Of Waste And Opinion In A Corrupt Society

“Age is just a number,” I say, as I place my sandwich inside it’s plastic bag. Numbers. Expiration dates. I pack my own lunch. I never throw anything out and therefore I save a lot.

I also risk a lot too.

But this stomach of mine is trained and conditioned like a warrior. In this one bedroom apartment, we don’t “throw things out.” And by we I mean me, but it’s a house rule, so it applies to everyone who comes through, if they ever come through.

I don’t waste food. I’d rather die! Bring it!

Those left over and forgottens in the far back corner of the refrigerator?

Well now I remember.

That green mold?

It hasn’t killed me yet!

That black mold?

I can dig it out. I can make things work.

I like to boast my iron gut. The exile my colleagues have given me is an honor; it’s proof of my commitment. They’re all weaker and they know it. All those who have witnessed me eat lunch have responded towards me with nothing less than anger and disdain. For the majority of my colleagues, they’ve had enough.

“Are you trying to poison yourself?” asked Cindy in accounting.

“You’ve gotten our attention, you can now stop,” said Jeff who restocks the vending machine.

You don’t even really work here Jeff. Move along Jeff.

But I will never stop bringing my “soiled and disgusting” lunches to work. And I will always accept these types of responses with great pleasure.

They said they would call the health department on me, they said they would all report me again, and one man, even had his hand hovering above the fire alarm, and was contemplating pulling it.

“I think we should evacuate. This air isn’t safe to breath!” our boss Nile panicked.

But as they stirred and panicked, I smirked and took another bite, and then even chomped it with my mouth open for all to see.

“Mwhahahaha!” I cackled, with crumbs pouring out of my mouth and onto my lap.

“I’m gonna p—” one co-worker said, before running out the cafeteria with a hand over their mouth. It was only seconds later that everyone else followed, never to return.

That honestly, is an expected outcome of the lifestyle, and I really don’t see anything wrong with it either. So why not stand proudly for what I believe? I cannot be moved.

But it’s always been about the food waste.

“Spoiled” food has a different meaning to most people than it does to me.

I don’t believe in it.

All food is good food.

Ask yourself, “How many pounds of food do I throw out a year?”

If you can’t answer honestly, it’s likely because you’re ashamed.

But unlike most society, I have no shame.

My food waste number is a negative. I go out looking for spoiled and tossed food to eat once everything at home has been finished. I pick off tables that have yet to be bused when I go out to restaurants. Why even order an appetizer?

Aside from my convictions regarding food, and my passion for battling food waste, it’s worth mentioning that there’s at least one more thing that I’m also really really good at. And that is my job. I am really really good at my job. I can say this with total confidence, because out of all the complaints I have received over the years, not a single one has equalled a termination, yet.

I remain employed. I remain on the winning side.

When I eat in the cafeteria alone every day at work, I have a feeling of ownership and victory; the cafeteria is my conquered territory.

Everyone goes out to eat. Or eats at their desk. Or in their car.

The warrior gut continues on and does not compromise or relent! Ever! The warrior gut will conquer and conquer again!

Sometimes the challenge is mold or staleness, other times what’s most difficult to ingest is the reality of other people’s lives, and the feelings I get when I think about the contents of their kitchen waste baskets.

I know that at least I live my life with honor.

And I’m sincerely not sure if everyone is getting a way from me, or if they’re giving me my space.

But it makes everywhere I go feel just like home.

The public offers me the same kind of alone time that my apartment also does.

Ahead Of My Time

George Washington chops down a cherry tree and people still fawn over him for it centuries later.

I chopped down a utility pole and now I’m a fugitive.

I was living in my ex-girlfriend’s basement, which was great because she didn’t know that I was down there. She has a restraining order against me, and when the cops came to ask if she’d seen me recently, she aggressively assured them that I was a “stupid loser” and the “biggest mistake of [her] life.” She said if she ever saw me, she’d be certain to contact them right away.

It was an incredible performance, even if it couldn’t be considered acting (it bought me four days worth of time).

She eventually found me and made good on her promise to alert the authorities.

“Oh fuck. Fuck you. You’ve been impossible to get rid of, but not anymore. This is the end for good. Fuck your shit.”

I crawled back out the window from which I came in.

“One day I’ll be remembered for this story, and one day, centuries from now, I’ll probably even be considered a legend — like George Washington,” I shouted back in through the basement window, now from the outside.

“This is so much more than some cherry tree,” I said to myself. “This story has action upon action.”

Roaming the streets alone, I figured I’d stop over at my buddy Brad’s place and tell him about everything I was involved in. He said, “You should tell this story on a podcast.”

I said, “Hell yeah buddy! Let’s get me on a podcast!”

But neither of us had any money for microphones or equipment.

But I had an idea!

“Stealing would just be another charge if I get caught. I don’t mind.”

But Brad said he was mostly throwing out the podcast idea as a suggestion for me; he said he didn’t really want to do it himself. I told him he was wasting my time. He said he was tired, and no longer in the mood to harbor a fugitive anymore.

I said, “Brad, you’ve let me down, and now, you’re letting me down again. That’s twice within the last five minutes. When I do get the podcast equipment necessary to tell my story, you’re going to be portrayed as another antagonist in it. You’ll be right there with the cops and the detectives, and the FBI.”

Brad replied, “You’re doing that thing again where you talk to avoid actually going. Just leave already. Damn.”

Standing infuriated on his front porch, I made my final plea for help. I cried, “I HAVE A TARGET ON MY HEAD!”

But Brad had already locked the door on me and I wasn’t going to punch it forever. Not wanting to cause a bigger scene, I decided to head out. I waved to the neighbors and reminded myself to be a bit more inconspicuous.

Walking down the street, I was careful not to step into any street lights. I was certain the FBI was after me by now…SWAT teams and bomb squads…packs of canines were probably not far behind. Bounty hunters. If the news determined I’m a domestic terrorist, it could mean open season hunting for me.

I had nowhere to go and a lot of time to think.

“What’s my story worth if I’m never able to tell it?”

“What am I worth?”

And I continued walking. I went in the direction of my purpose, and I got there; I acquired the podcast equipment necessary for me to tell my story.

And I’d like to thank you all for listening.

And I’d also like to give a giant FUCK YOU to Brad.

Fuck you Brad.

If there’s anything this adventure has taught me, it’s that I can do anything I put my mind to. And that also, in reality, George Washington was probably just some pasty, wig-headed bitch who had stomache worms.

I’ve been better than him this whole time.

And now I can live happily ever after. Nothing bad is ever going to happen to me. I am the creator of my own dreams.

Deference To No One

People say, “If you don’t like ______, we can’t be friends.”

Well I’ve had tons of friends and they all eventually left when they found out I was an imposter. Intravenous glowsticking wasn’t my scene. Swallowing shoplifted beta fish got old really quick for me too. I find it hard to believe I ever let myself snort crystal Windex.

I couldn’t keep up with all the trends the way some people were capable of.

And it became noticeable.

I once asked, “Why can’t we just hang out and talk about our interests, maybe do something constructive?”

And for questioning the activities, I was told I was acting strange.

But I don’t care anymore.

My body still glows in the dark at night and it keeps me awake. I’m tired. I just want to be involved in something authentic that isn’t so ridiculous and short lived. I can’t stop thinking about all those poor fish we ate — they could’ve been someone’s pet. And it had to be damaging to all those pet stores’ revenues too.

I no longer care about all the benefits that come with the “in” social group; the parties, the inside jokes, the general acceptance… It’s costed me a great amount of self respect, and I have no idea what my convictions are anymore.

I was running and running to keep up, but as anyone could tell, I was still far behind.

So I quit trying.

And it’s been OK so far.

I get teased a bit, but it’s bearable.

And just know…

If you’re at a party trying to enjoy yourself and hang, and someone pops the cap to a lava lamp and starts passing it around…you’re allowed to have second thoughts…and get this, you’re allowed to keep passing it as well. If you get asked to leave, you can accept the offer and you can go be the real you elsewhere.

Who even knows the longterm damage of drinking from a lava lamp?

I can tell you about “glowsticking” though.

Or if you find me out at night, you can see for yourself.

It’s not hard to find me.

I’m the one who’s glowing.

Dear Community

Support your local parkour kids. Let them hang up your holiday decorations or clean out your gutters or do some odd job for you — one that usually requires a ladder. Parkour kids will undoubtedly appreciate it. They sleep on fire escapes, and in the rafters of abandoned warehouses, and underneath bridge supports; it all depends on the season and weather.

Parkour kids move around a lot and are considerate of all terrains. Take caution when approaching parkour kids though, if you scare them, they might jolt back up to the top of a tree or some high fixture, and it could be a long time before they come down again. I personally have been making extensive, ongoing efforts to let them know that the floor isn’t always lava, and that us ground-dwellers aren’t all hostile. Instead of our two worlds colliding, maybe we can have better relations. Maybe we can grow to trust each other more.

Truthbomb:

I saw a man grab his nutsack at a red light the other day. He put his car in park, pointed me out, and then thrusted his hips up so I can see him grab his nutsack in the window.

His actual nutsack.

He had it out.

I’m too old now. I have a wife and kids and a job, a good job, but I wish more than anything that I was a parkour kid. I’m always looking up and looking around for them. They live life like it’s always top bunk. Everyday. I wish that I could climb up and escape with them.

Final Message/Closing Remarks:

Us ground-dwellers aren’t all hostile. What do I care if someone risks death to scale the side of an office building? I’m not a security guard and roof hopping is a thrill to watch. I could never be a parkour kid now and chances are, you’d never have the guts to be one either.

That’s why I choose to support them. And you should too.

If you’re a parkour kid and you’re reading this, I respect you.

Maybe a couple of you can come over and help me hang up a tire swing from the tree in my backyard.

I think it’d be great to get together and officially meet.

–A Local Father

A Dreamer’s Tale

Tell yourself, “This world needs me. I am smart and capable of so much. Nobody but me has my unique ideas. Without me, there’d be a whole universe missing out on what it is that I have to offer.”

And then go make something.

Today’s genius idea: Beefwings

I took some old chicken wing bones out of the trash, rinsed them, mushed seasoned ground beef into them, and once they’re done in the oven — I’m gonna roll them around in Cheeto dust and serve them up to friends.

As great as it is to take risks and experiment, I think it’s equally as great to share. You’ll find that people can be appreciative of your creations. Not always, but slightly more than never they are.

Sometimes the response is, “Have I been poisoned? Am I going to die?”

But sometimes it isn’t.

A little disclosure:

I don’t know for certain that everything is going to be fine; you should induce vomiting if you feel you should. It happens all the time. The panicky, WTF response that is.

I cannot be offended. I am willing to admit to my mistakes and learn from them. I am always looking to go forward, and that requires an honest self assessment.

After what happened last summer with the cake I baked, I discovered that I shouldn’t use collected rain water as an ingrediant. The “natural, earthy” taste that I was aiming for, turned out to be a major misjudgement.

Thank God everyone made a full recovery.

I will continue to learn and improve.

Cooking is my passion.

In Place of Sheep

Some people like to count sheep in order to help them relax and fall asleep quicker at night. I personally like to imagine myself ruthlessly wrecking the shit out of a seedy motel room.

Something nasty and worthy of abuse, like a highway side, designated smoker’s room. I can’t imagine myself destroying anything beautiful; senseless waste and destruction won’t facilitate a peaceful sleep for me. It won’t work! If you destroy something ugly and awful and in need of demolition anyways, you’re not ruining the best of anything; it’s all good!

I’m not the type, but if you’re the type that regularly screams into a pillow out of frustration, I can only imagine this being the perfect nighttime sleeping plan for you.

Regardless your type, it’s at least worth a try. Test it out for one night, if not, it’s one night only!

In our imaginations, when we’re preparing ourselves for sleep, there’s no cops or managers or bosses to worry about. There’s no payments to make, no responsibilities to take. So why is it always recommended that we count sheep? Thoughts of fictional motel destruction can also be cathartic, and they’re always risk free— they’re only thoughts! And no one’s getting hurt in these thoughts either (imagining yourself inflicting pain upon people, real or not, is not a sleeping plan I can endorse).

Imagine yourself jamming an unsafe amount of adapters and plugins into a wall socket. Feels pretty mischievous, right? Now imagine all that causing an electrical fire and the room burning down. There’s still no consequences! It’s not real!

So forget about sheep.

When I’m done getting ready for bed, and I’m laying there with my head on the pillow, the first thing I like to imagine myself doing is inserting the key into the door, and then stepping inside my motel room…

For starters, I might kick over a chair, or go over to the bed to jump on it with my shoes on. I might kick the blankets on the floor, and hit the ceiling a bunch of times, as many times as I please! I’ll perhaps rip open the pillows or change the clock to a wrong time. I’ll plug the sink and shower drains and turn the water on. I’ll walk back out into the other room and I’ll… notice myself start to relax and drift closer to sleep.

But not always.

Just like counting sheep, it might not seem to be working some nights. You might get upset because time is passing and you need to get up early, and you’re now worried about how much tomorrow’s gonna suck because you’re not getting the rest you need.

Whatever your sleeping plan may be, it’s always good to refocus when this starts to happen.

For me, I know that I gotta get out of my head and away from my worries, and get back into that motel room.

I’ll take a lamp and smash it off the TV. I’ll then take the TV and push it onto the floor. I’ll then rip down the curtains. I’ll karate chop my hand down the blinds. I’ll swing the phone by it’s chord and let it smash into the wall. I’ll then take a jagged piece of debris, and I’ll start scraping off the wall paper…

I’ll…

I’ll then…

Goodnight world.

Fall Down City

If an investigator or someone insidious ever wanted my genetic information, well they’d have no problem collecting it is all I’m saying. Woot woot! I kid but really I do leave my genetic information all over the place all the time.

One time at a baseball game, I was sweating so bad they removed me from the bleachers. My sweat puddled around where I was sitting and it began streaming out and making it’s way towards other people; this husband and wife.

People asked “Did you pour water on yourself” and others likely just assumed that I had.

When I said I hadn’t, and had no water bottle to show, everyone treated me as if I had a disease.

“Ewww!”

“Gross!”

“What’s the matter with this guy? Get him outta here!”

A home run landed a section over but it basically went unnoticed because all the focus was on me. The heat and the sweat and the sight of dozens and dozens of heads turned towards me looking concerned; I felt a lone, and scared. I felt like an outcast. I wanted someone to throw me a life jacket!

But I guess no one had ever seen a man sweat as much as they’d seen me. People where looking up and around, saying “Could something somehow poured on him?”

I was the great mystery of left field bleachers, I was the center of all the talk. And I was extremely self conscious about it.

Stirred up, overheated and overwhelmed into confusion, I tried to cover my face with my hands and nonchalantly faint right there at my spot on the bleachers. With my head rolling back and ending up on people’s shoes, I had failed.

“My God, what’s he doing now?!!”

“He’s on my shoes!”

“Quick! Lift your feet up!”

There was a dead fish in the left field bleachers. Sloppy, slippery, wet, limp, and now with peanut shells all over it’s face.

This was a family game, and according to many people’s opinion, what was going on with me was indecent and perverse.

No one wanted to help me up. I floundered. Some people even discouraged other people from helping me.

“Ew, you don’t wanna touch him,”

“Well someone should do something.”

I could feel the stadium filth on my face. And I could hear the voices of hundreds of disgruntled and disconcerted ballpark attendees. I wished and prayed for a rain shower. I was almost incapable of staying awake. I sat myself up and I began mumbling about the rain.

“Could use a nice shower right now, what’s the forecast?”

See, rain would’ve bailed me out. Everyone concerned with their own dryness would’ve been running and seeking cover, instead of out loud, expressing their disgust towards me.

Rain would’ve been the greatest gift I could’ve received at this moment, but it was extremely unlikely, and just not happening.

I was with friends from work and they had never seen me like this. They were like “whoa man, we never knew you were like this.”

They’ve seen me sick and sneezing and hacking and all the fluids I can produce that way. But in an air conditioned office, they never knew about my life as a sweater.

They were embarrassed and were looking at me like “pull it together man.” But I can’t stop myself from sweating. It’s not some sort of conscious decision I make to sweat as much as this.

An EMT and a few security guards arrived at the request of whoever was bothered enough to go and seek help. Maybe there’s a phone number to report wrongful or suspicious activity? I don’t know, but at no point did anyone say “we’re getting you help, they’re on their way,” so I guess it was done anonymously.

Medical and security took me by the arm and were to “escort me into the shade.” In my mind, I couldn’t tell if they were going to give me a check up and upgrade my seat out of courtesy and necessity (they can’t send me back out to the bleachers I figured; they shouldn’t!). Or I couldn’t tell if they were making moves and were in the process of kicking me out of the ballpark.

Whatever the reason, I felt as though I was a disgusting inconvenience, and they were trying to move me out of sight. I was the hideous undesirable, in need of exile. I’m surprised they didn’t come and retrieve me in hazmat suits.

“God forbid a ball gets hit there and we have that on camera! We can’t let this happen in my ballpark! It’d be a scandal!” I imagined the team owner saying, standing in their box and staring at me through binoculars after being informed of a “situation” in left field.

Being escorted down the row and up the aisle, the crowd parted like the sea. I looked into eyes of many while passing, those eyes all looked away. Did I do something wrong in a past life?

But even with the help of people who’s job it was my safety, it still couldn’t be promised that I was in good hands. And by “good hands” I mean people with a strong grasp.

Still I’m like a fish, and fish do slip.

I hold no grudges against them; my pores are like faucets; I could’ve slipped out the hands of anyone. Fainting for me is not super common like, having stomachaches or indigestion is. But it does happen more often with me than most people.

My ballpark handlers took me over to first aid where I had my pupils checked, my blood pressure checked, and I was given a free water bottle! To top it all off, they allowed me to sit in an empty seat that was usually designated for people with wheelchairs and disabilities. It had been an upgrade!

I reunited with my co-workers later on to tell them about my good change in luck. They all sounded tired and indifferent. I can believe that, they probably got too much sun in those bleachers.

What a good thing it was that I got forced out in the 3rd inning.

My sweat, my falls, my apparent lifelessness—it made for a good crowd reaction. Not a positive reaction but it made for an interesting time.

My body is like one of those junk cars from the movies, where it’s barely lugging along and there’s hubcaps and bolts popping off all over; I am a man in constant ruin; I leave noticeable evidence of myself wherever I go.

Still nothing can ever compare to the panics I cause with my nose bleeds though.

Those look like violence.

That’s when other people start fainting.

Cycle of Life

Late night thoughts:

I sure hope the Rainforest Cafe raises money and does work to protect actual rainforests.

Does the Rainforest Cafe have any chairs or tables made of chopped down rainforest wood?

That’d be fucked up.

Maybe I should Google search Rainforest Cafe and see if they’ve been involved in any controversies.

Later night thoughts:

It doesn’t even matter. Real rainforests aren’t made up of rubber and plastic and synthetic materials. The Rainforest Cafe has as much “forest” to offer as the parking garage outside. What they’re selling is a lie. It’s dystopian.

In the future, the Rainforest Cafe may be the only rainforest left! The real rainforests need protection right now; not corporations profiting off of simulating them!

A moment for goodbye:

Dear Rainforest Cafe,

You were good to me when I was 7 years old, but now our paths must seperate. Some may say our paths seperated 19 years ago when I last ate at your restaurant—but I am forming a new personal boycott right now. If I ever have a child, you will see no business from us.

In fairness, I must speak of the enjoyable evenings you provided while I was a child. Yeah, you served me some bland-ass, overpriced Lunchable looking pizza, but the theme of your restaurant was really fun and exciting to me.

But now it’s goodbye.

Your restaurant is a lie that has to stop.

Final night thoughts:

I’m proud of my decision to boycott the Rainforest Cafe. It’s been a long night for me, but it’s been a productive one. Good for me.

Wake up thoughts:

All of that was fucking stupid and ridiculous. I would have much rather gotten more sleep. Why was I so interested in the Rainforest Cafe last night? Where’d that even come from? Why am I like this?

Regular thoughts:

I’m so tired. I wonder why?