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Hello everyone. After doing some browsing, I have decided to move the blog over to WordPress. Overall I just seem to like it over there. There haven't been many changes (most of the updating will be done when I go on leave in September) but I will continue to post as regularly as I can. Pre-Deployment is a bitch.
Anyways, feel free to update your bookmarks (Ha, like anyone here has this blog bookmarked) www.almostpublished.wordpress.com I also have an email dedicated to all things writing and what not, joe.wellsblog@gmail.com
Hope to see you all over there and I hope I continue to entertain you all with my ramblings.
-joe
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
You Are Free To Throw Your Life Away
For the fool who allows himself to believe in a fantasy world where no matter what he does, happiness will find him, there is no sympathy. Sadly it is the same for the fool who holds onto the littlest ounce of hope that love is still out there. Waiting. Testing him. The only difference is for the latter, there is a grievance allowed. He fought the good fight no matter how many times he may have stumbled so he does not allow anyone to weep for him or apologize for hurting him but only if moves forward, chin up and ready for the next disappointment.
But he gets his grievance. One bender. Drunk. Grabbing titties and smacking ass. No recollection of how he got home. Late to work cause he is still passed out drunk at 10 a.m. One bender.
It is that following morning he decides if he going to move on or if he will find himself wallowing in regret and sorrow.
I have had my bender. It was everything I needed. I felt cleansed, ready to press on. Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells might have passed some months back but Joe “BAMF” Wells was born (credited to my roommate, Russell) and he is ready to drink, party, and fuck. No Tomorrow.
But if you all know me, I’m one depressing mother fucker. So here I sit at midnight, thinking of all the shit I built in my head. My hopes as to how everything would turn out. Sure there was never a chance for it to ever be a happy ending, but I shall press on, fighting the good fight. I can be dead in three months, I can be come back all fucked, hell, worst case scenario I can come back and want to keep doing this army gig, but I refuse to see that happening. I’m not out of this fight.
Most people at this point of their post-bender analysis realize that they were only in love with the idea of being in love. I’m in love and now seems like a good time to keep on and see what happens. Guess this deployment is perfect timing as it allows me to kill some time while waiting to get back and throw my life away.
To everyone following this over-dramatic account of my life, I apologize. I know some of you were lead to believe that I was bowing out. Sorry, but the saga continues.
But he gets his grievance. One bender. Drunk. Grabbing titties and smacking ass. No recollection of how he got home. Late to work cause he is still passed out drunk at 10 a.m. One bender.
It is that following morning he decides if he going to move on or if he will find himself wallowing in regret and sorrow.
I have had my bender. It was everything I needed. I felt cleansed, ready to press on. Joe “Mother Fucking” Wells might have passed some months back but Joe “BAMF” Wells was born (credited to my roommate, Russell) and he is ready to drink, party, and fuck. No Tomorrow.
But if you all know me, I’m one depressing mother fucker. So here I sit at midnight, thinking of all the shit I built in my head. My hopes as to how everything would turn out. Sure there was never a chance for it to ever be a happy ending, but I shall press on, fighting the good fight. I can be dead in three months, I can be come back all fucked, hell, worst case scenario I can come back and want to keep doing this army gig, but I refuse to see that happening. I’m not out of this fight.
Most people at this point of their post-bender analysis realize that they were only in love with the idea of being in love. I’m in love and now seems like a good time to keep on and see what happens. Guess this deployment is perfect timing as it allows me to kill some time while waiting to get back and throw my life away.
To everyone following this over-dramatic account of my life, I apologize. I know some of you were lead to believe that I was bowing out. Sorry, but the saga continues.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Bitching, moaning and beating yourself up cause it feels so good
I don’t mean to sound like I’m bitching here nor do I tell you all of this in hope of some sympathy, money or a piece of ass. They way this life has turned out so far has me looking at every “event” as a story, a story to be told for laughs, tears, understanding. That is the purpose of literature, whatever the hell that is anymore; to strike an emotional chord deep within the human soul.
But people come attracted because they feel we have something in common and that makes us peers, comrades, friends. It is the same reason why Bukowski attracted all the loons; they believed he was just as crazy and drunk as they were (or they wanted to see a man fall to pieces). So they come over to my room or call me on the phone or, thanks to the technology today, instant message me with their rants and bitching.
Everyone expects me to have a good story to tell, but I have already told them so many times they have become lies to me. My life is a work of fiction and so I tell them what is happening in the moment. This results in a pouring of emotion every now and then until I finally shut myself up because I have sickened myself. And I do feel bad, for usually this happens when in a shitty mood and really don’t want to be around people, but that is when people are always around.
Nonetheless, I get out of my rut and walk around, smiling and gay, feeling that if I were to dive off the roof of my building I would float slowly and smoothly, like a feather, to the ground. That is when they knock on my door or ring my phone or cause my computer to go on the fritz. It is always on the worse day of their lives, their hopes and dreams and women all gone. They sit in my room, taking advantage of the liquor and my ear, looking, begging and pleading for some empathy. Well sirs, I am incapable of that for whatever it is that has you down, well, I truly can give two shits about.
There are only three people that I will listen bitch about their lives and that is only because I care for them; Clinten, Danielle and drunks. They rest can just sit there and sulk for as long as they want, they will eventually get out of their rut as I have mine.
That doesn’t mean that the above three get a free pass to enter in and send a barrage of bitching and moaning my way.
Who am I kidding? These are my friends, of course they can. What I mean is I expect at least a little bit of tact, decency, and respect what little bit of feeling I have left. Besides if I wasn’t for them, I’m not I would have a lot to write about, a lot of stories to tell.
But it is like, take Danielle for instance, since she is the object of my affection at the moment. I listen to her going on and on about Adam and all the other boys she is going out and hooking up with, or at least, attempting to hook up with and she goes into great detail about the situations she finds herself, every finger’s movement, every ounce of moisture gathering below the belt, every inch of cock that is involved and for someone who cares so deeply for her and wants to spend the rest of my life with her, it is enough to make me puke up all this beer and cry myself to sleep at night. Except I don’t. No, I take a step back from it all and realize that I don’t feel that way even though my mind is telling me I should. I just accept it and come to terms that I am Crazy.
Yet, on the other foot, when it is mentioned that I have come to know a woman intimately (who am I kidding; when she finds out I fucked someone) she is unnerved by it all and I find her gathering distance. It’s only when I tell her how I truly feel that she seems to come around, but it doesn’t matter. Her heart is with someone else, no matter how much she wants to deny it. It’s just the fact that her and I are going through the same exact thing, wanting someone who doesn’t want the other and it appears she refuses to acknowledge that fact when we speak. But I do ask, and if I was truly bothered by it all, I would talk to her. And shit, I know of a woman who feels exactly like Danielle and I do, and is tied into this as well for I string her along and crush her soul at the same time, I’m sure.
I’m actually getting sick of myself and now need a drink more than ever. I got this forensics exam tomorrow and then have to go out to the field for the rest of the month. Maybe in that time I will have another good story for you all, hell maybe in that time I will be over Danielle, or her over Adam or hell, her over me. Maybe I will even stop bitching to this keyboard and say something real for once. Or maybe I will just grab another beer and keep doing what I do.
But people come attracted because they feel we have something in common and that makes us peers, comrades, friends. It is the same reason why Bukowski attracted all the loons; they believed he was just as crazy and drunk as they were (or they wanted to see a man fall to pieces). So they come over to my room or call me on the phone or, thanks to the technology today, instant message me with their rants and bitching.
Everyone expects me to have a good story to tell, but I have already told them so many times they have become lies to me. My life is a work of fiction and so I tell them what is happening in the moment. This results in a pouring of emotion every now and then until I finally shut myself up because I have sickened myself. And I do feel bad, for usually this happens when in a shitty mood and really don’t want to be around people, but that is when people are always around.
Nonetheless, I get out of my rut and walk around, smiling and gay, feeling that if I were to dive off the roof of my building I would float slowly and smoothly, like a feather, to the ground. That is when they knock on my door or ring my phone or cause my computer to go on the fritz. It is always on the worse day of their lives, their hopes and dreams and women all gone. They sit in my room, taking advantage of the liquor and my ear, looking, begging and pleading for some empathy. Well sirs, I am incapable of that for whatever it is that has you down, well, I truly can give two shits about.
There are only three people that I will listen bitch about their lives and that is only because I care for them; Clinten, Danielle and drunks. They rest can just sit there and sulk for as long as they want, they will eventually get out of their rut as I have mine.
That doesn’t mean that the above three get a free pass to enter in and send a barrage of bitching and moaning my way.
Who am I kidding? These are my friends, of course they can. What I mean is I expect at least a little bit of tact, decency, and respect what little bit of feeling I have left. Besides if I wasn’t for them, I’m not I would have a lot to write about, a lot of stories to tell.
But it is like, take Danielle for instance, since she is the object of my affection at the moment. I listen to her going on and on about Adam and all the other boys she is going out and hooking up with, or at least, attempting to hook up with and she goes into great detail about the situations she finds herself, every finger’s movement, every ounce of moisture gathering below the belt, every inch of cock that is involved and for someone who cares so deeply for her and wants to spend the rest of my life with her, it is enough to make me puke up all this beer and cry myself to sleep at night. Except I don’t. No, I take a step back from it all and realize that I don’t feel that way even though my mind is telling me I should. I just accept it and come to terms that I am Crazy.
Yet, on the other foot, when it is mentioned that I have come to know a woman intimately (who am I kidding; when she finds out I fucked someone) she is unnerved by it all and I find her gathering distance. It’s only when I tell her how I truly feel that she seems to come around, but it doesn’t matter. Her heart is with someone else, no matter how much she wants to deny it. It’s just the fact that her and I are going through the same exact thing, wanting someone who doesn’t want the other and it appears she refuses to acknowledge that fact when we speak. But I do ask, and if I was truly bothered by it all, I would talk to her. And shit, I know of a woman who feels exactly like Danielle and I do, and is tied into this as well for I string her along and crush her soul at the same time, I’m sure.
I’m actually getting sick of myself and now need a drink more than ever. I got this forensics exam tomorrow and then have to go out to the field for the rest of the month. Maybe in that time I will have another good story for you all, hell maybe in that time I will be over Danielle, or her over Adam or hell, her over me. Maybe I will even stop bitching to this keyboard and say something real for once. Or maybe I will just grab another beer and keep doing what I do.
Do you just ever write about your emotions?
She asked me if I ever wrote what I felt or if I just stuck to the stories. I had. From time to time I would open up and express my love, my hate, my confusion in the relationships I had. I also wrote about my anticipation, my fear, my anxiety of going to war and not going to war. Except now I did now want to touch those emotions. I didn’t want to feel anything. I just wanted to put out my novel and my short stories. I didn’t need to tap into those feelings. They were always there.
She hated the fact that I didn’t share my feelings with her, or anyone for that matter. Sure with love and relationships I am sure she could help me work through my problems. But, with war, combat, she had no place. No one close to me did. They didn’t know what to say to the fact that I was scared that I would not be able to train my guys properly. That I was scared that I might not bring some of them back.
Very few people can tell you how to deal with the recurring dreams of not, physically, being able to pull the trigger, or when you must rush to stop the killings of friends and family and you are stuck, no weapon, no equipment. Helpless.
I have sat here for six years on the sidelines. Every minute I spent training, I have invested 100% of myself into it. I know nothing of combat, but I have been to every practice. I sit here on the bench of the biggest game of the year, third string, and now I am being called up. To ensure my men do their job. To kill the enemy and win the hearts and minds of the population. To bring everyone of them home alive. It’s a terrible amount of pressure.
Yet, it is only here, in the dark, that I show my cracks for in the morning I awaken to throw on my uniform. I do everything I can to prepare my men, mentally and physically. That is the easy part though. It is gaining their trust in my leadership that is the hardest. Maybe it is due to the slow pitches we have received in training, that makes them believe that our job is a little too simple. It might even be the fact I myself have no idea about the essence of combat therefore, any remark I make sounds as though it comes straight out of a text book.
I do not know what it might be; all I am aware of is how it shakes me during these nights. Alone and constantly harassed about what I feel.
She wants to know what I feel. Well overall I feel nothing, because in the morning, in the woods, the swamps, the mountains, all my mental and emotional fortitude is dedicated to them. I don’t have the luxury to decipher what is going on inside me.
She hated the fact that I didn’t share my feelings with her, or anyone for that matter. Sure with love and relationships I am sure she could help me work through my problems. But, with war, combat, she had no place. No one close to me did. They didn’t know what to say to the fact that I was scared that I would not be able to train my guys properly. That I was scared that I might not bring some of them back.
Very few people can tell you how to deal with the recurring dreams of not, physically, being able to pull the trigger, or when you must rush to stop the killings of friends and family and you are stuck, no weapon, no equipment. Helpless.
I have sat here for six years on the sidelines. Every minute I spent training, I have invested 100% of myself into it. I know nothing of combat, but I have been to every practice. I sit here on the bench of the biggest game of the year, third string, and now I am being called up. To ensure my men do their job. To kill the enemy and win the hearts and minds of the population. To bring everyone of them home alive. It’s a terrible amount of pressure.
Yet, it is only here, in the dark, that I show my cracks for in the morning I awaken to throw on my uniform. I do everything I can to prepare my men, mentally and physically. That is the easy part though. It is gaining their trust in my leadership that is the hardest. Maybe it is due to the slow pitches we have received in training, that makes them believe that our job is a little too simple. It might even be the fact I myself have no idea about the essence of combat therefore, any remark I make sounds as though it comes straight out of a text book.
I do not know what it might be; all I am aware of is how it shakes me during these nights. Alone and constantly harassed about what I feel.
She wants to know what I feel. Well overall I feel nothing, because in the morning, in the woods, the swamps, the mountains, all my mental and emotional fortitude is dedicated to them. I don’t have the luxury to decipher what is going on inside me.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Home is where the beer, whores and friends are
Home. Wherever that was anymore, I didn’t fit. To my family, I drank too much, cursed and slept around with whomever. To my friends, it was the same, except they were drinking just as much (only a few slept around as much as I did, but they at least knew how to ensure the entire town didn’t find out about it the next day). I was like this when I left that dead town, New Kensington, not too many people acknowledged it though. Clinten did. He was there the night we were all drinking one woman’s garage as I sat there, four females lined up in front of me. All wanting to know who the best kisser was. Sure there were two other guys with me, but with some stroke of Luck, I had become the expert of the group.
And he was the one to drive me and two other females all off to our respective homes. First dropping off Lauren, making out with her in the back yard, trying to find a spot where she could blow me and not have to worry about her father. After being interrupted by Clinten’s car horn (he can be a dick like that and so am I. It keeps the friendship going), we were at Tina’s house fooling around on her computer when her and I decided to start fooling around. Clinten left in disgust, throwing me a condom and I fucked her good that night.
Something happened after Danielle and I broke up. These women finally started showing me that I had something to offer them, something they wanted for quite some time. All I had to do was be there and smile.
The years started going by and women left my bedroom at higher rates and I ran around with an air of arrogance, entitlement, and who wouldn’t? For the most part, especially my years in Germany, I was getting consistently laid by women who, for the most part, were amazing, and if they lacked looks they made up for it with either their oral skills or freakiness level in bed (or bar bathroom, restaurant parking lot, club dance floor, just to name a few). Back home, everyone else thought I was an asshole, but it didn’t stop women from spreading their legs so it didn’t stop me.
Now, five years later and one hell of a vacation over Christmas were pulling pussy was more like deciding which apples to buy at a supermarket than some sort of exciting chase, I’m bored with it all. My cousin is happy that I have hung up my manwhore shoes, but she knows that I’m leaving for Afghanistan in the fall so I will be home, and people will hear the scary tale of future war and combat, the possibility of death and again, those legs will spread, and I will glide my cock in yet again. It’s what I know, and it seems that is all I got.
I’m sure there will be a few back there, telling me I am too old for this shit. Last time I checked, I’m twenty three. They act as though they don’t understand me, but I plainly don’t understand them. When we were young and didn’t comprehend how big the world was, everyone would shout there head “WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN! WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN!” Then people attempt college, have a kid or two or three, marry, and they believe they have grown up. Matured.
HA!
Home. Maybe they’re right though. Being in the army gives you a few grievances and people tend to let you slide, BUT I’m coming home for good. The “I was in a war, goddammit” card will only go so far until I finally use it all up, and then what? Do I settle down, start furthering my education? What about all those young girls of eighteen walking around the campus, their eyes filled with hope and wanting to experience everything they can, everything their mothers and fathers did and are now afraid of? Who will please them?
Do I get a steady job that pays a decent as a war vet could hope for? Date? I tried dating over Christmas, it scared the hell out of me. Too many whores and bar flies and military town sluts have caused me to forget what even a date is even supposed to be like. Plus, over the years I have come to hate people. It’s all rudimentary to what will happen down the road (either a few good fucks or a serious relationship) and worst of all it requires a lot of small talk which will only force me to put a gun in my mouth.
Do I try to work it out with my ex, the woman I truly love? My stomach is to torn up right now to even deal with that. Actually excuse me a moment while I go and puke.
Ah, so where was I? yes yes So what will I do?
I will get a small apartment, with a small room and small desk. Sitting in there; my laptop, my typewriter, my ashtray and my fridge, stocked with beer and whiskey, and I will get drunk. Writing and typing and screwing. Screwing who? Those sweet young eighteen year old girls who traveled one of the three rivers to make it as a biologist or lawyer or accountant or, god forbid a writer.
Change my ways. Try to be with my love. Mature. The catch phrase seems to be, “Leave it up to fate.” No one wants to make any decisions, take any responsibility and that is all I need. My conscience is clear. I’m already expecting to lose it all and just be another drunk in a crummy apartment talking about the days when I was young so why try? I can’t control this shit, I know what I want and will take it if available. If not, well, damn.
Still, I will be close to the family and they do love me. I will be close to friends and they still put up with me. I will be close to alcohol and that never let me down. New Kensington. Pittsburgh. Pennsylvania. Home. Maybe it’s not as scary as I make it seem. Maybe that’s just the 3 a.m. beer talking.
And he was the one to drive me and two other females all off to our respective homes. First dropping off Lauren, making out with her in the back yard, trying to find a spot where she could blow me and not have to worry about her father. After being interrupted by Clinten’s car horn (he can be a dick like that and so am I. It keeps the friendship going), we were at Tina’s house fooling around on her computer when her and I decided to start fooling around. Clinten left in disgust, throwing me a condom and I fucked her good that night.
Something happened after Danielle and I broke up. These women finally started showing me that I had something to offer them, something they wanted for quite some time. All I had to do was be there and smile.
The years started going by and women left my bedroom at higher rates and I ran around with an air of arrogance, entitlement, and who wouldn’t? For the most part, especially my years in Germany, I was getting consistently laid by women who, for the most part, were amazing, and if they lacked looks they made up for it with either their oral skills or freakiness level in bed (or bar bathroom, restaurant parking lot, club dance floor, just to name a few). Back home, everyone else thought I was an asshole, but it didn’t stop women from spreading their legs so it didn’t stop me.
Now, five years later and one hell of a vacation over Christmas were pulling pussy was more like deciding which apples to buy at a supermarket than some sort of exciting chase, I’m bored with it all. My cousin is happy that I have hung up my manwhore shoes, but she knows that I’m leaving for Afghanistan in the fall so I will be home, and people will hear the scary tale of future war and combat, the possibility of death and again, those legs will spread, and I will glide my cock in yet again. It’s what I know, and it seems that is all I got.
I’m sure there will be a few back there, telling me I am too old for this shit. Last time I checked, I’m twenty three. They act as though they don’t understand me, but I plainly don’t understand them. When we were young and didn’t comprehend how big the world was, everyone would shout there head “WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN! WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN!” Then people attempt college, have a kid or two or three, marry, and they believe they have grown up. Matured.
HA!
Home. Maybe they’re right though. Being in the army gives you a few grievances and people tend to let you slide, BUT I’m coming home for good. The “I was in a war, goddammit” card will only go so far until I finally use it all up, and then what? Do I settle down, start furthering my education? What about all those young girls of eighteen walking around the campus, their eyes filled with hope and wanting to experience everything they can, everything their mothers and fathers did and are now afraid of? Who will please them?
Do I get a steady job that pays a decent as a war vet could hope for? Date? I tried dating over Christmas, it scared the hell out of me. Too many whores and bar flies and military town sluts have caused me to forget what even a date is even supposed to be like. Plus, over the years I have come to hate people. It’s all rudimentary to what will happen down the road (either a few good fucks or a serious relationship) and worst of all it requires a lot of small talk which will only force me to put a gun in my mouth.
Do I try to work it out with my ex, the woman I truly love? My stomach is to torn up right now to even deal with that. Actually excuse me a moment while I go and puke.
Ah, so where was I? yes yes So what will I do?
I will get a small apartment, with a small room and small desk. Sitting in there; my laptop, my typewriter, my ashtray and my fridge, stocked with beer and whiskey, and I will get drunk. Writing and typing and screwing. Screwing who? Those sweet young eighteen year old girls who traveled one of the three rivers to make it as a biologist or lawyer or accountant or, god forbid a writer.
Change my ways. Try to be with my love. Mature. The catch phrase seems to be, “Leave it up to fate.” No one wants to make any decisions, take any responsibility and that is all I need. My conscience is clear. I’m already expecting to lose it all and just be another drunk in a crummy apartment talking about the days when I was young so why try? I can’t control this shit, I know what I want and will take it if available. If not, well, damn.
Still, I will be close to the family and they do love me. I will be close to friends and they still put up with me. I will be close to alcohol and that never let me down. New Kensington. Pittsburgh. Pennsylvania. Home. Maybe it’s not as scary as I make it seem. Maybe that’s just the 3 a.m. beer talking.
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