Sunday, November 20, 2016


It's like prison. No other way to describe it. No matter what my plan of escape is, there will always be three walls and a barred gate keeping me here.

I went out last night with a friend to a bar where the women hung out with men twice their age, and tried not to betray their disgust when the withered old hands snaked around their thin waists. Fathers living out some sick fantasy about their daughters, and the whole time my friend kept egging me on.

“Go on man. You're like, better than any guy in here.”

It was the kind of rah rah, go team go bullshit you'd expect from the well meaning friend. The equivalent of a two man pep rally. He didn't understand where my head was. The whole time I kept thinking about how I couldn't possibly compete with the kind of green these guys laid out on a daily basis to their ex-wives just in alimony, let alone on their arm candy. No one in their right mind would even want to. Those women weren't there to meet mister right, and those guys were only there for the girl of the night.

So there I was, standing in a crowd, my hands at my sides, standing still. I was careful not to move in the off chance I might bump into someone as we watched a cover band do their best impression of another band who did it better, and all I could think about was how much I hated this scene. How much I hated it years ago, and how much I still hate it now that I am single. The heads of men bobbing up over the crowd like a spinning buoy, surveying the sea of bleach blond and tight night dresses.

Last week is a mystery. I drank like I was trying to die, and maybe I was. Maybe that was the point. I drank long islands by myself until the night was a slide show of events I don't remember the order of, and at the end I threw it all up.

I woke up in my bed, and I didn't remember how I got there. I went outside to check my car and there were no dents, in fact I parked it perfectly. It was like a magic trick. On the driver's side window was a little spot of grease, like maybe at some point I passed out in my car, and fell asleep on the window. 

I searched the house, the parking lot, and my van for my missing glasses and they were no where to be found.

My phone had a crack in the glass covering the camera and there was a video on there that I had recorded the night before. The only evidence that a night had even occurred.

I hit play.

A bleary eyed me looked into the camera as I walked through the streets of my neighborhood.

“You know what I hate? I hate that I have to do this.” I said into the camera. “I hate that I have to be here another year and that I spent so much of my life waiting. Most of all...”

The video flipped and streaks of street lamp light blurred across the screen and everything went black with a cracking sound. The me from the night before cursed his stupid clumsy fingers, and the video ended.

She messaged me today. She asked me how I was feeling? Was everything okay? I answered back with one word: lonely. She told me that it would get better, that I should just give it time. She said that her life was crazy, and that was the end of the conversation, if you could even call it that.

I picture her going out all night to bars with her Jersey friends, living it up. Newly single, ready to mingle, the kind of carefree living afforded only from living at home with your parents. She was able to move on, the center of attention of all her would be suitors, all men wanting to stick their fingers inside her, and here I am staring at a blank page trying to figure out how best to channel my rage into something productive. Lying to myself that if I just stay busy it'll be alright.

I must go out to meet people, that's what my mother tells me. I must work out, get in shape, I must do this, I must do that, but at the end of the day, these four walls are my prison, and even when I leave, in my mind I am still here.

Saturday, September 3, 2016



I came home tonight and she was sitting on the ground next to her suitcase packing. It didn't really phase me because I had been expecting it even though nothing tonight had been going according to plan. In fact it had all been going to shit.

I took off my shirt and went to hang it up and when I walked into the closet I saw the skeleton of hangers and empty racks in the incandescent light. The sadness rose in me so quickly like a pain shooting from a stubbed toe that I had to turn around. I sort of gasped and walked out the bedroom door. She followed asking me what was wrong, and I didn't want to cry in front of her again. It was humiliating enough the first time, to cry, looking for the other person to look back at you with love in their eyes, but instead all you get is that sort of cold resignation.

I was forced to deal with that fact that all of this was over a while ago, but every time a little more of her disappears from my life, I feel like I am mourning the death of a relative. Because that is what she is, at the end of the day, a part of my family.

That's the hardest part of all this. Knowing that I am not losing a girlfriend, I'm losing a family member.

I keep going back through memories in my head trying to figure out where everything went wrong and all I keep thinking about are those moments. You know them. Those moments of pure joy where I got you laughing so hard that you couldn't breathe and your hand got going like you were swatting away flies.

I remember we were high, laying in bed watching Fraggle Rock, and I pointed out the one Fraggle in the background, during the musical number, was wearing an evening dress. You said it looked like the kind of dresses that wardrobe on set used to make you wear when you were doing extra work.

I did my little directors voice and said: “Hey, it's a little inappropriate for the scene don't you think?”

And you did the wardrobe voice: “Ahh, she's in the background, no one will see her.”

I called her a Fraggle hooker and you did that soundless laugh while you tried to catch your breath and we kissed and made love without reservations.

It was a moment.

Now, just six years later, it's over and I don't know how to cope with it and you seem fine. It's like a fucking betrayal. It's like some bad science fiction movie where my whole life has just been a simulation and none of this was real.

But, I guess it's better this way. You've been phoning it in and I have been driving us both crazy trying to figure out why you hate me, and I'm one of those kinds of people that will hang around even if shit is awful. I'm never one to give up.

Still though, the memory of you is like a tick. Every time I pry you out of my brain and just try to let go, or tell myself everything will be all right, it's better this way, we are better off as friends, a little part of you is still in there, in my skin, and you grow back and suddenly I'm crying again, I'm embarrassed, I feel emasculated, and worse of all, alone.

I wanted to write this and feel some sort of vindication, feel some sort of release, but even typing these words I am finding my vision blurred by the tears welling up in my eyes.

There's no quick way to do this. No quick fix for what I am feeling. I never expected it to feel this way. To feel this broken up over someone ever again. Not after the first time I had my heart broken. See I thought I sealed all those passages up, but I didn't. 

Maybe I should have.

You need time to be by yourself. I guess we all need time.

I always wondered why people did it. How could someone end their life? Now I know how. They just couldn't deal with the pain anymore.

I don't even know who I am writing this for… Maybe it's cathartic, a word I've never fully understood but have nodded my head whenever I've heard it.

I mean, I know you'll never read this, you've never read anything of mine voluntarily, but I guess in some way, I'm holding onto the hope that you will because I've never been able to say these things to you before.

I probably never will.

Monday, April 18, 2016

Announcement - A challenge to you, and myself

Announcement - A challenge to you, and myself

I will be proposing a challenge to myself, and to the people who read my blog. Whether you be a writer or not, let's do something together, shall we? For the rest of the year, I will be writing thirty short stories, which is approximately one short story every 8.5 days.

The challenge starts today and will end on New Years Eve of this year. Prizes will include:

  • self-esteem. 
  • An impressive library of short stories to bother some editor at a magazine with. 
  • Most of all will come the discipline of doing a thing you love every day for a year!

The rules are simple:

  • Stories must be at least 500 words, and free of as many grammatical errors as possible.
  • Story must be a story and not just random thoughts. Ask a question, then answer the question by the end of the story. You know, plot.
  • Stories must be posted at the end of the week, Sunday before midnight, or you're tardy for the party. (doesn't mean anything, just means you should be ashamed of yourself)
  • Once your story is up, post it at the #ShortStoryAWeek on twitter so we can all read it!

If you are one of those rebel types, and just not into following rules, join the club. I'm not a fan either. Post anyway. Everyone is welcome in this big bus of love (which is really just a utility van without windows).

So come on people. Join me. Let's do this thing and prove to the world that success is just another word for will power! And beer. Lots of beer. Or coffee. You know. Whatever drug you need.

Join us at

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

Middle Aged - Drama Monologue

M I D D L E   A G E D

I've come to a place in my life where I am middle aged. When I turned thirty, and people did that thing where they like to make fun of you as if you were an old man, it rolled off my back. I was in the best shape of my life, living my dream in California. I did stunt work, I did photography professionally, and I boxed with guys much younger than myself, and came out on top nearly every time.

I recently blew out my knee boxing. That's when the realization hit me, as I laid on my side in that ring, grasping at my knee, trying to extend it. At thirty-six years old, that kind of injury ends any hope of continuing that hobby. The first in what will probably be a series of things I will have to give up on as time beats away at me like sea water worn wood. Eventually I will be nothing but deep ruts, knotted coils of flesh, brittle bones, and forgotten dreams. A pile of misery draped over a lazy boy in a room without lights, unable to sleep because it feels like something is missing.

At some point I will give up on whatever dreams I may have had for being a published writer of renown, and I will give my life up to servitude. Begging for the scraps off the president of the companies table.

I've gained weight. Heavier now than I have ever been. It's probably why my knee went out. I think about my weight daily. I think about, how even now as I write this, about all the things I need to do, but haven't done, and I forget about them the next day. If I am to die a no one, it will be because I felt like no one, and my weight will be The Sword of Damocles hovering over my head, never knowing when it will break it's tiny tether and kill me.

I had always wanted to write this. I tried many times to include so much of my life in the fiction that I've written, but it never felt right. It felt like a cop out to write about my life, and disguise it as imaginative. Like I could have plausible deniability for everything that had happened to me, every horrible decision I made, every person I hurt, every dumb thing that I did, while getting the same feeling of release when a massive weight is lifted from one's shoulders.

It isn't right. You have to take credit where credit is due.

Saturday, February 6, 2016

Friends - Comedy Monologue

Here's one from the archives, back when I used to call myself Will Huxley.


Friends.  Friends is a funny word. First of all it assumes that more than two people actually like you. Which I personally don’t think is possible. I mean think about it, these are people who live vast differences apart from one another, pretending to like being around you. 

You ever notice when you say something to someone, how they might sit still and frozen for a moment, as if processing the information, and without responding, go back to whatever activity they were embroiled in. 

Let’s say you said it again louder, perhaps you were making sure they heard you. 

Let’s say you continue to assault your victim, by asking, “Do you know what I mean?” Over and over. 

What you don’t realize is this person is trying to ignore you, because you have said something so insulting, that they are considering whether or not to continue being your friend. 

It really is a crap shoot, you never know when you are going to say something that can end this friendship at any moment. Yet we continue to say friends. My friends, your friends, BFF best friends forever, far flung friends, and my favorite, friends with benefits. But we continue to use the word “friends” to describe what amount to unsteady cease fires in a middle eastern country. Shaky at best. 

I would say it's an alliance. Two people get together every once in a while to fight off boredom, that's all this shit is, a cure from sitting around your house doing nothing. Now you can go over to someone else's house and do nothing there! 

But you can't be a boring friend, no sir. You have to keep your friends entertained. Make sure to keep the good times going, have to have plenty of things going on at once. 

Maybe you can watch a movie. Maybe you can watch a movie, and listen to music. Maybe you can watch a movie, listen to some music, while you text someone on your cellphone. Maybe you can watch a movie, listen to some music, while you text a friend, while your other friend watches videos on his iphone. Let's say you watch a movie, listen to music, while you text a friend, while your other friend watches videos on his iphone, and updates his fucking facebook, while the cat licks his asshole, and then one of you shouts above the dub step music playing in the background: "Having a great time!"

God people are fucking boring...

Friday, January 29, 2016

My Fellow Anglos - Comedy Monologue

M Y   F E L L O W   A N G L O S

Never been too good with the whole; public speaking, thing, but here it is. I am president. I didn't actually think this would happen, you know? One day I am sitting in the bathroom of a Chili's writing some last minute material for a gig I had at this bar on Santa Monica, and now I am here. Who thought being funny would have qualified me to lead the free world.

My fellow Americans… Who opens a speech that way? It's so weird. Of course I'm American. I mean, I couldn't be German and the President, right? That's ridiculous. They outlawed that kind of thing right?

My stomach hurts. There's just, so many fucking people out there. Like… Oh my god, hundreds of people. Could be thousands, I don't know. Was never a, count the amount of jelly beans in the jar kind of guy. I think I am going to shit myself. 

I'm not ready for this. I'm not. What the hell was I thinking? Running for President. It was supposed to be a fucking joke, people! Do we not get jokes anymore?

Fuck! What have I done? Okay, yeah, I'm definitely going to shit myself. Feels like someone gave me an ipecac enema. I'm gonna end up shooting off of the toilet like one of those water pumped rockets.

Okay, Ethan. Get it together. You can't shit your pants on the first day. What would Obama do? Shit… What would Obama do? I have no idea. I don't watch the news, that shit is depressing. No, wait… What would Geroge Bush Junior do? Stumble his way through a speech, tell a fucked up joke, and spike the microphone. Alright, yeah, that might work.

Some guy is waving to me. Should I wave back? I point to myself as if asking, you want me? He looks at me like I'm retarded. Not a good start. I take those first steps towards the lights, behind the curtain, into the view of screaming crowds of people.  Expectant, hungry people, all looking up to me to feed them. Feed them what?

You know what? Screw this whole, my fellow anglo saxons shit. I'm going out there like a boss.

I'm gonna tell a dick joke.

Sunday, January 24, 2016

Less Than Human Interaction - Drama Monologue

Less Than Human Interaction
Drama Monologue

I've kind of forgotten what it was like to have friends. I communicate with people who say they are my friends, but that's it. Can you call a facebook friend a friend? If so, I got a ton of those.

I just wish it was easier you know? To get to know people, and god knows I've tried. I just get the feeling that people aren't interested in making new friends, like as if the idea of having someone else in your life who is asking for a slice of your free time is just too big a commitment. Social media becomes a sort of screening process for who is worth your time, and who is worth just one hundred and forty characters.

I swore I would never sign up for an account on one of those sites ever again, but… I go through these bouts of, I don't know, I guess it's depression. I just feel like I am so far away from everyone I know, so far removed from what I know, that all I want is to touch something real, and if I can touch it, or hear it's voice, I would at least like to pretend it's real.

I started drinking again. I said I wouldn't, I know, but it's the only thing that keeps me off the ledge anymore. I just wish I knew where to go from here. I'm on an island. I put myself here, for sure, but how do I get off?

It's like I'm waiting for someone to come swing by on a boat and pick me up. It doesn't happen that way. I know it. So you know what? That's it. I'm done feeling sorry for myself. I'm gonna get on the beach, jump in the water and start swimming for the mainland, because isolation is bad enough, but feeling sorry for yourself is even worse…

I wonder what's on Netflix?