Cut out all the ropes and let me fall

Had this fucked up dream last night. You're not with me anymore and my dog died. I was sitting in this road-side diner like the waffle house or something like that except they served fried chicken and waffles.the waitress came over and threw down a plate of cold eggs - sunny side up and covered in ketchup.  I hate that.   I left and traffic sucked.  Then it was just about light outside and I  was in bed thinking that school starts today! fuck  and i was late for the bus. I despise those teachers and kids and hipster haired fuck ups.  how's is that Steve Fairgroves is even capable of growing a beard at barely 17 anyway? I cant wait to laugh at his Pabst Blue Ribbon belt buckle and fag anchor tattoo. Ever wonder the ratio of anchor tattoos to actual sailors in your town?    

 
I woke up in a real negative mood. pissed at the dream and the sunshine and birds. I fumbled around in the kitchen. I managed a cup of coffee (praise to the Keurig machine) then shook Fruity-Pebbles into a bowl and sat at the desk. I attempted to work on my comic-book.  but nothing. nothing. Okay. I needed to cool off. So, I showered like Christian Bale in American Psycho, scrub down, moisturize, spray. A few push-ups. I let the sugar and caffeine settle in and got to thinking: I used to be able to write so easily, so good too. Girls left with sticky knickers good. i mean,  i could never draw for shit but at least i had the writing part down. I wrote with my dick,  that was it and i knew it. Driven by an insatiable need to create and to fuck. girls seemed to like the pent up anger and frustration. the displaced loneliness pouring out on the page, drawn into a character. and that worked?  Yeah, Girls emailed my blog to get to know me. "Put your anger inside me" they seemed to say. and i did. Often. but it was never without the vapor trail of emotional scars and broken promises associated with the artist /whore muse hook-up. They ended as stories in my comics. Entertainment. But, the void was my life and what i wrote about and drew was merely the truth hidden between the lies. Ah.. ,, hows that for bullshit?   

I got a girlfriend and then married - a wife. a shiny new black metal ring to wear,  then the dog and job and bills and no time for girlfriends on the side or any time at all.  time slipped away along with my words and drawings.  I want to write again - fuck again. fuck someone new and keep secrets and then forgive myself in comic-strips and prose. With these thoughts i go back to the desk. I have 10 minutes before i have to leave for work. Ive been working on this same rough draft for weeks, the sketches, the idea sheet. my latest comic .

My comic book is called -  ARCH. (Anger. Rage.Confusion.Hate)
It's about this guy named Arch and he's a real negative dude. (at least on the inside) but  it works for him, until it doesn't. i mean strange shit happens along the way. He meets a girl who is into werewolves and choking, he volunteers at the animal shelter (and the dogs sometimes talk to him, offering advice) Arch makes what money he can writing a self-help blog online. He is a life coach of sorts,  he'd battled his demons in the past and truly believes he can now help others. specialties include the power of attraction, sexual addiction, consumerism, and balance.  with that he peddles his e-books and email coaching seminars (personal one on ones can be set up) He has few overly devoted followers if you know what I mean.  He claims to be good at fixing things but i think its more destroying things. One morning after a particularly awful dream he wakes up and writes a scathing rant in his blog, a manifesto filled with sci-fi and porn references. He takes on everything from religion to Star Wars. But, he only planned on venting. Getting out all his anger on the page like he'd been taught, release and let go. No one gets hurt.  Delete. Only he pressed Enter. It's gone, it's out there for the world to see. The entry is titled "Rainbows and Ewoks are Gay and Love is Shite "  250 comments in less than 3 minutes.His cell phone is buzzing. Oh shit.    
 

long term effects are not known

There was one like this.
some blog about movies, panties, music and cigarettes. Some shit about Friday nights and hair clips. It wasn't so much bragging but it was about fucking too. not like porn. not like just all memories either. I mean you didn't know if it happen yesterday or today. I think all the sex stuff was just to piss some people off though, I cant be sure.

It's like about hotel rooms and smoke and wine all over the page. It's the little things that count. It's what it means to you and not them that matters most. I know if you tried to figure it out (the words) it would just hurt your head. You'd just end up in tears. feeling sad about something you didn't do. something just short of obsession. something or someone you couldn't ever have. I'm not sure, but I think that's what all the writing was about.

People change though, I'll give you that. But you go back every once in awhile and he'll still be talking about the same shit. Missing the same fucked up girl. Spilling his heart all over the page like the worst country love song. I want to tell this guy , It will get better. but I know it won't. It's something to talk about and sometimes you just say things to hear how they sound. I get the idea I love you is just one of them.

The pictures aren't that good though. Not like here. fuck. the words aren't so great either. but what I admire is that he tries. He doesn't care if he gets any ones attention. not hers, not yours, not mine.

You see, there was one like this. A lot like this.

It is this.

your back roads.
they twisted and turned
it was a fine night.
the other night.
The next night.
tomorrow
night.