I won’t lie, I was nervous,
while legends stood before me,
the same ones I used to work with.
They looked upon me, cautious,
as their eyes said you deserve this,
but my mouth whispered I’m stuck,
and maybe this is not my purpose.
True to my word though, I now own a Quick Stop,
which owns me, and I’ll owe it for the meals
on my table, for the wheels on the highway,
and for the company in the passenger seat,
which hopefully leads to a castle’s driveway.
Imprison the punishers of passion, and
to the dreams that seem like mirages,
know that visions don’t vanish in waiting.
My career is a red herring; my year off,
it came and went, and now I’m back to
working the 6 AM shift, but I’m my own
boss now, and that’s a laughable notion.
They say the best is yet to come, and that
this is just the first step in my own world,
but dreams aren’t meant for your eyes only, or to be
confidential, and self-destruct upon seeing them.
They’re meant to be realized, they’re meant to
be cherished, and they’re meant to be survived on,
and not survived by; not as your last will, and certainly
not as your testament, because it exists because of you,
and not because you tested it, and maybe failed to an extent.
Life is an open road, and I’ve thrown my GPS out the window,
because the accent didn’t suit me, and the directions seemed worthless.
In the last few weeks, I’ve grown tired of my signature,
and have had titles follow my name after a well placed comma:
Owner, Director, Manager, and President;


My text just read, Smile; I haven’t heard your voice, or seen your face in some months.
Your text back said, Needed that today, so I called you, and this is what I found out:

We’re both scared of what the future holds, though I suppose yours is more recent, but
even a year later, you’ve helped me come to terms with where I’ve been, and where I am, and where I’ll go, and if you’ll come with me, either on the campaign trail or being abroad teaching, or selling people houses while studying information technology, but never once forgetting that I’ve always wanted to make those movies. We don’t have to talk for days or weeks, months even, and it’s been almost a year, but when we do, when we finally do, it always goes long, more than sixty minutes. I’ve realized that I missed it, but this time, there’s no subtext; just context, just friendship, and just all the things that I sorely missed like, you laugh at me a lot, whether it be for my driving or that I actually go to the gym, or that we actually have the same stomping grounds, and that we both teared up when they teared it down, and refuse to go back just for fun, and the only time we’d be there is if we were racing, trying to find the fastest route to reconnect among friends who’ve since become much too busy with life, work, homes, and hearts.

Switch gears, and we only talk through email because you don’t have a phone yet, but it’s made me come to terms with the fact that I only belong in your inbox, alongside attached Word documents, and the occasional witty line that you reply to using one word answers in an all lowercase font. You were once the runner up, and sometimes I think you still might be, until I realize how different our backgrounds are, considering I’m a surburban kid not used to skyscrapers, and you’ve moved from sprawling city to city. The truth of the matter is that I wasn’t in your past, and what little I was present, your future will erase that, because I am no longer in college, because I was never the smartest, because I am not booksmart enough about philosophies and mindsets. You deserve someone like-minded, who knows when to open and close his mouthpiece, and not spout scripted dialogue that’s too right-wing/left-wing, but he-won’t-actually-eat-wings. I’ve always been good in moderation, not seen every day, but still be the basis for the butt of all jokes even when making them myself at the expense of others’ nations, even though I’m not a citizen, upstanding or otherwise; I lack globalization.

You were both my toe-to-toe legends, the Ali’s to my Frazier, but the Thrilla in Toronto was a part of another trilogy that didn’t quite deliver on the promises of what I’d hoped it be, but it did give me the two of us, and the two of us, alongside the group later known as the crew of us, so I can’t complain when it gave me everything I wanted that was as close to fame. Every night I drive by the same purple house, but tonight it was bathed in a green light. No significance anymore I’m sure, but it’s good to know the albatross is alive and well. I repeat, the albatross is alive and well, but for the first time in a long time, it remains soaring as I continue sailing away; from it, for it, and forever redefined, as a dictionless, directionless delusional debonair that’ll never marry ’em Webster but keep trying to web search those blog posts, not knowing that I am Jack’s Thought Catalog, and this is his “Smirking Revenge, Complete Lack of Surprise, Broken Heart, and Inflamed Sense of Rejection” (thanks Fight Club for that works cited) all rolled into one because he no longer finds them to be the one; just me, myself, and this paradox lost among this subtle water, enjoying the company of [name’s been dropped].

Fan Mail

My mom says I’m confused about the career paths I won’t choose, and in the last couple of weeks, I’ve been told I’m in the wrong field repeatedly. I no longer have a wardrobe, or outfits committed to a podcast or a sketch show, and I’m finally on the independent scene, but it’s for my own business, not film festivals. I watched a girl fix her hair and put on makeup on the GO bus. She no doubt had someone waiting for her at the last terminal. That would explain the flowers next to her atop the empty seat, and the constant smiles she gave to her screen every time her phone rang. I think that’s when it finally dawned on me; go ahead, cue her last voicemail:

You’re always talking about the future, and what roles we play in each other’s lives, but you don’t know anything. You don’t know where I fit in, or even if I fit in. You only think you do, or think that you want me to, but the truth is, you don’t know anything. You can’t just assume that you want to be with me, or that you could be with me, without so much as talking to me about it. You plan all these elaborate scenarios, and stories, but you don’t know anything beyond your own thoughts.

Who are you to define me? You think you know me so well? Just because we shared a bed, you think that you’re my best girl? You are though, I think that’s what I regret most; that I was given an open chance to turn “the only” into something special. Instead I hit on Hilarys, that’s code for girls who are out of my league, when they’re in love with Trevors (the brothas that actually be on TV), and Uncle Phil keeps throwing me out of the house so, I guess I’m living up to my namesake (finally). I was ripped in half by Megatron, defined an entire musical era in New Orleans, and I was Warner Bros.’ first talkie, and since then, I’ve never stopped talking; go ahead, cue his last text:

I like the art, but I don’t like the artist–that includes you Jas sitting on your high horse, thinking that it’s okay to keep writing nonsense, but never taking the time to ever explain your content–I’m not sure if it’s literal, or even metaphorical, or if this random she you speak of is even real or not. Who do you write for? Who do you talk to? Do the lack of hits ever seem to bother you? You’re surrounded by talent, and you’re the exception to the rule that this site couldn’t go on to exist without you. Do yourself a favor, and get lost from this paradox.

What would you rather see me writing? In three different languages, I’ve exhausted poetry. I want to go back to writing scripts about comic absurdity, but I’ve no longer got the laughs to justify what I once called wit, or a cast of colorful characters that would perform every last skit. I’ll soon be competing with my own territory, while still being lectured about my behavior, wondering if I ever really grew up, or if I’m still the same age as before I moved here, and became the designated driver. It’s like they’ve all forgotten all those parent-teacher conferences, of hearing that “your son is smart, but we can’t handle all of his creativeness,” though I guess it kind of makes some sense, that what worked in middle school won’t fly sitting in boardrooms, where they don’t want to see me stand up for anything other than PowerPoints; go ahead, cue their last email:

I had a great time with you, you’re the funniest dude I ever met, and the only guy I know who could balance work while making Seinfeld references. I didn’t know we had such an impact, I better be in your page of Thanks when you finally get published. I appreciate your knowledge, insight, and comic relief. Going forward, I wish you nothing but the best, and I hope that our paths soon cross again.

Happy Endings

Three weeks ago, I didn’t know any of you,
except by the attributes given to us by a bingo board,
where one called herself “brown eyes,” while another cited “red shoes,”
and I was the self-proclaimed hater of brussel sprouts (or maybe it was broccoli).
When all was said and done, Costner asked me if I had a unique hobby, and all I could muster up was an “I suppose,” and that was all you heard of me (at least for that day).
Since then, scented marker battles have ensued,
as we shielded the flip chart with our bodies,
as intruders tried to make cherry lines atop our mint colored words.
Matching tops and expressive personalities became a common occurrence,
rather than a rare combination, and “hey me” became a not so secret greeting,
even when we were two feet apart, and not supposed to be speaking.
Han Solo vests, matching socks, and polka dot dresses collided
with magic carpet shirts, a magician’s tuxedo, and a referee’s outfit.
Downtown party bus after dinner at the CN Tower,
I switched desserts multiple times to avoid all the song and dance,
only to find myself translating Hindi songs to unsuspecting victims,
and to a bus driver who endangered lives on a daily basis,
and never said “you’re welcome” even when we all said “thank you.”
We had all the world’s stress in the palm of our hands,
and life was an easy button directly at our fingertips (unless it was in French).
We learned to be BOS’es with boxes stacked up with binders,
full of office supplies that we’ll probably never use again,
except for maybe those multi-colored highlighters, or trademarked water bottles.
We were nicknames gone rampant, we misused, and asked too many questions,
like those pesky neighbors dumping all their stuff behind the garbage bin.
We cared about percentages, profit margins, and competing for excellence,
complete with access cards, and repeat lunches,
though we never did get those sandwiches again;
here’s an apt time to shout out to Scottie Bippen (spelled and said with a B not a P).
I’m headed back to work tomorrow, as I’m sure you’ll all do the same,
but I can’t help feeling that I don’t want this to be my new routine,
because I was already at a branded site that I would love to maintain,
if only you could all come along after this last stop before the real world.

Iss musaafir ke saath chalne ke liye shukhriyaa;
For walking alongside this traveler, I thank you for the company;
afsohs keh hum raasteh mein izhaar naa kar sakeh joh baath zubaan par thi. 
regretful I shall remain about those words that I never shared along the way.

Immortal Restraint

The WolverineThe Wolverine (2013)

Directed by: James Mangold

Written by: Mark Bomback, Scott Frank

Cinematography by: Ross Emery

Starring: Hugh Jackman, Tao Okamoto,
Rila Fukushima, Hiroyuki Sanada

Rating: B+

A few reviews ago, I praised Iron Man 3 for allowing itself to be a standalone film in an ever expanding cinematic universe, and hoped that such an outlook would be adopted by other films of that genre. It turns out I didn’t have to wait long, because The Wolverine takes a page out of its own origins (no, not that one), and delivers a pretty great adaptation of one of its most iconic stories.

While still tied to the universe established by X-Men (2000), and containing passing references to the events of The Last Stand (2003), Logan’s journey remains primarily confined to his time in Japan, where he must deal with his own immortality among a cast of yakuza, ninjas, and samurais. Logan has self exiled himself because the burdens of his ability and of his past are too much for him to live with. He’s outright vowed to never be the Wolverine again. This film not only gives him a chance to fulfill that vow, but takes it one step further, and delivers a character study only hinted at in previous installments. This is Wolverine at his most vulnerable, as well as at his most dangerous.

Credit there goes almost entirely to Hugh Jackman, who even after six stints with the character, still finds ways to inject him with life, making us once again care about an immortal mutant clad with adamantium claws, perhaps even more than before. Jackman plays Wolverine reserved, and eventually rageful, but he never loses focus of the haunted character in between all of the action. Helping him along the way is a predominantly Japanese cast, best among them Rila Fukushima’s Yukio and Tao Okamoto’s Mariko. The appearance of Jean Grey (Famke Janssen) also helps greatly not just with continuity, but in understanding Logan’s mindset, and psychological angst. If there’s a weak link in the cast and/or story, it’s hands down Svetlana Khodchenkova’s Viper and the eventual third act appearance of a robotic samurai who seems more infused by studio than silver.

James Mangold, the underrated director of such films as Cop Land (1997), Walk the Line (2005), and 3:10 to Yuma (2007), was an apt choice to explore the more bleak nature of the character, with an exceptional handle on the material. He manages create a film that very much feels like a miniseries–fitting given the inspiration–with an abundance of quiet character moments and surprising and suspenseful action scenes. This film is as brutal as it is breathtakingly beautiful, bringing to mind a particular scene involving Wolverine, a picturesque Japanese town covered with snow, and ninjas with arrows and lots of rope. There’s also a sequence on a bullet train that, in lesser hands, had all the makings of being an over the top mess, but Mangold manages to keep the action as engaging and genuine as the conversation Wolverine and Mariko are having onboard it. That fine balance is extremely important, or an audience finds itself anxiously waiting for the next scene they’ll like, and not the film as a whole. The scenes with Mariko and Logan are just as necessary to the story as the action pieces are, and Mangold brings a level of confidence to the proceedings that is easy to spot if you’ve seen any of his other works.

I keep coming back to this idea of restraint within film. It truly is a lost art form, to be able to tell a story without resorting to unnecessary add-ons. In fairness, The Wolverine has its share of side stories and plot points that aren’t in line with the rest of the film, but for the most part, they’re not distracting, and the final film stays true to not only the script’s standalone nature, but ultimately to the roots of the character. There’s a post-credits’ scene that is the only moment of sheer indulgence on the part of the filmmakers in expanding upon the character/universe, but it’s insanely welcome because it wasn’t insufferably shoehorned into the narrative that preceded it. May other directors, studios, and films take notice: it is possible to branch out and create something that is almost entirely self-contained and still be valued on the same scale as something expansive, albeit less expensive. Quiet, intimate storytelling is severely lacking in this particular genre, if not in this particular atmosphere of films, and I’m happy to say that The Wolverine, parts of its third act aside, hits all the right notes in capturing that essence.

Eternity can be a curse; a man can run out of things to care for, lose his purpose.


That first month or so was the purest time. None of us knew anything.
None of us knew each other. We just knew we were making something;
granted it was something stupid, but never had I met and enjoyed such company.

Slab; white walls now cover up those white voices, while cubicles show us that we were perhaps never needed. We weren’t diversity in name only, even though that’s what the whole school probably wishes. Not enough of a response was given? All we had were our emails, never used along with our females, and I’m pretty sure we were all homeless at one point, double sided glass acting like our window-sill, where drawn on mustaches were eventually replaced by phallic symbols, and heartfelt messages about how we were all still single, and still had futures. We were hardwired for three years, to inspire mostly just ourselves, and to continue living in our own world, where respect was only earned through a complisult at our own expense. Now I wonder where that time all went, and why I can’t recapture it.

I don’t think I gave that place anything. I certainly don’t take credit for anything.
If I did something, I think it was finally making us be our own focus.
That might’ve been our greatest strength, and perhaps our ultimate downfall.

We were nameless, like a cloud formation, seen from afar, but your mind couldn’t place us. Not enough of an ad stream, we never made posters, and the only one I ever saw, I vetoed, it was pure shit. There was never any stage fright, because everything was confined until equipment went missing, or people didn’t show up. Our eyes shined bright, and our mouths never stayed closed, and our thoughts were always too big for our vision. Our material now feels old, you’ve already heard it practiced, podcasted, and we can’t forget amateurly acted. We didn’t seem happy? We were living a type of dream, complete with access cards, and stolen furniture, not to mention a blanketless couch, empty fridge, and notes on the microwave. Meetings didn’t happen because meetings weren’t what we had to gain. We were a company made up of company. We were clueless, like a wrong season, felt for a moment, but your mind couldn’t care less.

The narrative being put together was becoming more and more obvious:
I ruined a good thing, and I ruined the best thing to ever happen to me,
for crumble the empire must, but I didn’t mean for it to destroy what we had.

Night’s pitch black, so let’s be honest, I’m probably going to settle, I’m probably going to forget it, but please don’t tell my parents, who place bets on my marriage, not knowing money is my matesoul, and who don’t think twice when I’m talking to that Asian girl at computing services, thinking I’m asexual, when she’s really aromantical, towards anything that I say or do, though I guess it was always about me, and not you. Elevator smelled of weed and booze, and leftover wings, cheesecake, and pub food, where Pam was our designated driver, who heard it all, from confessions to professing feelings, and losing her amid thunderstorms. Stolen bell, we were all ringers, hunchbacks with our own lost lovers, atop not a church but a brotherhood’s prayer space.

I wasn’t the leader, and I was barely the glue.
Everything I was, it was all because of you.
We were far from Not Ready for Prime-Time, we were the Not Ready for On-Line crew.

We came out of the rabbit hole, and never brought Alice; she was just some random girl who emailed about working with us. We told her no thanks, we were already overrun by Cheshire cats, who started off all smiles, and disappeared by year’s end. Sometimes I felt invisible. Sometimes I feel responsible. I think I’ll miss that editing suite most, both the dungeon and the hotel room; still have my key but, she’s not here to take her there. We made and lost a lot of best friends, and wingmen, and girl-friends, and best friend’s girls, and the occasional club who didn’t know what they were in for. To those that said they always watched, to those that said they never did, to those that remained nonexistent, but were shouted out and pointed to; to that once [un]faithful audience, lift those glasses up top, because we’re going down that well again: we never gonna’ stop.


Self-Contained Fulfillment

Pacific RimPacific Rim (2013)

Directed by: Guillermo del Toro

Written by: Travis Beacham, Guillermo del Toro

Cinematography by: Guillermo Navarro

Starring: Charlie Hunnam, Idris Elba, Rinko
Kikuchi, Charlie Day, Ron Perlman

Rating: B

Amusement parks—your Six Flags, your Canada’s Wonderland—I’d like to think we all love them, or at least aspects of them, for the sense of wonder, thrill, and overall happiness they can provide. For that brief moment in time, be it waiting in line, being on a ride, or just strolling through the park itself, you are confined to a place that is not of your world anymore. It’s an escape from the daily grind. It’s just you and fun, together again.

Pacific Rim returns you to the depths of fun you always knew you could have, but perhaps stopped having after the age of about twelve.

I could spend some time summarizing the plot of the film, but I wouldn’t need much of it: welcome to a world ravaged by Kaiju and the Jaegers we designed to fight them. If you’re not on board with the mere concept of gigantic monsters fighting huge mechanical robots (respectively), it would be wise to skip this altogether, because you will not be getting a subtle character study. Our heroes are two mentally interconnected pilots, played by Charlie Hunnam (Sons of Anarcy) and Rinko Kikuchi (Babel) with their own set of thinly developed personal baggage, led by their stern, yet legendary leader Idris Elba (The Wire), while working alongside the comedic stylings of Charlie Day (It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) and the always eccentric Ron Perlman (Hellboy). Given the talent amassed for this film, it’s ultimately a shame that no one truly rises to the occasion. And how could they? None of the actors are nearly as engaging (or their characters as insanely detailed) as the Kaiju or Jaegers that surround them, Ultimately, it’s that aspect of the film that doesn’t seem to work in the bigger picture; and make no mistake: this is a huge picture.

I’m inclined at this moment to plug Travis Beacham’s prequel graphic novel to the film, Tales From Year Zero, as the more nuanced and better balanced work, at least in establishing the world and the characters. Do yourself a favor and check it out.

Guillermo del Toro, who first caught my attention with Blade II (2002), has been an almost consistent filmmaker in regards to shaping his vision, be it with Hellboy (2004) or Pan’s Labyrinth (2006), or even with his lesser known films such as Mimic (1997) or The Devil’s Backbone (2001). With Pacific Rim, he enters entirely new terrain: the $200 million dollar summer blockbuster, and more or less, he delivers a product that he should be immensely proud of; it’s a labor of love to a genre that Hollywood has never seemed to have gotten right. It’s pure self-contained fulfillment, and del Toro, known for perfecting/revitalizing any genre he touches, knows this very well. Alongside writer Travis Beacham, he’s created a world that is a joy to witness and inhabit. There’s no doubt a plethora of backstory that was left on the cutting room floor (a reported hour is said to have been trimmed from the final cut), and dare I say, the film could’ve greatly used that time to fine tune the more human elements, because it already more than brilliantly captures and realizes the monster/machine dynamic. This film is a cinematic amusement park, full of groundbreaking and showstopping use of CGI, and entire stretches of screentime devoted to your mouth being agape in sheer awe of the spectacle before you. While you’re in it, you don’t want to be anywhere else, and when you’ve left it, it remains a fun, but distant memory, that you won’t relive until you revisit it again.

It’s the end of the world. Where would you rather die? Here, or in a Jaeger?

you can call me frankenstein.

Kicked out, burned out
No respect I’m turned out
Lungs smoked out
Heart strings choked out
Tell me, you think you have it bad now?
Cause I’m drinking til I pass out
I’m not a doctor, but diagnose this
I’m thinking I need an overdose, quick

You’re think you’re invincible?
What were you before me? Invisible.
Sorry I made my own monsters
What happened to all your long stares?
I don’t think you belong here
But what do I know, this isn’t my year
Come back on my team, player
And I’ll give you the future, soothsayer

You pour your regrets in me
While still forgetting me
Only a lightning rod usage
Lone survivor in God’s wreckage
I try so hard to please
I mean it’s my fault you’re diseased
Cause you grow like cancer
And I’m forgetting what my plans were
I thought I made it out alive
But the second coming has arrived

So hold on hold on Mr. Fair Weather
You think you can fare better?
Being there isn’t the same as drinking there
Why am the one overthinking here
It’s not like you’re a sell out
Cause that’d require worth, nah,
you can get the hell out

I know, I know you’re so chill, man
Wrecked so bad you can’t even stand
You get brain like zombie thanksgiving
You dish’s pain and you keep on giving
I’ll find a way to end you though
Ill put you back where you belong, below
Even if I let you chose
Think, what have I got to lose

You think all I know is how to fuck
Ya you forgot one part, it’s fuck you up
Like me, you’re shit out of luck
Let me teach you how to not give a fuck
And I know I have to make it
Cause I’m done putting up with the same shit
Break free of my catch 22
I’m done trying to have you


Late shift, night drive, calm skies; lights on the road keep following me home, so I don’t need a chaperone, I’ve got a GPS on my phone, but its battery’s almost dead, wasted traveling on closed roads, in cold circles with a warm friend, pedestrians, and locals. I go to weddings, less to impress, and more to dress up like a Reservoir Dog, a Mr. Brown trying his best to be a Mr. White, but I’ll always be more Quentin, and never be Keitel, sitting at the kiddie table getting weird looks from a four year old, who doesn’t wish to share his markers or his coloring book, as I watch my best friend get married, and later make a toast; head table’s full of Rum and Coke.

Calm skies, and I wonder where you are, probably looking out at skyscrapers from your balcony window. I don’t like living in cities that aren’t near home; it’s a fear of getting lost in the fear of the unknown. Seat belt strap makes me feel like Leonardo, but I’m no longer a leader, my katanas rest on the dashboard. I wish Canada had more flavors of Snapple. I hope wherever you are, that you’re looked after. Calm skies, and I no longer wish to wonder. You’re an Earth angel, I’m the Devil’s advocate, trying to lay the ground work, only to find out that the game is rigged; we were always a Super Mario glitch, didn’t help that you never blew on it, so I pause on your screen, and then I quit.

A bandaged nose will always remind me of Chinatown; that’s not racist, that’s just Nicholson, that’s not creepy, that’s just Polanski getting inside my subconsciousness. You never heard me, and I never listened, we both needed therapy, but we liked all the dramedy. I’m in love with the first lady with all her no’s and all her maybe’s, she says she doesn’t want to lose me, and I tell her she doesn’t have to worry. I’m not the same me as last year, I have the same dreams I once feared, but I’m different now because she’s near, and reality is better than it appears. It’s better than twenty year old’s showing off their passports, while I’m showing off my asshole personality; it’s complex, because I’m probably the oldest looking dude they ever met.

Run wet fingers through my hair, but no one’ll see it, that’s a relationship that stays between me and my mirror, where I look at me, but I know that he’s not there. My trajectory was tragedy until you inspired me to not care. You know what’s really hard? Reunions. I’ll probably never get the cast to come together from my favorite show. Now I’m left to watch old wedding videos, where the only special effects are the time and date on screen, alongside colorful text next to familiar faces no longer found in digital frames, but confined to negatives tucked away in albums from the past. People always want their outcomes to be better than their output on what will always be their outlook of the things they now outgrow. I used to read the lines on your hand, now the only lines I read are formed on tables by my bedside, atop unfinised scripts and unfulfilled wishes.


When I was young, and people went on vacations, I traveled up north, and went up to see my cousins, because they told me friends weren’t important, so I guess I never bothered to make close ones. So it was funny when we eventually kind of fell apart, that drifting away from family seemed so painless, and all the drama caused seemed pointless, but at least now I have best friends. My neurologist said that I’m finally happy, and on the road to recovery. She asked me what the big change was, I told her I was finally getting sleep. I haven’t had a migraine in a long time (excluding heat or hunger), and this is probably the happiest I’ve ever been since last September. I guess it really is all about perspective.

Who the hell are you, and what have you done to Jack? 2008 called, it wants its hope and change back, with no receipt, you are not worth the refund; you’re a shadow of what you once were, you’re just a painful reminder of the division that you caused with everyone. A year ago, you wrote of reboots and ransom notes, about never eating cake because they said you couldn’t have it too. You spoke of dreams never coming true, both the ones you were having, but also the ones you were forbidden to. It was an overreaction, your doc never happened, it never came to fruition because of a sidetracked mind focused like a looper assassin; like a lost generation; like the things that should’ve remained deleted, and never had any quantum, so be quiet, your people make it sound like “chud up,” which is kind of like the double negative motto of Barney Stinson. You’re a failed Coen Brothers’ film, ladykilled by intolerable cruelty, and your idea of c’est la vie is driving a CR-V. Scrapyard the Altima, save the date, come back to us, this site runs on your spite, you love to hate anniversaries.

I admit I used to be lovesick, but now I’m just a Sikh boy. I watched silently as war broke, as dreamers were slayed by loving glances, not meant towards them, a drama queen’s advances; it was simple, yet complex, but a failure nonetheless. I was always lacking sympathy for the timeless, and only finding fear of a timeline disrupted because of a failed mindset. Looking for a revelation, I took solace at the red door, prayed for intervention, and now I’m asking for a clean slate from everything that I’ve written. I’ve finally reached the pearly gates, survived the autopsy, now I’m rising like a phoenix, with this collaborative combating sickness. I was drowning in subtle water, now I’m searching for meta balance, hoping that these inside jokes turn me into an insider, who lives his dreams from the page to the screen, and doesn’t know what’s real or a filmed memory.