I hope no one finds the body. Make sure it becomes untraceable so that people may question my existence the way they do life, the way they do life after death. I want to embody that.

Do not hold a funeral. Do not commemorate my name on any building, plaque, or tombstone. Do not choose a place…


She’ll burn your fingertips as you hold her. She’ll glow, sparkle, and light up the night. She will warm you to your core. Her light getting brighter, blinding you to what she is. Explosive, all nitroglycerine and instability.


There to entice you with her danger, to make you wonder…


She will charm you with the way she smirks and smiles through her eyes. She will lean back and respect your personal space and make you ache for her to come nearer. You will kiss her first, you will kiss her second, you will kiss her third until you finally pull her hands teasingly and land on top…

Holy shit…

fools rush in

Like Joel in Eternal Sunshine, I rush headfirst into women that show me affection. I’m particularly hopeless if they fit into the ideal of a woman that I have created during the last decade of drunken nights where I’ve fallen in love at the bar with someone new over a glance across the top of my tumbler of bourbon. Smart, doe eyed, wild haired, a singer, a writer, a creator, a lover, tattoos, someone that doesn’t mind the sweet words I may lay before them. Living in Los Angeles it isn’t difficult to find a woman that falls into this category. The trick is finding one that has a heart as large as mine, one that appreciates waking up to a message sent in the middle of another whiskey-drenched night in Silver Lake telling her how much I like her mind and how it makes me think about life.

Perhaps it’s the adrenaline that comes with meeting someone new. That feeling of wonderment you had when opening a present as a kid on Christmas morning. She’s a present, placed in front of you by some twist of cosmic fate. Now, all that’s left to do is unwrap her, layer by layer, and see what’s inside. What does she fear? Love? Want? Need? What does she want to hide? What will be that seemingly inevitable point where the wonderment and adoration turns to disappointment and sadness because she wasn’t what you had imagined? When your constructed notion of her being runs into the cold wall of her reality and you realize that, once again, you’ve done this to yourself. Placing the ideals you’ve handpicked from all the women before her into a basket and unfairly hoping that this one, she, will finally live up to each of them.

It’s hard to tell whether that adrenaline high is worth the heartbreaking crash that comes when she’s gone. Those days when you woke up to say hello to her, rolled over and kissed her awake, the days where nothing mattered but the smile on her lips. When she’s gone, you wake up each morning with her on your mind. Go to sleep with her on your mind. Constantly replaying conversations throughout the monotony of your day. Wondering just where it went wrong. Wondering how she’s doing. Getting annoyed each time that the text chime on your phone isn’t the one you’d set for her when you realized she was worth separating from everyone else. Moving through each day in a daze gets old quick but is there really anything that can be done until you’ve extinguished all of her flames in you? She set my world ablaze and like all fires it burns until there’s nothing left for it to destroy. She’s left me charred, burnt, and hurt and it’s up to me to grow again. Ideal? No, of course not. But, for some period of time I get to live, love, and burn as hot as any star above and that’s enough for me.


My problem’s is in this cup and
that’s why I’m going to finish it.
Because I’ve been listening to you
more than myself; of course.
And you’d believe me faithfully.
I wish you didn’t listen to me
so believing every bit of you
would at least be less bitter as the…

the girl is heroin


you are heroin
your eyes are the needle
pushing further into my blood with every blink
filling my head, heart
with that euphoric fire
as I melt away into your arms, melt into you


I’ve been revising this for a few weeks now after beginning it in 4100 Bar one night. Los Angeles is surprisingly quiet in the cool, dark night and sound travels well. So do your memories.

Lying in bed, this bourbon as my mistress I hear the far off horns of a train. Hearing a train in Los…


Sometimes I sit at bars and write. It’s good inspiration. Whether or not this is any good is a different story, but, here it is.

I can replay the night I met you
Word for word
In my head and to anyone who’ll listen
No matter how drunk I was
Under the haze of…

From my other lonely little writing blog.

The first one

Sometimes, my memory is amazing. Other times, not so much. Here’s a story of young Shawn.


I don’t quite remember how it all started, I’m simply too far removed. I was in the 3rd grade, after all. Her name was Crystal. She had short brown hair that curled at the bottom. Her favorite outfits consisted of pastel dresses and clunky little black shoes.

My class at the time had us sit on the floor more often than not. 30 little kids sitting on a giant brown rug in the middle of a stereotypical classroom. A map on the wall. A retractable white screen for presentations above the dusty green chalkboard since the world had not yet moved on to dry-erase boards. While it may seem odd to have a bunch of kids sitting Indian-style on a rug, there was a bit of order in the chaos. Across the rug were colored tape stripes which symbolized rows for us to sit in. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue. At the time, I didn’t even realize that tape came in colors other than clear and duct. 3rd grade Shawn probably didn’t realize a lot of things, come to think of it.

The teacher also didn’t just throw us onto our colored tape benches in any which way either - we sat alphabetically starting from the front. Somehow, there was nobody in the class whose name began with the letter a so I was the first person on the front right corner of the rug. I sat on the blue stripe. Crystal, as it happened, sat directly behind me on the green. I do not know how we got started down the road to being boyfriend and girlfriend - or whatever you’d call two 3rd graders - but it was neat to be sitting so close to her.

During videos and other classroom activities that required the lights to be turned off, we sneakily held hands. Since she was right behind me, I’d just reach back with my right hand since the teacher’s desk was to our left and Crystal would put her hand in mine. She happily embraced my skinny, underfed fingers in her lightly tan digits. I’d rub my thumb across hers and, oddly enough, it’s still something I do today.

It’s funny to think about this and remember how much simpler things were then. No distractions or bullshit that we’ve all accumulated over the years of happiness and disappointment from our other relationships. To be honest, I don’t know how long any of this business with Crystal lasted. I do very vividly remember how it ended.

Sometime that semester in school, my mom and her boyfriend decided to move us out to Texas. He got a job there and my mom wasn’t about to let her meal ticket leave so we all had to move. Once I knew I was leaving, I also knew it was time to begin saying goodbye to everyone. I told my friends, my teachers. I began asking for everyone’s addresses so that we could write to each other and stay in touch. It’s always the best of intentions at this point but eventually we all forget and the letters come less often. Friend after friend, boy and girl, they all gave me their addresses in their terrible handwriting. Everyone except Crystal.

For reasons which I still do not understand, I never got her address. I have a vague memory of her sitting at a table across from me, silently watching me with her big brown eyes. Was she wondering why I wasn’t asking for her address? Wondering why I seemed to have been ignoring her?

In the end, I never got her address and once I’d moved I never saw or spoke to her again either. Was I scared, even then, to keep in touch because I was somehow acutely aware of the fact that nothing could come of it? That I didn’t see a point in it all? I was only 7 and I wasn’t going to be flying back to LA often. It’s weird to imagine that at such a young age I could have any concept of that kind of loss, but, given how my life has played out I certainly think it’s possible.

As with many of my relationships - personal, familial, and romantic - I just moved on and never gave it a second thought. It’s unfair of me to treat people this way and I feel that I’ve improved somewhat during the last half-decade of my life. It obviously still gnaws at some part of me given just how much I remember and that I took the time to write this all out for you.

Hopefully that little girl forgave me and I’m nothing more now than a faint, flickering light in her memory which she cannot quite explain exists and doesn’t associate with me. I’m quite comfortable with being forgotten.