Justin Razor and the World

Crystal Lake I'm begging you to let me immolate/ This is straight/ From the heart because this inner pain/ Won't dissipate/ I'm lifting weights/ With every bitter day/ Because this hidden angst/ Fuck, it simply weighs/ Too much for me to mitigate/ What I'm feeling, to be alone, a risk to take/ I'm in a pickle late-/ Ly, as I sit and wait/ On a phone call from a certain little name/ That will never hit the stained/ Glass, so I rip and rage/ Against myself, against the strain/ Of this mistake/ And with that one, the ripples graze/ Across the surface of the crystal lake/ Of my mind, the crypt I lay/ In is of my own building, I fell in, tripped and splayed/ Out on the concrete/ All these/ Haunting/ Images come back to taunt me/ I'm wanting/ The past to arm me/ With calm things/ Palm me/ In your hand baby and stop me/ From washing/ Away these thoughts each/ Night with whiskey and oxy/ I'm falling/ Darkly/ Into the halls ...

Done 8 years ago today I spent the night at the Doubletree Hotel in Sacramento, CA, en route to RTC Great Lakes. I left behind a lucrative career at Wal-Mart unloading trucks, my pursuit of a degree in literally nothing at Solano Community College, and a girlfriend that would later hate me for not dressing like one of the little bitches so common in K-Pop videos (srs). Throughout my tenure in the Navy I fought, did Handstand Pushups, and had my personal space violated repeatedly by deranged, insane men and women that would become the best friends I'd ever known. In the Persian Gulf, I went to throw up in a toilet that was already backed up and filled to the brim with shit, causing me to spew forth twice the expected amount of vomit. I became known as Bitch Hands, a name I still answer to from San Diego, Califronia to Manama, Bahrain. I passed out drunk in public parks, on the shores of forgotten beaches, and the manicured lawns of the estranged friends of ...

Drunken Diary I remember reading about Dave Draper, the great bodybuilder from the fabled Muscle Beach era. After retiring from active competition in his mid-twenties, he settled in California, far from his native New Jersey. Considering that it's on the East Coast, I fully support his decision, since I've never known anyone who wasn't from there to relocate to the area permanently. He took to indulging his second passion. woodworking, with the same fervor he once employed to build his magnificent physique. It led to a profitable career that afforded him a prosperous life. He also, ignominiously enough, became an alcoholic. Getting through his days with a bottle of wine ever present by his side, he'd work at his adopted hobby turned vocation. Weed was also a constant companion. Still, he never gave up his training, which is what I admire about him chiefly, rivaled only by his command of English and the written word. He'd report t...