Winter Cleavage

Christmas flew by as if it was only one day. It's the 26th of Decemburr; it's 29 American degrees and I'm shivering by the fireside. My proxy-life as a Philadelphia sports fan is shaping up nicely if my guy Joelly can stay healthy. My promising writing career is in the eternal draft-box—we've been through this! Bout to blow my X-mas cash on lottery tickets and a Large Fry. Listening to a bit more music of late—let my public radio guy blast some indietastic year-end mix with occasional political updates. For NPR(-affiliate), I'm Nick Blogger-and-this-is-All-Things-Considered. It's the twenty-sixth of December, forever, and the eerie dub-techno I'm listening to isn't helping me get over this breakup. Switch to some Fiona for the feel(ing)s—didn't like that shade of mascara anyway. "I don't wanna talk about anything," she emotes so controlled and delicate. Tears race out of my ducts, giving my laptop some semblance of humanity I guess. I'ma go read or s/t. 💔

Barren Leafs

Gotta write this review and I'm procrastinating. Staring at my waiver wire prospects and avoiding listening to the album of the got-damn year. Gas's "Untitled 4" in my ear-holes while the weather outside seems like Fall. It makes sense I guess; hope everyone is doing well in the real-er worlds. In my timeline these sentences connect a bit better. Whirs and waves–ambient staples for an October diarist. If one more leaf grazes the living room window I'm going to:

Gotta live it up, gotta live it up–must be happy

Mid-October keystrokes hit a little too close to home. I'd rather the rain drop than just stare. One of the worst living word-compilers. I thought maybe poetry was my thing but I need some breathing room. ESPN Fantasy notification: league taco dropped T.Y. Hilton's "bum-ass" after a 2.7 showing. Took a flier on him and Josh Doctson to withstand bye-week Hell. QB: Rivers. RB1: Gordon.

No one cares about your fantasy team!

Lips shut, leg(s) resting upon my 3.5'' desk with at least seven posts sitting snugly in the draft-bin. Aggressively tabbed out of eBay and threw some trade offers to the community discord. No one will take my Lynch despite his ferocious 1.3 YPC on 17 touches per game. Dumping my Chiefs D/ST and heading outside. First I must print out this week's "Love/Hate" column–and use it as a tissue.

Dalton Darts

It's ten-ten, twenty-seventeen. Looks like the best day of summerfall yet. Seventy with a mild breeze. Leafs blooming and my Maple Leafs cruising. For the two or three sporting fans in the audience, October is a big month. Baseball postseason, football midseason—hockey & hoops begin their marathons. My fantasy teams are on the IR. Excited to see what the consensus album of the year is. Need to refill my coffee-cup and figure out which sugar-packet to use. It's a decision I'm not equipped for—so I go black. Carefully caffeinated, I stroll through my Tumblr feed. Then I return to present time. Fixin' my roster in light of the upcoming footie games. Wish meh luck.

Sports Ball

     Reviewing my fantasy football team one last time before TNF. Hyde or Rodgers as my RB2? Going with my gut instinct: the venerable and well-built Mixon of the Cinci Bengals.
     The league's tough this year with our local book-keeper racking up 269.3 points after two weeks. Stole Hunt in the fourth and the rest is history.
      Cold coffee staring at my dusty Asus notebook. Seems like just yesterday I was an in-house publisher for Penguin—now I'm just a lonely transcriber for scattered NPR leftovers.
      "Hi, I'm Terry Gross, and welcome to the fucking show!" That's how they all start, but eventually she cools down a bit and the guests begin to relax. "My next guest is Nicholas Rapper," Mrs. NPR continues. "He writes for The Fictional Gardening, a brand new web-log that has caught the attention of the Blogmmunity."
     "Hi Terry, that's not what we call it," I respond. "Can I talk to Ira, though? He's my personal hero."
     "Mr. Nicholas Rapper, of The Fictional Gardening web-log and entertainment conglomerate, Ira is not part of NPR; his show is pro—"
     "What? Welp, that sucks. Can you help me with my fantasy football league?"
     Fug, she hung up. Back to /r/gaylads I guess.

Bad Accounts

The mirth-man has returned for another Wordapalooza. Back from my walk and directly onto the lap-top dancefloor. Sandwich in the fridge is too far and too fattening. Where's the DJ? Play my Mega-Mix—the one with the chunes. Income-ing, the new pay-per-wordsmith. We used to have fun in this Blogtopolis; now we just kinda print money. I can tell already this'll be a short 'un. 39% battery and a dream. Gotta write a music review for my good comrade Brown Friend. Already wrote the intro and the outro—the middle is the middling miscellany: obscure references & assured sentences. Why would I need friends when you have Posts Like These? September is one of those months—can't waste its embroidered creative whisper-pleas. The energy of the twenty-seventeen New York Jetropolitans. I'm working on my Other Post.  See you-all there.

Prevalent Purveyors

     Snapchatted a little too hard and ended up breaking my Galaxy S1. Hello friendoids—what's up with y'all? I'm an em dash fiend—a true over-relier on the double-hyph (industry term). My girlfriend from Russia aka CSGO is on the other window but I'll get back to you, trusty Blogger. 12 x'd out tabs later. Oh.

     Satiating you bloghoes and cutie-patooties for now with this appetizer. I'm prepping a fairly large fetish pasta (tasty) for my feminine patrons. Sounds delicious—but at what cost? If my blog was (is) a restaurant, and you delicate matrons were waiting this long for your entrée, and it never came—

      Then you'd probably leave. But you're stickin' around because you trust that—you're just addicted to em dashes. Em splashed all over my shitty wall of prose. Where were we? Stop paragraphing and start planning to prepare this party post for print. This thing will be fridge-material for all the families that have adopted me over the years.

      Whoops. It just kind of just happened. Dedicated to my great friends over the years, including: Dave S, Angelo C, Warren R, Ryan C, and Jim from Accounting. Also dedicated to the girl in the comments section that never comments: you are appreciated. I know you're there, and I know my work has saved you from pulling that fateful trigger. Yes, I am a hero—but you are too (you're not btw). Simply by existing (by wasting precious space that could be taken up by me), you give this blog content to be realized (you fucking wasted my only good paragraph, you whore).

      It's fall and it's about 63. Perfect weather for outdoorsy coat-wearing Starbloggers like myself. This guy sitting beside me is clearly bothered that I haven't removed my jacket yet. "Hey buddy," I begin, but then my barista Janet summons me for my Pumpkin Latte con Leche (I'm in SoCal). Janet's lattes are—quite inaccurately—so much better than the other coffee machine-abusing workerbees' cheap overpriced concoctions. Janet will read this post. Janet makes coffee in her sleep; she is that good at it, and has somnambulism that developed.

      Holy fuck my Discord server is empty as fuck. Dave is literally fist-fighting with the bot. This could get ugly; I'm gonna go investigate.

Stray Lines

     Headed upstairs to see what's cooking on the top-floor (i.e. the attic). There are thirteen people here—way more than I expected. Eliza and Marissa wax poetic about their city jobs while sipping Blue Points. I'm at the top step; they are slightly too close to the entryway considering the amount of open space surrounding us. At the far top-leftest corner is Edmund, his big swarthy body sprawled upon the mini-sofa. My eyes now set upon an inspired match of beer pong. Two girls I don't know face off against my good buddies Theo and Sean. Two cups remain for each pair; Sean launches a ball that glides ten feet past the table and clanks with a window-shade.
     On the right side of this big, claustrophobic room is a setup for poker. Matt, Nico, Warren, and Trevor sit hunched over a green-clothed table, their social and emotional vulnerabilities stashed away from the rest of the field. Nico lays down a pair of 2s that mated gracefully with the river; he pumps his fist and rakes in a hefty pot. Allison and Luke make up the final two attic denizens. The former is shadowing the beer pong girls; the latter is changing the song on the communal iPad. Where is he going after that? What's his story?
     "Nick," he calls, as "The Whistle Song" whittles away the night.

Web Warrior

I exited out of Brawlhalla and tabbed into our friend group's vibrant Discord server. Dave, Angelo & Adam were shit-talking public schools and retail in general; I absentmindedly threw in some "true"s before opening up some pages. The leftmost tab is music—usually some YouTube song and the recommendations that follow. Then there's always Facebook in the 2nd or 3rd spot, periodically closed to not seem too obsessed. I thought about some girl from high school; I bet she's in a really serious relationship right now. There's a pic of her in one of the tabs. It seems like it was taken at a party—clearly cropped, with another girl's arm trailing her back. Pitchfork gave the new Lorde album a ridiculously high score. Her first one was so great and restrained; [I] hope this one is similarly balanced. Lorde or Lana famalam? Fifth tab is a download link to a nu-disco album I've been trying to find online for ages. I don't know if I trust this filehost. I need to give my friend his mix CD. Sixth tab is a NSFW subreddit (guess my fetish?) Fourth is a pop-up I forgot to close. She didn't answer my text. Close my flip-phone and queue some folk. I'm pathetic! There was a time where my tone was at least consistent. Reminder to vote in the poll (!) Reminder to appreciate your friends(❤)

I ❤d her in the face, then I closed my browser. My dark purple background felt a bit overwhelming in the poorly-lit middle room. Double-clicked on Rocket League before I realized my computer could barely run it. Threw the icon in the trash; un-installed the game; wondered if I'd ever be good at anything.

💜  💗  💜  Love y'all  💜  💗  💜

Languid Leftovers

Join us in welcoming our five newest additions to this intellectual spectacle:

Adam U ~ Part-time hospital busy-bee, full-time "chill bro," this NJ doctor-to-be will provide unprompted medical insight and piercing laughter at 3am afterparties everywhere. In his Smash life he's a ledge-camping, back-air spamming fat pink blob, and this part of him will not be respected.

Fitz M ~ Multifaceted musician and effortlessly likable personality, this popular rockist will bring a celebratory 24-pack to our blog-party du jour. Talk to this motherfucker about anything from obscure Twitch streamers to which craft brew to bring to a noise-rock show.

Warren N ~ One of the nicest peeps in the northeast, and a close childhood friend of a certain lackadaisical guitarist (?), this beacon of good vibes will partake in late-night hangs and aimless drives with the boys. Normally an easygoing fellow, look for his intermittent—and quite vocal—verbal outbursts towards our Bloggist concerning half-finished cans of PBR.

Dave's Basement ~ By far the oldest member of the regular circle, this scattered and surprisingly inviting brother will host Smashfests, jam sessions and any other degenerate ephemera that will remain undisclosed.

Alyssa Chee ~ Long Island native and musical speaker, this lovely coffee-promoter will provide bounce and occasional bite in this usually-tame House of Blog. Look for her knowing grins and indie-tastic references in culturally deficient arenas.

Filler Toast

     Greetings fellow Readers. How are y'all? "Good!" Mademoiselle Alyssa responds. Her smile is bright and warm, her voice similarly sunny. I instantly feel better about the life of this post!
     As the title states, this is just a Filler Toast. Trying to satiate my hungry blog-kun until the fetish-filled party tale is ready to serve. Have some jams. Kick back, click clack, let's see what's up.
     The weather is pretty fuckable today. 93 with a light breeze, some nonthreatening clouds making the sun-rays bearable. It's gonna be a good summer for indie shows and making out with the bros.
     Need more coffee. This post has the energy of the dead fish I fucked last night (yes). Re-filled my World's Best Son mug and added extra no-sugar. The jitters begin and my eyes start to dilate. Holy shit—that wasn't (no)-sugar. Oh wait, my pupils are just normally gigantic. *Phew*
     Caffeine wearing off already. Phone ringing: "Talha M". Wait for three rings and casually lean forward to pick it up. Oh boy, did it go to voicemail already? Guess I'll call my best friend back. Goodbye forever (for a hot sec).
      Discussion Q of the week: What have y'all been watching? Any 'dank Netflix finds'? Anyone hit the theatre? Anyone wanna go see a skin flick w/ me?
      💋s to all, and someone Fedex me some Intelligentsia.

Rocket Queen

     Raoul typed "good shot", effectively conceding the Rocket League match down 4-1 with 0:09 left to play. It had been a weird couple hours for the man known as Dark Pie; he had been seduced (rather endearingly) by one LizzyLulz into a dozen games of car-soccer bliss.
     Lizzy was as tryhard as they come—her darkly-painted Breakout car looked fierce in the [Mannfield] Night. She grinded ranked games nightly and routinely watched tutorial videos for insight. The game was kind of a lifestyle for her: something that made her usually boring nights feel productive and vibrant.
     It was about 10pm on a random Thurday when she queued Solo Duel, a game mode mainly used for practicing mechanics. But tonight Lizzy felt lonely and sought a team-mate in the cesspool of middle-ranked competitive. She usually trash-talked in-game but set out to present herself as a compliment factory, an unflinchingly positive personality in a game without many.
     Pie took the bait. At least, he was the one person she met who seemed not just receptive, but almost purposefully and infuriatingly self-effacing. 3 minutes gone by, with a rare 0-0 scoreline, and the guy was saying things like 'damn i suck' and 'nice car' as Lizzy bricked open shots in a match she seemed to want to go on forever. This guy! Why was he typing while he should be defending? Why didn't he seem to care about his rank? He wasn't a bad player at all; he had some insanely natural ability on defense, even if his scoring prowess was rather nonexistent.
     She led 1-0 with 13 seconds left. Pie had the ball near his own net, while Lizzy's ferocious Breakout sat motionless in goal. She came up to midfield; Pie dribbled right past her and confusedly watched the ball slowly roll into a tie game. 'Lucky', he typed. She hit the Nice Shot command and thought about how she was going to do this.
     Overtime began from a diagonal kick-off which Pie knew he would lose. He didn't know that Lizzy was typing an invitation which she promptly deleted a split-second before the timer began. Pie got to the ball first regardless, and the ball ricocheted off the Breakout into a singular wall-bounce, finally landing in the net at 60 mph.
      "Wow," she typed. "Nice block!"
      "Luck," he responded, before the cordial 'ggs' were exchanged.
      Lizzy had never felt so satisfied from a decidedly shit game of League. She promptly typed, "Wanna play some doubles?"
      "[Y]eh lets do it," Dark Pie replied almost instantly.
      The pair lost almost every game they played together. Lizzy overcompensated on defense while Pie followed suit on offense. During one tense 3-3 game, Pie stood in goal with about 10 seconds to go. As the ball came sailing from half court heading straight towards his net, the would-be hero launched his Octane skyward knocking Lizzy straight out of the air. They lost in embarrassing fashion, and Lizzy let out a few rage emojis in Steam chat.
      They lovingly shit-talked each other all night, with Pie finally challenging her to a duel to cap it off. As we know, the deadpan defender got his ass kicked, and he took it like a champ. Later that night, the pair of love-cars lost their cyber-virginity and the rest, my fucking friends, is history.

Morning After

*kicks 5 girls out of mi bed*

Fuck yes, return of your favourite bloggist and blank-starer.  Hey, hi, welcome back to watch the meteoric return of a washedup prosist. Reminder to wipe your feet on the way in, remove your overgarments, and in general just—fucking—relax. This will be a crude opening to a classy establogishment.

So there I was, 4 hot b*tches in my face, and six hours later I'm passed out on an air mattress with my boyff's sprawling legs nudged across my abdomen. Uh, fuck, I forgot that happened. But ignore that rather unfortunate detour.

Back to the Lovely Ladies. There was Alyssa with her black snake-hair in a bun, completely drooling over my shoulder while I occasionally threw her half-hearted glances. Heh. Erica was the most typically attractive: blonde and busty with big bulging green eyes. I probably eyefucked her the most that night. There was Marina, her dark brown hair annoyingly long and straight. I swear I almost stepped on it at some point. Then last—and very much least—was this Mexican chick who was learning English on the spot to try to fuck me. But she was hot though: very nice hip-to-waist ratio, if I do say so myself (*tips sombrero*).

And so there I was, overfilled cups in both hands, and I think I spilled my Sex on the Beach on the Mexichick's see-through tube top. Try holding two drinks while carrying 4 conversations at once. Not many guys can pull it off. Especially while this Alyssa chick kept nudging me in the love handles. Anywho, I told the 'fiery' Latina that I'd help her clean up the mess and personally check the damage myself if she were to follow me to the bathroom. Naturally, that caused a little bit of an uproar in the group, as the remaining trio could not stand the thought of my prolonged absence.

Most "men" would crumble in that situation. But of course, being the absolute fucking genius that I am, I thought up a brilliant solution on the spot. I asked the girls if they wanted to help me clean our foreign(?) friend up in a deserted bedroom upstairs. Needless to say, by the end of the night there was more than one stained blouse to discard. Teh. It was only my 3rd ever five-some too. So that's basically it. Oh, and the fifth girl—she came later in the night to give me a midnight snack so-to-speak.

So that's it for now. Gonna try to make this Blogtopia pop off again. Many more stories, always 100% truthful, on deck. Like my first foray into BDSM with two reluctant New York socialites 😏😏😏😏😏

Feel free to leave comments or selfies in ze comments, and as always: Fuck Donald Trump!!!