the night we lost our innocence.

Don’t regret the decisions you make. Your mistakes define the curves of your face more than the wrinkles. Laugh lines and crows feet around your eyes, time’s prolific paint brush. I don’t regret the fights, the screaming. I don’t regret the rage that flowed through my blood like snake venom. Hate. love. I have feelings. I am not a machine, a ghost, I am a man. And I feel rage.

The clearest memory, we were kids. Just teenagers, with the world at our fingertips. Kissing on my couch, clean, sweet, and young. You sitting in my lap, for the first time I notice how small you are. With a little practice we could be the best kissers in the world; my heart was on the floor. The best time I ever had. We were in our twenties, but it felt different. Younger. You never kissed me again. We were kids and the horrible world of responsibility did not exist, nothing existed in that time. You, me, and the spark of love was all I could see, hear, smell, the taste of your skin. If I could I would rip you apart and keep you in my cupboard. I want you, I need you. Take me, have me. Everything you want is yours.

I regret nothing. Except the night we lost our innocence.

Sleeping with Marbles

My pants are wet. The sound of someone peeing. Jesus what is going on? Eyes open now. Head hurts. I feel the cold plastic of my bathtub against my back; I’m sitting in a half filled tub of cold water. A medium bottle of Makers Mark bobs up and down in the water. It’s empty. Fuck.

“Bapu? What the fuck are you doing in here?” I hear the voice of my roommates’ girlfriend. She sounds close. I slide the glass door to the side (just a crack) She is on the toilet. Her are eyes wide. Embarrassing.

“I guess I fell asleep in the bath.” I mumble, sitting back into the cold water.

“Again?” she screeches, trying to hide the sound of her tinkle. I giggle as I hear it. This is wildly inappropriate I think to myself. She finishes and then slides back the glass door and stares at me, laughing.

“Hey! I could be naked you know!” She smiles at me, her eyes glancing down at my crotch. I do the same. I’m wearing all my clothes, sneakers and all. Fuck.

“You’re the only person who comes home and takes a bath with all of your clothes on, Jesus Bapu… she break up with you again?” I light up a smoke and think about her question. Did she break up with me again? It’s the only explanation for me getting shit faced and subconsciously trying to drown myself in my own tub.

“I guess so.” I mumble, suddenly feeling very awkward and silly.

“What did you do this time?” Shit I have no Idea. What did I do this time?

“I miss spelled her name in an angry e-mail I sent her ex boyfriend, not sure if it was that or if it was the e-mail. Don’t really remember.” I recall, blowing a ring of smoke toward the fire detector, cause I’m dangerous like that.

“How did you miss spell her name? Does she have a crazy last name or something?” She asks as she checks her hair out in the mirror.

“No I miss spelled her first name.”

“You moron, how did she see this e-mail anyway?” She asks.

“I guess he showed it to her, dick. Although I would have done the same thing to him. I did ‘steal’ his girlfriend and all.” I’m getting out of the tub now; secretly hoping my cell phone is not in my pocket. She laughs, shaking her head. She’s leaving now. I’m going back to my room. Wet.

I haven’t been sleeping. Every night I toss and turn, probably why I get drunk and sleep in the bathtub. I miss having that warm body in my bed. We never snuggled, or spooned, or late night fucked. When it was time to sleep, we slept, no frills, no lipstick lesbian bullshit. All this was fine by me, but I miss just knowing that there was someone on the other side of the bed. I try putting computers, books, porn DVDS, anything. Still can’t sleep. When I do sleep, I dream of her. Fuck you.

I’m on the street now. It’s going to be a drinking day for me, whiskey for the hangover, six hours of MASH, and Chinese food when my hands start shaking. Fuck chocolate and wine, I’m a man. Or at least I pretend to be. Shut up. I need sleep. Going crazy. I head to my favorite liqueur store on Polk Street. Chit chat with the guy behind the counter, yeah the weather sucks, the Giants need someone who can hit the ball, I miss Bonds, have a good day. Back on the street now. Trip fall. Fuck. I’m pissed, Look down. There is a small blue marble on the concrete. I pick it up, fingering it as it goes in my pocket. Fucking marbles.

Six hours later. I’m drunk, bored with MASH, and sleepy. I pull the marble out of my pocket and place it on the bed. I wonder. Would sleeping next to this marble help me sleep? I carefully arrange the pillows on her side of the bed, placing the marble where she would sleep. It’s there. Don’t touch it or it will move. Don’t roll on it or it will hurt you. Sleep on your side of the bed. Marveling. This marble really is just like my ex girlfriend. I roll over and fall fast asleep.

Coma patients don’t sleep this good.

Wow that was so not PC.

Whatever, fuck you, Ronald Reagan.

Chapter Three: B&E

Shaking off a deep cloud of whiskey fog, I stumble to find a half empty bottle of orange Gatorade. Chug. Dry heave in the bathroom. Fucking alcoholics. It takes me five minutes to get eight layers of clothing on, my hands shaking something fierce. Don’t forget the crow bar. I’m on the street now, I briefly wonder if I should have brought my ski mask. Fuck it.

On the number 19 bus heading south, sitting next to a malt liquor slurping homo. The two of us together make the bus smell like a cheap brewery in Wisconsin. Get off in 16^th street and Mission. Coffee. I’m waiting now, watching a bright blue door across the street. Not long now. I see her bright yellow mane before I see her porcelain face. Jesus. Slow this heart down. The hipster boyfriend follows her out the door; he has a skateboard under his arm. Fucking thirty-year-old ass hole skateboarding in the mission. I bet he used to be a professional snowboarder too. I feel like throwing up.

Fuck it. It’s go time. Hiding my crowbar underneath my arm I head across the street. Smoking a long cigarette before an old lady opens the door to the apartment complex, I nod at her as I hold the door open. “Thanks,” I mutter, hiding my face underneath the long visor of my Giants cap. I walk the familiar hallway, which still smells like cat piss and vomit. I used to love it here. Stopping at door 17, I look around and then jam the crowbar in-between the door and its wooden frame. Making a silent prayer I put my whole 120 pounds behind the steel bar. Nothing. I try again, grasping tightly with my shaking hands. Come on you slut! Nothing happens. Fucking brownies.

I look at the dead bolt; it doesn’t look new. I wonder if she is really that stupid? Or maybe just that trusting? I try my key. The door slides open. Great. I set the crow bar on the carpet next to the door and step inside. The apartment looks exactly the same as when I lived there, minus a couple of crappy pieces of furniture. I notice a new addition of pictures hanging in the dinner room slash kitchen; I count six pictures of the couple. There are pictures of the two cheek to cheek in restaurants, the golden gate bridge, skiing, in front of some crap movie theater, how gay is this? It looks like he was a professional snowboarder too. Great. I feign off the feeling of jealousy as I realize that there are no pictures of her and I. We dated for three years and nothing to show for it in the picture department. This is a horrible idea I think to myself.

I make my way to the bedroom, looking around, snooping. Golden condoms on the dresser. Fuck you Magnums. Feeling sick now I give up on the bedroom snooping. I have seen plenty, feeling nauseous I move to the kitchen. My jacket is sitting at the kitchen table, shivering I put it on. I grab a pin and paper and sit down at the table. Should I leave evidence of my B&E?

My note starts out as formal as I can make it, it reads:

Dear Cassidy,

I wanted to call but I have forgotten your number, guess this is as good a time as any to give you back OUR key. Sorry about the whole jacket thing, didn’t know what I would do in the situation. Streaking seemed like an appropriate course of action.

Fuck this, I think to myself. Laughing now, I keep writing.

Just wanted to let you know that I have decided to join a Japanese crime syndicate and will be moving to Asia. I hope that you and your boyfriend break your legs in a snowboarding accident.

I consider this last part, wondering how bad I would feel if they really did break their legs. Actually I’m fine with it. I finish the letter off with,

I really could have loved you… Loser.

Satisfied with my letter, I take one last look around the apartment. I grab two bottles of booze off of their fridge. Taxes for putting up those obviously hurtful pictures on your wall, everything she does is targeted at me. I’m a self-centered bastard; I recall her screaming at me. Guess you were right.

Leaving the apartment now. I stop at the door; a girl with big green eyes stares at me. Shit.

“What are you doing?” she asks, eyeing the crowbar. Panic. I decide to throw caution to the wind. It worked at Brownies right?

“I’m breaking into my ex-girlfriends apartment to get my jacket back and steal her booze.” I say this with a gulp of guilt and a small cocky smile.

“Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?” I scoff and stick my hands in my pockets, angry.

“He is a total douche bag and she is a fucking cunt,” she says. This sentence catches me off guard; did she really just say that?

“So are you going to call the cops?” I ask (for the first time actually considering that I might end up in Jail). She smiles,

“What makes you think I haven’t already?” I smile back and offer up an answer,

“Faith?”

She nods at the bottle of whiskey in my hands,

“Give me that Jack Daniels and we can call it even.”

Jesus Christ. I’m in love. Handing over the bottle, I put forth my hand,

“My names Bapu.” She leans forward and asks, “say that again?”

“Bapu.”

“Cool name Bapu, I’m Lucy.” We shake hands.

“You going to drink that now?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers.

“Can I come with you?” I ask, eyeing the bottle.

“Come on in, criminal.”

And so begins the next stage of my life.

2009 stats

2009 stats: 7 parking tickets, 1 speeding ticket, 1 negligent driving ticket, talked my way out of 2 charges of trespassing and attempted B&E, 1 ride home from the PD.  Drove between LA and SF, 11 times. Went to the beach 24 times; got a sunburn, 22 times.   Briefly dated 2 girls.  Read 14 books, 2 were actually good.  Worked on 4 feature films, 1 commercial, 3 reality television shows, 1 music video; added hip-hop background dancer and 2^nd 2^nd AD to my resume.   Flew on 12 planes, drank beer in 8 airports, made out with a flight attendant 0 times.  Threw up due to alcohol consumption est. 8 times, (probably double that).  1 nasty divorce.  2 random make-out sessions with a stranger. 1 kiss on the cheek by a cute nurse.  6 visits to the dentist.   Played 10 games of golf.  Went to 13 movies.  All I can say if that I hope 2010 yields better stats, especially when it comes to making out with flight attendants.