Damn.

Did I mention I Like to Drink?

I figure we all do it. I did just the other night. This is what came of it... Yes, I believe it's a story.

A Beer for Sister Sara

I sat there, on the crooked couch in the living room of the house I didn’t own. I was renting a room at the time, and god how I wanted to leave that filthy place. There was nowhere else to go, nowhere else to be. I’d just gotten off the phone with a close friend I’d met in college years back. He was hunting for jobs, something to call work for the next however many years to come. 

And I was tired. I took a drink of my beer. It was cold, almost too cold - if that's even possible. But it was sweet and it made my mind at ease. I took another drink. Drink after drink, there I sat. My eyes and thoughts were fixated on the glowing screen of my television. It was the same small television I’d had in my dorm room at college—where I met my unemployed friend. I liked the television. I liked my dorm room. I began to miss my dorm room, the place where I could drink cold beer and watch my television without sharing a damn thing with anyone.

I drank another long sip of my cold, sweet beer and reverted my attention to the program on my television. It was a movie, a western movie. I started listening to the dialogue. I took another drink. I realized what was taking place on the screen in front of crooked couch on which i sat. I watched a cowboy who had fallen for a nun he’d just saved from a raping. I liked the dialogue. I liked the cowboy. He wanted to fuck the nun. I think his name was Clint. 

I took two big drinks. I wanted to fuck the nun. I wanted to fuck the actress who played the nun. I don’t know what her name was. 

I took another drink. And another. Then another. I thought of how painful it would be to have an arrow in my shoulder. I drank to that thought. Shortly after, I woke up the next morning on the couch. The cowboy was gone. The nun was gone (I later found out she wasn’t a nun at all and that her name was Shirley). The arrow wound was gone. My beer was piss warm. My back was killing me…

I am Paul Tefft. And I'm a real handful.

A Message to the World of Blogging: It's a Boy

Night time in Grand Rapids. The little hand is pointing at 12, and the big hand isn't far off. A coffee shop, like any other (with the exception of a most obscure soundtrack), holds a collection of young men and women. Most of them students. Others, remnants of the life collegiate, dispersed into the working world. I am one of those remnants.

In other words, it's late as a prom queen's period. And as dark as her future. I'm in a noisy coffee house with my best friend, offering nothing more than moral support (or nuisance) while he works on projects for school. Me, I'm reading a fascinating book about advertising.
I should be in bed. Should be. But, luckily for me, one of my roommates needed crack money and pawned the mattress, box-spring and frame of my bed yesterday. I should be pissed. Should be. But it's okay because I've already gotten even.

This guy, let's call him Knuckles, has been looking for my crack addicted roommate for at least two months. According to the messages post-it noted to our front door, Knuckles wants his "fucking money or else." You can only imagine the story behind the messages there.

Well I ran into "Knuckles" at Blockbuster. He was renting a copy of "The Truth about Cats and Dogs," which I found a bit outlandish. I was renting a copy of "Horny Golf Girls III," which was no surprise at all. We both concealed our video choices while I told him were he could find the my roommate. My roommate is dead. Such a pity.

Of course it didn't go down like that. It didn't "go down" at all. And I probably didn't have to confront that fact. But hey, someone had to post "Employees Must Wash Hands" above sinks in restaurants...

I am Paul Tefft. And I'm a real handful.

A Message to the World of Blogging: It's a Boy

Night time in Grand Rapids. The little hand is pointing at 12, and the big hand isn't far off. A coffee shop, like any other (with the exception of a most obscure soundtrack), holds a collection of young men and women. Most of them students. Others, remnants of the life collegiate, dispersed into the working world. I am one of those remnants.

In other words, it's late as a prom queen's period. And as dark as her future. I'm in a noisy coffee house with my best friend, offering nothing more than moral support (or nuisance) while he works on projects for school. Me, I'm reading a fascinating book about advertising. I should be in bed. Should be. But, luckily for me, one of my roommates needed crack money and pawned the mattress, box-spring and frame of my bed yesterday. I should be pissed. Should be. But it's okay because I've already gotten even. This guy, let's call him Knuckles, has been looking for my crack addicted roommate for at least two months. According to the messages post-it noted to our front door, Well I ran into "Knuckles" at Blockbuster. He was renting a copy of "The Truth about Cats and Dogs," which I found a bit outlandish. I was renting a copy of "Horny Golf Girls III," which was no surprise at all. We both concealed our video choices while I told him were he could find the my roommate, who owed Knuckles at least a cool grand. My roommate is dead.

I am Paul Tefft. And I'm a real handful.