You wake up. Head throbbing. Mouth dry. Clothed only in boxers. The most stunningly beautiful person in any world is snuggled up tight against you. She purrs softly: fast asleep. This is your life, Kyle Blake. You arm doesn’t dare move. Despite a few minor details, the memory of the past night remains in tact. Nothing happened. You fell asleep spooning with you best friend. The only person in the world that you give a fuck about, her skins pressed into yours. The meshed hands, intertwined legs. This is Kyle’s wake up call
You attempt to get up, but reality, sobriety keep you there. Marissa would kill you if she saw this. She’d go to the kitchen, grab a knife and cut off your balls. She would take the ice pick and chip, chip, chip away at your dick. Drew and Riley, they would tell you it’s about fucking time. Give you high-fives. Nothing happened. You saw into each others souls and fell asleep all over cheap beer. This was just another Thursday night to you two. You’ve had hundreds of these. This was the norm. The average. This is your Friday morning Kyle.
10:42. You’ve been awake for sixty-three minutes, fifteen seconds. Head still throbbing. At least you can count on your headaches to stick with you. A yawn invades your body. Starting at your nicotine-stained teeth down your callous tongue, all the way to your horrifically empty stomach. An impulse hits your overworked and under-paid brain. It goes straight to your heart. Emotion, logic’s distant, retarded cousin, hits you out of nowhere. Like a brick to your back. It’s been awhile. If you could remember the last time you felt anything, if ever, you could recognize it easier. Apathy is the new ecstasy. A heavy sigh drops to your long-winded lungs. Your lips slowly tremble and move to the sea of peach. Nerves conquer you. You feel the skin against your slightly quivering lips. Suddenly your twelve all over. Your second first kiss. You hit her on her neck. Contact. The brain sends an emergency signal. S.O.S. 911! Help, somebody. God, please! Stop! If only you had a choice. The heart intercepts the message and destroys it. You move to her lips. You free your arm. It’s half asleep. Pins and needles. The first thing it feels is Goddess Bailey’s soft skin. A light brush on the cheek. A shock down your spine. Close your desolate eyes. Breathe in. Take the plunge. Lip to lip. Soul to soul. You’re twelve again. Butterfly-infested stomach. Your second first kiss.
The blonde responds warmly. It must be a dream, she must be fast asleep. They must be sixteen. They must be crazy still, back at the old nuthouse. That’s what she dreams of every night. Her nightly visit of perfection. In her dreams, she’s married with two completely neurotic kids. Her husband couldn’t be more amazing. In her fantasyland, Disney World, Never-never land, she’s with him. She can feel his lips. Slowly and stealthily her tongue advances into foreign territory. It feels so real, so right, so perfect, but it’s over in an instant. Before it ever started, it was decimated and demolished. An eternity in a moment. She keeps her lips slightly ajar. The words, “I love you Kyle” escape without warning. Kyle Blake, this is your true love.
You ears hear this. It travels up to cranial territory and your aortic pump simultaneously. Another battle, this time for all the marbles. Double or nothing. The words, “I love you too Bay” shoot up out of the lowest crevice of your heart. They blast out of your mouth like a loaded canon. Your brain finally comes back from his coffee break. Mocha Java Espresso. Fully aware. Shock and awe. Rejuvenated. It’s over. You stop. An eternity in a moment. Sixty two seconds. You’re twelve. You’re sixteen. You’re twenty-one. Kyle Blake, this is your wake up call.

December 25th, 1992. A little 9-year-old boy sits playing with his new Ninja Turtles. Dressed in a black suit that was 2 sizes two big, he sat there looking at Space Explorer Leonardo. Bebop was about to get the living pulp beaten out of him. Smash. Bam. Pow. Master Splinter would love watching his little protégé beat the living snot out of the evil crony. Unfortunately for little Kyle, Santa didn’t bring him a Splinter figure. K Mart must have been out of them. In fists of fury and rage, a button goes flying off of Kyle’s suit jacket and on to the hard would floor in the dining room.

Lady Blake, queen of the castle, just sighed and said, “Kyle, be more careful”. It was a hectic day for the domestic goddess. The house was filling with a plethora of aromas. Burning Clove. Garlic. Turkey, potatoes, beats, all wafting in from the kitchen. The smell of snow mixed with the exhaust from a car come sneaking in through the cracked window. Jimmy Stewart on the television. It’s a Wonderful Life, what a picture perfect lie. The loud sounds of Bing Crosby crooning along to, “White Christmas’ stormed in from the same cracked window.

A moment passes and the doorbell chimes in. Ding-dong. Drab and devoid of any character. Little Kyle’s mother halts the preparations for her seven-course grand feast. The lovely hostess, the mistress of the manor, opens the royal gates after a slight moment of hesitation. To her amazement, a group of five carolers, three men and two women, start their tone-deaf rendition of, “The First Noel”. Queen Blake called for her adoring king to come quick.

Lord Blake, with his gruff but lovable voice asks what the trouble is from a far. “Just come”, she yells at him. From the distance the alpha Blake appears. Dressed in rugged blue jeans that had started to wear, and a black/red flannel shirt, straight out of an L.L. Bean catalogue. His sleeves were rolled to show off his hair arms as well as the fact that he had been hard at work. The couple stood there listening intently, smiling, feeling total bliss until the final word of “Jingle Bells”. The carolers left as quickly as they arrived. The man picked up his petite wife and kissed her warmly. The scratch from his five o’clock shadow was sure to itch at his wife’s silky porcelain skin. Her cheeks turned brick red. Like a virginal schoolgirl, she told her lover, “not in front of Kyle”.

Pre-pubescent Kyle stuck his tongue out with a mild, “ick”. In a few years he would get what it was all about. He’d learn all about sex from his school yard chums. He’ll see a girl’s privates from playing doctor with little Sarah Becker, the girl down the street. They rode the bus home together every day. It was her idea, Kyle just went with the flow.

Twenty-something Kyle wondered what happened to Sarah. What she was doing, how big her tits were, and how many guys she let fuck her. After snapping back into reality, he brought his girlfriend into his bedroom. He would stick his tongue in her with a mild, “slurp”. He knew what it was all about, all the joys of physical contact with girls. His buddies taught him all about it in fifth grade. He would play, “Twister” with her for an our, touching every skin cell on her body. Twisting and turning. Fun for the whole family, at least Kyle’s. Kyle was the only Blake left alive.

The overture ends. The curtian rises, and out steps Emma. Emma, the quirky friend. Emma, the girl with personality. Emma, the funny one. Emma, the ruiner. She walks into the coffee place, somewhere in the background. She walks three steps stage left, and somehow trancends into center stage.

You know why we're artists?

Why?

Because we have no idea who the hell we are.

The worst place I could possibly be when I hear a gun shot, taking a piss. I could have been down there, in the middle of the action. I could have stopped the gunman after they did it. I could have dived in front of that bullet. But, no, I'm standing here in front of 80 lbs of porcelain, and I jump and hit the bowl mid-stream.

Look, I came here and as much as I want to  have this grand romantic speech to sweep you off your feet, I don't. But heres my pitch: I know I'm not a safe bet, I know I'm not anything close to a good bet, but deep down, I'm an okay guy, and I think somebody should bet on me in the long run. I was pretty much hoping that would be you.

They leave you so god damn speechless. They can inspire you to write all this great stuff about everything under the sun, but when it comes to writing about them, you come up with nothing. Even the greatest of minds have problems putting into words the truly awesome parts of life.