This was my third attempt at a short story 6 years ago. Toby Liberman's name is dropped yet again from the same character mentioned in 'The Hat Trick'. Still dark...
The Exit Not Taken
By: Chad Miller
The Ivory Ford van sped through the darkness like a celestial blade slicing the cool night air. All speed limit signs were written in some foreign language as far as the driver was concerned, for, you see, tonight was the first breath of a new life, the first of many, he hoped. He was immortal, or, at least, he felt that way now, because the Jack Daniels told him so.
He lit a Marlboro and cracked his window. The midnight, December air was just the hint of reality he needed to make it home, only fifteen miles to go. “What a night” he muttered to himself with a strong scent of alcohol wafting from his mouth to his nostrils. It was enough to know that attracting the attention of the local authorities was probably far from the greatest way to put a cherry on the top of a perfect night. He hit the accelerator.
As the white lines of the country highway morphed into an endless, unbroken guide, his thoughts began to wander onto the blurred past few months of his life: the divorce, the adjustments, and his triumphant return to the single’s lifestyle.
The divorce part was easily explained: hot chick, great sex, the guilt of one sided love, the forgotten pill, the obligation, the wedding, the weight gain, domino, the weight loss, the double shifts, the affair. You can take the bitch off of the corner, but you can’t take the corner off of the bitch. You know, basic life lessons. A faint smile began to appear on his face as he took his mental mind fuck of a trip down memory lane. “Oh Shit!” he screamed, passing by his opportunity to catch an access road to the interstate. There will be others, he thought to himself.
As the high beams of the metallic monster lunged forward into the night, he began to comfortably transform back into his hypnotic driver mode. Adjusting to the single life, what a bitch that had been. You spend the first nine months of life trying to escape a pussy, but the rest of your existence trying to get back in. Poetic justice, they call it. He just called it bullshit.
Out of the singles game for nearly a decade, he returned only to find that the game had been given a complete make over. Hell, it wasn’t even the same fucking sport anymore. All of your young life, you lift weights, beef up, play sports, learn to overhaul engines. Manly shit, you know. Only to realize that a decade later, all the women now went for the Billy Gates, geeky ass, wedgie, sign on the back, dork mother fuckers. What the hell is this world coming to, he inquired to himself as another small smirk of his evening victory crawled across his face.
Our lone rider was about to begin a sinister laugh when suddenly, “Fuck!!”
He had just missed the second of the interstate access roads. Not to worry though, with half a tank of gas and nearly a full pack of smokes, civilization was not a necessity. He blasted the stereo, and valiantly pressed onward into the night.
Two missed exits, a woman who gave less than a shit, a sudden forced change in lifestyle, and, not to mention, crying himself to sleep every night for the past few weeks in a lonely, desolate apartment, and yet, the events that took place earlier in the evening were enough to show him that he was no longer down, nor out, but at the beginning of, if his luck held out, rookie status in the new game of women. A moment of clarity only days before had made him come to realize, that in a world full of wannabes, posers, and look alikes, you have to stand out to get recognized. So replacing his traditional honky-tonk garb with a hockey jersey and eighties esque torn blue jeans, he was bound to get some looks amongst an endless sea of hillbillies. And come, the looks did. At first from all of the male patrons, dressed in their red neck best, but soon following were the ladies, the selected prey of the evening. Our hero was about to top off his third Shiner Bock when an angelic voice projecting from behind him exclaimed “You know, it’s a shame about Liberman, he was my favorite player.”
Instant connectivity! He shoots, He scores! It was at this very moment that he knew why the hands of fate had dealt him the ownership of a van! As fast as you can exhaustingly scream “horizontal mambo” the majestic Ford was rocking with the sweet rhythms of love, or lust actually, and at that exact orgasmic moment, he knew that this was only the beginning. Life had made a serious emotionally triumphant and increasingly sexual U-turn into his favor.
After the mutual exchange of fluids came the mutual exchange of numbers, and with a half cocked glimmer of hope and a little hitch in his git-a-long, he barreled down this midnight highway. Suddenly, he was slapped back into reality by a large explosion of steel and fiberglass and an excruciatingly painful and sudden stop.
As the car wrecked Casanova exits his vehicle, he realizes that the remains of a Ford Focus had now become his new hood ornament. Then came the horrid realization of a lifeless body occupying the remainder of the front seat of the mangled vehicle. As he slowly crept towards the driver, he noticed the windshield, or lack of windshield, had shattered and upon further inspection, an unrecognizable female face stared back at him, with a surprised, yet blank expression on her face. The steering wheel had almost completely severed her head. A steady flow of blood was still streaming from her wounds when he noticed the hand of the victim. In her right, a cellular phone, with a call remaining on its agenda that would never be sent. In her left, a shard of blood stained paper, containing nine digits. As he carefully removes the paper from her mannequin like grip, a frigid tingle made a bolt up his spine. This was his own phone number.
Mere minutes before, he’d killed her insides. Mere moments later, he’d finished the job. Life loves tragedy. So much for new beginnings.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Scenes From The Drive Thru...the second thing I ever wrote
This was the second thing I ever wrote...once again in the middle of my divorce. Getting a little dark...
Scenes From The Drive Thru
By: Chad Miller
The shattered glass scattered amongst the trash and various other debris of the ancient moon lit parking lot was painfully reminding him of how his life had become. Like the theater that had once stood there, he had been full of life, and loved by many. He recalled the last time that he, himself, had graced the doorway of the now dilapidated pile of rubble that had been the sunrise of a new life for him.
Ten years, almost to the day, he had accompanied an angel to this very spot, an angel who would soon after, be allowed to reside in his heart, take his last name, bear his offspring and follow him to the ends of the earth, hand in hand, heart to heart.
The rest of our subject’s romantic, emotional rollercoaster could be compared to every “lost at love” story that anyone ever had the displeasure of telling, or listening to. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl and gets her back multiplied by twenty. Boy leaves for the Army, marries girl. Girl fucks around, boy forgives girl, girl fucks around again, boy forgives girl. Boy stays at the mercy of girl while she unforgivingly inserts sharp objects and twists them in his heart. And now, boy stands in an abandoned parking lot in the dark, at the end of this rope, which leads us to the present.
In the near distance was the illuminating glow of the establishment that remained her slave-like place of employment. Our pitiful subject had sworn to himself that he would never again cross the threshold of her job again, and like a true specimen of manhood, he intended to keep his word.
He could see her dishing out the slop de jour in the drive thru window, her red hair gently flowing in the light, evening breeze. A harsh crime it would be to scar this delicate flower for the rest of her natural life, but….
Stepping into the street he screamed her name to the best of his natural abilities and with praise to the gods of timing, she glanced out into the abyss of traffic, just as a Peterbilt rig caused his life to vanish in a brilliant crimson explosion. The once estranged bride shook uncontrollably as she collapsed to the ground howling loudly in disbelief and emotional anguish.
He had managed to once again devastate her live in a way that only “he” could. And she was sure to give him an ear full just as soon as she could gather her composure and gain access to the rat poison stock that was kept in the rear of the restaurant. If he thought he could get out of it this easy, he had another thing coming.
Scenes From The Drive Thru
By: Chad Miller
The shattered glass scattered amongst the trash and various other debris of the ancient moon lit parking lot was painfully reminding him of how his life had become. Like the theater that had once stood there, he had been full of life, and loved by many. He recalled the last time that he, himself, had graced the doorway of the now dilapidated pile of rubble that had been the sunrise of a new life for him.
Ten years, almost to the day, he had accompanied an angel to this very spot, an angel who would soon after, be allowed to reside in his heart, take his last name, bear his offspring and follow him to the ends of the earth, hand in hand, heart to heart.
The rest of our subject’s romantic, emotional rollercoaster could be compared to every “lost at love” story that anyone ever had the displeasure of telling, or listening to. Boy meets girl, boy loses girl and gets her back multiplied by twenty. Boy leaves for the Army, marries girl. Girl fucks around, boy forgives girl, girl fucks around again, boy forgives girl. Boy stays at the mercy of girl while she unforgivingly inserts sharp objects and twists them in his heart. And now, boy stands in an abandoned parking lot in the dark, at the end of this rope, which leads us to the present.
In the near distance was the illuminating glow of the establishment that remained her slave-like place of employment. Our pitiful subject had sworn to himself that he would never again cross the threshold of her job again, and like a true specimen of manhood, he intended to keep his word.
He could see her dishing out the slop de jour in the drive thru window, her red hair gently flowing in the light, evening breeze. A harsh crime it would be to scar this delicate flower for the rest of her natural life, but….
Stepping into the street he screamed her name to the best of his natural abilities and with praise to the gods of timing, she glanced out into the abyss of traffic, just as a Peterbilt rig caused his life to vanish in a brilliant crimson explosion. The once estranged bride shook uncontrollably as she collapsed to the ground howling loudly in disbelief and emotional anguish.
He had managed to once again devastate her live in a way that only “he” could. And she was sure to give him an ear full just as soon as she could gather her composure and gain access to the rat poison stock that was kept in the rear of the restaurant. If he thought he could get out of it this easy, he had another thing coming.
The Hat Trick...my very first short story ever from 6 years ago...
This was the very first short story I ever wrote. 6 years ago, after reading Del James 'The Language of Fear' I awoke one morning...and started writing. I borrowed the name of the character in this story for the main character in 'A Taste of Home'. Enjoy...
The Hat Trick
By: Chad Miller
“Tornadoes penalty” the booming voice of the rink announcer said “number nine, Toby Liberman, a five minute major for fighting.” Another one bites the ice, he thought to himself. Toby had not lost a fight to date, and with three years of minor league hockey under his belt, that was an amazing statistic. The penalty box door slammed shut and he took his well deserved seat. Some of his fans behind the box were giving their usual love taps on the glass to show their appreciation for another job well done. There’s no fan like a hockey fan.
As the chill of frigid aluminum crept through his pants, he removed his sweat soaked Mission gloves and closed his eyes to enjoy his five minute vacation in the sin bin. “You know, I wish the NHL would recognize real talent every now and then” he thought to himself. Three years in the minors and nothing to show for it with the exception of one hell of a stat sheet, a broken tooth, and a few more scars. He began to reflect back to where it all began, and where he wished he could still be today, that frozen pond back in Minnesota, surrounded by friends, playing for neighborhood honor, not here in the hell hole of the southwest, Dallas freakin’ Texas, bleeding every other night for half capacity crowds, skating on second rate ice, praying to the hockey gods to take him away from what he considered the worst mistake of his young life. Oh well, at least he scored two goals tonight, “wish it would have been a hat trick though“, three goals is something to brag about. He began to wonder who actually came up with the hockey gods anyway. Probably some half wit, half tooth doofus from Alberta fifty years ago. “Fuck the hockey gods, they can suck my hairy balls!” he muttered under his breath before he drifted off to sleep.
Toby’s whole life had been centered around the greatest game in the history of mankind, hockey. Growing up in small town Minnesota, he had a legacy to live up to, because the family photo album was full of pictures of all the men in their family for the past fifty years, covered in hockey gear, and blood no doubt, doing what they loved to do. As a matter of fact, not liking hockey back home was the equivalent of coming out of the closet and admitting that you were some cock sucking faggot. He had personally dished out a couple of those similar type faggot beatings in his youth during school when a couple of kids, brothers actually, relocated from Oklahoma City to his town in his 5th grade year. He should have cut them a break though, cow turds for hockey pucks probably wasn’t possible anyway.
Then poetic justice kicked in one fateful day at his high school championship game during his senior year. Sitting on the penalty bench for fighting he was approached by a tall man in a brown suit and cowboy hat offering him the chance to achieve his dreams that he couldn’t refuse. A chance to play for the Texas Tornadoes, a new expansion team in the minors. All he could think of was why people still wear cowboy hats. People don’t still dress up like pirates and logically, cowboys and pirates fall into the same category. He accepted the offer with little thought, and jumped a plane one month later for ‘what the hell is this hockey crap, welcome to football USA’ Dallas.
Three years later, here he sat, dreaming of home, when he felt a jarring blow to his helmet, waking him suddenly from paradise. He spun around with fists ready, only to be confronted by an old familiar face. The tall cowboy man, in all of his ignorant accent, looked him dead in the eye, and said “Hell of a job tonight kid, hell of a job. What are the possibilities of seeing you at Dallas Stars training camp next week? As fireworks erupted in his brain, he felt both joy and satisfaction swelling up inside of him. “You bet your sweet ass I’ll be there” he replied in his best impression of a fake southern draw. The cowboy slapped him on his helmet again and announced as he began to walk away, “I’ll give all the details to your coach, catch up with him later, and I’ll see you next week.” As the man disappeared into the crowd, Toby realized that this moment was nothing like he had always dreamed. Where was the press and the flashing cameras? Strait to business in Texas I guess, stupid ass hillbillies. Who gave a shit, he was going to the NHL! All he could think about was calling up his mother and telling her to get a new photo album, because Toby was officially the home town shit. Just think of the pussy he would get when he got home. Now that’s a homecoming! All the chicks who turned him down in high school would be waiting at the airport with open arms and open legs. I guess the hockey gods were listening after all. “You know I was just joking earlier” Toby muttered to himself as an unrestrictive smile appeared on his face, ear to ear.
The penalty box door swung open with a vengeance and Toby exploded onto the ice with a renewed sense of hope. Ten seconds remaining in the game, the play was in the opposing teams zone, and Toby was on his way to greatness. Better ice, better play, better groupies, damn, the possibilities were endless. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. Deafened by the screaming fans, and the visions of screaming fans yet to come, Toby never saw it coming.
“Look out, heads up” the tornadoes team captain screamed at Toby, but the warning fell on deaf ears, for as soon as Toby turned to face his teammates, the puck punched him square between the eyes, causing a deflection, straight between the legs of the opposing goalie, and crossed the line into the net. Horns blew and lights came alive announcing Toby’s hat trick. Fans high fived each other as a steady stream of hats flew from head to hand to ice in tribute to the hero of the day. His right winger skated over to him, removing a hat that had conveniently landed on Toby’s face, expecting to see a pained, yet smiling expression on the players face. Suddenly, all cheers were halted, and a deadly silence came over the arena. Where a hat tricking hero once lay, was a crimson stained number nine jersey with an unrecognizable face.
As the haze cleared and the pain faded, Toby walked onto an eerily empty ice rink. The stands were empty, but the ice was absolutely perfect, and pausing for a moment, he began to wonder if this was all a horrible dream, and he was at the pro rink in Dallas. “Wait a minute” Toby thought aloud, “this doesn’t look like American Airlines Center.”
“It’s not!” came an elderly voice behind him suddenly. “It’s heaven.”
“Heaven?” Toby interrogated at the top of his lungs, what am I doing here? Who are you?” The elderly man suddenly invented a most disappointing scowl on his face and replied “you have played hockey your entire life, and have not the slightest idea who I am? I answered all of your prayers tonight, and yet you still don’t have the fuzziest idea of who you stand before? I am the hockey god, I’m Lord Stanley!”
Toby fell to the ice in disbelief, “ Like the Stanley Cup?”
“No, dumb ass, I invented the tape measure, Yeah like the Stanley Cup!” Lord Stanley replied.
“So you’re God” Toby inquired. “Man, my Sunday school teacher was clueless!”
“No Toby, I’m not God, but God does love hockey, and who better to organize it in heaven but me!” Lord Stanley said with a proud smile.
“Well, what do you mean by what you said earlier? You said you answered all of my prayers tonight at the rink.” Toby was more confused than ever he had ever been in his life, now completely lost in the afterlife as well.
“Well” Lord Stanley began, “You wished that the NHL would recognize real talent, so I sent the hillbilly to go talk to you, a second time I might add, and then you wished to get away from all of the minor league hustle and bustle, so I got you a job with the Stars! Lastly, you asked for a hat trick, and I gave you that also!”
“Why kill me though, why, when life was about to start getting good, did you send a puck to my face?” Toby barked angrily.
“Well, of all the things I was doing for you, and have done in the past, you insisted that I fuck off tonight, and Lord Stanley has one heck of a sense of humor, but doesn’t take kindly to threats. The puck to the face was my version of throwing off the gloves and going at it!”
“Oh, sorry about that” Toby apologized. “So, I’m going to be playing for the Heaven Team? Man this is going to be great.”
“Not quite, Toby” interrupted Lord Stanley, “ I regret to inform you that there is no ball sucking on my hockey team either, but I got you hooked up somewhere that does. You’re due to try out for Coach Bin Laden’s Hell’s Hooligans this time tomorrow and with all of those penalty minutes, you should fit right in. I’ll never be able to understand how they keep their rink frozen down there, I’d wear your light weight, ventilated jersey if I were you.”
The Hat Trick
By: Chad Miller
“Tornadoes penalty” the booming voice of the rink announcer said “number nine, Toby Liberman, a five minute major for fighting.” Another one bites the ice, he thought to himself. Toby had not lost a fight to date, and with three years of minor league hockey under his belt, that was an amazing statistic. The penalty box door slammed shut and he took his well deserved seat. Some of his fans behind the box were giving their usual love taps on the glass to show their appreciation for another job well done. There’s no fan like a hockey fan.
As the chill of frigid aluminum crept through his pants, he removed his sweat soaked Mission gloves and closed his eyes to enjoy his five minute vacation in the sin bin. “You know, I wish the NHL would recognize real talent every now and then” he thought to himself. Three years in the minors and nothing to show for it with the exception of one hell of a stat sheet, a broken tooth, and a few more scars. He began to reflect back to where it all began, and where he wished he could still be today, that frozen pond back in Minnesota, surrounded by friends, playing for neighborhood honor, not here in the hell hole of the southwest, Dallas freakin’ Texas, bleeding every other night for half capacity crowds, skating on second rate ice, praying to the hockey gods to take him away from what he considered the worst mistake of his young life. Oh well, at least he scored two goals tonight, “wish it would have been a hat trick though“, three goals is something to brag about. He began to wonder who actually came up with the hockey gods anyway. Probably some half wit, half tooth doofus from Alberta fifty years ago. “Fuck the hockey gods, they can suck my hairy balls!” he muttered under his breath before he drifted off to sleep.
Toby’s whole life had been centered around the greatest game in the history of mankind, hockey. Growing up in small town Minnesota, he had a legacy to live up to, because the family photo album was full of pictures of all the men in their family for the past fifty years, covered in hockey gear, and blood no doubt, doing what they loved to do. As a matter of fact, not liking hockey back home was the equivalent of coming out of the closet and admitting that you were some cock sucking faggot. He had personally dished out a couple of those similar type faggot beatings in his youth during school when a couple of kids, brothers actually, relocated from Oklahoma City to his town in his 5th grade year. He should have cut them a break though, cow turds for hockey pucks probably wasn’t possible anyway.
Then poetic justice kicked in one fateful day at his high school championship game during his senior year. Sitting on the penalty bench for fighting he was approached by a tall man in a brown suit and cowboy hat offering him the chance to achieve his dreams that he couldn’t refuse. A chance to play for the Texas Tornadoes, a new expansion team in the minors. All he could think of was why people still wear cowboy hats. People don’t still dress up like pirates and logically, cowboys and pirates fall into the same category. He accepted the offer with little thought, and jumped a plane one month later for ‘what the hell is this hockey crap, welcome to football USA’ Dallas.
Three years later, here he sat, dreaming of home, when he felt a jarring blow to his helmet, waking him suddenly from paradise. He spun around with fists ready, only to be confronted by an old familiar face. The tall cowboy man, in all of his ignorant accent, looked him dead in the eye, and said “Hell of a job tonight kid, hell of a job. What are the possibilities of seeing you at Dallas Stars training camp next week? As fireworks erupted in his brain, he felt both joy and satisfaction swelling up inside of him. “You bet your sweet ass I’ll be there” he replied in his best impression of a fake southern draw. The cowboy slapped him on his helmet again and announced as he began to walk away, “I’ll give all the details to your coach, catch up with him later, and I’ll see you next week.” As the man disappeared into the crowd, Toby realized that this moment was nothing like he had always dreamed. Where was the press and the flashing cameras? Strait to business in Texas I guess, stupid ass hillbillies. Who gave a shit, he was going to the NHL! All he could think about was calling up his mother and telling her to get a new photo album, because Toby was officially the home town shit. Just think of the pussy he would get when he got home. Now that’s a homecoming! All the chicks who turned him down in high school would be waiting at the airport with open arms and open legs. I guess the hockey gods were listening after all. “You know I was just joking earlier” Toby muttered to himself as an unrestrictive smile appeared on his face, ear to ear.
The penalty box door swung open with a vengeance and Toby exploded onto the ice with a renewed sense of hope. Ten seconds remaining in the game, the play was in the opposing teams zone, and Toby was on his way to greatness. Better ice, better play, better groupies, damn, the possibilities were endless. Today was the first day of the rest of his life. Deafened by the screaming fans, and the visions of screaming fans yet to come, Toby never saw it coming.
“Look out, heads up” the tornadoes team captain screamed at Toby, but the warning fell on deaf ears, for as soon as Toby turned to face his teammates, the puck punched him square between the eyes, causing a deflection, straight between the legs of the opposing goalie, and crossed the line into the net. Horns blew and lights came alive announcing Toby’s hat trick. Fans high fived each other as a steady stream of hats flew from head to hand to ice in tribute to the hero of the day. His right winger skated over to him, removing a hat that had conveniently landed on Toby’s face, expecting to see a pained, yet smiling expression on the players face. Suddenly, all cheers were halted, and a deadly silence came over the arena. Where a hat tricking hero once lay, was a crimson stained number nine jersey with an unrecognizable face.
As the haze cleared and the pain faded, Toby walked onto an eerily empty ice rink. The stands were empty, but the ice was absolutely perfect, and pausing for a moment, he began to wonder if this was all a horrible dream, and he was at the pro rink in Dallas. “Wait a minute” Toby thought aloud, “this doesn’t look like American Airlines Center.”
“It’s not!” came an elderly voice behind him suddenly. “It’s heaven.”
“Heaven?” Toby interrogated at the top of his lungs, what am I doing here? Who are you?” The elderly man suddenly invented a most disappointing scowl on his face and replied “you have played hockey your entire life, and have not the slightest idea who I am? I answered all of your prayers tonight, and yet you still don’t have the fuzziest idea of who you stand before? I am the hockey god, I’m Lord Stanley!”
Toby fell to the ice in disbelief, “ Like the Stanley Cup?”
“No, dumb ass, I invented the tape measure, Yeah like the Stanley Cup!” Lord Stanley replied.
“So you’re God” Toby inquired. “Man, my Sunday school teacher was clueless!”
“No Toby, I’m not God, but God does love hockey, and who better to organize it in heaven but me!” Lord Stanley said with a proud smile.
“Well, what do you mean by what you said earlier? You said you answered all of my prayers tonight at the rink.” Toby was more confused than ever he had ever been in his life, now completely lost in the afterlife as well.
“Well” Lord Stanley began, “You wished that the NHL would recognize real talent, so I sent the hillbilly to go talk to you, a second time I might add, and then you wished to get away from all of the minor league hustle and bustle, so I got you a job with the Stars! Lastly, you asked for a hat trick, and I gave you that also!”
“Why kill me though, why, when life was about to start getting good, did you send a puck to my face?” Toby barked angrily.
“Well, of all the things I was doing for you, and have done in the past, you insisted that I fuck off tonight, and Lord Stanley has one heck of a sense of humor, but doesn’t take kindly to threats. The puck to the face was my version of throwing off the gloves and going at it!”
“Oh, sorry about that” Toby apologized. “So, I’m going to be playing for the Heaven Team? Man this is going to be great.”
“Not quite, Toby” interrupted Lord Stanley, “ I regret to inform you that there is no ball sucking on my hockey team either, but I got you hooked up somewhere that does. You’re due to try out for Coach Bin Laden’s Hell’s Hooligans this time tomorrow and with all of those penalty minutes, you should fit right in. I’ll never be able to understand how they keep their rink frozen down there, I’d wear your light weight, ventilated jersey if I were you.”
A Tribute To My EX Wife
...and he writes poetry too!!! Actually, this is something I wrote 6 years ago when I was going through my divorce. Warning!!! This is definately NOT posted for children or adults with weak stomachs...this is pure hatred at it's finest. Enjoy...
In raging seas of disbelief
I sit confused and wondered
Endless pain and saddened grief
Emotions raped and plundered
Forget the past and look ahead
Much easier said than done
Will she miss me when I’m dead
Just think of all the fun
Dancing on my grave at night
And spitting on my stone
Dig me up and break apart
Flesh, sinew and bone
Or even better yet, she thinks
Torment him while he’s living
Wondering who took his place
On our last Thanksgiving
Well bitch, I’ve got a plan or two
On how to phase you out
Take deep breaths, live day to day
And soon I’ll be without
Without you, is what I really mean
Without your heartless smile
Without the pain and suffering
Without your hardened style
Perhaps, some day, you’ll change your mind
And want to take me back
Then I’ll know you’ve lost your mind
And must be smoking crack
Forgive you once, forgive you twice
Third time is a charm
Sneak back into your lover’s life
Not raising an alarm
You see, there’s things that you forget
Things that you’ll never see
To take you back without regret
Well baby, that’s not me
Well girl, I’ve got to wrap this up
Beginnings have their ends
I think you really know what’s up
I’m fucking all your friends
It’s all too late to undo now
They like my dick too much
They let me fuck them in their ass
Cum in their mouths and such
Continue living out your life
I hope you live it well
Perhaps we’ll meet again someday
On better terms in Hell
How can I be so mean, you ask
Well baby, that’s your doing
How am I supposed to feel
With your unfaithful screwing
You did to me for all those years
That which you’ll do no more
You turned my feelings all to fears
You two bit fucking whore
Perhaps I’ve taken this too far
But where there’s smoke there’s fire
Before you get into your car
I’d check your fucking tires
If you die before I do
Your presence I shall miss
Rotting, you will have no clue
Atop you, I shall piss
And steal flowers from the spot
Your family laid them down
And toss them in a port a john
Somewhere outside of town
Relax, I’m only joking Kim
I don’t hate you this bad
You see, my head begins to swim
When I’m out of beer, Love, Chad
In raging seas of disbelief
I sit confused and wondered
Endless pain and saddened grief
Emotions raped and plundered
Forget the past and look ahead
Much easier said than done
Will she miss me when I’m dead
Just think of all the fun
Dancing on my grave at night
And spitting on my stone
Dig me up and break apart
Flesh, sinew and bone
Or even better yet, she thinks
Torment him while he’s living
Wondering who took his place
On our last Thanksgiving
Well bitch, I’ve got a plan or two
On how to phase you out
Take deep breaths, live day to day
And soon I’ll be without
Without you, is what I really mean
Without your heartless smile
Without the pain and suffering
Without your hardened style
Perhaps, some day, you’ll change your mind
And want to take me back
Then I’ll know you’ve lost your mind
And must be smoking crack
Forgive you once, forgive you twice
Third time is a charm
Sneak back into your lover’s life
Not raising an alarm
You see, there’s things that you forget
Things that you’ll never see
To take you back without regret
Well baby, that’s not me
Well girl, I’ve got to wrap this up
Beginnings have their ends
I think you really know what’s up
I’m fucking all your friends
It’s all too late to undo now
They like my dick too much
They let me fuck them in their ass
Cum in their mouths and such
Continue living out your life
I hope you live it well
Perhaps we’ll meet again someday
On better terms in Hell
How can I be so mean, you ask
Well baby, that’s your doing
How am I supposed to feel
With your unfaithful screwing
You did to me for all those years
That which you’ll do no more
You turned my feelings all to fears
You two bit fucking whore
Perhaps I’ve taken this too far
But where there’s smoke there’s fire
Before you get into your car
I’d check your fucking tires
If you die before I do
Your presence I shall miss
Rotting, you will have no clue
Atop you, I shall piss
And steal flowers from the spot
Your family laid them down
And toss them in a port a john
Somewhere outside of town
Relax, I’m only joking Kim
I don’t hate you this bad
You see, my head begins to swim
When I’m out of beer, Love, Chad
My Review of SnapIt 3.7
Anybody ever wanted a good program to take snapshots of your PC screen to use for presentations or whatever crazy idea you could come up with? I know being an author and a paranormal investigator, I often need something to show to clients in areas where the internet is not readily available through WI-FI. Now I have it. SnapIt 3.7 is an amazing program that lets you do exactly that. Whatever is on your computer screen at the time can be instantly and easily copied into every format imaginable! With an easy to use interface, this program makes it a snap, no pun intended! I would highly recommend it to any other computer jockey out there. It is a very convenient tool for bloggers. When you write posts on your blog you need to
capture and crop images from different sources - this tool is for you.
- Supports hotkeys, auto-saving, clipboard
- Automatically copies screenshots to the clipboard
- Tracks capture history, auto-saves captured images
- Saves files in BMP, GIF, JPEG, PNG and TIFF formats
- Auto-names captured images
Download and install SnapIt Screen Capture 3.7:
http://digeus.com/downloads/snapit/files/3/snapit_3_7.exe
Learn more what is included in SnapIt Screen Capture 3.7.8810:
http://www.digeus.com/products/snapit/snapit_screen_capture_3_5.html
I'm glad to help promote this product
If you create a review in any blog/forum/twitter/facebook, etc, and contact me with link to the review, you can get this product FREE!!!
Chad Miller
Author of 'A Taste of Home'
C0-Founder of Paranormal Research and Investigations of North Texas
www.paranormalnorthtexas.com
capture and crop images from different sources - this tool is for you.
- Supports hotkeys, auto-saving, clipboard
- Automatically copies screenshots to the clipboard
- Tracks capture history, auto-saves captured images
- Saves files in BMP, GIF, JPEG, PNG and TIFF formats
- Auto-names captured images
Download and install SnapIt Screen Capture 3.7:
http://digeus.com/downloads/snapit/files/3/snapit_3_7.exe
Learn more what is included in SnapIt Screen Capture 3.7.8810:
http://www.digeus.com/products/snapit/snapit_screen_capture_3_5.html
I'm glad to help promote this product
If you create a review in any blog/forum/twitter/facebook, etc, and contact me with link to the review, you can get this product FREE!!!
Chad Miller
Author of 'A Taste of Home'
C0-Founder of Paranormal Research and Investigations of North Texas
www.paranormalnorthtexas.com
Friday, October 1, 2010
Friday, September 17, 2010
It's here...
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity...a felt a thud agains the front door of my home. I was sitting in my boxers jacking around on the old laptop...no pun intended...and nearly jumped right out of my skin. Now, as some of you may know who have been caught in that type of situation before...don't lie...you know who you are...you could easily hurt yourself. Actually, I was updating some facebook stuff and not doing what you're all thinking when it happened. I heard a man yell 'UPS' and then footsteps heading rapidly in the other direction. Talk about going through the motions...he wasn't even going to wait five seconds to see if anyone was home or not! He was just going to leave my masterpiece, the only copy in the world right now, at the mercy of my front door where anyone or their dog could just come along and take it. When I finally got the package opened...I couldn't believe what I saw. Pure beauty to rival any of those I'd experienced before save my soon to be wife and my children being born. I couldn't put it down...but once I did...I couldn't stop staring at it. A years worth of tangible 'me' bound tightly in it's paper confines for all the world to enjoy...if they so choose. The release day should be about a month from now...and, again, I feel like a writer. It's about time...
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