I wrote this fast and didnt have time to proofread, gotta go to work.

At nearly exactly 5am today I awoke to what I had no doubt was a shotgun blast 15 feet outside my bedroom window, on my neighbors back porch. I snapped awake. Petrified, I listened. Thought I heard footsteps. Thought I heard a voice. Seconds or minutes later I was finally able to get my hand to reach for the phone. From under the covers I dialed emergency. She couldnt understand me. I was talking too fast. From under the covers every sense tingled. I heard squirrels birds and roaches thinking to themselves, "what the fuck was that?" I felt every vibration, grasped every fluctuation of light and color. Nothing moved, including myself. Too terrified to look out. A million seconds or minutes passed before officers lit up the back yard. I went out to them. Pointed where I heard the blast. One officer looks over the fence. The other a few minutes later looks around in the air, "sir, do you have power?" I have nothing in my room that requires power other than a lamp that wasnt on, so if the power was out I would have no way of knowing. Before he could finish asking me the question, "did a fucking transformer blow up?" I said. Almost more angry at entergy than if there was an actual assassin that night taking shots at my new neighbors. By that time Matt and Susannah were up. They said, "why didnt you call out, Eric? Or come into our room?" Because I couldnt move. Any movement I would have made would have clued the perpetrator of my existence and of my new title as WITNESS. He would have had no choice to have me dispatched. It took nearly an hour for my heart to stop racing. I laughed at myself. I thought of two things to help me calm down. One was a daydream of me being powerful and smart. The other was my happiest moment of recent history. The daydream was a reaction to how weak I felt. I needed an absurd story of me being gallant and brave to balance out how cowardly I just acted. It started like this: I was at the restaurant closing up the register. The rest of the employees were around doing the they need to do to close their respective station. Two white men enter with guns. One comes directly to me points his gun at my face and demands cash. I calmly do as he asks. He asks if all the employees are right here. I know one is not and one is the dishwasher that doesnt speak english. I ask Tyler to calmly ask Ballardo to step up front. Then he makes me take him upstairs to the safe. As I go I tell everyone to be calm. We have insurance this no big deal. Upstairs I empty the cash boxes for him. Impatiently he smashes the top of my head with the butt of his pistol. I black out from rage. Bathed in white light I somehow overcome him and beat him unconscious. Now I have his gun. Everyone is still downstairs unaware. I call the police again. Chris has already called the police from his dark hideout behind the oven. I tell 911 that I have one of the men down and the other is downstairs with my employees. I tell them where the back entrances are and how to get in quietly. I know if too much time goes by the second guy will have to do something. I wait by the door down the hall. It open out from me. I hear him come up the stairs calling out to his accomplice. The handle is touched. When it is open by about 2 inches I kick it open as hard as I can. With force that surprises even myself. I point the gun at him. As he hits the ground he raises his arm to me. I shoot him with the purpose of hitting him the tight shoulder. No lung, no vital organs. I succeeded. One is unconscious in the office the other has a 9mm hole going through him. I yell out to everyone that I am ok. I yell to Tyler to bring clean dry towels up and for everyone else to stay right where they are. I ask the guy to drop his gun and that if I put this gun down and put pressure on his would will he be cool and not attack me. He accepts my help. He's more afraid of dying at this point. He is a little younger than me. Out of genuine curiosity I ask what it feels like. The same way I asked my sister what being pregnant feels like. He said it feels weird. Doesnt hurt exactly but it does. His whole body resonated. We figured together that was the body going into shock. Now Tyler was there and we both put pressure on the entrance and exit wounds. I asked him his name. I told him mine and introduced Tyler. For some reason I told him we were in a band together. He told me he played guitar so I asked him about specifics. What kind, model, color, pickups, year, string preference. All the basics we get out of the way when talking with another guitar player. I wanted to keep him talking. He was fading. I slapped him awake a couple times. What kind of amp? Pedals? Banalities to keep us both calm. But also probably the most surreal topic of conversation given that I just shot him. And he shot at me. Emma runs over the bottom the stairs to help. I yell at her to get away, I didnt want her to see this. She didnt need to see the blood or this dude die on me. I told her to find Chris Mac, get him out of hiding, call Scott, John and Quin and get them here now. Call an ambulance(which I pronounced AMBALANTS and made a joke out of a minute later, "can you believe I just said ambalants?") And tell them we have a gunshot wound. The police swarm in. As they come up the stairs guns drawn I tell Tyler to put his hands up, stand up and get back. The officer asks me to step away. I told him I have constant pressure and I am ok staying until EMTs arrive. I tell him to grab the gun from my back waistband. We all agree. The paramedics arrive, things calm down. They decide the crack on my head doesnt need stitches. They give me and Tyler stuff to wash the blood off. But before I can do it the police want a statement, John, Scott and Quin arrive in time for me to tell it all. So in my head, in the daydream I am telling it again but in a way that I am saying to cops. Details only. Just the fucking facts. And I play it all out again in my head. Adding details. I', sitting on the back of the ambulance. Telling the story. Someone puts a cigarete into my mouth. I keep talking. When I need to take it out of my mouth the blood gives me pause. The sight slows everything down and chokes me up for just a second. I continue.Tyler and I are at the back sink scrubbing our hands. I'm in bed after some drinks and talk trying to sleep. Ok, now is where it gets silly. The next afternoon I sit down with John, Scott and Quin. They are overwhelmed and gushing praise and thank yous. They decide that I need some time off. Paid. At this point I was already 5 days from taking a week off to fly to Minnesota to see you. That added a second was and to take the rest of this week off. They decided to buy me a new car. I said that was too much but they insisted. Quin mentions that I was still trying to save up for a new laptop. John puts his fist down, "Scott, take Eric car shopping I am going to Best Buy." So I now have 3 weeks off, a new computer and car and a bunch of cash. I get interviewed by tv and newspaper. I refuse to do any big national things because I am so humble and noble. Men dont brag about what they did. I'm even laughing at myself at this point. Now I call you and tell you all this. I tell you I am going to drive to Chicago for a day or two then come see you for as long as you'll have me. I needed a detailed stupid daydream to occupy my mind. I do it often before bed and before I get up. I create these too perfect scenarios. But this morning I needed it. This morning was the second most scared I have ever been.
The other thing I though about, the happiest moment in recent history, was you laying with me that morning, arm across me, head on my chest. You were with me this morning. You did protect me. You helped me sleep.

The arrogance of youth and male pattern baldness.

Oh shit. I cant tell the story of how I became a graphic designer without telling you about Pete. Pete was the son of a well off farmer from DeMotte, Indiana. DeMotte was once in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the most churches per capita, per square mile. Pete was another rotten spoiled kid. Painted his bedroom black when he was 21. Always drove his car 120mph. Last I heard he was married, never showered, had black teeth and joined a motorcycle gang. I enjoyed his craziness for a time. We worked together at Applebees. Soon we formed a band. Found a singer and bass player. Nonetheless was born. We played out a lot and because we were all so broke I took on the job of making fliers. Soon after I started working for the construction company and had many hours and two photocopiers to experiment with. Woodcuts became the main way of mass producing color posters. It was so much cheaper than kinkos. I pirated photoshop and learned it without any help. After a while I was designing album covers for friends' bands for cigarettes and scotch. One afternoon while designing the insert for Lights Over Bridgeport I had a realization that I LOVED doing this. Maybe I could pursue a career in graphic arts. Never before had I thought that a possibility. Never in my growing up was the idea of a JOB in the arts a tangible profession. We worked in the mills. In restaurants. In the mall. Forever. No one went off to become successful in advertising. No one went off to be in touring rock bands. No one opened restaurants. Everyone I grew up around loitered in the courtyard of banality. Too scared or too tied down to open any of the doors. So, as excited as someone that fell overboard is to find a plank of wood I found an art school to enroll in. I loved college. I wish I had figured all that out before I was 25. A goldfish will expand to the size of its environment if you keep feeding it. Thats how I felt at Columbia College Chicago. I fed off the camaraderie and competition. I excelled and kicked ass. I knew I was better at this than most. It fed my brain as much as my soul as much as my ego. I was in art school. In Chicago. I was smart and strong and could lift city buses off the ground with a properly placed and chosen font. Its been 5 years since I could not afford to go to school anymore. I thought about going back to UALR. They have a nice art program. David paid me a nice compliment the other day. He said that I dont need school. That I already got it. What else can they teach me.? Its arrogant for me to say something like that but less arrogant to agree with someone that says something like that to me.

I wanted to tell a happy story

I fell in love with Sue one afternoon when we were shopping for a pickup for her cello. We ate lunch at this fancy place that served very tiny meals. I was the only one with testicles in the room. And I had to check them at the door. She was a friend of a friend but up until a couple weeks prior we had not met. That first night I did a rare thing and walked right up to her and asked her out. She said yes. We planned on meeting up at the other bar we all hung out at. The Tuesday bar, of course. I was all set for a date. Before then it had been over a year since Randi and I dated and that lasted only a week. And before that- Carol Ann, that was 1999. So Sue and I sat down and talked. Talked for two straight hours. It was going so well. We got along splendidly. We had senses of humors that meshed. We could have facetious conversations that lasted weeks. Just make up shit. After a couple hours she interrupts me to introduce me to the fella thats been sitting across the table hanging out with his friends all night. Her boyfriend, Jon. Crushed. Seriously crushed. She knew what she did and felt bad. I think I excused myself and went home in the following moments. Somehow we ended up hanging out again. And again. I tried to accept that it was never going to happen and I had found a really great new friend. Friends, even. Jon turned out to be a really cool guy. So we became close and my desire to be in a relationship ebbed and flowed. Then I started dating Holly. Sue and I grew apart for a while. Then Holly and I broke up. Sue and I hung out again. She was still with Jon, but unhappy. Holly and I got back together. Holly and I broke up again. Then I ran into Sue for the first time in nearly a year. She was at a table being hit on by 3 guys. I walked up and without missing a beat, in 45 seconds, we convinced these 3 guys I was her husband, we pawned our rings for coke, we had three or four kids that helped us cook and deliver meth and Sue had a penis growing out of her left shoulder. They walked away. It was awesome. We were both single and hanging out again. I had moved into the Hammond house with Terry. All was great until the morning I woke up to see his door locked and her car outside. That hurt. Really hurt. I worked next door to my house so I saw her car there all afternoon until she got up finally and left. She knew what she did and felt bad about it. But we stayed friends still. Then Holly came back around. Holly started hanging out and crashing at our place. We were sleeping together again. One night I went to bed and she wanted to stay up longer. She asked me to make sure she got up at 430am so she could get to work on time. I was happy to do so. 4:31 I found her and Terry on my couch. But thats another story I already wrote. I cried to Sue and she told me what I needed to hear, man the fuck up. I didnt need either of them in my life. They are both poison. I moved to Alabama 4 weeks later. Even though it sounds really fucked up she is my best friend. Like brother and sister we have been for years. We all just drink too much.

....

I just witnessed the coolest thing. A storm is literally blowing in. I stepped outside to see the very first gust blow all the sun dried leaves from all the trees all at once.

BEEF

I hate tattoos. I feel the need to finish my sleeve just to be a completest and to be more graphically pleasing. But there is no meaning to my tattoos. No special reason other than I liked the idea at the moment. There are no regrets, at all. I have inserted meaning into my pieces. My right arm speaks to consumption. The image is of a candy monster boiling children to make more candy. Asking the question whether you would continue to buy candy if you knew the consequences. I like that. Never have I been comfortable being a consumer. I dont eat meat because I dont need to. I have always liked to think about where things come from. Machines, clothes, food, expressions. “Hair of the dog” comes from the literal act of feeding a rabid dog its own hair. At the time people thought it was a positive treatment. Most of America's meat is processed in and around Colorado. The companies actively recruit Mexicans and smuggle them in. They live in squalor around the plant and pay them next to nothing. They fire the ones that get injured or limbs cut off and have them deported. The people, not the limbs. Instead of taking the time and money to properly train people they simply shuffle through poor undereducated souls that do what they need to get by. I dont want any part of that so I stopped. I say to those idiots that think that illegal immigrants should go back to where they came from to stop eating meat. You are the ones giving them a job. You are paying them to be here. Heh, I just made a lot of meaning around my tattoo.

*Insert Alkaline Trio lyric here*

After Erin and I broke up, which was on the way back from Chicago, I took another road trip home for Russel's wedding. David let me use his car. I drove alone. In seven days I was to return to Arkansas and move out of the Booker house into Valentine. I was single and on the road and out of that miserable house. To say I was relieved doesnt say it. I was elated. Joyous. I turned the radio up and sang along so loud, I was so happy it was hard to get all the words out I was crying so hard. I feel a bit like that now. I have everything in front of me. But I have managed to let a few things into my head that is holding me back from being truly happy. I have the same things I had last year and more and only more is to be expected beyond the horizon. When this summer finally ends. Maybe it is the heat that has me all worked up more so than usual. I want to wake up and be an earthquake. Shake this fucking place up. Hold hands with revolution. But I feel more like I am biding time. Waiting for an opportunity to pounce. I hate waiting. I get so frustrated. Why cant anything be easy, simple? Ever. You know what? Fuck easy. I opine and wine about shit being needlessly complicated. I like girl, she likes me, why cant we just be....blah blah fuck that. I dont want it to be easy anymore. I'll wait and wait. When it does finally happen, if it ever happens, I'll be so happy I'll cry like I'm driving home.