Tag Archives: angst

Skipping Town

Now, where was I? On August twelfth, 2014, my life began to change (FOREVER, DUN DUN DUN) for real this time. Having cleared everything up with the landlord – and having vouched for a good room mate who could watch the house while I was gone – all there was left to do was wait for my girlfriend to get into town. Of course, there were still things to be done around the house – plumbing, electric, rodent extermination, and mattress burning – but that could all wait a couple of days.

She arrived that day, with a troupe of dirty, dog-toting, fiendishly smelly and good looking kids who did not hesitate to inhabit the house. Ten fucking lovely travelers and nine dogs later, we still hadn’t seen the end of the adventure. For a week, our house TRULY transformed into a punk house, despite several layers of paint saying otherwise. Every dirty kid and his mom showed up at least briefly to drink warm beer, smoke cheap cigarettes, experiment with psychedelics, and have a safe place to crash.

The smell in the house transformed from ‘fresh paint’ to ‘dirty underoos’ in about a day and a half, but no one was complaining. These dirty kids sure knew how to drink and they were a wonder to be seen pass-out drunk over a plate of burrito fixings in the kitchen at three in the morning. On top of the competitive drinking, they were actually helpful in fixing up the remainder of the house. With gasoline, hatchets, and matches as equipment, many of us gathered in the back yard to burn chairs, a dirty old mattress, and a couch. The neighbors borrowed us their hose to keep it under control. Flames reached shocking heights. The evidence was disposed of.

I mean…

Next was the beehive(s). Up on the roof, bees had infiltrated the ventilation system and needed to be dealt with. The tools for this job were

– One can of Ant Raid

– One large wrench

– Five gallons of water

– A video-camera

Climbing out onto the roof in a sports bra and a pair of dirty shorts, I was the second person to approach the bee situation. Lots of pointless wrench-banging, a few beers, and, surprisingly, NO bee-stings later, I had successfully outlawed the bees.

All while my drunk girlfriend laughed from the yard below. It was a good time in that final week of the house. Video games were played, work was done, songs were sung, signs were flown, tits were shown…it was all fine and well and dandy right up until the part where we were packing and leaving, which was more sad than anything else.

Diablo and I both got our bags fully packed on August 17th. The dirty kids that had assembled had begun dispersing, and we were down to the core group of friends and travelers. The ones we had to say goodbye to as we said hello to a new lifestyle with a bunch of tramps (oh, tramp is someone who travels all homeless-like without picking up work along the way. That’s the separation between tramp and hobo).

We had our final beers, did our final house painting, and left the house for good on the morning of August eighteenth. With my dog at my side, a backpack chilling on my shoulders, and four road dogs to kick it with, I was feeling pretty okay. It was, however, a long trip to the hop out, with way too many stops along the way, and by the time we got to where we were trying to go, we had one more road dog (and his puppy), no cigarettes, and not much beer.

There started my life of traveling. Migrating under a train bridge, we waited. We learned about trains and what rides were, well, ride able. We learned the names of the train units, the train companies, and rail safety. We learned what a ‘fire drill’ was and to ALWAYS keep your shit on hand when waiting for a train. It was train-riding 101, and we were drunkenly learning the ropes.

On August nineteenth, a train going our direction stopped, and my girlfriend and I ran alongside it for a few minutes before finding a ride. We had gotten my dog and both of our packs on the train when it started airing up (the brakes of a train work on a tension system where air is what pushes the brakes UP so that the train can start moving). We knew we didn’t have much time. Tiddly (the girlfriend at the time) hurried to lift her eighty plus pound dog on the train but to no avail. The harness slipped off of her body and she dropped to the ground as the train started moving too fast to hop off. We watched Girl (the dog) run alongside the train as it sped up and then we lost sight of her.

Cue horror movie sad music, lots of crying and puking, and two VERY sad people. We wondered what the hell was going to happen to Girl and what the hell would happen to us when our other road dogs found out. There is a code for hopping trains: Dog, Pack, You. That’s the order in which you get on the train. In the rush and excitement of taking her girlfriend on her first train, Tiddly had forgotten.

Luckily, the train slowed and came to a stop in Northeast Minneapolis. As we were rolling to a stop, my phone started ringing. It was one of the people we were planning on hopping out with and he was screaming that he found Girl and that she was torn up as fuck and that we needed to get our asses off of the train.

Thinking the worst, Tiddly panicked. I started making phone calls. Twenty minutes later, my dear friend Morgan was picking us up and driving us to where all of the other kids were. Talk about friends having your back in an emergency. We approached a seemingly dire situation. Girl was laid out on the ground and everyone was sitting around her. Approaching, we found that she had been clipped by a part of the train – probably a ladder – and she had a huge gash on her side.

We did all we could. Poured hydrogen peroxide on it and then bandaged it up – it was too late at night to head to a vet. We could only hope she would be fine.

We moved to a different hop-out spot that night, went to sleep, and woke up early in the morning. After refilling our water, making sure Girl was okay, and collecting our wits, we started waiting on trains again. The day was August Twentieth, and it was about two pm when our train finally rolled in.

A big, hulking, mass of steel and energy, the Inter-modal Train that rolled to a stop right in front of us was a beauty. Carted by Burlington Northern Santa Fe (BNSF), this massive cargo hold was our land-ship, and we did not hesitate to take our chances with her.

We found a ride where all of us fit and could stay hidden and then the train took off, only to slow down and roll to a stop directly in the middle of the train yard. For two hours, we waited. Voices hushed, fingers quietly rolling cigarettes that we couldn’t smoke, we all sat in tension, hoping that we wouldn’t get pulled off of our ride. Voices approached and footsteps sounded against ballast rocks, but no one came, and finally – FINALLY – we were on our way.

We were heading west, into a metaphorical sunset. Embarking on a journey that could result in our doom. In train riding culture, ‘catching the westbound’ is a term for dying, and I do not deny the fact that there, on my first freight train, parts of me were heading west for good.


Pulling Everything Together

So there I was. With a week to impress a very disappointed landlord. I had almost no resources and I reached out to my group of friends who had experienced the HoG on the same level I had. Immediately, I had responses. An overflow of them, actually. Paint, tools, cleaning parties, I had everything I needed. Diablo spent the last of his budget on some paint that would cover stains (particularly sharpie) and I got to work. We cleared out the living room and started cleaning up the beer cans.

My dear friend Liza came over with her camera and photographed a few things before we totally started fixing it up. Liza is a photographer, videographer, model, poet, and a whole bunch of other things, too. She is one of the most lovely human beings that I know and I’m sure there will be a blog post dedicated to her at some point.

Four hours of cleaning and scrubbing later, all of the furniture was either in the kitchen or on the lawn and I had begun painting over the words and images that had helped define all of us over the course of two months.It was arduous – and heartbreaking. It was the first real symbol of us having to move on from the house. Of course, part of me had been waiting for this for weeks, and the other part of me was scared and never wanted it to end.

We managed to get enough paint to re-vamp the entire house, and I started, well, re-vamping. I planned a cleaning party and had a decent turn-out. With the help of twenty people, we got the first coat of actual white paint on the living room walls. We got the lawn mowed and the beehives on the roof taken care of and the old mattress and couches burned.

The next day, Docken (the other room mate) and our mutual friend Khiara did some hardcore cleaning. I turned the trash room into a porch. The lawn was fixed, the trash room was gone, and I had painted some nice color on the living room, effectively finishing that project. In a week, we took down the entire downstairs and outside.

Weeds trimmed, flowerbeds weeded, trash hauled away, and a fresh coat of paint on all of the walls except for the bathroom, which would get taken care of later. The gutters were spotless, and so I guess we weren’t quite ‘gutter punks’ anymore, unless you count the person who actually climbed around on the roof like a drunken monkey getting all of the punk out of the gutter.

We even scouted the neighborhood and discovered a beautiful sofa, recliner, and desk that were in almost perfect condition to move into the freshly painted house. We carried these items a few blocks and successfully moved them in that night. The living room looked like something out of a country living magazine – as long as you disregarded the still-tarnished floor.

The landlord arrived the next Tuesday. Despite the fact that there was still large amounts of work to do on the house, we got the reaction we were looking for. Her eyes lit up the second she stepped out of her car. Of course, it wasn’t perfect. It will take a couple of years for the lawn to totally regrow and the integrity of the roof after supporting so many bodies will never be quite the same.

She entered the living room and almost gasped. Her joy at the changes showed clearly on her face as she toured the lower half of the house. No more trash room. No more stink of beer and adolescence. A well thought-out color scheme. Semi-gloss paint instead of matte in the kitchen for easier cleaning and less gruesome grease stains. Turning the corner to head upstairs, I had to stop her. I informed her that a week is a very small amount of time to get anything done, and the only fixing that had been done on the upstairs was a quick cleanup job. The walls leading up the stairs had a fresh coat of light green paint and we were busy getting the right parts to re-install the banisters (definitely a story to tell later).

It was coming along, but there’s only so much you can do. She nodded and expressed her approval of what had been done, giving us more time to keep fixing the house. The end of July was coming up, though, and I had received news from my girlfriend that she and her faithful troupe of road dogs were heading north from Iowa. Soon, it would be time for me to leave.

Funny how, in theory, packing a bag and walking out a door is easier than fixing an entire house.

I Guess We’ll Just Call This One ‘Dating Angst’

Even though I’ve never been on a legitimate date in my life (as far as I know…?). I mean, I guess maybe I’ve gone and done things with people and maybe they thought they were dates or something but I don’t know, I would feel bad if that were the case because then maybe I’m letting people down by saying I haven’t been on dates.

I’m generally over-thinking because, well, it’s two in the morning and I fucking can. Also because I’m still on drugs and this emotional roller-coaster has really manhandled the fuck out of both myself and my writing. Hey, at least I’m blogging.

So I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about dating because I can’t. Well, I can, but not without a general amount of trouble and paperwork and well-to-do’s from the lovely state of Wisconsin. I would have to go through some stuff with my Probation Officer and I mean, I’m just not super into having to sign up for a significant other and I’m also super not into being required to discuss my personal life unless I really want to.

What a rebel. Because I vent on the internet all of the time and expend a great deal of energy on getting close to nothing done but as soon as it’s something with an actual requirement well it’s just fuck all of this and back to angry blogging.

I’m also angsty about the whole dating thing because I can’t seem to actually woo people with my ‘devilish charms’. Mostly because said devilish charms only exist on the internet and I’m actually just a really loud shy person if that makes any sense.

I’m MOSTLY angsty about the whole dating thing, though, because I meet these really cool, seemingly classy individuals and then they just want to be friends but also have sex with me and that’s okay to an extent. I can totally dig casual things but at the same time some days I don’t want any of that noise and I just want to consistently be able to cuddle with the same person all of the time and plant kisses on that person’s face and other sappy lovey-dovey stuff.

So yes, here I am ranting instead of putting together a nice, well-versed and motivational blog post about graduating high school or the bumps of life’s roads. Just a road bump post in itself and a desperate hope that these drugs stop messing with my emotions because I already have enough of them already.

I guess the advice/lesson of the day is that being angsty is okay and just vent on the internet instead of hurting people close to you. And definitely do not yell at someone you like because they don’t want to date you. It just makes things weird and they might block you on Facebook or stop answering the phone when you call. Not that I would know about that at all.

Love ya!

Crushing on Bros and Why the Hell am I Posting? (A.K.A The Father Syndrome)

Happy first day of October (One day late). Even saying something like that makes me wish I was 21 so that I could legally kill myself with booze. Half kidding, guys!

The fact of the matter is that I was JUST about to click publish post last night, when my dad shut off the internet without warning, because he sometimes enjoys acting like a total douchecanoe. Hey, don’t look at me that way, all kid have troubles with their parents, especially on days this important. I mean, I’m finally at the one year mark…well, almost. I’ve almost accomplished something, and it just kinda sucks getting shut down.

So, here’s the first post of the month, one day late, and I hope you guys will give me a break on this, because it literally caused me to cry myself to sleep last night.

Now, back to the discussion at hand. The thing about October is that it’s kinda the last month before Winter sets in. It’s one of those conflicted months that can’t decide whether it’s late summer or early winter, but the name Autumn doesn’t quite fit either. Well, not in my very professional opinion, anyway.

I don’t know, I just really dislike October for a number of reasons, which we’re not talking about today. At all. Ever, maybe.

Anyway, so this is what’s going on with my life. I’m feeling super Angsty and not at all in a good mood, so this first day of October post of my Post Every Day rage that I went into whilst half stupid is going to be short, not so sweet, and not so entertaining.

Let’s talk about drugs. Kids, don’t do them. If you were to test my system for drugs…

You would find a plethora of natural things that occur naturally in my body, because I don’t do drugs. Take THAT, cops.

By the way, I’ve kinda got a bro-crush. Like, a huge one. No, no, I don’t have a crush on my brother, that would be weird and ickytastic. What I’m saying that there’s this guy, and we bro it up every time we see each other, and now I kinda-sorta-maybe have feelings for him. 

Of course, this kinda happened after he serenaded me with multiple Blink 182 songs at 1 in the morning in front of a fire, with his cute little slightly off-key voice and awesome guitar skills. This happened after he told me that his top five bands in order were indeed, my top five bands, in order.

This happened after he held my hands because they were cold, and we spent two hours talking out football, but it’s not a big deal at all, just that I may have found my bromate. Haha, I joke, but it’s awesome, and I haven’t crushed like this since middle school, so it’s a nice change of pace.

Except I miss him quite terribly. Anyway, all this blog is happens to be me begging for forgiveness and swooning over a guy that lives way too far away for anything to happen, so I’ll shut up now.

Love ya!

Your Entire Life was a Dick Move

My birthday is in 9 days. Meaning that I should have been planning something for my birthday about a month ago. Some kind of something, you know? I’ll be 18! This should be something big and wonderful and amazing.

Yet, there are no plans yet. Nothing, nada, kaput. Why? Because even though I have been attempting to plan this day for…oh man, years, it has become the laughingstock of my entire family nation. As in, oh, we’ll wait until the last second so that people won’t show up.

Fun, right? On top of all of this teen complaining, I am feeling the pressure of many real-world issues, including best friends stealing my debit card, being broke, not being able to find a job, and rethinking my entire life.

Hello, angst!

I’ve pretty much established that in 9 days, I can’t get anyone from the cities here, but a valiant effort will be made. This is a short blog because I just now, finally, got the okay to have a party.

Aww, shucks, how sweet, and I thought you were going to wait until at least the day before my birthday.

I promise to be less stupid, complainy, angsty, on my next bull run of blogging.

Love ya!