Category Archives: Writing

One Year & Driving On

Posted on by Standard 12

“Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.”-Gloria Steinem

One year ago, I started this little blog in an effort to pressure myself to get my writing out there for the dear and avid reader, such as yourself, to enjoy. It was a really tough step for me because I wasn’t that confident about my writing up to that point. But, it has been more rewarding than I thought it would be. Even though I harbor no delusions of grandeur and I know I am small fry and I don’t have a huge following. It feels great and humbling to know that people take time out of their day to read the kind of stuff I come up with. It’s beyond the grasp of my writing ability to describe how it feels when a friend, acquaintance, or a stranger tells me they’ve read one of my entries and found it hilarious or insightful.

One of the most rewarding parts of it has been that I surprise people with my ability to write. I’m not trying suck my own cock here, but it brings a shit-eating grin to my face when those who knew me at some point in my colorful life say they can’t believe my dumb ass wrote that or that I’m a good writer. I’m proud when I get that response, because it means I am evolving not only as a writer, but as a human being. My skills were not always up to par, as one of my best friends, Sleazy-E once put it, “Felix, I want say I’m actually impressed. Your blog is good. In several years you went from obvious reaching for vocabulary words to an efficient and effective use of the English language.”

I’m not sure what I expected people’s responses to be. But I believe I am lucky because I have received nothing but support from my friends, family, and acquaintances that I’m pursuing this avenue for myself. No one has berated me and told me that I have no hopes of becoming a writer. Though, that also has to do with the fact that I’m doing other positive things with my life and I have no aspirations to be a stereo typical starving artist.

There is a big cliche out there that there are writers who don’t write and just want to call themselves writers in hopes of sounding artsy and getting that hipster pussy. That’s not what I am about. I feel that it’s a title that needs to be earned with constantly pouring yourself into the craft and having the balls to let the world see the dark parts of your mind and self. I have just barely grown comfortable with calling myself a writer and not just an aspiring writer. Some may take that title lightly, but I don’t, because I believe this is what I was born to do and I give it the respect it deserves.

It’s such a unique and under-appreciated skill set to come up with writing that people actually want to read. I try to be as funny, witty, and insightful as I can. Sometimes I hit the mark, other times I fail. But with each post, I’m trying to push what I am capable of as a writer. So far, it has been a mixtures of some of my life stories, my philosophies, and quite a bit of machismo and misogyny. Some entries I try to write in a fictional way to make the point more clear and others I make my best effort to be as accurate to the true events as possible.

While I am proud of every single one of my entries, some stand out more than others. The Feminine Aficionado was a milestone, where for the first time I let out my bold thoughts and feelings on how I view each woman I see in public. I’d Pee in Her Butt put to light how men truly feel about women they only keep around to fuck and because of its title, has been one of the most memorable and most read. Three Rock Solid Ways to Become a More Marketable Bum was not as successful in attracting views as I thought it should have been, but I believe without a doubt is my best written piece to date. Four Things You Didn’t Think of Before Joining the Army was my first success in giving out real world advice in a funny and witty manner. Shy Girl holds a special place in my heart because it’s inspired by those many lonely nights I spent in the barracks as a 19 and 20 year old Private in the Army looking for girls on myspace to meet up with and constantly getting ignored and rejected.

Writing has given me an outlet to express myself. I don’t know how I went so long without fully embracing it. Because as of now, I can’t imagine living a fulfilling life without it. I made it through my first year and didn’t quit, I think that puts me in the top 20% of bloggers/writers just in itself. Now, its time to take bolder, more aggressive steps to get myself up to the 10%. Thank you for supporting me in my first year. I will continue to push myself to deliver the quality, bull shit free content you have come to expect from me and hopefully, give you a few laughs along the way.

~Raul Felix

Where it began: It Begins.

Outside Feature on Sass & Balderdash

Posted on by Standard 6

Yes, boys and girls, I have expanded my horizons and taken the next step in my writing. Katie, writer, owner, and slave driver of Sass & Balderdash has been so kind to give me the opportunity to do my first ever guest post. You may have noticed Katie as one my of consistent commenters on my site and she is herself a very talented writer with a snarky, sassy attitude. Now go click the following link and check out my latest entry entitled, “Four Ways to Please Your High-Value Man.” Do it now!

~Raul Felix

The Gay Meth Story

Posted on by Standard 14

“Okay guys, I’m in a very shady situation right now and I’m going to ride it out and see where it goes. If you guys don’t hear from me in a couple of days, I’m in Cortez, CO with some dude named Carl.” I typed into a mass text I sent out to a few of my friends and cousins. I was laying on a couch in the living room of a ranch in the backwoods of Colorado attempting to sleep fully dressed and wearing my steel toe boots and my hard knuckle riding gloves while grasping a 12 inch long wrench, ready to strike in case I was attacked in the middle of the night. “How the fuck do I get myself into these situations?” I think to myself.

In order to celebrate my new found freedom and release from the clutches of Uncle Sam, in the summer of 2009, I decided to take a 2 1/2 month motorcycle trip around the United States.

Three weeks into the journey, I was riding through the Navajo Indian Reservation in Arizona after having seen the Grand Canyon earlier that day. The scorching Arizona heat made it feel like I was riding through a giant hair dryer while sitting inside a hot oven. As I began to lose myself in my thoughts, thinking about life and how awesome I am, off in the horizon I saw two huge, distinctly shaped rocks. As I rode up closer to them I knew I had to picture whore it and capture my ugly mug with them. Luckily, a man was hanging out there.

As I pulled up, his dog took an interest in me and came up to me. I started petting him, then the man came up in a friendly matter. I introduced myself and he introduced himself as “Carl” I then asked him to take a picture of me. Afterwards, he eyed the license plate on my motorcycle.

Carl: “Washington? What are you doing all the way done here?”

Raul: “I just got out of the Army and I was stationed in Fort Lewis. I’m taking a motorcycle trip around the US to celebrate.”

Carl: “That sounds pretty neat. Where are you headed tonight?”

Raul: “I’m not sure, I’m trying to make it to Four Corners tomorrow, so I’m going to ride as far as I can and probably camp out somewhere.”

Carl: “I wouldn’t suggest camping out here, there are a lot of snakes and other nasty stuff. You should get a motel.”

A more innocent time.

A more innocent time.

We talked for a couple of minutes, during that time he informed me that the name of the rock formation I was looking at was known as the Elephant Feet. The time to leave came, so I shook his hand, thanked him, and rode off not thinking much else of the event. I rode for an hour as the sun started to set. By that time I was starving and had seen on my map there was a small town called Kayenta on the way. A whole day of riding the heat had caused my jeans to drenched in my ball sweat and I’m sure I smelled like it too. I had camped out the previous night after getting drunk off of my ass and had only taken a baby wipe bath. The idea of camping out for another night in the unforgiving Arizona heat without a shower seemed rather unappealing. The snakes thing didn’t really bug me, but nonetheless, I decided I would try to find a motel after getting some chow.

I got to the lifeless town of Kayenta right as the sun sets. I drive through a strip mall, hoping to find a restaurant that is open. Just as I decide on one, a car pulls up next to me; it was Carl.

Carl: “Hey! Did you find a place to stay yet?”

Raul: ”No, I was going to get to some fucking food first.”

Carl: “Well, I just thought about it… if you would like you can sleep on my sofa. I live about an hour up the road.”

Raul: “Sure, thanks, but let me get some food first.”

My personal philosophy for travel was and is still is to accept a free place to stay whenever I can as a way to save money and also meet people. This wouldn’t be the first time a random person offered me a place to stay, so I did so without giving it much thought. An hour may seem like a pretty far ride, but when you’re surrounded by the nothings of the hot, unforgiving desert, it’s not too much of a compromise.

We got to a small town on the south west corner of Colorado called Cortez. Carl explained to me that he had to go visit his friend first and pick her up. So I followed him to her trailer home and what came out was an old, witch looking woman whose face looked like its seen many wife beatings and possibly works as a bargain priced prostitute.

Carl then informed me that he had to go to another friends house to pick something up. We entered into this house where there were three shady looking rednecks. Carl made small talk and then exchanged money with them and took something. That’s when I became a little paranoid.

Raul: “What are you buying?”

Carl: “Coke, you want some?”

Raul: “No, I’m good.” Thoughts of bailing out of this situation immediately occurred to me. I may be an overindulgent social drinker, but I don’t fuck with that shit.

They complete their black market transaction and then we’re off to Carl’s house. Carl’s house was a surprisingly nice ranch home surrounded by about two or three acres of land. Then we get to the foot steps of the door, which is covered with license plates from various different states. It was quite cool, actually. I then walk into his house and am shocked to see to the most random collection of junk that I have ever witnessed in my life. The wall is plastered with random paintings, trophy bucks, hub caps, pictures, animal bones, chains, tools, and those weird radios from the 80’s that had little black and white TVs on them. Just an overall array of weird shit. It was kind of cool.

Villa de Carl.

Villa de Carl.

I sit down and start making small talk with Carl and his Rita Repulsa like friend. Then he pulls out a strange looking glass pipe which Rita Repulsa and him start smoking out of. Even someone as ignorant about drugs as me could take an educated guess and deduct it was a Meth pipe. Having to always be sure, I asked.

Raul: “What is that?”

Carl: “Meth…” as he pulls it into his lungs and exhales, “Want some?”

Raul: “Uh… no, that’s not my thing.”

Again panic sets in internally. I contemplate an escape route and how to leave this situation. Yet, I justify to myself, that he hasn’t done anything wrong to me directly. He’s been a pretty nice guy and over all not bad, hell, he was nice enough to offer me expensive coke and meth. I bet that’s what Ted Bundy’s victims thought also.

I’m still covered in my own ball sweat from the last couple of days of travel and I ask to use the shower. I also need to take a shit, so being the smart and hygienic guy I am, I shit before I shower. As I drop my little brown kids off at the pool, I notice there is a basket full of magazines and I start thumbing through them. Something peculiar caught my eye, there were randomly cut outs in the pages wherever the current generic, hot, young stud actor would have been. I put it back and finish up. I walk into the shower, turn around and look into the mirror in front of it. Then I see it. Pictures. Pictures of naked men cut out from Homo-Hustler and of male celebrities taped on the mirror. I pause there in disgust.

“God fucking damn it,” I sigh out lightly. I have nothing against gay people, but it happens a lot to me for some incomprehensible reason that I get hit on by them a lot. “Okay, okay… he hasn’t fucking done anything wrong,” I think to myself in a failing attempt to comfort myself as I take my shower.

Something I'm sure you Navy Seamen are used to.

Something I’m sure you Navy Seamen are used to.

As I come out of the shower the movie The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift is playing; yep, he’s totally fucking gay. I’m tired as fuck and want to go to sleep, but withstand it and watch the movie. After the movie, Rita Repulsa and him go upstairs to his bedroom and I lay to sleep on the couch of his living room. Just as I am about to doze to sleep, I get a text message from him.

“Do you want some… attention?” It says.

OH FUCK NO! I think to myself in my panic. “Carl! Carl! I’m good man!” I yell out to him up the stairs.

“Alright,” he responds with a disappointed tone in his voice.

I’m sure this backwoods homo isn’t going to try anything, but in case he does, I begin to prepare. I change back from my shorts into my jeans and repack all my stuff into my saddlebags. I put on my steel toe motorcycle boots, hard knuckle riding gloves, and dig through his random assortment of shit and grab a 12 inch long wrench. Right before I lay back down to sleep, I send out a mass text to my friends letting them know generally where I am in case I go missing. Some immediately respond and I calm their nerves down. While others don’t because they assumed I was probably drunk.

It was a harrowing, restless night with every insignificant noise waking me up into kill homo-rapist with a wrench mode. Luckily and anti-climatically, the great battle to the death for my assholes virginity never occurred and Carl didn’t attempt anything.

The next morning he was working on a construction project on his home by the time I woke up. I thanked him for hospitality, got on my bike, and rode on to my next victory over life and death.

~Raul Felix

Please Sir, may I have another? YES! Read: The Pick-Up Follies: The Gimp

Onward to 2013

Posted on by Standard 3

2012 was a big year of rebuilding myself on a personal level. I got my finances under control and not just that, they are rocking now and I have created a huge financial safety net for myself using the strategies of Dave Ramsey and Ramit Sethi. I deepened my friendships with the people I’ve met here in Israel and have done a pretty decent job keeping in touch with my best friends in the US. I got to play amateur football (yes, American full contacted football) in the Israeli Football League and have had a blast. I’ve explored most of Israel, I rode around the entire country of Italy on a motorcycle for three weeks, and I have visited Petra and Wadi Rum, Jordan. I’ve read a couple dozen books, drank many beers, and have had many insightful and shallow conversations. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but have learned a bit from them.

In my writing, the biggest step I took was creating this blog back in March. Some writers may take such a creation in a half hearted matter, but it was really tough for me to do so. I had no idea what I was going to write about, and truthfully, I still struggle to come up with subject matters. I’m not the most consistent writer yet, I only update two or three times a month, yet, I feel myself improving. I know I’ll get to the point where I produce quality content weekly, twice a week, or maybe more. It just takes time to develop the sort of consistency. I look at the bright side though, as of this writing, I have 22 posts under my belt. That’s 22 more than I had this time last year. A very huge step indeed. I’m in this for the long-haul, I don’t plan to ever quit writing or updating this site. Maybe I’m not posting ten times a month, but I’m fairly certain I’ll be here, still writing away, ten, fifteen, and twenty years from now.

If 2012 was just the beginning for my writing, then 2013 is going to be a year of vast improvements to it and how I approach it. I generally think New Years resolutions are arbitrary and are only set because buying a new calendar demands you to make radical changes in your life. I see them as nothing more than marketing gimmick used by gyms, pyramid schemes, and car dealerships to sell you into buying their bullshit. But, I couldn’t help thinking deeply about what I want to accomplish in this area of my life in the year 2013.

Accountability is an essential element to success. I’ve made many private goals and have accomplished some, but not all. I think lack of accountability is the main factor. I don’t really put it out there and when I do miss my goal, I sit there in silent disgust, but no real consequences are felt. I will put my three simple goals out there for writing. Once I’ve made it public, it’s something I have to accomplish or risk being labeled a wannabe.

1. Four plus posts a month: It will be mandatory for myself to make at least four posts a month. If I make five a month, great, but none of them will roll over. Each month is a fresh month and the same standard will be kept.  To paraphrase a sales saying, “You’re only as good as your last update.”

2. Begin writing my fictional novel: I have a couple of idea’s rolling through my head of novels I intend to write, but haven’t chosen to stick to a single one of them yet. So, in an effort to move forward, I have chosen one and will stick with it until it’s complete. I’m not saying it’s going to be a masterpiece, but the important thing is that I begin it, that I make steady progress with it, and actually, dare I say, finish it.

3. Guest Posts: I’ve noticed that I’ve discovered other peoples blog through guest posts they’ve made. I’m going to start reaching out to the few bloggers I know and offer to do a guest post. Something that will completely written for their blog. I have some idea of who I am going to reach out to and I hope I can deliver some quality content for them and their readers.

Those are the three simple goals I have for myself in writing for 2013. By putting them out there, I intend to put the pressure on my ass to accomplish them without excuses.

~Raul Felix

Like this? Check out: I’d Pee in Her Butt.

Influences: Maddox, Tucker Max, APB, TC Luoma

Posted on by Standard 17

Every person who is worth a damn has had people who have inspired and influenced them. It can take the form of direct one on one lessons or through reading and watching. Either way, these mentors helped develop their actions and mindset for better or worse. It doesn’t matter whether you’re seeking to become an underwater basket weaver, stripper, rocket surgeon, or a writer on a self-named blog with hopes that it will get you hot blog groupies after they see how funny and clever your writing is and thus crave your cock; there are mentors out there for you. For my writing ambitions, dark sense of humor, and my mindset on life, the following four internet writers are my biggest influences.

Maddox

Quite possibly the first true internet satirists. Maddox has had his page, The Best Page in the Universe, online since 1997. His headline: “This page is about me and why everything I like is great. If you disagree with anything you find on this page, you are wrong,” kicks you right in the taint and lets you know that your little dip shit opinion doesn’t matter. So much so that he even has a link to his hate mail and his responses to said hate mail, exposing the logical fallacies of its sender.

Maddox writes about beating your kids, killing yourself in very awesome ways, heavily criticizes little kids on their shitty art, and how big his balls are. He rants about minor and major things that annoy him everyday life. He portrays himself as the essence of manliness and his writing bursts with testosterone. So much so, in fact, that he wrote a book called The Alphabet of Manliness that became an instant New York Times Best Seller.

Careful ladies, this book will turn your clit into a dick.

Careful ladies, this book will turn your clit into a dick.

I discovered Maddox in 2003 when I was 15 years old. Though I’ve seen and read many funny stuff by that time, his complete disregard for what is appropriate to write about and what isn’t laid the framework for my humor. I found myself reading his whole entire archive in one night and eagerly awaiting updates for his next article. I would share them with my friends, some liked it and some hated it. I learned through his writing that humor really has no limits, to stand by ones writing, and never try to please anyone. He states that his site started with fewer than 5 readers a month and got to the point of a million readers a month through a lot of hardwork and not bitching and moaning people to link to him.

Tucker Max

The most famous name on this list. With his infamous introduction, “My name is Tucker Max, and I am an asshole.” Tucker Max sets the stage for the internet phenomena known as The Tucker Max Stories. These are epic and wonderfully crafted tales of drunkenness, sexual promiscuity, and highly inappropriate and outlandish behavior. Mostly occurring when he was 20-28, he writes about having anal sex for the first time, the first midget he fucked, and the ego crushing knowledge that he may not be the only man a woman has fucked that day.

What makes it shocking to prudes with no real sense of reality, is that The Tucker Max stories are real. These events actually occurred and he has fucked all these moronic whores, caused all this havoc, and called out all the losers that he detailed in his stories. He has done all of this and still is with us today. People call his life surreal and over-exaggerated (because their idiots), but he even claims that he hasn’t really done anything that isn’t out of the ordinary. Guys have fucked sluts and gotten drunk since the beginning of time, he was just the first to write about it.

This man is the reason I have lost faith in womankind. Thanks Tucker!

This man is the reason I have lost faith in womankind. Thanks Tucker!

The unique thing about Tucker Max’s writing is that underneath the comedy and shenanigans, there are many life lessons to be had. When I first started reading his work at age 19, I was in a more innocent frame of mind about women and their whorish mannerisms. So when I read his stories, I was a bit shocked that women would go for a guy like this. I kept on reading on and discovered why. As much of an asshole as Tucker was, he had confidence in himself and didn’t take shit from anybody. He had the balls to approach and get rejected. He would call out women on their bull shit and they either loved him or hated him. One thing he wasn’t though, was a carpet to for them to walk over. Women don’t respect a man they can walk all over, much less fuck him. It started to make sense why those girls I wanted before wouldn’t have me and fucked some other asshole. Because I was nice. So I began to apply those lessons to my life, stopped being nice, and became more aggressive. My success with women steadily improved and compounded.

Angry Patriotic Bastard

In a time when there were too many apologetic Americans complaining about the evil empire that we have become, came along Angry Patriotic Bastard. Even though his blog was short-lived and he hasn’t written in over seven years, his message stayed with me. APB loved to talk shit on the pussification that has come of American culture. Having absolutely no qualms about calling out the things he truly hated, he would write blog post after blog post of politically incorrect rhetoric attacking hippies, bicyclists, muslims, and Florida rednecks.

No one was above the scrutiny of APB’s political mind set. He believed in an America where we are on top of the food chain and every nation bowed to our powerful, raging cock of freedom. In his mindset, like it or not, America dominates the world. If we don’t’ control you economically, we control you with our pop culture. How many of you are using products designed by Americans and made by little slave Chinese kids? You’re damn right it’s not going to be little slave American kids making that shit. They’re too busy being molested by their step-father.

AMERICA! MOTHER FUCKER!

AMERICA! MOTHER FUCKER!

His writing style is very aggressive and hellbent on offending you, pulling it off in a masterful way. While I personally try to avoid political subjects in my writing, because I find it exhausting to keep up with and it becomes irrelevant a couple of weeks or months later, he was able to create timeless political writing that if you read it today, still applies and will make you laugh your ass off.

TC Luoma

On the calmer side of the spectrum comes TC Luoma. He writes for the bodybuilding website, T-Nation in his series called The Atomic Dog, later renamed The Testosterone Principles. The main theme is becoming a better man. Better yet, not being a pussified modern man that feminism(stupid cunts) has pushed onto us. Instead become a man who embraces his testosterone, who shamelessly pursues the good things in life: women, beer, working out, meat, and sex.

As shallow as those subject matters sound, his writing always has an underlying tone of taking accountability and responsibility for your life. To pursue a life of constant learning, reading, and improving over all. Whether it’s chasing your dream to become poker player or getting out of the rat race that is the norm of our society.

He hates how our society has become more feminine and estrogen centered, and how testosterone gets a bad name for being seen as too aggressive and ape like. He points out that testosterone is the reason behind all that drive us as humans. Men with higher testosterone are smarter, stronger, have a higher libido, and are more ambitious than men of lower testosterone levels. Men with low testosterone tend to be fucking slobs, losers, scrawny, or overweights sacks of shit.

And his hair is glorious.

And his hair is glorious.

Through his writings, I’ve learned to embrace my manhood unapologetically. I’m a man and I will act like one. I expect my woman to act like a woman and be feminine. Fuck that politically correct bull shit.

Their writing is low-brow, unacademic, and not meant for those who suffer from having sand in their vagina. But these men have had more of an influence on the development of my mind than any school, teacher, or professor.

~Raul Felix

You like that? Good! Check out: Four Things You Didn’t Think of Before Joining the Army.

Inch by Inch

Posted on by Standard 6

Sitting alone in his home, draped in darkness, save for the gentle blue glow of his computer monitor, he sips his drink. He neither asked for company nor would accept any, for he is working on his craft. Tonight is for imbibing in his favorite drink and going deep into the labyrinth of his mind and put to words the events, people, and philosophies that occupy it. He is unable to fully think of such things in a sober state, so he turns to his glorious alcoholic vice.

His drink of choice varies, whether it be the sweet and rough kisses of Lady Liquor or the obvious teases and delayed gratifications of the tramp Beer. Tonight, he decides, he’ll tango with the tramp. He hopes her little flirtations will ignite something deep within him and just maybe, he will write something destined for greatness.

He’s typing away, struggling to manifest his thoughts. A clever sentence here, a snarky remark there, a too worthy sentence that is executed the moment it’s completed. It’s a messy little dance. He grows excited when the words pour out and frustrated when they stagnate. As he takes another swig and walks around his home in anxiousness, he wonders if anymore words will come to him. Or is he finished? Is he through? Is he just a fucking drunk pretending to be a writer?

The thought of being a nobody infuriates him. His mind is bursting with idea’s. He has stories, jokes, and social commentary to disperse. Yet, it feels like every word typed is an inch by inch uphill battle. Then a revelation, recalling Al Pacino’s half-time speech from Any Given Sunday:

You find out life’s this game of inches, so is football. Because in either game – life or football – the margin for error is so small. I mean, one half a step too late or too early and you don’t quite make it. One half second too slow, too fast and you don’t quite catch it. The inches we need are everywhere around us. They’re in every break of the game, every minute, every second. On this team we fight for that inch. On this team we tear ourselves and everyone else around us to pieces for that inch. We claw with our fingernails for that inch. Because we know when add up all those inches, that’s gonna make the fucking difference between winning and losing!

Writing, he thinks, is the same way. It’s fighting for that inch, for that word, for that sentence. Digging deep, fighting self-doubt, word by word. Tearing cynicism to pieces, sentence by sentence. A word placed wrong, you don’t quite communicate it. A sentence structured incorrectly, you don’t quite express it. A writer must be willing to pour all he has, tooth and nail, for those words and sentences. Because he knows that when he adds up all those hard fought for words and sentences it’s the fucking difference between greatness and obscurity.

He smiles as he realizes that the struggle is part of the craft. It’s not supposed to be easy and it’s not supposed to be fast. Its about perseverance, worth ethic, inches, and exhausting yourself for your dream. “Now quit your bitching,” he says out loud, “Get back to work and fight for that inch.”

~Raul Felix

———————————————————————

I wrote the following in May 2007 while in my barracks room, lonely and drunk. It inspired the first part of Inch by Inch. Though I’m kind of embarrassed of it right now, it shows my evolution as a writer. I’m leaving it unedited, but I think it’s not too bad for a drunk, dumbass 20 year old.

On Drinking Alone

Very few things show that a man has arrived to maturity than the act of drinking alone. The act of facing whatever hidden demons the lack of alcohol has hidden from him. A man who drinks alone, is a brave man. He does something that many would consider to do only in comfortable presence of loved ones and acquaintance. Since so many people fear to lurk into those dark places of their minds without some companionship.

The Lone Drinker is often considered to be disturbed, an alcoholic, and as the name implies… a loner. No, the Lone Drinker is the enlightened man who knows how to enjoy the sweet and rough kisses of lady Liquor and the obvious teases and delayed gratifications of the tramp Beer. The Lone Drinker doesn’t need the reassurance of others to enjoy what is truly fine in life. He doesn’t drink because he wants to impress others, he drinks for the pure love of alcohol. He finishes off more drinks than drinks have finished off him.

He is very misunderstood. He not as well respected as he should be. Some might pity him. But, those who do, don’t have the balls to be like him. Because inside of them, there is a fear that they are not strong enough. Or the thought that they are better than that. Maybe they think that are too good to drink alone. So, they must seek that party that allows them the chance to drink. So let me ask… who is more powerful… the uncertain people who only drink when it’s appropriate or the lone drinker? The man who controls when he drinks, how much he drinks, and whether or not he has other make the choice for him.

~Raul Felix

The Pick-Up Follies: Taqueria Hottie

Posted on by Standard 9

It was 3 a.m. on a random weeknight and I was starving. There is only one solution to cure my appetite, to go to Taqueria Mexico. Taqueria Mexico is an enchanting, ramshackle authentic taco shop that is open 24/7. It specializes in filling the stomachs of stoners, drunks, losers, winners, and community college students at the bleak hours of the night. Because of its utter deliciousness and bang for the buck, it’s not uncommon to see tatted up, freshly released from the state-pen vatos sitting next to preppy, Penn State bound rich kids of the Huntington Harbor and every social demographic in between.

As I stand in line and examine the social zoo that is Taqueria, I see her. From behind I noticed her hot pink dress, with it ending barely low enough to cover up her firm, well shaped ass. Her blond hair is completely wild in the reminiscent manner of 80’s Glam Rock. Her skin is dark, but not darker than mine. She’s wearing high heels that show off her long, muscular legs. “She must have just came back from a club” I think to myself.

My heart starts beating quickly. I have a personal rule of always hitting on a girl I am attracted to, no matter the circumstances or awkwardness of the situation. I wasn’t expecting to see a hottie at this time, so her attractiveness caught me off guard. I start to devise a plan on how I am going to hit on this hottie. I don’t want to lose my place in line and it doesn’t look like she is going to leave anytime soon. But personal history has taught me a valuable lesson about hesitating on hitting on a hot girl; some other guy always hits on her while one is developing the courage to do so. He may succeed or fail; it doesn’t matter because either way, he monopolizes her attention for the time being and it never turns out well being the second guy in a row hitting on her in a casual environment.

Self-doubt started engulfing me. I was in gym shorts, a dirty faded t-shirt, and flip-flops. I hadn’t shaved my spic-stach in a few days, so my face looked like I was a 15 year old boy going through puberty. My hair always looks glorious, so no worries there. I look around and analyze the competition. If I noticed her, I’m sure the other bastards eating noticed her too. I see other men, checking her out, giggling, quite possibly teasing their friends about not having balls to hit on her. “Fuck them. Fuck it.” I say to myself, I leave the line, and confidently approach the pink dress wearing vixen.

She is standing and facing away from me, so I tap her on the shoulder. She turns around and I begin to say, “Excuse me, I just noticed you from across the room and I had to come talk to you.” As I say these words I start to examine her face, which I hadn’t seen before, while it wasn’t ugly, it wasn’t pretty as I thought it would be. It was very heavily covered in make up and there was something off about it I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I do a quick half-second inspection of her cleavage and notice the perky breasts are definitely fake. She then responds “Awww… that is sweet, I’m Monica” in a gay-lisp. Then it clicks. This hottie is a fucking man. She either is a cross dressing dude or a transvestite. I notice other features I didn’t notice before: the strong jaw, the adams apple, and the man smile. While some of the more conservative readers may say they would have just walked out. I’m not a dick like that. I didn’t want to hurt her/his feelings so, I did the socially decent thing and proceeded hitting on her/him. After a couple of internally awkward minutes she had to leave. I took down her number on my cell and went back in line and ordered my food.

When I got home, I got curious if she was truly a he or if my mind was playing tricks on me. So I sent her a text:

Raul: Hey, It’s Raul, I met you at Taqueria about 20 minutes ago.

Monica: Heyyyyy Handsome.

Raul: I have to ask upfront, are you a guy?

Monica: Ohhh baby, don’t you know what I am? I’m a call boy, I charge by the hour. You interested?

Raul: No. I don’t buy hookers.

I didn’t hear a reply for about 30 minutes and then he sent me a text:

Monica: I’m very horny and you’re very cute. How about you come to my hotel and I let you try me out for free.

Raul: I’m sorry, I’m not gay. Thanks though.

Monica: That’s too bad. 😦

~Raul Felix

Shy Girl

Posted on by Standard 2

It was quite a glorious scene if I say so myself: I’m sitting there in my work out shorts, topless, and a dozen Coke cans scattered throughout my floor and computer table. My iTunes blaring some Iron Maiden at the perfect volume where its loud enough to rock, but low enough so my mom doesn’t yell at me. I sent out text to my boys expressing my lack of nightly ambitions. They were either working or spending quality time with their “girlfriends.” Cocksuckers. As I worked my way through my phonebook hierarchy, at last reaching rock bottom with that guy who I drank a beer with once at my friends cousins friends house; it grew evident that this was to be one of those nights destined for obscurity.

In order to salvage the night, I did what most people who are in that tender age where they’re legally allowed to join the military, but not yet responsible enough buy their own alcohol do; I went online. I logged onto my myspace, pathetically hoping someone had sent me a message or left comment. To my bitter disappoint, there was one comment; left by a monstrosity of a woman I had embarrassingly befriended: “To the world you may be just be a person, to a someone, you may be the world.” People who post this sort of shit are the reason God invented anal sex.

After moments of despair, self-loathing, and finally, reinvigoration; I set out on the audacious quest to find some hot myspace pussy. The lackluster results that occurred afterwards were disheartening. I saw women with broken dreams, fat bellies, nasty dreadlocks, and kids. These offspring producing women were the worst of all. Pictures of those little dream crushers engulfed their profiles like they were the only humans in history to ever give fucking birth. Most of them were single, with that little bastard lingering, as a permanent reminder of another mans dick being in her.

Just a cunt-hair close to the onset of irreversible misogyny, I found my precious little Shy Girl. She had a black and white default profile picture. It showed a side profile of her tight, little body with well proportioned breasts and butt. I looked through more of her pictures and was pleasantly surprised to find a light skinned, emerald eyed, blonde haired, heavily bosomed woman. I analyzed every single major and minor physical feature of hers. I noticed how her nose was tiny and slightly perked up and how her eyebrows were always perfectly plucked. I even examined the insignificant mole on her right cheek and how full her lips were.

There are a lot of pretty women, I thought to myself, lets see if anything makes this one special. I read her “about me”. She only identified herself as Shy Girl because she didn’t want any creepers to know her real name. Negative point me. She is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, majoring in psychology, and yet, doesn’t know what she want to do with her life. She loves taking care of her nieces, nephews, and dog. Thinks hip hop is stupid and loves muscle cars. This woman was tailored made for myself and my attraction, and blood flow to my cock, significantly increase.

I decide I must formulate the perfect message to her. I mustn’t appear too desperate, nor cocky, nor vague, nor specific, nor seem to care too much at all. Basically, I over think the whole concept of writing her message and sit there staring at a blank screen. I type, type, type, FUCK, delete, delete, delete. Each word, sentence, and paragraph is dissected as I attempt to assemble a perfectly casual prose. I repeat this retarded little dance for about an hour until I finally forge something worthy of being sent to my little Shy Girl. I finish correcting my grammar and spelling mistakes, give it a quick check for the quadruple time and hit Send and request her as friend; my heart sinks.

Thoughts of my little Shy Girl wrestle me in my sleep. I randomly get up and check my computer to see if she has read what I’ve wrote. She hadn’t. I start thinking about the beautiful babies, shenanigans, and inside jokes we have together. I wonder if she is the one for me and how our first interaction is going to be like. I wonder about our future first date. I wonder what her real name is. I doze off to a restless sleep full of rainbows and Shy Girl.

The whole entire next day I randomly check my computer and see if she had read what I’ve written; she hasn’t. Finally, one day, three hours, and thirty-three minutes later, she read it. At last! I would get a response! I wait. An hour, then two, then four, and then a day passes and another. No response, friend request declined.

I stare at her page and I think of what could’ve been.

What a bitch.

~Raul Felix

Deliberate Practice

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We all suck horribly whenever we take it upon ourselves to learn a new skill. For most people, anything that requires any level of skill does not come naturally. I have taken a look at my writing from five or more years ago; it’s embarrassing to see how poor my writing was. It lacked style and it was mostly curse filled rants with no direction or purpose other than to make one laugh. I’m glad to see that my writing has evolved, even if I only just learned how to use my cursing more sparingly.

So we all suck, it doesn’t mean we have to stay sucking. We all know the saying “Practice makes perfect”, well it’s missing a key word: Deliberate. Deliberate practice makes perfect. What does that mean? It means that in each session where you practice whatever your craft, sport, or profession is, you’re actively seeking to learn, refine, and improve as opposed to going through the motions. This is perfectly explained in “The Outliers” by Malcolm Gladwell, with the 10,000-Hour Rule. Gladwell explains that in order to be a master, not just proficient or an expert, takes about 10,000 hours of deliberate practice. He uses The Beatles as one of his examples, who played live as a cover band in a strip club in Hamburg, Germany over 1,200 times for eight hours a night from 1960-1964. It takes twenty hours a week for ten years for a person to get their 10,000 hours in.

This makes me wonder where the hell I am in this spectrum. I’m sure I am very near the beginning of it. I can say that I’ve probably have put 250-300 hours of work into my writing throughout my life. When you compare it to 10,000, it seems like a very daunting task and like I’ll never get to the level of mastery. But seeing the vast improvements I’ve made with 250-300 hours, it gives me hope. While I don’t believe my writing is great by any means, I do believe its solid and I can write way better than 90% of people. I don’t compare myself to the 90% of people though, because those people aren’t doing what I want to do and don’t live the life I want to live. When I do compare my writing, I compare it to writers that I look up to.

In his book, “On Writing”, Stephen King says ”Almost everyone can remember losing his or her virginity, and most writers can remember the first book he/she put down thinking: I can do better than this, Hell, I am doing better than this!” Its true. I remember the moment when I decided to grow the balls to create this little blog and put my writing out there. One night I decided to take a look at the first entries of the writers who’s blogs I follow and writing I respect. What I found were entries dating back four to ten years ago (depending the writer) that were just plain bad. Nothing close to the level that they write at now. This was a very happy epiphany for me. I knew that I was not as good a writer that they are at their current state, but I am way better than they were when they began blogging. Cowardice was the only thing holding me back. What made me different then them? They just kept driving on until they produced pieces that people actually wanted to read.

I want to get to master status in my writing. As cocky as it sounds, I know I have what it takes to be great at this. Every letter, word, paragraph, and piece I complete, I improve. As I write these words, I’m trying to figure out how to communicate more effectively and how to say more while writing less. I’m trying to figure out and develop my style and what I bring to the table as a writer. The answer to those questions and many others will only come with time and me putting my hours of hard, deliberate practice in.

~Raul Felix

Resistance

Posted on by Standard 2

In The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, he writes about the number one enemy of all artist. He calls it Resistance. Resistance is the reason we log onto Facebook first thing in the morning instead of getting to work on our craft. Resistance is the reason we come up with excuses as to why things can’t be done; instead of trying to figure out how it can be done. Resistance is what keeps us in our comfort zone. Its what keeps us from pushing ourselves and getting shit done. Resistance is the reason we stay mediocre and live a life of melancholy.

Resistance is the reason I haven’t posted a single blog update in over a month and half. I have been making excuses. I’ve drawn a blank as to what to write about. The muse was fucking with me. A blinking cursor with nothing written before it has stared at me, mockingly. A nasty sense of self doubt filled my being. “Maybe you don’t have what it takes, Raul. You’re not a writer, you can’t even keep up a silly little blog that no one reads.” That’s the cynical, devilish voice of Resistance stomping on my ambitions. You know what? Fuck you! I am more than good enough to accomplish my dreams and ambitions and I’m not going to let YOU or anything else stop me.

“Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance.” says Pressfield. I have a daily struggle with it. I have these grandeur visions of the man I will be five, ten, twenty years from now. Then I ask I myself what have I done TODAY to help me progress towards becoming that man? If I draw a blank, I feel an intense sense of disgust towards myself. If I can come with maybe two or three little things that helped become a better man, than I do have a small sense of self satisfaction, even though most of the time I feel I could have done more. For example, if can say to myself that today, I wrote 1000 words in my journal, I read for one hour, and I ran 5 miles, I will file that underneath a day where I beat Resistance(a tiny bit) and did something to become a better man. If on that day all I did was browse aimlessly on Facebook, watch movies, jerk off, and maybe did a half-assed work out. That’s a day that Resistance kicked my ass and I think of myself as a worthless bum.

Resistance is there every single day. It never gets easier to beat it, as you become better the challenges it throws your way become tougher. It gets in your face and tells you in the most brutal way possible. “Yeah, you wrote 1000 words? So fucking what? It’s garbage! How about you write 1000 words of something actually readable?” You meet that challenge and it turns around says to you “Oh, you wrote 1000 words of good stuff? So what? It’s not great. Try again, pussy.” Even when one creates their first great piece, Resistance will say to you “Oh wow, ONE great piece? You’re nothing more than a one hit wonder. You got lucky. You can’t do it again. You have no talent.” It’s a vicious, endless cycle. The challenge will either make you great or it will bury you. I chose to dig myself out and become great, no matter how deeply buried I am right now.

~Raul Felix