I Came Upon Some Flowers

While walking through the neighborhood of Wichita yesterday, I saw bright, beautiful, pink, fake flowers. Pictured at the left are not those flowers. Lilies sprouting up unassumingly out of someone's garden.

Someone in my family likes to talk about how the United States is in trouble because of all the shady things that the government does... and the companies.

I'm not so sure. We are still a government by the people. At first glance this sounds absurd – nearly atrocious, perhaps not lacking a firm grounding in reality. This idea is like those fake flowers – beautiful but ultimately pointless. Trouble is, the fake flowers looked real enough to be real. And if I had gone about assuming that every single flower I encountered from then on out was fake, then I would have missed a lot of beauty. This is a trouble with people – it's not so much that we forget to stop and smell the flowers; it's that we assume we already know what every flower smells like.

But life changes everything. No flower can smell the exact same, and you miss out on opportunities by assuming. I've missed out on opportunities by assuming. We miss out on the opportunity to interact with each other when we assume that beauty is fake. Not all of it is. These flowers are living proof of this. Beauty grows out of the dirt; it doesn't live a comfortable life because beauty can't be beauty unless it intimately knows ugly, and fake flowers will never know ugly like fake people will never admit ugly, and it's a tragedy. And I know I'm saying two different things now, but the ugly truth is that we have to fake some beauty until the world can see what we're trying to show it, and we have to be real with our own ugliness or else someone someday may confuse it with beauty. And there's nothing worse than realizing, upon close inspection, that what you thought was real turned out to be nothing but fake.

So here's to being real despite the "ugliness" we think it brings. Everything is a matter of perception, and realizing this is, in itself, an act of great beauty.

Check out the Talks!

DrewDat, Luke, ME!

Those three sexy poets in the photo above are (from left) DreDat, Luke, and MEEE! This photo was taken at the TOP OF A MOUNTAIN!! Yup, that's how we Colorado Springs poets do it. We write with our heads in the clouds and unwind in them as well. This all started after a team meeting when Luke, the host of our bi-monthly poetry venue (HEAR, HERE!!) decided to go for a walk. For most people a walk is a leisurely stroll in the park, but according to Luke it is to get a good 15 minute hike away from anything man made and climb the nearest vertical behemoth. It felt good to climb and the view was breathtaking. So, here we are at the top of a mountain. Since space is infinitely expanding we were both on top of the world and under it which was all fine with me.

This Monday, my newest addiction is TEDtalks. I heard about TEDtalks from an old roommate of mine. Do you have a friend that is constantly suggesting things like movies, or tv shows, yet you are too stubborn to try them? Well, that's how it is when my buddy Calvin suggests things. So far he has suggested Ender's Game, Game of Thrones, TEDtalks, and various other shrines of badassitude which have always taken me FOREVER to pick up on. Anyhow, TEDtalks are a series of sub-20 minute presentations online in which the  world's leading authorities in their fields showcase current projects. They vary in topics from technology to social psychology, and even POETRY!!! 

This presentation of TEDtalks is from former US poet laureate, Billy Collins. It's exciting to see that even with all these wonders of technology there is still room to probe into the mind of a poet. What this says to me is that not only is poetry NOT dead, but there is and will always be a constant fascination with poets and various other photographers of the human experience. What fascinates me with these TEDtalks is the way that the presenters present their topics so eloquently. It's as these professionals are poets in their own sense. Kathryn Schulz specifically sounds like a slam poet herself!! CHECK IT OUT! Her presentation sounds like she's about to throw down at some final stage slam. There are some eloquent pieces of rhetoric and prose which seriously made me do a double check and make sure I was watching TEDtalks and not browsing a poetry set. If you have some free time check them out!!

I wish I had a lot more to say to help set up your week, but I'm behind on my Game of Thrones and I need to catch up. I'm on season 3 episode 4 and everyone keeps talking about a wedding...

And Called It Poetry

Where does poetry come from?

Some say it stems from past. It's words we were never able to say in the moment built up into beauty because diamonds are only noticeable when found in the rough. Poets' lives are not easy. I am a poet. Poets' lives are beautiful. I am a poet.

Poetry comes from late night conversations with ghosts. Poetry is haunting. This is why it wakes me with a start late at night and forces me to pull pages close to my chest like blankets. It is communion with spirits who want nothing more than that their story be told.

Poetry is a haunted house. I am a haunted house. I have doors that I know not to open. I have rooms filled with mirrors adorned by sheets I don't have the courage to remove. I have rooms with rustling sounds that I'm still afraid to open. I don't have skeletons in my closets. I have graveyards. I have headstones with epitaphs written in iambic lines so that anyone saying the incantations will necessarily resemble the rhythm of a heartbeat. My poetry is a heartbeat; this is why I feel sick when I skip a line or lose my rhythm. My poetry is a heartbeat – my words are how I perform CPR. No wonder I feel so out of breath every time I perform. Resuscitation is a word that doesn't pass past lips easily. This is why I sometimes confuse my poetry with hyperventilation. The diaphragm should only expand as much as a mind.

I am a poet.

I am still trying to figure out
where I come from and
where I'm going.

I just hope
that my heartbeat
will stay long enough
to open all my doors,
expose my mirrored ghosts,
and figure out
where this all came from
just so I can forget about it,
and focus on where to go
in-stead.

These Are Things I've Learned

This weekend, I learned a valuable lesson.

Today, I went hiking.

Now, I don't know if you know this, but hiking is at least 48% more beautiful if the person or people you're hiking with are comfortable letting their minds wander like the clouds.

Hiking is at least 65% grander
if you have the opportunity to hold someone's hand.

Regardless of which way the fingers intertwine, your hands suddenly have as many stories to tell as your legs do. A palm reader should be so jealous.

When you're hiking and holding hands with someone who has an open mind, this person will comment on the scenery that wanders through her mind, will let you know the kind of beauty she conjures up in words, and her hands will tell stories of sweat and personal triumph to each one of your fingertips. Your hands will be happy they have something so gorgeous to travel and connect with. You, in turn, will also be happy because holding hands is the nonverbal way of saying, "You're worth it" or "You've got a story worth telling" or "We've really got a shot to make this whole trip memorable."

Maybe this is why I like dancing – I have three minutes to share with someone the feeling of "You're worth it." I get the feeling "I am worth it."

This weekend I learned that being a poet allows me to hold hands with the audience.
This weekend, I learned that stages extend their palms face up and ask anyone who steps upon them, "Would you like to dance?"

Some stages phrase it as a statement. Something like "Show me your moves!" with all the bravado of a falcon.

This weekend I learned that I
am allowed to ask stages to dance.
This weekend I learned that poetry is my basic.
This weekend I learned that I really missed
holding hands like I do when hiking today and that
no stage was substitute for that, but
this weekend,
I learned that I deserve
to be on stage, to ask to hold
my audience's hand, and this
weekend, I learned that
every person has a story to tell, sometimes
they just need someone
to hold their hand and say,
"I love the way you wander."

Mid-June in Colorado

Half the team is in Albuquerque for the Southwest Shootout Slam. I am not in that half. I can't wait to hear all about the Shootout. KB and I got together today and worked on some poetry. Our poetry is on fire. 

It’s summer in Colorado again. The fires are full and roaming around the mountains.

An old friend, distant from me by five state lines calls to make sure I have not melted.

When I don’t answer, he pictures my phone: a pile of molten plastic, my lungs black and my bones ash, cremated by nature, recomposing into the high plains desert dirt. He doesn’t bother to leave a message.

He calls a second time. When I don’t answer, he pictures the worms and sits nervous until I get out of work and say everything is fine. He tells me about the girl who burnt his heart down as if we were sitting by the lake again. He tells me I am missed, I am not the only adult to get homesick, and says he’s glad I haven’t become fuel for the fire.

Boulder hasn't been in the path of any fires so far this year. Colorado Springs though, where all my team mates reside, are in the midst of it. Please send your prayers/love/thoughts/good vibes their way.

Love ya.

It's Friday.

I like Fridays. I'm in line with the acronym TGIF. Today has lasted longer than a Friday should. Perhaps I'm showing my immaturity. I'd love to have accepted that the length of a day is no different, but I am Einstein's disciple as I share his birthday. Everything, therefore, is relative.

Friday falls in the realm of everything.

Everything falls in the realm of Friday.

Today, I have gone from fire to rain. From rain to shine. From shine to dark. Road trips have a way with words. They can tell you their stories. They will sing you to sleep.

In Japan, certain back country roads are grooved in such a way that music spins itself from the wheel wells when cars travel at just the right speed. The roads record your stories in song.

Kansas sounds like a lullaby with the melody of gentle grain. Nebraska roads unfold like carefully  orchestrated chord progressions. Colorado streets change pitch at awkward moments.

Today, New Mexico drove forward. It sung the song of rain, a heavy metal drum beat drowned out by poetry. Today, New Mexico screamed. This morning, Colorado wrote a ballad underneath our tires. Today, Colorado skies finally cried, and thousands breathed out catharsis in a crescendo of tears. Today, our tires flew forward over borders, under bridges, through wide open land soaked in sun.

Tonight, poets will sing their road songs. They will stretch their arms out like highways and pluck staccatoed melodies from their scars to show how far they've come and how far they've yet to go.

Thousands of songs have been composed in the three-quarter mile stretch of the road on which I grew up.

I can't imagine how many will find themselves written in dusty journals at the end of the 400 mile song we composed today.

Every Poet Needs A Home

Apartment shopping is one of the scariest things that a person can do.

Quick back story:
A friend of mine had an awesome, crazy idea to start up a poetry house. What does this mean? It means assembling a crack team of artists who would be willing to share space, rent, stories, and time together.

Unfortunately, the memo must've been undersigned by dyslexia because the team cracked. People pulled out merely a week and a half before we were to move into the house. This happened after we had found a space that fit our needs. At least it also happened before we spent any money on applications.

I'm pretty sure Colorado's current heat wave is caused by our collective disappointment.

But poems are never finished.

And life is a poem. Why else would it be written in lines where people pray?

So we pushed our pens on to find new applications to sign.

Thus begins today's epic journey. And every journey needs a story.


The morning began normally enough. The sun rose as it is want to do. Birds chirped, I'm sure. I woke up to music. Improvisation has become one of my signatures; it's a key to my abilities. I improvise my way through so many things. Like music. Like conversations. Like looking for apartments.
With the internet disconnected from my current residence, I was thankful to have a smart phone which could assist in this search. In twenty minutes time, I had developed a list of 6 different complexes to which I'd pay a visit. I should've realized then that the complexity of this endeavor would be more than at first imagined.
The first stop led me to brightly colored apartments close to the local grocery store. The assistant manager greeted me with a light hand and bright smile. She answered my questions happily. I didn't have many as I had heard her explaining the pertinent points to a man who could only understand a quarter of what was said. Then she informed me that the next apartment would be available a mere 2 days after we needed it. To move there, we would need to store furniture and surf for two days' time. So I said, "Thank you for your time" and continued on my journey.
As a poet, I understand that mountains move, but I am no mountain. She spoke of erosion when I needed an earthquake or a volcano to assist in this quick shift. Yet all was not lost. I still had 5 places to check out.
The second spot was the definition of a bust. I couldn't find the housing office, heard screams of the local urchins emanating from what I imagined had become a room repurposed for unspeakable things, and got a generally bad vibration from this place: the kind that seismographs pick up – this was not the kind of earthquake I needed.
The third place was welcoming and kind even though I couldn't immediately find the leasing office. Upon finding the office, however, I stumbled into a meeting of three people. They scattered when I entered and, for a moment, I felt a chill pass through the air as though I was disrupting something. After speaking with the one in charge, I discovered that no housing was to be found here in time. Indeed, another bust. But at least I was handed a guide book that would surely show me more spots to visit on my adventure. And so again I set off.
Remarkably close, the next location loomed. As I entered its central courtyard, I caught the scent of freshly laid paint. The location's center pool was in the process of being painted a spritely blue. The new paint carried a scent of increased prices, and this scent reflected in the receptionist's demeanor. She leaned back with hands crossed. Asked, "So what are you looking to spend?" After the second time she asked, she grimaced when I finally said my price. She smirked and uncrossed her arms, leaned forward and gestured toward the door. It was then I realized that money moves people too. But not enough to extend a hand or ask for a name. This was not the place for me to rest my hat.
The fifth destination consisted of condominiums and was outside my price range. Space is one of the most expensive factors for renting. I can't afford space yet.
The sixth destination also did not have a place open in time for my purposes. However, it welcomed me nonetheless. A woman dressed in a lively orange greeted me but said that she could not tell me about this place. Regardless, she stood with me until the owner appeared. With a trash-bagged hand, the manager appeared and said hello. Asked up to the office, I followed and sat. There, they told me about which places to avoid and spoke with much warmth.
Although this would not be my home, they made me feel as though I could rest my burdens for a moment, take my shoes off, and just relax. They said that everyone has been through this, so it's okay to wonder where the next steps will lead. They assured me that it's okay to still feel uncomfortable even after making a security deposit. Sometimes even travelers need to hear that they are not alone and that home is not a place that should be out of anyone's reach. So Pat and Donna, if you read this, I want to thank you for allowing me to end my journey with a greater sense of ease than when it began.
And because every good story creates an Ouroboros, I came to call the first place which I visited to begin the leasing process.

I am moving on up.

Choosing The Way

There comes a time when one must choose their own adventure. At 24 I'm very much feeling at a crossroads. A friend of mine called this a quarter life crisis. On top of that I don't know what sort of Monday night wisdom I can impart on you today. The fact of the matter is I have a bad case of writer's block and I'm trying to dodge coming up with something witty.

The last time I had writer's block this bad, I wrote this piece:

A Writer's Block Rime

I sit with my pen as I'm writing a poem
Ignore the phone
snap the ink in these bones
thoughts are drones in a hive that feel all alone
There's an unknown cyclone of knee-bone groans
that clone dialtones from brain zone to jaw bone.
I sit with my pen as i'm writing a poem.
I sit with my poem as i'm writing a pen.
I write with a pen as i'm sitting a poem.

A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
digging my mind for dream listed thoughts
images basted and cooked in a pot
slaughterhouse page-master with a pen I have fought,
verbal cosmonaut outlined in chalk
'cause of too many things in my brain
drained by plain champagne coursing veins
like a train crossing plains
words on wheels in the rain
ingrained in its chest insane hydroplanes

I sit with my pen as I"m writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock.
A blank clocked paper I look at the sheet.
A sheet paper clock I look at the blank
trying to capture creations of God
head nod angel trod
fire squad to writer's block
pulling false facades of beauty and truth
feeling like a rookie stuck in a booth
uncouth one toothed verbal sleuth
with so many things to say
and nothing to write

I sit with my pen as i'm writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
trying to capture creations of God.
Trying God to capture creation
God's captives try to create.
I slice my side with my sangre I sing
a sanguine sling of songs and hymn splattered limbs
verbal trim of fat of words I don't need anymore
words I don't heed evermore
My lips can't bleed "Nevermore"
old poets decree to breathe for more so,

I sit with my pen as I"m writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
trying to capture creations of God
Slicing my side with my sangre I sing
slicing my sangre I sing with my side
siding my sangre I slice with my songs
long bong prolong headstrong inhaling
silence broken by strong gongs
taking the page leaving it dreaming and heaving
in a clusterfucked screaming
as I

Sit with my pen as i'm writing a poem
A blank sheet of paper I look at the clock
Trying to capture creations of God
as I'm slicing my side with my sangre I sing
leaving the page dreaming and heaving
in a clusterfucked screaming.




Writer's block poems are the best way to write though the fog.

Eye'm So Fly...

Have you ever wondered why you might find a bunch of dead flies at a windowsill...Like if it were a window in a place with little traffic, because we clean off a dead fly here n there, so they don't bunch up...but yea...what are they dying from? It's not lack of oxygen...that's on this side of the window too...And it's at the window...They die of determination.

They are so determined to get back out; they die trying. Are you really determined? Or are we just pretending?

I bet they're flies that thought they could break through the glass. We see them sitting on the glass, but what if they were pushing with all their might? What if they kept pushing until their legs gave up and broke their neck in their fall? This is a prime example of when determination can be mistaken for stupidity. You can't break through glass...stupid little fly. The strength comes in trying...I can see my goal, my freedom, and it's just beyond this glass.

Well, stupid little fly...if you just go back out this open door; under the crack of the door or this open window...go back out where you came from you can rejoin that freedom. You see one window of opportunity and you stick to it 'til death do you part.

So, What am eye saying? Eye think the real question is...What is this saying to you?

Knock yo Lights Out!

A Wizard Is Never Late

As I awoke Sunday morning,

for the second time, because I already had a wake up call and just became reacquainted with my pillow,

I realized that once again I would be late. I was going to be late to do some super secret project with my team and it occurred to me that I'm late for everything. I was always late to class, usually late to events, and struggle to make it to work on time. This tardiness, I think, is caused by the hyper-relaxed mindset that I use to cope with stress. I haven't sold enough cars to look good at work? Its cool man, life is good. I don't have time to do everything I need to? No worries, its allll good. I don't have the passion flowing from my pen the way it once was? Oh. That's not something I want to be late for. 

See, as Gandalf once said, a wizard is never late. He arrives exactly when he intends to. And I intend to be arriving...right...about...now.

I've got a confession to make. I have felt like the weakest link on this slam team since day one, like my poetry could stand to have the most improvements made on it. My job pays well enough for my needs, but, it is draining the spirit from my soles. My place is important to me but at heart I'm a vagabond. After so much build up, so much tardiness, so much feeling late, one has to arrive. I'm not there yet. It may be a while before I feel like I'm "threre". It might take ninety years. But, I'm comfortable knowing I'm in the midst of a quarter life crisis. It could be worse. I could be normal.

Drew Discovers The Universe

I learned recently that magic happens. The heart moves faster than eyes can see, so when two hearts which had been moving along parallel lines change their direction to intertwine, something magical happens.

We went to Three Margaritas. I ordered a Macho Burrito. Perhaps for its name sake I wanted to embody a stronger image. She ordered off the appetizer menu – Chicken Floutas, I believe. They brought chips and salsa. Our conversation unfolded coolly to counteract the spice of the salsa. We talked unapologetically while laughing. I could've sworn we unraveled at least one mystery of the universe that night – perhaps that was because she was the epitome of my universe. I think we unraveled into each other over topics like music, like past, like God. I don't think I ever told her how beautiful she is, and to say that I'm not good at compliments simply doesn't seem excuse enough to justify such a glaring omission. When you've got the universe sitting next to you, a few things are going to be outshown by its stars.

I learned recently that magic happens. Hands move faster than eyes can see, so when two hands' lines come together to intertwine, something magical happens.

We arrived at Stargazer's Theatre. The building is a repurposed observatory. I couldn't imagine needing to look up at the sky that night. We took seats in the upper level of the observatory. The stage unfolded before us. Lined with four guitars, three basses, two drum sets, and three keyboards, the stage picked up kinetic energy. It was a rock ready to roll.
The first band came out. Smooth jazz headed by a man who played the flute in just such a style. He called himself Flute Daddy, and this was the name taken by the other members of the band. After their solos, the main member of the ensemble introduced them by their real name. After every solo, he said this name. I still don't remember their names. How could I when I had the universe securely in my arms? If the sun is a beautiful thing to behold, then a universe full of stars is indescribable. I don't remember a smile ever leaving my lips that night.

I learned recently that magic happens. Feet move faster than eyes can see, so when two feet line up their  patterns to intertwine with beat, something magical happens.

The second band came up. Dotsero. They played with the intensity of a super-nova. The music was beautiful. Improvised, it wrapped around us like fingers wrap around each other. Unmistakable, the energy filled space, echoed off the roof and wrapped us up together. This music made me feel more connected with the universe than I had ever been previously.
Dotsero asked its audience to dance. The message orbited. Like a satellite, I kept in contact with this request. "Let It Be" as a melody unfolded from a saxophone. The gravity became too much, so I transmitted its message to the stars, said "This is dance-able" and hoped for assent. When a nod responded, I lifted and walked towards an improvised dance floor. I felt the universe following in my footsteps. We arrived and commenced stepping to the rhythm set before us.

The music came to fade.
Every universe needs its constellation, so I dipped her.
Held her close.
Looked into her eyes.
Observed the beauty of the universe unfolding.

I learned recently
that magic happens.

72 ounces of GLORY!!

Making history!

What's up everybody! That photo above is from 2010 when I completed the 72oz steak challenge in Amarillo, Texas. It was an incredibly bad idea to begin with, but I finally got it all the way down and it went a little something like this...

On the morning of May 31, 2010 I awoke with my friends Roger, Patrick and his girlfriend Val from a hotel room in Dallas, Texas. We were all there for a video game tournament that had just finished the day before. We ended up getting our asses royally handed to us in the tournament but that's another story. As we were leaving the hotel I stocked up to the max on their continental breakfast which included me inhaling a couple small bowls of cereal, oatmeal, 2 waffles, and a banana. Since I was still in the hotel and not in the ridiculously damn-near-uninhabitable heat of the Texas sun, I still maintained my appetite and borrowed some fruit for the ride back to Colorado. 

Once on the road after checking out of our hotel we made our way back home. With the talk in the car being filled with how hot Texas was, we all decided to stop and grab some food at The Big Texan Steak Ranch. I had originally heard of this place from one of my favorite TV shows and have since swore that if I ever got the opportunity I would jump on it immediately. The thing about the Big Texan is that there are signs all over the place advertising their 72oz steak challenge throughout Texas. Almost like subliminal advertising.

At about dinner time we decided to stop in at the Big Texan Steak Ranch. They're known for their steak challenge and they let you know. The entire meal is showcased for all to see at the entrance, and the list of all previous winners hangs as a sort of "Abandon all Hope Ye Who Enter Here" Dante's Inferno banner. We marvel at the novelty of it all and sit down to eat. By this point I was completely psyched out about trying the challenge and just wanted some food to hold me over for the rest of the trip. Patrick and Roger convinced me to do the 72oz challenge and so it began...

Let me say something about food challenges, talk about pressure. Everyone looks at you with this dead man walking stare. They see you walking up to the table and think to themselves..."That crazy mother trucker."

Across from me is another man also doing the challenge. On paper he is bigger than me by about 50lbs. He has an adorable daughter and also a smoking fine trophy wife who have both been given direct orders  to not bother him while the challenge is in progress. I order my steak medium rare for the sake of chewing and digesting purposes while the large man opposite me orders his well done. 

Before the challenge starts the owner of the Big Texan asks me what I had for breakfast that morning. I reply I ate a waffle and decided to leave out the part where I ate everything else in sight also. He tells me that I might be able to make some room for the steak but chances aren't likely. I instantly began to realize that I made a horrible mistake. I was sitting in a crowded restaurant full of people who were all about to celebrate my indulgence of gluttony and I was getting cold feet. Minutes before I signed the paperwork (yes there is a slight amount of paperwork involved) my friend Patrick ordered the 1/4th portion of the 72oz steak challenge for his dinner meal. I told him that if he could eat that meal and not double over puking, he should let me know so I could gauge whether I could swallow all this food.

The meal consists of a fat ass steak, a baked potato, salad, shrimp, and a dinner roll. My strategy was go for the beef first. I didn't want to eat the potato and roll and have it expand throughout the challenge. I cut up the steak into a grid of pieces small enough to fit into my mouth and went to town. People were watching from all over the restaurant, and quite a few people stopped to take a picture with me. I felt like a rockstar for a little while with all those people admiring my bravery, but one truth had remained; I still had to eat that whole damn steak!

the wall

About two thirds of the way through the challenge I hit the wall. It was brutal. All of my adoring fans had begun to whisper "he's not gonna make it." I had no idea where I would find my second wind. The guy across from me had given up at the 30 minute mark and left the table. He blamed it on his wife and daughter not giving him the concentration he needed to finish the challenge. At this point I felt like a frowning buddha statue. All hope was lost until I heard a noise from the balcony seating. My friend Patrick had finished his meal and said he wasn't full! They also came down to tell me that if our other friend was there (who was a fellow heavyweight such as myself) he would have already finished his plate. That's where I found the will to keep chewing. In this moment of agonizing pain, I would not succumb to the idea that I "could have" finished the meal so I kept going. 

The worst part about eating a four and a half pound steak is eating a four and a half pound steak. The taste of the steak I was eating, which I once found to be the best steak I ever had, became small foul reminders that I was just about to lose $72 (the price if you fail the challenge). Being a broke college kid at the time I could not afford to waste anything so I pretended like the steak tasted less like probable bowel explosions and more like an actually good idea.

With only 5 minutes left on the clock I still had to eat the rest of my steak, a baked potato and a dinner roll. I squeezed the dinner roll into a little ball, bit down on it, and swallowed. With one minute left I had a bite of steak and a whole baked potato and I seriously felt like I was going to vomit not only my meal, but my entire digestive tract as a whole along with it. So, I did what any reasonable human being would do. I shoved the steak in my mouth, did not chew and swallowed it. I took the baked potato in my hand and ate the whole thing in two soul wrenching bites. I swear I could feel my insides tearing as I looked over with 5 seconds left and asked if I was done. The clock stopped at 3 seconds.I felt like this badass.

I was so excited I jumped up somehow and for some reason the spirit of Bruce Lee moved me because I was doing all sorts of kicking and judo choppy motions. The owner of the restaurant told me to sit down before I saw the meal come back up. I spent a good 15 minutes getting my land legs back and paraded around the restaurant like hot stuff with a newly acquired t-shirt that proves nothing but an overwhelming and slightly sad fact that I could probably eat small children. That night I arrived home and drank a full glass of fiber.

Tastes Like AMERICA!!!

Moral of the story: Keep on pushing past the wall. You'll never know what "could have" happened until you try to break it down.