Underbelly of The Beast
November 14, 2025
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there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too goddamn tough for him, I say, stay in there, you little bastard, I’m not going to
Explore raw, unfiltered reflections on life, loss, identity, and love. From monogamy to madness, these real-life stories pull no punches — and they just might hit home.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I’m too goddamn tough for him, I say, stay in there, you little bastard, I’m not going to
There are epochs in a childhood—fleeting and golden—when innocence is not merely a state of being, but a tangible atmosphere, as thick and cool as the marine layer rolling in
You want to know about the “path of awakening”? Christ. It’s not a path. It’s a goddamn train wreck. It’s the most peculiar, beautiful, ugly, and completely inevitable experience a
It started online, like all modern tragedies do. A woman in Scottsdale asked me if I was interested. “No strings,” she said. “I have a husband, but we’re… open.” The
You have to understand, just getting on that boat was a goddamn miracle. I’d been through the fire, talked my way back into the Navy after a “misunderstanding” that involved
I’ve always had this goddamn complex. A beautiful, ugly, and completely schizophrenic relationship with my own meat suit. Some nights, I’m a goddamn king. I walk into a bar, and
My ex-wife, back when she was still just my girlfriend and I was still dumb enough to believe in that kind of bullshit, she told me this story. A little
You have to understand, back then, Tijuana was our goddamn backyard. A beautiful, dirty, and completely honest shithole where a young man with a pocketful of Navy cash could buy
I hear them say it sometimes, the ones with the stress-free smiles and the freshly whitened teeth. They levitate towards you at parties, smelling of expensive soap and self-satisfaction, the
I can’t say we were conservative or liberal back in the ‘80s, or the ‘70s. We were just… normal. We had a little bit of common sense. Yeah, it was
You want the truth? She wasn’t built for Mother’s Day. No soft-focus memories, no scent of cookies in the kitchen. More like cigarettes and peroxide and a voice that could
It was a typical Saturday night in this beautiful, sun-baked, and completely goddamn hopeless armpit they call Tucson. I’m in the last 90-day stretch of my prison sentence here, and
