The Tattoo


A few years back I used to go to parties in a house that was not too far from mine in Puyallup.

That is where I met this guy named Josh, but they all called him Wheels. At 21 years of age he had brown hair that was always spiked along with brown eyes. I do not know how tall he was, he never stood up.

We had an automatic connection to one another and it did not take very long for us two to start talking to each other.

Josh tried to show me his tattoo, but with everything that was going on at the time I didn’t pay too much attention to it. A few weeks later I was over there again, this time when he showed me his tattoo I said, “that’s fucking badass dude.”

Josh was a kid with Spina Bifida who was one of the coolest guys I have known and gave me the best idea for a tattoo, that looks different than his.

I’ve been sitting here thinking that I didn’t know what to write about, I did not have a goal behind my blog and I needed one.

My life is not that interesting, what do I got to offer.

Then it hit me like the sidewalk, I’ll white about what I write about, I won’t really change anything. The only thing I will do differently from this point on is always use the 3 tags in my posts: disabled, handicapped, and wheelchair; or likewise words.

If I can connect with anyone, it would be other handicapped people. I know that I like to see what y’all got to say, because I assume it will contain more relatable content.

My whole goal is not to only share my life with others who happen to be disabled, but not just you guys, everyone else to. As a kid I was always telling myself that my goal in life is to give my friends and their friends a whole new perspective of those people who happen to be disabled.

We are all people, people; we need to treat each other as such. Whether you be black, white, gay, disabled, republican, democrat, or anything else I failed to mention, we are all photo 1people.

Some of us can disagree on an issue, but that is another story, the point being that all of us deserve the acceptance of another.

Time to put that into blog format. If you do not know or have not figured it out, I myself am disabled.

If you follow my blog you will come to learn about the guy who is me. My brain is all over the place so what you hear on one post may be totally different from another.

My main goal is to show you another life that is not yours, maybe I’ll even end up inspiring some people; I doubt it, but here’s to hoping.

If you choose to follow my blog may I say, “welcome to my life.”


The Other Piece of The Puzzle

Hart Tattoos 11

It takes a special kind of person to love another person who is disabled. In my particular case, I am physically disabled.

I love my girlfriend for that, and a few other things we share similar opinions on, I really do love her and do not feel like I can or even want to try to do any better.

Given my current situation, she reminds me everyday of how special she is to me.

I did not have many girlfriends in high school, as a matter of fact I only had 2, and one of them was at the very end of my senior year.

Most girls will not date me based off of nature or science or even selfishness; call it whatever you want to. Based off of what I have heard throughout life, girls want a guy that can work, a guy who is cute, and a guy that can protect her or her family.

As far as the work thing goes, I’m trying. I don’t want to sit at home and take a small portion of everyone taxes. I want a job, I want to feel like I’m doing something with my life other than sitting on my ass playing video games.

The simple fact of it is that very few people will hire me because I can’t run, jump or skip. Then I have to find those jobs, and then getting employed by said job is difficult as is.

I talk slow, in my head I talk normal speed, but in all reality I talk slow. Slow speech along with being nervous can and often makes an employer think I’m mentally challenged. It doesn’t really matter if I can or can not do the job, if you have me and some other guy who can run around a football field, they are going to hire him. Can I find a job, yes; but it is very hard to do, even with my education.

Girls want a guy that is cute for one reason really, to insure that their son and/or daughter has good DNA. The majority of girls would just look at me and say, “nope, I’m not having a kid with this guy.”

I’m fairly cute, most girls have even told me so, but they do not want a disabled child, and neither do I really; then you get into the extra cost of having said child.

I’m glad my girlfriend is an Atheist like me who supports pro-choice. We want to test an egg to see if it has my gene, that one that causes my disability. If it does then the egg will be discarded and the scientists will try again.

That not only costs more money but also increases our chance of having twins or triplets. To put it simple women just don’t want to deal with that, and while it scientifically makes sense, it does make me feel like I’m not good enough. Many girls have shoved me into the friend zone just for that reason.

Then you get into the area of protection. I’m sorry, but I can’t physically defend you if some other guy was to assault you. Once again the topic of kids come up. I can’t physically protect them either. You’ll just have to get use to it, as much as I wish I could, I can’t.

On a side note, I did one of the hardest things a single father has do to. I have a kid who is now 10 years old. When my kid was about 2 and a half, his mom and I split up.

She then got married to some other guy some time later. He was in the military and has taken my son with them to Alaska, Texas, and Florida. It took me a long time to get over my own issues about the relationship that I had with his mother, in the process of this he was calling his step father dad.

No single father wants their kid to be calling anyone else dad. I got over my own issues and I talk to my kid often, he remembers me, and calls me dad. However he still calls his step father dad.

I think he knows the difference between us, but calls both us of dad. I even have talked to his step father, without fighting with him. I can now talk to his mother as if we never dated in the first place. Her friends often become jealous because the two of us can talk without fighting.

To put it simple, he can give my son a better life than I can. He is more financially secure than I am. I remember being a kid and I think I would have had a worse childhood if my parents lived from paycheck to paycheck.

To put it simply I wrote a letter to my kids mother thanking both of them for providing my kid with a better life than I can.

Back to my original point.

All of this has come up because as I lay in bed at night with my girlfriend she tells me that she is mad at people, because they all ask the same questions multiple times.

Not only can these questions be considered rude but she has to explain it, again, to somebody who already asked.

Yes, I know I’m 30 and both of us live at my parents, it really sucks. She doesn’t like it either. It’s even starting to make us feel like we’re not our own couple anymore.

Neither one of us are happy about it, but to have people tell her to break up with me because of that is just super rude. I could fathom the idea if I was just a lazy ass 30-year-old that just stayed home all day.

You break your leg and come to me saying it’s easy to find a job. Everyone has their own struggles in life, this just happens to be mine.

Then my girlfriend gets other questions such as can he even have sex, how do you two have sex, how many sex positions can he do, do you want a child with him, and the classic is your child going to be disabled. Is she not supposed to be upset by this line of questioning?

Oh that’s right, she should just break up with me because I’m not normal. What is your definition of normal anyways? These are all things my girlfriend and I need to talk about, you’re not dating me and therefore have very minimal, if any, saying in what she does in our relationship.

That’s why I love my girlfriend, who is soon to be my wife. We talked about it before hand, she didn’t move to Nebraska with me just for shits and giggles.

I’m really sorry that we live at my parents house all because I can’t easily find a job. I love her, I really do; she reminds me everyday of how lucky I am to have her.

Other then the fact that we hardly ever fight and she talks to me if there ever is a fight, we both communicate with one another and because of that are rarely mad at each other. She is a special woman, that I’m very lucky to have found.

A Loss of Traction

American Lake

This story will take us back to…..some point in time. Must have been some time between 2007 and  2010.

Eric was with me once again, he is likely to end up in a few stories. If you go back and read almost every other personal story from me you will end up hearing Eric’s name a few times.

This story talks about me and my wheelchair combined with over confidence.

Eric woke up at my house from another night of drinking. He had a hangover, and I’m lucky because I never got them. We quickly decided that we were bored, so we decided to go to American Lake in Lakewood, Washington so we could fishing off of the dock.

At this time Eric drove a dark green Chevy truck made in the late 90’s and he didn’t keep it very clean either. He was the type of dude that would roll around listening to 2pac, but listened to country next day.

After getting food at Jack in the Box. He threw my wheelchair in the bed of his truck and headed out towards the lake on another one of our days surrounded by dark clouds, rain, and wet pavement.

We pull up into a parking spot, not too far from one of those wooden signs with yellow paint that welcomed you to the park, the ones that always let you know that they close at dusk. Eric gave me one of his raincoats, on a side note people in Western Washington do not rear raincoats unless they are sitting in one spot for more than 30 minutes to an hour.

Eric gets out of the truck to lift my wheelchair from the bed of the truck back onto the pavement, the wheelchair was definitely wet, but I didn’t really care. I took my “asspad” off of my chair and put it into the cab of the truck so I didn’t have to sit on a soaked cushion.

After I sat down Eric went to the other door to grab the tackle box and both fishing poles. He starts to walk as I follow him in my wheelchair, both of us wearing dark green raincoats and baseball caps. My hat was red with a white ‘N’ on it, Eric’s hat was some color; I do not remember but he had a fish-hook on the corner of the bill.

We get to the top of a hill, Eric is standing there and I can tell he was thinking, “how do I get this asshole down the hill.” 

“I got this bro,” after staring at the hill for a few seconds, I continue by saying “yea man, I’m good, I can make this bitch.” This hill was about no more than a 20 foot drop that also had a run on of about 50 feet.

Doing some fancy trigonometry I can tell you that the hill, if I’m correct, ran at an angle of about 21 degrees. The hill was not all that steep, I’ve done steeper hills thousand of times before, but this hill was different.

The paved path that went down the hill had two curbs on each side, which was kind of weird to see on a sidewalk. Now picture a letter S but put it upside down and skew is so the three paths are longer than the corners.

There I am starting at this upside down letter S slapped onto a hill. “Man, this is going to be the shit,” I said with a loud voice trying to pump myself up. Eric was unsure and said “you sure dude.” I push forward and let the wind take me.

At first everything appeared to be fine, just another handicapped dude going down a hill, you know the type of shit you see everyday.

My tires on the wheelchair didn’t have any tread left on them, and really; what is the point of having tread on a tire when you don’t go that fast? It was raining by the way. I picked up so much speed in this straight of way that I no longer had enough traction, or even power, to slow down to any noticeable amount.

If I grabbed both wheels and held them in a stopped position I was barely slowing down, however if I only grabbed onto one wheel and let the other one spin freely I was able to turn while slowing down at a faster pace. I had to turn anyways, so I was trying to turn to my left.

I was barely able to turn, I was going faster than I could turn. The curb is now rushing towards me in slow motion and I think to myself, “fuck this dude, just try to stop,” I continue to think, “wheels can’t roll sideways.”

I was thinking that if I was able to turn I would come to a stop, I was not even trying to make it to the bottom of this hill anymore.

At some point I must have grabbed a tiny section of traction on the wet pavement, I turned left really fast; too fast, I still had the momentum behind me. That momentum thought it would be a fantastic idea to grab both tires and tip the whole wheelchair onto its side.

I’m tipped over and I’m now on my right wheel sliding down this hill as I’m sitting sideways like Paul Wall. My right tire eventually hits the curb and proceeds to bring me to a stop.

My left tire up in the air is still spinning as I look up to see Eric walking down this hill with fishing poles and tackle box in hand, he is trying not to laugh. He sees that I’m okay and didn’t harm more than my wheelchair, which was not in the best condition anyways.

This in not the first time I did something stupid in my wheelchair. He started laughing really loud and helps me up so we can go fishing.

And that is my story of a handicapped guy having fun. That was pretty damn fun, even during.It got my heart pumping and I didn’t cause physical harm to my body.

As we were fishing I was telling Eric my whole thought process.

A few years later my dad took Eric fishing in his boat and Eric told my dad this story, but from his perspective. The difference between my mom and dad are simple. My dad simply laughed his ass off thinking, “that’s my son.”  

My mom would just end up saying “Don’t have any fun, you’re going to kill yourself.”

The Christmas Party


My girlfriend invited me to her companies Christmas party. It just happened to be 23 days after Christmas. It was at the local bowling alley, and even though I could not bowl, I decided to go because I’m new to this state, again.

The small group of friends I had before I left to the state of Washington and now gone. I needed to get out of the house to meet some people and do something. I was having fun talking to all of her employees, but I left with a sour taste in my mouth.

After an hour or so I was talking to my girlfriend again ending the conversation by saying, “I’ll be right back, I’m going to the bathroom.” I’m in the bathroom doing my own thing when some other guy comes into the bathroom. “How ya doin’ fella” was what he said to me.

I was not thinking too much about it until I was exiting the bathroom. I replied back to him saying, “I’m good man, I’m good.” I go back to hang out with my girlfriend for another 15 minutes or so, at this point in the night I had a few beers; so that means I had to go to the bathroom every 15 minutes.

Before I go to the bathroom I gave her my car keys, expecting her to warm up the car before I get there, she said to me, “I’ll be waiting outside.” As I’m coming out of the bathroom I think to myself that there is a door not too far from me and it would be easier to get outside from that door.

I’m going towards that door as a congregation of people were trying to exit the same door. This guy holds the door for me, which is nice, but then he says “are you alright buddy.” I’m looking to my left and right noticing that both of these doors did not have a ramp to the parking lot. As I’m turning around saying “I can’t go out any of these doors,”

I can tell that his girlfriend was scared shitless that I was going to run into her. Before I say that I hear them saying, “it’s okay buddy” and afterwards they said “we can help you down buddy.” I said “it’s okay man” and then he wanted to make sure I didn’t change my mind be saying, “are you sure buddy.” Feeling rather annoyed by now I said “yea man I’m good” he then says “okay buddy.”

My whole point of this story is that we in wheelchairs know how to control our wheelchair better then you think we do, we have a better idea of where it is in space because it has become an extension of our body.

Do not call us ‘buddy’ or ‘fella’ it makes us, me, feel mentally challenged. The guy in the bathroom didn’t think I could go to the bathroom much less sit back down in my wheelchair.

Maybe he was just drunk and liked calling people fella. I’m sure you think I’m over reacting.

When you are aware of how people look at you in a wheelchair and then they address you by these names, you start to feel like everyone is a judgmental asshole.

The other guy called me buddy 5 or 6 times in a 15 second period, I was expecting him to pat me on the top of the head and say “good job.” I can open doors asshole, I can turn around in a 180 degree circle, I can talk, and I can tell that you must think I’m mentally incompetent.

Just because you see someone in a wheelchair does not mean they are not firing on all cylinders. This happens less in highly populated cities, you guys are more used to the whole people in wheelchair thing.

If you live in Nebraska, “holy shit dude, he is in a wheelchair he must be mentally challenged.” If you don’t believe me go to a place where no one knows you, you must be in a building that is highly populated; sit in a wheelchair and see how people treat you, it’s not fun.

I Could Have Been Rich


As I look back to that day I always end up telling myself, “things could be so different if you just…”

This story will take us back in time to the summer of 2001. I must of been 17 years old, about half of a year before I became a legal adult.

This was around the time that all the popular kids were carrying around cell phones that had a monochrome screen with black text and a bright light that came on when you pushed a button, if you were lucky you had a color screen on your cell phone.

I was in high school at the time, about to go into my senior year. At that time I had this friend named Jason, as you may of read in Damn Trash Cans, I ended up living with him a few years later.

Jason was about the same age as me and had a tan, he didn’t go tanning or sit in the sun with the purpose of doing so; he just happened to burn easier then most. He was a fairly tall kid with brown hair and brown eyes, who was clean shaven with hair that was not well taken care of. His hair was not too long, it all laid down; so its not like you were embarrassed to be seen in public with him, I wasn’t at least.

I just got my drivers licence the summer before, at the time I was driving a gray 4 door 1988 Mazda 323. Jason did not live too far from me and during the summer his house was the place to be because his mom was way more relaxed then mine.

They had a pool table, with purple felt, in their garage.  It was not in the best shape being that it was exposed to cold temperature and moisture that came to be a normal thing if you lived in the western half of Washington State.

I went over there a lot to not only play pool, but to get away from my mom who liked to complain about the dumbest shit you have ever heard. His sister was also very cute, so she was a nice bit of eye candy that I didn’t have any shot with.

However this was during the summer, so it was a nice day outside; which means the sun was out and we didn’t get any rain in the past 12 hour period.

In the west side of Washington State, it would start to rain around the end of August or the beginning of September and it would keep going until the following June. There were breaks in between, but it still ended up raining approximately 75% of a 365 day period.

I was driving over to Jason’s house with my windows down jamming to music. If 2001 is any clue I was probably listening to Nelly’s album Country Grammar.

I got over to his house to find out that he had another friend at his house, his name was Aaron. He was a tall dude, must of been standing at 6 foot 2. He had blue eyes and blond hair, being that it was 2001 and the fashion of the pacific northwest was to spike your hair and stick all of your hair out the top of a visor, he looked like the typical hipster of yesteryear.

Jason was into video games such as Final Fantasy. With his creative mind they just started playing this game, an actual physical activity, that was known as Boffing, which is funny to me because according to Urban Dictionary is originated in Ashland, Oregon which is not too far from the California border, about 430 miles south of were we lived.

Boffing was a game in which two or more people would fight medieval style with swords, armor, and shields made out of PVC pipe, foam, and duct tape. As I rolled up into the driveway of his house I saw them outside crafting these so called weapons. After hanging out for awhile they decide that they need to buy more materials because they were almost out.

Aaron drove a blue 1984 Pontiac Firebird, so we took his car to the store. I have not been in a Firebird since I was a wee lad being drove around the streets of Nebraska in my dads 1980 Firebird.

I was excited to ride in his car, however when we got to the store I remembered that I did not have my wheelchair, because it was in my car. Aaron ran over to grab a shopping cart and proceeds to lean it up so I can fall into it.

Here we are two old kids walking into a store while pushing a cart with another 17 year old kid in it. From a outside perspective it must of looked really silly, and that is exactly how the police officer saw it.

As the automatic door slides open we see a Washington State Patrol Officer standing inside of the front door.

He was not a local police officer, he may have locally lived there; but he worked for the state, not the city. “What are you doing,” he told me before I said, “I’m in a shopping cart because I left my wheelchair at home.”

The police officer looked at me like I was trying to play a trick on a person of authority, someone who was working for the state, not the store. It was not his job to tell me rather I could or could not be in a cart, if he really cared that much he should have went over to get an employee of that store.

“Get out of the cart,” the cop told me with his arms crossed. “I’m handicapped,” I gasped with a surprising look on my face. Once again he told me to get out of the cart and I had to remind him that I left my wheelchair at home.

“Why did you leave your wheelchair at home,” he asked. “We took his car” as I pointed at Aaron “my wheelchair is in my car.”

This line of questioning has been going on for awhile now and yet again we got to the point that he was telling me to get out of the cart. To repeat myself for the fourth time I said “I’m handicapped,” I was trying very hard not to yell at this police officer because I was starting to get really annoyed.

“No you’re not” he told me, at this point I was thinking to myself, “you won’t be saying that when you see me walk.”

I look to my side to talk to Aaron who was the one pushing the cart and I told him to tip the cart up so I can walk around in circles. I get out of the cart feeling very upset and thinking to myself “the Washington State justice system really fucked up hiring this asshole.”

I gimp around in 10 foot diameter circles, and I did this about 3 times.

If you were to watch me walk, which I can’t really do 13 years later, you would be watching my body sway for side to side as my head did not even stay in the same area code, I’d also be dragging my right foot behind me because I could not bend my knee to keep the tip of my toes for dragging on the floor behind me.

After I got done walking, if that’s even what to call it; I look over at the cop who is now standing no more then three feet away from Jason. Jason tells the cop, “if you don’t call that handicapped, I don’t know what the fuck you call it.” The police officer, keep in mind his job is to protect people, had the audacity to say “I don’t care, you’re walking.”

At this point the cop and I were no more then two feet from each other, and trust me I was not going to try to fight him because I can’t fight a fly, and he probably would of shot me anyways.

I was in the state of mind where I was not going to walk no matter what he told me, I had a medical condition that gave me the legal right not to. I was talking to this cop and I was hoping that he was going to arrest me, life would of been great for me from the point on.

Everything that was said after that was forgot because I was so angry, my face was as red as a traffic light. Jason and Aaron convinced me to drop it, why the fuck did I do that? I did though.

I spent the rest of the time in that store standing on the edge of the big cart they were pushing. Standing was better the walking, but it was very tiring nonetheless.

Later that night as I’m eating dinner with my family I’m telling this whole story to my dad. Being a stereotypical Italian, he stands up and starts yelling. “Why the hell did you drop it” he asks me. He goes on to tell me everything I was thinking a few hours ago.

 “You should have kept saying no until he arrested you” or “you should of got his badge number.” My dad ended his rant by yelling “you know you could of sued the entire state of Washington for discrimination, you know if you got arrested I would of spent good money on a lawyer, he would of made it so the whole state of Washington wanted to kiss your ass.”

This story is nofiction, it actually happened to me. It’s too late to see anything come from this, and I don’t think I will see any type of authority figure even do so much as to apologize to me.

I want everyone to know what happened to me. If this guy still works for the State of Washington do not go to Home Depot in Puyallup, Washington if you are disabled and forgot your wheelchair.

This is not Home Depot’s fault, but I fail to understand why a Washington State Patrol Officer was standing in your store trying to enforce rules that were not his to enforce.

You’re Obsolete.

The Obsolete Man

On New Years Eve night after coming home from dinner I sat down and turned on the television. I started to watch one of my favorite shows Twilight Zone. They were playing a marathon, the second episode I watched caught my interest.

I think I can relate to it in ways most people can’t, but we can all relate to it to some degree. The full episode is at the bottom if you so choose to watch it. I like this show because it makes people think, many episodes tell a good story.

This episode had to have been centered in either a futuristic society or that of a dictatorship, possibly both. This guy named Mr. Wordsworth is called to trial and is told he has no use anymore. He works as a librarian, this society has eliminated books and literature, therefore he does not have a further use and must die.

The court gives him a choice to decide his method of execution and grants his request which is to  have his final moments televised in an attempt to show the public what happens when someone is deemed, against his own will, to be obsolete.

He also requests to talk to the chancellor in his room, that is going to be blown up per his request, and the chancellor then leaves his room before the last scene of this show.

When the chancellor returns to the courtroom he discovers that his junior officer has replaced him, therefore he is now obsolete. Due to the execution being televised he showed everyone that he was a coward and has disgraced that society.

At the end of the show Rod Serling makes his appearance, as he is known to at the beginning and end of every show. He says “any state, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth, the dignity, the rights of men, that state is obsolete.”

In the long run this has made me think of my employment situation. I moved back to this state to take a job as a drafter.

For those of you that do not know that is someone who produces a detailed blueprint(s) of a part(s), under the supervision of engineers, for manufacture and/or construction.

I’m not going to go into why that job is not there, but it has a lot to do with the shape of this country. Corporations what employees that can do said job, right? Recently the whole shape of the country has given those in charge the ability to make however much money they want.

Which is not necessarily a bad thing, however those in charge happen to be greedy. That is why we have a corporation like Walmart that get away with murder.

According to Statistic Brain, as of December 11th 2013 Walmart annually sold 405 billion dollars worth of product, that’s $405,000,000,000. They also employ two million employees in 4,253 stores country-wide. The Huffington Post reported that 1,525,000 Walmart employees made less than $25,000 a year.

Let’s say that a single mom has two kids and works at Walmart, ASPE says that if they have a total income under $19,530 they are therefore under the line of poverty. I don’t know where they got their numbers from, but a single person is his or her own place can not live off of $19,503. It’s really hard to even live off of $25,000 after you take into account everything you have to pay for just to live.

This is not about Walmart though, I’m just giving you an example. The majority of people who become engineers start out as a machinist and follow the career latter from there. I will not be able to stand, or even walk, forever; I need help as is.

My previous job can lie to me all they want, but I know they were trying to get rid of me because I was a slow machinist, and they totally had the right to do so; but how do I go any further if I can’t do that?

I did go to school, twice, and have obtained two degrees.

I thought about being a tattoo artist, but that requires me to go back to school to take an art class. I don’t even know if I’ll pick up on that, I draw but I don’t feel as if it is close to being able to compare it to what tattoo artist’s can do.

I even thought about a cashier, but then that requires me to stand, yes I know that I can get accommodations, but will that needed space allow everyone else the ability to work? Then I need to be fast at that also, I’ll need to be able to not only talk to customers while keeping a smile on my face but I’ll need to make sure that the line moves fast.

That means I will need to be fast at using the calculator, grabbing the right amount of change, as well as bagging the product(s). That job is out of the question.

Then I thought to myself “I’ll be a stocker.” Then I realized that they push around heavy carts full of product, and I can’t do that in my wheelchair. The long and short is that I can not run, jump, or skip; what type of job can I do? Am I obsolete?

I feel like it most of the time. I know that living in this country I can go onto disability, which I have; but $10,776 is a lot less than $19,530. I’m way under the poverty line, if it weren’t for my parents how would I live off of that?

Even if I got rid of my car, my car insurance, my phone, my clothes, and my food, I can barely afford rent for any place that does not require me to worry about getting shot on a nightly basis. Even if I go onto food stamp, how can I afford my utilities?

What do I do? What does everyone else to? As Rod Serling mentioned any ideology that fails to recognize the worth men is obsolete. Is this country obsolete?

Damn Trash Cans


“There is salt and pepper all over this counter, what the hell were you doing last night?”

That’s what I ended up thinking when I woke up the next morning. If you read I Didn’t Eat My Vegetables When I Was A Kid, you have heard about this infamous trash can. This is one of many great times I had with my friend Eric, after all if you can’t laugh during a bad situation, you are not having that much fun in life.

There I was laying in my bed, at the time I had of those bunk beds that had a futon on the bottom that you could fold into a couch. I had a small bedroom in this apartment, by the time you put a desk against one of the walls and the bed against the opposite wall, you didn’t have more than 2 inches (5.25 centimeters) between the edge of the bed, when it was folded out, and the back of my desk chair.

This means that the television, the old big box television, was about 3 feet away from you when you sat on the couch.  This made a great spot for playing video games or watching TV. However that night I was sick, I may have had something on the TV, but I was sleeping between my “episodes of sickness.”

I think it was about the fifth or sixth time I woke up that night, my door was closed and I did my “sick thing” again. At that point I decided that the trashcan needed to be emptied and washed out, again. As I get myself out of bed the door opens, who is it, Eric. It was about three in the morning at this time and Jason, who just got into bed, had to get up in 3 hours.

Eric then sat down to watch TV, rather it was already on or not I can not remember, mind you that Eric came into my bedroom with two double shots of whiskey.

Eric then started talking to me saying a bunch of nonsense, I stop him and said, “you may not want to sleep in here,” he then asked why, I looked at him like he was dumb and said, “because I’m sick.” “I don’t care man,” he said as I was picking up the trashcan. “Do you need to empty that” he asked, and I said yes, then the trashcan was ripped away from me.

I hear him dumping the trashcan into the kitchen sick, not the bathtub; but I was thinking to myself, “whatever, it’s already done, yelling at him wont do anything.” I’m laying in bed again as he comes in and starts talking to me, “where is my trashcan” I asked, “what trashcan” he asked.

After a slight pause in conversation, “Can I take these shots of whiskey before I go get your trashcan,” he asked me before he stood up. I didn’t really have a problem with Eric drinking more, because I can’t really stop him; and he is an adult, if he wants to drink some more he can.

I’m laying in my bed watching whatever channel he turned it to, and he comes back into my room with a trashcan, but it was not the original one. He brought me the tall 13 gallon trashcan, I will refer to this as a black trash can.

“What the hell man.” He asks me what he did wrong, as far as he was concerned I asked for a trashcan; so he brought me a trashcan. As I’m trying to explain to him that it is not the white trash can, which took about 5 minutes to do, he is also trying to tell me that there was no such thing as a white trash can. He eventually decides to go find this trashcan that no longer exists!

He comes back into my room after about ten minutes, but this time he had another shot of whiskey. It was a single shot this time, but there were now three shot glasses in my room, one that was about to be drank. I looked at him with a confused look on my face and said, “what the hell man, I can’t throw up in there.”  

He sits down to watch TV and talks to me about his ex, who I really didn’t care about, but he is my best friend so I got to act like I care. I remind him, after he starts to cry, that he needs to go get my trashcan, so he leaves the room again.

He comes back with the black trashcan, keep in mind that the bag was still in the can and it was full of trash. As I’m yelling at him that the trashcan is not white and there is in fact a white trashcan by the sink, where he left it. 

“What the hell guys, shut up I need to go to work in two hours,” Jason was yelling at both of us from his bedroom. I finally decided that I was just going to have to clean out both trash cans in the morning. I told him that he can bring me the black trash can but he needed to take out the bag.

He turns around in the hallway, with trashcan in hand, and disappears for an unknown amount of time.

This time he comes back into my room with a piece of toast, that was actually toasted and not brunt! He sits down and eats this toast, the whole time I’m looking at him as if he just lost all use of short-term memory. This whole time he is eating I do not say anything to him, I just continue to stare. By the time he ate about half of his toast he looked at me and said, “what.” 

After telling him about the trashcan again he leaves my room, with his last half of eaten toast. He returns to my room, this time with the trash bag alone and full of trash, not tied. I’m starting to get very annoyed as I explain to him that not only can I not throw up into a plastic bag full of trash, I can’t stand it up either.

He disappears into the dark part of the house and drifts back into the dim light with a salt and pepper shaker, both full. “What am I going to do with those man? Throw up on the floor and hope I have enough salt to soak it up,” Eric looked at me like a little puppy, like he did something right and I should pat him on the head.

I was tired of this going on, most people would have been about an hour ago, but Eric is my best friend, and it was highly comical to me. At this point I figured that no matter how many things I tell him to do he wont get any of them right.

He was in my room again and saw the empty shot classes and asked me if I wanted to take a shot with him! After I tell him that I’m not going to take a shot with him, he asked me if he can have a shot. I tell him that at this point he was not allowed to drink anymore. He asked me why and I had to explain to him that for the past hour or two I have been asking him to do shit for me, and he didn’t get anything right; and he misplaced the white trashcan in the kitchen, that apparently didn’t exist anymore.

“Bring me the damn black trashcan,” he already took the bag out of the trashcan. He comes back with the black trashcan, without a bag in it. He then shuts the door because I told him to, hey he got something right!

He sits down in my desk chair and gets on the computer to look at porn, which is kinda weird, but whatever.

He then turns around to talk to me, I don’t remember what he was trying to tell me but I interrupted him to say that in the morning I was going to find a white trashcan.

Soon after he ended up slumping over in the chair with his forehead rested on my knee. If he was awake he would be staring at the floor. I eventually kicked his forehead off of me and turned off the TV, I just let him sleep on the floor. Luckily I did not have to throw up again the rest of the night, so in all reality Eric didn’t have to do anything.

The following morning I woke up, like I do most mornings I turned on the TV. Eric was no longer on the floor, at some point during the night he had enough sense to jump onto the top bunk.

When Eric woke up, we start talking. I found out what I assumed, he did not remember any of last night. At this point he knew of the white trash can, so we got up to go into the kitchen to find something to eat. I walked out there to find some interesting things.

A trash bag with trash in it, but no trashcan. A white trashcan by the sink. A few empty shot glasses next to a bottle of half empty whiskey. Salt, pepper, and sugar shakers in the middle of the counter. A half eaten piece of toast. Full cups of water; and apparently when he made toast he thought it would taste really good with salt, sugar, and pepper; that he got all over the counter.

I promised him I would not tell this story to anyone, but you don’t know him. So does it matter? I find the whole thing highly comical and I cherish these type of stories. He really was a great guy, I just baby sat him more often than I would have liked to. After we got done cleaning everything I took him home. That was the trashcan story, I hope you found it amusing, if so please let me know by leaving a comment below.