My Last Sob Story

Posted in My Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 22, 2014 by dakofman

“Woo Graduation!”

A lifetime ago, I etched these words inside of my high school graduation hat.

June 25th, 2009. A good day to graduate. Michael Jackson died that day.

We couldn’t contain our excitement that day; What a day that was.

Friends surrounded me on all sides. We made jokes about dropping out at the last second. We gasped together at the news of Michael Jackson’s death. And we suffered while our salutatorian rattled on and on about what her family meant to her. The girl wanted everyone to roast out there in the sun.

A clear blue sky lay above us like the world was proud of our accomplishments. Our families scrambling for their cameras. They snapped as many pictures as they could, trying to preserve a moment that had already passed. Everyone had the same beautiful smile on their face like peace had finally come to Earth.

One of my friends decided not to have that moment.


That was the question I kept pestering her wit. I tried to dissuade her. This was a once-in-a-lifetime happening. She shrugged her shoulders. She had better things to do.

My seventeen-year-old self couldn’t bring myself to entertain that idea. How could I no-show the biggest celebration in my life so far?

We fought our way through the public education system. Didn’t she want to feel like it was all worth something? All those absurd standardized tests that they shoved down her throat? All those ridiculous Didn’t she want to give her family that moment to enjoy her success? What could be better than basking in the glory of your achievement among those that you love?

On May 13th 2013, I her.


College was the best time of my life.

Before I went to college, I had no idea people from South Jersey didn’t believe Central Jersey existed. Or that there was feud between North and South Jersey.

There were such characters there. One of my dorm mates was an unkempt anti-establishment who despised jeans. I knew a tennis player who stopped playing tennis to start a rapping career.

My first night I watched a future great friend of mine rap Flo Rida’s Apple Bottom Jeans to an apathetic audience. He hopped up there and shouted at the crowd of other freshmen.

“Get on your feet. Come on everybody.”

Never before had I seen a crowd that unresponsive, to someone so energetic. That’s a memory I’ll treasure for years to come.

Every day had the potential to be a new adventure. A group of us bought dollar water guns. We were not supposed to have them. We also were not supposed to have a huge water gun fight spanning our entire dorm building. But we did anyway. We ran up and down stairs, hiding in elevators, waking up other residents. We got in trouble. We knew we would, but how could we pass up the opportunity? That was college.

There was so much freedom. In high school, everything was so rigid and calculated. You moved when the bells told you to. You went to school early in the morning and left when everyone else did. You had to even ask when you wanted to piss.

But in college, you didn’t have to go to class. You could go to other people’s classes and play an instrument if you wanted to. You could walk around in your pajamas, not bathe for days, and let your hair grow untamed. You were the master of your fate.

Is there a better joy in life than knowing you can do what you want whenever you want?

Of course with great power comes great irresponsibility. I had peers who crashed and burned right before my eyes, some within days of classes beginning. With no parental supervision or rigid schedule to adhere to, they became their own worst enemies. Their lives completely derailed by hedonism. Some are still picking up the pieces almost five years later.

I used the great power of freedom to go to my first wrestling live event. For a decade, I lived and breathed wrestling. Everybody hated Mondays, but I loved them. It meant another installment of Monday Night RAW. It was a cardinal sin in my household for me to even talk about it but I still caught RAW every week.

I walked 12 miles through a cold, snowy Trenton to get to the arena. All I had with me was a printed out Google Map and Have Heart blasting in my ears. Someone could have robbed, beaten up, or even murdered me. I was nearly run over by a car at an intersection. At one point I got completely lost. But who cares about danger when there’s wrestling!

When I entered that arena, my body shook like crazy in anticipation. There was the ring I saw every week on the show. The old ladies and obese men glared at me as I hollered and shouted throughout the show. They came to have a nice evening of entertainment. I came to have the time of my life! Even for the opening acts, I was on my feet until several people told me to sit down.

When I heard the opening guitar riff to CM Punk’s theme song, my heart skipped a beat. There he was. From my television screen to right in front of my eyes, the closest thing to a hero that I have. That was a mark out moment. The rest of the arena hated his guts. He was the biggest villain, a complete prick. He got right in fans’ faces, badmouthed New Jersey and beat on everyone’s hero, John Cena. I loved every second of it.

The power wasn’t all good for me. I got to do grocery shopping for myself. My meals consisted of Skittles, ice cream, snicker doodles, goldfish, Ritz crackers, Oreo’s, pop tarts, more skittles, assorted cookies, cinnamon toast crunch, Doritos, Tostitos and anything else with high fructose syrup. I may have lost four years of my life with my bad food choices. But it was so delicious.

I had the chance to delve into the film-making process and all the frustrations that go into it. I appreciate cinema a hell of a lot more now. Every movie made is a miracle. I’d consider the one short film that I wrote, produced, and directed to be the crowning achievement of my life so far. It’s not a great movie but it was in my brain and is now out there for everyone to see. My dreams brought to reality. That’s incredible. When we had our first script reading,

And boy did I ever write there. I had the chance to take two screen-writing classes when that’s not even allowed. Thanks crappy class selection system! I even got to listen to an Academy award winning screenwriter talk about his life. Without college I wouldn’t have this blog.

College gave me direction.

I’ll look back on the four years as life-changing


I remember writing my name down on that first student loan. There was a deep sink in my stomach, a ton of bricks weighing me down. I had a little less than two hundred dollars in my bank account at that time. I was borrowing thousands. I wasn’t even eighteen yet. My father assured me that this was the best decision for my future.

Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I would have told him, he was full of shit. But how could I have known then? My college was considered one of the best in the north east. My father said getting in was an accomplishment itself. I had to take that chance.

I didn’t know the terms of my student loan or how an interest rate worked. I didn’t understand the concept of looking around for better rates or getting money from other sources. I didn’t think of delaying my college education for years until I had enough money to pay it off. I didn’t think much at all. I acted.

I started in college with a dream that I’d become lawyer. After a mock trial in eighth grade, I thought it was a good fit. My major was criminology. But after only two classes, I learned the realities of our justice system and found it morally bankrupt. It was a system not set up to help, but to exploit people. There was no justice. People could walk away from crimes because of who they knew or how much money they had. The system was racially biased. I wanted no part in it. So then I had to answer the question we all struggle to answer. What do I want to do with my life?

My father said I was a strong writer so I should drift towards journalism. I had no objections. Journalism was new to me so.

I wanted to love reporting. I’d listen to news radio and read Huffington Post, Fox News, MSNBC. I’d write for the campus newspaper when given the chance. My life depended on me falling in love with my new major. But my heart never was into it. My professor would bring in professional journalists from different beats to our class. With each of them, a realization came over me. I didn’t want to follow down any of their paths. I spent thousands to learn a craft I didn’t love.

Oh no. What could I do about it? I couldn’t get that time back nor could I refund my money. Trapped.

I wanted to go back to seventeen, to that day on my high school football field. Back to when I had everything in front of me. Back when I had to the power to do or become anything.

I came to another crossroads in my junior year. I could have left. My life’s future didn’t depend on that piece of paper. I had value with or without the degree. I could save me. I’d cut my losses and take on the world.

My father disagreed. I had one more year to go. Why not finish it off? Suck it up and write for a newspaper. What would I do without college?

I didn’t know. I knew I’d have control and a genuine smile on my face if I went down that way. But what became of people without degrees? Weren’t they failures who flipped burgers or worked overtime at low paying jobs? Would I end up like one of them?

I took the easier path, the known path. I locked myself in for that final year. Then immediately started to hate myself. Everyone told me I made the right choice, but it made no difference to me. I saw myself as this coward. I acted out of fear. I could not live up to my words. I was an unjust man.

There were days where I’d get down on myself. All my problems would run through my head at once especially in those last few months. I’d blame myself for everything that had happened to me. I deserved my misery. I’d sit in class, not hear a word the professor would say. All I could see and hear was the past.

That time I threw a pen out the window and got detention. That time I took the blame for ripping down all. That time I called a friend . That time I missed the bus and had to walk home for the first time. That time I let down my father and missed. That time I tried to make friends and was instead mocked. That time my gym teacher mispronounced my name. That time That time my father said he was losing interest in me. That time I apologized to someone and they didn’t care. That time a friend tossed me away like I was trash. That time I nearly drowned to death as a child. That time I burst into tears in seventh grade.That time I stood on stage and forgot all my lines. That time That time I didn’t stand up and help a bullied friend. That time my grandfather died and I saw him laying there, lifeless.

These memories and more would swarm in my head, blocking out the present. Each one bubbling to the surface with that old pain cutting me again. My shitty life so far flashing in front of me. I couldn’t focus on homework. I couldn’t focus on applying for jobs. I couldn’t focus on the future nor did I want to. Because the future scared me. It was the pain that had yet to come.

Did I really want to wake up everyday and wither away right before my own eyes? Crow’s feet, bone aches, popping pills to keep going. Did I really want to live on and forget who I am? Or where I came from? What good was there in the future? Marriage? Children? I had zero interest in both of those things. What then for me? Work 40 hours a week for the next thirty to forty years so I can survive? Why the hell would I want to do that? Is there no escaping that reality?

I sought out a solution to my unsolvable problem. How could I escape the future? Time can’t be stopped. Each day I’d slip closer and closer out of one miserable existence into another. There had to be a way.

Then this devious morbid thought creeped into my head. What if I wasn’t around any more? What if there were no more me. What if I clocked out early?

On my worst days, I’d imagine the fallout. Never how I would do it. But what came next.

I’d be put on one of those funeral cards that my parent receive with a nice picture of the person. Smiling as big as they can, like they don’t have a clue what’s happened to them. Friends, family, and people who pretended to care about me gathering around my fresh corpse to mourn. I’d be there except not me at all, fitted with a suit I’d never wear and dressed up to be presentable for the ceremony. A solemn mood. Lots of black clothes. Crying? Yeah. My mother would be in shambles. My father stoic as always. And my brother, I can’t say for sure. Angry maybe. Confused like he often is. A pastor would talk, say some great things about me that he’d have never said if I were alive. There would be anger.


The question running through everyone’s heads. Could they have seen this coming? What did they miss?

Then they’d put me six feet under as part of the ritual.

There would be some lingering sentiment, but it would pass. Pain that would fade away. Life goes on. The world won’t stop for one dead boy. So why not?

I didn’t want to be dead. Death is not a solution to a problem. It’s the end of you.

This girl at my school jumped off the George Washington Bridge and killed herself during our last semester. For weeks she was missing before her body was finally found. I never knew the girl but it sounded like she had her entire life ahead of her. Her narrative came to a complete stop. She won’t ever conquer her demons or move to the next step. She’s gone.

What I wanted was to escape my life and all the obligations that came with it. I wanted room to breathe. Death wouldn’t give me that. I wanted to just live.

In college I learned to love solitary walks at night. Away from everyone. I’d gaze down a street and wonder what would happen if I followed it. See where the road would take me. I’d have my days where the temptation to walk further overcame me. I’d press on. The familiar streets would fade away behind me. My college long gone. My hometown miles away. I’d move on and all my problems would melt away behind me. My friends, my family, my identity. Away. Away. Away from it all. Each step taking me onto a new life, giving me back control.

But I’d stop. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t leave that behind. What would I do? Where would I even go?

I’d make the solemn trek back to my life.

My life where I am the odd one out; different, peculiar, and most of all, weird. Even the people who put me here don’t know what to make of me. The apple has fallen as far from the tree as it can. Whether it’s on some online forum, a family get-together, or in class , I am out of place. Always have been, always will be. I understand that now.

“A sense of belonging is not a privilege that you enjoy.”

I am the single drop of oil in an ocean of water, a corruption of the natural flow of life. An aberration.

I left college, this feeble self-pitying husk; so full of fear of the future. The wind could have blown me over.


Everyone kept repeating that. Again and again on that day they set up to honor us. May 17th, 2013.

I thought up scenarios where I could fail my classes at the last minute and not have to take that walk of shame. But my stupid geology professor passed me even though I couldn’t tell the difference between a stalagmite and Vegemite.

Graduation day was a hot day, damn hot. My housemates and I had to walk to campus. To say we were sweating is an understatement. I thought about what a stupid tradition the graduation gowns were.

As we fanned ourselves with our hats, the neighborhood came out to congratulate us as we made our way to the university.

Gosh. I still remember opening the door to my department’s graduation ceremony. All the experiences that separated me and my seventeen-year-old self flowed through me. I couldn’t shake off this feeling of defeat.

Everyone had that same dumb smiles on their face. Why the hell were they so happy? I didn’t I was the sole frown in the room. My mother told me to cheer up. This was my day.

I sat around strangers and acquaintances. I didn’t know any of the people called up for their awards. These were my peers.

They called my name. I got pity golf claps.

My professor had a grand smile. One of her students had graduated and was on to the next step in their life.
She congratulated me with the utmost enthusiasm.

No matter what she handed to me, in my own head. I would be a failure and a coward. She could not wipe away my regret or alleviate my torment.

She handed me my prize, what I set out to achieve when I signed my name down on student loan; a folder to hold my degree in.

I feigned a smile for her. It was the least I could do; not make a scene and let my true feelings come out. This was a day of celebration not time for a grumpy young man to vent.

I don’t remember what I wrote in my college graduation hat before I tossed it away.

A year later, I still have this sour taste in my mouth whenever someone brings up college. I could never win there. I lost so much. I lost my bravery. I gained twenty pounds. I lost my self-respect. I grew a ratty beard. I lost my confidence. I lost my motivation. And I paid for all that. I paid with more money than I’ve had in life.

For the past year, my life became this self-pity party. Oh woe is me. I wanted my life to be this long winded sob story. I’d blot out the good parts to fit a narrative.

I am sad and angry because the world is cruel. Happiness is an accident, that time when you forget your troubles. Happiness is delusion. That time when you lie to yourself because you’re afraid of the world. You should fear the world. It’s full of pain, sorrow, and hollow victories. Why try? The world will destroy anything you create.

Is that the narrative I want my life to follow? Can I change it? Should I? Do I want to?


Posted in My Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 24, 2014 by dakofman

What of he who belongs nowhere?

Not to any creed, nor any faith?

Not to his companions nor his country?

Not even to his own kin?

Not by his own doing.

Ousted. Ostracized.

A rejected creature.

And how did he come to be?

Is he a defect?

A broken creation?

Or an unsightly mutation?

It isn’t known.

And what is to become of him?

Have he not a home?

No. Forever a stranger to the world.

Should we pity the beast? Or put it out of its misery?


Writing the Female Character

Posted in My Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 20, 2013 by dakofman

Over the past year or so, I’ve been going through some old stories that I wrote during middle and high school.Leia-princess-leia-organa-solo-skywalker-34233178-288-288

Often I did not write stories with girls. In the beginning, it was because they were icky. I wrote stories about guy friends hanging out and getting into hijinks or I copied what I saw in video games or on TV. On the rare occasion that I did write a story with a girl, they were a plot device, a trickster trying to lead my heroes down the wrong path.

Later on, I strayed away from females characters because of a fear of mine. I’m a man. What if I can’t write girls right? Is there some quality to them that might be beyond my grasp?

To further elaborate on this, I’d like to bring up J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. She’s a female writer writing from the perspective of a male character. For the first several books, Harry felt like a guy I could know. But in Harry Potter and the Halfblood Prince, there was this moment when Harry’s character first became infatuated with Ron’s sister, Ginny.

“It was as though something large and scaly erupted into life in Harry’s stomach, clawing at his insides….”

The entire description ripped me out of Harry Potter’s vibrant world. I saw the author’s words on page and felt a little revolted at this description of the teenage male’s sexual urges. I cringed every time I came across any descriptions of Harry’s urges. It wasn’t authentic to the experience.

I didn’t want female readers to have that kind of disconnect with anything that I wrote.

To help me get over my fear, I paid attention to the portrayal of women in movies and television shows. I also paid attention to what characters women said felt real to them. One name that popped up a lot as I did some of my preliminary research was Joss Whedon. he is praised for his female characters, however I deliberately made an effort to not watch anything by him. I focused more on what the average writer was putting on the screen for us all to see.

In two back-to-back sports movies that I watched (Miracle/Warrior), the wife of the coach/athlete filled the same role. She was there to support her husband when he failed and she was there to stand as an obstacle to his goals. She was there to remind the audience that the main character had a family to go back to. The wives in these movies were background noise. They weren’t fully realized people. The men were the main attraction.

So after viewing those movies, I thought about television shows or movies where a woman wasn’t in the background and was my favorite character. This was an entertaining and somewhat difficult exercise.

In my first draft of the list, my favorite female characters were all villains.


Katy Bates in Misery and

Estelle Louise Fletcher in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I’m a sucker for great villains.

Next I made a list with women who weren’t so evil. I came up with Lindsey from Freaks and Geeks, Jessica Chastain in The Help, Naomie Harris in 28 Days Later. These were characters that I could sympathize with. As I did these exercises, I came to the realization that I had been a complete idiot in the way I went about writing the other gender. I treated them as if women had this alien quality that put them out of my reach. I overthought this process, much like I do everything else.

The female lens is obviously not the same as the male one. Women have different expectations in life than men. Those expectations have an impact on the molding of their personality.

A few months ago,  I had drafted out a story about a romance between a king and a queen for a screenwriting class. I knew I could write the king so I focused entirely on the queen and what went through her head. I spent twice as much time building her life experiences and her reactions to them. This was a detriment to the other characters.

I handed twenty pages of script in to my professor. This was the intro for a feature length that I’m still working on now. I used the queen for five or six pages. My professor e-mailed me back and urged me to use the queen more because she was by far my strongest character. He was a male professor so his opinion didn’t put me at ease. I needed more assurance that this character would not lead to a disconnect with female characters.

So I came up with an elaborate plot. I had a friend who’s a self-proclaimed feminist. She read lots of books so she knew her way around a story. So I asked her for help with my character. I told her I had no idea where I was going with my queen character. This was a lie. I had already come up with her personality. I gave her the scenario and asked her how she thought a female character in the middle ages would act when given the same scenario. And as it turns out, she described a character nearly identical to my own. I hope that I’m on the right track.

I think to write the authentic female voice, you have to abolish the idea of a strong female character.The term is taken too literally. I’ve seen so much media with kick ass one-dimensional female characters. Their hook is that these girls can get down and dirty just like any guy. You want your female character to come off as human and vulnerable as your male characters, not infinitely perfect in everyway.

Too many writers see their female characters as serving a purpose toward the story rather than allowing those female characters to organically influence the events. This is why we see so many bland subplot romances. The writer knows they want the hero to have a girl and get her in the end. The woman is not given much room to grow. She ends up as a contrast to the main character’s personality in order to maximize conflict and make the relationship seem impossible. After the pair hit it off, they have a misunderstanding over something trivial and then she forgives him. The woman is there to be earned. An issue that I see too often is that the girl is made into the goal rather than the actual relationship.

I don’t hold the opinion that all female characters should be positive role models. During the time that I spent reading feminist blogs on female representation, I’d see a lot of complaints on negative portrayal of women. There are some horrible women out there. You can’t focus solely on the negative, but you can’t ignore that either. Some of my favorite characters are the scum of the earth and that’s why I love them.

Everything I’ve said could be completely wrong. I’m still working out the kinks in my writing theories. I hope to make what was my biggest weakness as a writer (other than starting and not finishing things), into my greatest strength.

The “Bad” Finale

Posted in My Writing with tags , , , , , , , , on November 17, 2013 by dakofman


Criticism can be a meaningless gesture. There are no perfect creations out there. There are flaws in the design of even the most intricately crafted man-made works. Flaws do not make a creation worthless. Being the guy who nitpicks everything is a good way to have people ignore what you have to say. I’m guilty of being that guy more than I’d like to admit. I didn’t go into this wanting to hate it. I wanted to be awed and inspired to work harder. I’d like to take this time to point out a few flaws in Vince Gilligan’s Breaking Bad finale.

The Breaking Bad finale has been critically acclaimed, some have even touted it the most satisfying series finale of all time. AMC is happy due to the huge ratings increase towards the end. Bryan Cranston is satisfied. Vince Gilligan feels he and the crew did the best job they could with “Felina”.

So then how does one begin to suggest the idea that it wasn’t good? What is the criteria? I can only say that it didn’t resonate with me.

When the credits rolled, I shook my head. Where was the awe? The show ended far too neat. Walter White scratched and clawed his way through five seasons of opposition. His survival was due to his cunning and luck. But in the finale, Walt easily takes care of all his problems. The finale is Wal crossing off a checklist of things that he needs to do before he dies. He wants closure on Grey Matter. He gets it. He wants closure with Skylar. He gets it. He wants to see Walt Jr one last time. He sees him. He wants to kill Jack and his gang. He easily accomplishes this. They even let him park his car right where his machine gun can blow them all away. The only hiccup came when Jesse refused to kill him. Walt died shortly after that.

I was astounded to find that I was very alone in this criticism of the finale. All the reviews I read praised the show for ending so neatly. Many declared it to be one of the best television finales of all time. The closest I found to negative criticism was an article where a reviewer suggested the writers went easy on people who supported Walt. The finale went too easy on its audience.

It was so safe. That finale was written by someone who sat back for weeks and watched every controversial television series finale made. The Breaking Bad finale was a nice gift-wrapped box of closure. I didn’t want that. I wanted Walter’s plans to go horribly wrong like they did in “Ozymandias”. I wanted to see more pain and suffering. I know that sounds bad. I didn’t want blood, I wanted an ending fitting for Breaking Bad. I’d like to compare this episode to the previous season’s finale, “Face-off”. I was out of my seat. That final shot with the Lily of the Valley plant. Oh man. That’s the awe I wanted from this finale.

“Felina” doesn’t hit as hard as other episodes because it focuses more on the fates of characters that we barely know; The Grey Matter couple, Uncle Jack and goons, and Lydia. We don’t know them as well as Skylar, Marie, and Walt Jr. None of them are formidable foes for Walt. He’s smarter than all of them. I don’t care too much about him getting the best of them. This may not be a fault with the storytelling. They had only eight episodes to take us from Hank on a toilet to the death of Walt. Maybe with more time, these characters could have went in other places.

On a more personal note, Skylar and Jesse both escaping with their lives didn’t sit right with me. For as much as you can blame Walt for his ego-driven power trip, these two share a lot of the blame. They could have stopped Walt so many times. Especially Skylar.

I know that she is a “victim” for a majority of the show, but as it goes on, she becomes just as bad as Walt. How can she tell Walt not to hand himself over to the police so he can protect the family? It was at this moment that I thought Skylar’s fate was sealed. She would either die and rot in jail for Walt’s crimes. I would have preferred the latter. We never got a callback to Ted Beneke in the end either. Could we not see him testifying against her? Instead she is handed a get out of jail free card from Walt as he confesses to doing everything for himself.

That revelation is a very odd one. We’ve seen Walt sacrifice so much for his family. He was willing to go to jail for them to spare Hank. He is also selfish. I wonder why Gilligan included that line. Are we supposed to take that as the final word on Walt’s actions? It was all for himself? Or are we to believe that he didn’t want his final meeting with Skylar to end in a fight? Did he lie here to go out on peaceful terms with his wife?

Jesse living is a loose end. He has a criminal record and he’s a known accomplice of Heisenberg’s. He has to reconnect with Brock at some point in the future. The police have to be looking for him too. Was he caught after speeding off screaming like a mad man? Does he have any money left? There’s no Saul to connect Jesse with the vacuum man. How does he get to where he wants to? And I found him nigh insufferable in the second half of the final season. I don’t quite get his arc.

He’s a fuck up who gets deeper into crime than he expected. Rather than leave as the violence escalates, he chooses to stay. Then he’s given a final chance to leave, he chooses to get revenge. This results in the death of many people. He is then allowed to escape and move on to better things as Gilligan put it in his “Felina” script. Was I supposed to feel sorry for him?

The flash forwards earlier in the season hurt this finale. They bottle-necked the potential of the ending. Gilligan had to do cover all his tracks and ensure that all plot points did not contradict those scenes. There’s a scene in the finale of Walter leaving a watch behind. It’s included only because the watch would have created a continuity issue. I wish we didn’t get those flash forwards. They were fun for speculating over, but they damaged the show. This same problem occurred three seasons earlier with the teddy bear flash forwards. Again, fun to speculate over, but not the best direction for the show to have gone.

The most puzzling part of the finale for me was the end of Walt’s character arc. Let’s take a look at his final moment.

Screen shot 2013-09-29 at 10.22.49 PM.JPG


His final expression is one of faint satisfaction.

So in the end, Walt got to feel alive. He doesn’t regret the wreckage left behind by his ego-storm. So he was right. He was right in refusing the money of Grey Matter back in season one. A disgraced unhappy high school teacher managed to end his life completely satisfied. He took a death sentence and conjured up the best years of his life. If he settled and took a payout, he may have died amongst his friends and family, but he would have been unhappy. If he regretted all that he did in the end, I could understand the intention of the story.

Be wary of doing what feels best for you, it will not end well.

But here it does end well for Walter White. He dies next to his most beloved creation. Is Breaking Bad a cautionary tale of what it takes to achieve real happiness?

I still applaud everyone who worked on this show. It was a grand adventure even the end left something to be desired.

Other than the hair stylist. How many bald people were on this show? I hope that person never work on a television show again.

Missing Boy.

Posted in My Writing with tags , , , , , , , , on September 4, 2013 by dakofman

Missing Boy
I’ve been looking for this kid. Maybe you can help me find him. He went missing over four years ago. He was a nice boy.

The sort of boy who could walk up to a stranger and introduce himself without a second thought.

He was an avid reader. He’d read ahead in class and brag about how quickly he could finish young adult novels. He couldn’t stand to hear his classmates read through plays. They never made any attempt to capture the voices of the characters that they read for. The boy raised his hand each time a teacher asked for a volunteer to read. It was his duty to right the wrongs his classmates were doing to classic literature.

He was a hard worker. For years he’d spend his days working on silly comics for an audience of two or three. He even tried to teach a friend the same. The friend didn’t learn well, but the boy still took the time to try and teach him.

He’d spend just as much time creating and editing music videos for his favorite television shows. He didn’t need appreciation, not that he ever got it. he motivated himself.

He had big dreams. He had this crazy idea that the world could be a better place under a great leader. He wanted to be president. He thought that he had all the solutions.

He was the sort of boy who wanted to make his parents proud. He would look forward to Mother and Father’s day. He’d save his quarters for weeks on end until he had enough to purchase them singing cards. He appreciated their love for him even when it was tough love.

He was religious. He went to church with his father and mother. He was even a part of the Sunday School. He prayed every night for his parents and his own brother. He wanted to give them protection.

He wasn’t the bravest boy. A physical threat could shut him down quick. He never did anything risky. He played it safe like he was taught by his parents.

A silly sort of guy. He didn’t back down from proclaiming his continuing love for Power Rangers, well into his late teens. He’d speak out of turn in class, just to annoy everyone. He’d talk too much and wait for people to tell him to shut up. He’d play tricks on his friends that would backfire on him. That was his favorite part, his comeuppance.

He didn’t know what you’re not supposed to post online and should you should. He’d post all his problems for everyone to see. From his day-to-day feelings on his high school crush to how he felt when his parents didn’t treat him the best. He trusted people, and his friends even more.

A naive little thing. Despite consistent rejection, he’d wake up each day and say “Today is the day that she’ll like me for me. I just have to try harder. I can’t give up and move on. This means too much to me.”

He never forgot names. He didn’t forget faces. He knew all of his friend’s birthdays. He knew all their numbers by heart.

His face was silky-smooth like a baby’s bottle. He couldn’t grow a facial hair even after trying some home remedies. The hair on the top of his head was short. It was consistently cut every two weeks.

He’d give a ten dollar tip for a twelve dollar haircut. He loved tipping. It was his favorite part of getting his haircut.

He was a good kid. That’s the best way to describe him.

I look in the mirror everyday and I wonder where that boy went. I need him here more than I ever thought I would. I’m hoping to one day wake up and see him right there, staring back at me in the mirror.

He’ll be donning his black and gold hooded sweat shirt even though it’s the middle of spring. He’ll have his big goofy smile.

But that won’t happen.

The boy is gone and he’s never coming back.

Marriage Equality?

Posted in My Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2013 by dakofman

Everyone hates Comic Sans

What does marriage equality really mean? We’ve all seen the red equal signs as people’s profile pictures.

According to Google, marriage is the formal union of a man and a woman, typically recognized by law, by which they become husband and wife. I’ll stand by the Google definition for this discussion.

Marriage is already equal. Everyone can engage in man and woman formal unions. Nobody is excluded from this other than children because they aren’t real people.

What these false marriage equalists actually want is to change the definition of marriage to fit their agenda. They want same-sex marriage. They shouldn’t hide behind the veil of marriage equality. They’re misusing that term.

I don’t have any problem with gay marriage. There’s no argument against it. Any religious argument is hogwash because we don’t all follow the same religion. The child rearing argument doesn’t hold any weight. We allow old people who can’t have children anymore to marry.

It’s just that if we’re changing the definition of marriage, then we need to make sure it’s equal for everyone.

Why should two consenting adults have all the fun? What about a person who’s all by themself?

Think about ugly people. I’m not talking about people with buck teeth and lazy eyes.

I’m talking about people whose faces are so grotesque that they will never find a partner unless they can trick a blind person. These are people who no one could ever love because they look like hideous monsters.

Nobody cares about what’s on the inside when the outside is vomit-inducing.  What if your face makes people turn away and run in fear? Does that mean you don’t get to enjoy marriage? Where is marriage equality for the ghoulish looking freaks in our society?

And what if you hate people? What if you can’t bring yourself to love someone other than yourself? It doesn’t seem fair that you don’t get to have a wedding. That’s a giant milestone in life. Why should people who can’t stand the company of others be unable to marry?

What if you’re just a complete loser with zero self-esteem? What if you can’t handle rejection so you never get close to anyone? What if you’re afraid of intimacy? Or you’re just really awkward? That’s sad. These people need marriage more than two lovebirds who have each other.

We should create a special kind of marriage for these sort of people. Self-marriage. Love is love even if the only person you love is yourself.

And what about people who have more than one partner? What’s wrong with three consenting adults getting married together? Or a hundred? As long as they all consent, I don’t see a problem.

This allows for more mind-blowing weddings. We’ve seen the crazy shit two people do when they get hitched. Now imagine three or four! With more people pooling their money together, we could get some real kickass weddings.

With more people getting married at once, that’s more wedding gifts that have to be bought. Polygamy could be just the boost that the economy needs.

I believe true marriage equality is a great idea. We should change the definition of marriage.

Marriage should be defined as a formal union between one or more consenting adults. That’s the only way to keep things equal.

If you’re a supporter of gay marriage and only gay marriage, please stop using the term “Marriage Equality”

I’m quite serious. Stop.



Posted in My Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 3, 2013 by dakofman

We live in a fucked up broken world. As of right now, there are people starving to death  while other people throw away excess food. There are people in countries dying of diseases that we’ve found cures for.  Someone has been raped. Someone has been tortured.  Someone somewhere has decided that enough is enough and ended their life. Someone just lost their home of many years. Someone had their lover cheat on them. Somewhere someone lies in a ditch dead with no one looking for them.

For the majority of my adult life, I haven’t believed in hope.

I saw it as delusion. Whenever my mother would hope for something, I’d always sigh. She was setting herself up for disappointment.

I thought there was no light at the end of a tunnel, only a long painful struggle with bright spots. Then you get hit by a bus and leave your wife to raise three kids and pay the mortgage. Even if things go right and you don’t die young, you watch your grandparents die then your parents die, then your friends die, and then you die

What hope could there be in our chaotic viciously violent world?

I was quite the Debbie Downer. I surrounded myself with cynicism which slowly became nihilism. I saw my life as purposeless. I wasn’t going to be remembered.

I’m not the smartest man. I’m not the richest. I’m not the best looking. I’m just a silly kid who likes complaining. I would be forgotten within two to three decades after my death. I thought that I was no one special and I could never be. I’d exist for 50 to 70 years and then I’d be gone for the rest of eternity.

But this ideology made my life feel like a waste of time. I couldn’t focus on my studies anymore. What difference did an A or B or C make in the grand scheme of things? I didn’t matter. Why waste my time trying at anything? It’d just be erased and invalidated the second I died. And that could be at any time.

I didn’t like this mindset. I didn’t have much reason to get out of bed when I thought my life was purposeless. I wanted to matter again. I reshaped my ideology and I left in room for hope.

It’s true that I couldn’t fight back the sands of time. I would grow irrelevant and forgotten once I was gone. But I could still do things that I find worthwhile during my time here. I could do work that I would be proud of. I had hope that I could figure out what this was before I died.

Recently I’ve figured out what I want to do. I want to drown myself in cinema. A movie takes years to make, but when it’s all done, it’s a beautiful thing to experience. On the big screen, we head off to worlds that existed merely in the heads of writers and directors before they put in work so the world could see. We see parts of the human spirit that we wouldn’t be able to experience otherwise.


I want to be one of those people who could make their dreams come out of their head for everyone to gaze at. I want to be a screenwriter.

Since I’ve figured that out, I can’t think about anything else. I still can’t focus in my classes. I just want to learn more about this crazy industry.

Am I deluding myself by hoping I can write movies one day? Maybe. The chances of success are extremely low. I’d say 1 percent of all people who attempt to become screenwriters get anywhere in the business. It takes years of dedication and learning to become a competent screenwriter. That’s not even a recipe for success. You still need luck even if you have all the tools.

I don’t have the advantage of a going to a four year film school or even knowing anyone in the industry. All I have is passion. It’s all I got.

I hope it’s enough.


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