“If you are constantly waiting to be happy, for the external situation to change or dependent on another to provide it, you are not in charge of it – your happiness is reliant on something outside your control.” #friendshipAF #whiskeyAF

If you are constantly waiting to be happy, for the external situation to change or dependent on another to provide it, you are not in charge of it – your happiness is reliant on something outside your control.

Instead determine how to create your own source of happiness; a feeling not dependent on anything external – but internally developed, maintained and controllable. When you find yourself unhappy or starting to lose your motivation, you personally are able to cultivate these feelings – without requiring anything outside of you. I call this an internal addict.

Some people use substances such as nicotine, alcohol or drugs to create a feeling of happiness or act such as gambling, shopping, eating or womanizing, they become an external addict. And, all of these outlets actually create more pain – the feeling of happiness is temporary, while the negative feelings they create can last much longer.

Cigarettes, for example, put nicotine into a person’s body – creating craving; suffering. The cure to this unhappiness is often to have another cigarette. Soon you believe you feel that the cause of your happiness is nicotine – when actually it is the cause of your suffering. Suffering leads to action; but with cigarettes that action is normally to have another one – an unproductive continuous cycle leading to personal destruction.


Besides just seeking happiness from a source outside of themselves, a person feels stuck repeating the cycle of self-inflicted pain and then temporary relief. The negative reaction they receive from people creating more suffering – making them feel a need for another cigarette that much more.

I find from experience that when I look outside of myself to solve something on the inside – I lose control and while I may feel better for a bit, I end up worse off than when I started. I start to focus on how to receive more to get back that feeling of happiness. This change in focus takes me away from working towards my vision, goals, dreams, and takes my life to a place I did not want to go in the beginning.

Now, there are some exceptions, such as removing toxic people from my life. But, this creates happiness by allowing a person to focus more on their objectives – dreams, vision, perfect life and goals: by removing unnecessary distractions, a person focuses and subsequently will make more progress towards their objectives.

By making progress towards what matters to us, the feeling of happiness in a person naturally increases and a desire to continue in their path grows stronger. The short-term and long-term consequences of this behavior are positive. Instead of deterring our focus from our objectives, we become more closely focused on them and we realize them sooner plus find the process of getting them more enjoyable.

What we focus on will get our attention and effort. Rather than spending energy, time and effort towards a temporary fix, find the answer internally. The external is a dead-end; the internal provides long-lasting returns plus will open up new doors and opportunities to you that you have not yet even considered. The difference occurs when a person begins to look at life, not from the view of,


“How can the world give me what I need?”

but,

“How can I give the world what it needs?”


How do your objectives, skills and passion address a need that the world has – your dreams, goals, vision and ideal life – where do they fit in? And, how can you take action towards meeting this need.

Instead of feeling that you are dependent on the external environment – a sense that actually the world needs you, begins to take hold. You realize that you matter: the world needs you. As you see this intersection – perhaps, there is also a way to turn this into a revenue source? To use your passion, skills and wisdom to address a need and elevate yourself; the ultimate achievement – to do what you love: to live everyday with purpose, passion and towards greater profit.


We will overcome, if no one sleeps tonight.

Thursday


I find that the way to start on this path is to first take action, direction is not important; figure out how to create happiness internally. This feeling can be an addiction just as powerful as any drug; become addicted to it. And then when you find yourself needing a boost, you control it. Addiction to a positive is not a bad thing.

You stop searching externally as soon as you become addicted to the feeling of happiness, inner peace and fulfillment that are a byproduct of action towards a dream and means to increase your quality of life, expectation of success, and realization that you matter.


I put down the book and close my eyes; no thinking now, I think, and HR gets the videotelepathic message.


Waking up the first thing I can see is that we are in a different place; where THE FUCK am I?, I think.

I look at my videowatch; new video from Bryan Frenk was released last night.

These videos SUCK!, I think; best to stick to writing, I think as the message is sent.

I hit #playAF:

Hope this works. First two chapters. Adult material lol :

The whiskey hit his throat. Not even good whiskey at that. His taste buds thankfully had gotten used to the discount Canadian whiskey. He lived for the burn and the instant clarification the liquid gave his outlook as it poured down his throat.

Even pushing his mid-fifties, fat Jack, still bought the cheap shit. He was a man rich beyond his wildest dreams, but why change up a good thing. After a few glasses he just simply held the cheap plastic bottle in his hands, what was the point in pouring it into a new glass just to shove it down his throat.

Like many evenings he stood out by his favorite window. A window that he personally oversaw the builders put it in. Fat Jack didn’t have many things he cherished but he loved the overly huge picture window. It was easily over one hundred inches wide and probably at least the same in height.

Ah, he loved the burn.

Anita, his house maid of five years, had left for the day so he reached into his pocket and pulled out a nice fresh Marlboro red cigarette. Not that he even cared what his maid said or thought but he didn’t feel like hearing her bitch about the harms nicotine could do to a man his age.

He took a long drag and exhaled just as slowly.

Fat Jack could see the clouds forming dark in the distance and he couldn’t help but raise his whiskey bottle to the window and offered it cheers of sorts. Fat Jack loved the view, he loved the rain more. What was not to love after all? His house sat up top a huge sand dune that overlooked the beautiful Atlantic Ocean. The property had been strictly forbidden to build upon, but fat Jack had money and money did the talking in this small costal beach town.

More burn as he took the next to the last swig.

Fat Jack eyed the bottle and shook it to get a better look to see if he needed to go into the cabinet and grab another endless supply of four dollar whiskey bottles. He was enjoying the Marlboro and the view too much to even bother.

The sky grew orange and he heard rustling behind him. It must be Darla; this was usually the hour she showed up. She loved his leather mini sofa. It was nestled right between his all too expensive coffee table and a nice recliner where fat Jack slept many nights.

Fat Jack finished his cigarette and dropped it in the empty glass he had been using for whiskey. It still had enough liquid in it for Jack to hear the Marlboro fizzle out. He knew Darla was going to be in her business attire, which consisted of a fitted top and light grey short mini skirt. She had some killer legs on her. Fat Jack loved her legs. He loved what was between the legs more. In her life he had fought hard to get between those legs in her death she was pretty much a slut.

The last burn that the bottle provided went down his throat.

“When I turn around I hope that skirt is off. You can leave the top on. Fuck it, why don’t you grab a bag from the pantry. All this whiskey and I probably will lose my boner if I have to stare at your face.”

Fat Jack heard the rustle behind him but didn’t bother to turn around, not yet at least. He heard the cabinet door open, then close again.

“You don’t have any paper bags, will the plastic bag work?” Darla asked.
“Your dead you stupid bitch, plastic bag is fine. Double that shit up. I don’t want you oozing through it.”

“Yes sir”

Fat Jack waited until the clouds began to produce the rain he loved. Then he turned around. Darla was standing in the kitchen, double bags over her face and no skirt or panties. Her legs still looked great as ever. He could see a little bit of the red showing through the blue bags but he was ready to go.

“Why don’t you bend over and grab me a bottle of whiskey before you come over and do your fucking job.”

Fat Jack had a grin on his face a mile wide as Darla bent over and reached into the cabinet and grabbed a whiskey. Thank god he didn’t do anything to her body only her face. He stared at her inviting women parts as he lite another cigarette and imagined what he would do with her.

“I think I am going to stick it in your ass. It’s been awhile for that”

Darla shrugged, the bags making an almost swift sound. “I’m dead you bone head. I can’t feel anything either way.”

“Good. Not that I care so long as those bags don’t leak your shit all over the place. I’m almost sixty and thankfully can still get a boner. If I see your insides I’ll lose that shit quickly”

Carla, double bagged and ready to go began walking his way. Her heels clanked on his expensive Italian tile. She briefly bumped into the granite island before she used her hands to get around it.

“Actually, get on your knees and crawl to me”

Like a robot, Darla did as she was told. She kept her hands out in front of her to use as a guide and she made her way to him. Leakage began to slowly drip out from underneath the bag and onto her business blazer.

Darla was bent over hanging limply over the sofa and he was a few pumps in when he heard the noise coming from the basements stairs.

Darla turned her bagged face his way. He could still make out the “mart” of Wal-Mart written on the bag as it covered her face.

“Are your kids here?”

“Fuck” fat jack said as he brought his expensive Rolex up to his face. It was the time they came to visit.

He took one last look at her legs and butt, bent over in perfect form, before he shoved her over the sofa. Her body crashed into the coffee day and scattered the newspapers and magazines that he had laid out on it.

“What was that for”, Darla asked, her vagina still exposed.

At this point her bag was filled with her blood and puss and the once blue bag was a murky purple.

“Put your damn skirt on, the god damn kids are here. Act like you have some fucking sense”.

The Wal-Mart bag crinkled as Darla turned her head in innocent disgust as to why she had been thrown on the floor.

Fat Jack had just enough time to pull up his pants as the basement door flung open.

“Come on Joey. Do I have to help you up the steps every damn time?”

“Language Joey, please be mindful of Stewarts condition,” Jack reminded him.

Jack had taken the coward way out with Joey, he did not have the nerve to shoot him face to face so he had snuck into his room and put the tiny revolver to the back of his head. The tiny gun had done more than Jack had figured possible. 

Joey was nine when fat Jack took his life and now had a permeant hole the size of tennis ball, creating a tunnel of blood and puss that started from where his left eye used to be and continuing all the way to the back of his head. Stewart on the other hand had been run over with Jack’s then new Cadillac, his legs basically mush that slithered behind him when he crawled. Stewart was sixteen.

Darla had adjusted her outfit and took to sitting on the leather sofa; the bag still clung to her face.

“Do you mind if I take off the plastic bags?” Darla asked.

“I don’t know dear, I have a feeling the kids are going to want pizza. It’s bad enough I have to look at Joey’s hole and Stewart’s legs. Maybe if we were eating hamburgers or something. Your face looks like a fucked up piece of pizza as it is.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to eat?”

“Jesus Darla did you not hear me. You look like a fucked up meat lovers deep dish pan pizza. If you must eat you can you sit by the window with your back to us”

“Oh fuck you fat Jack”

That had been his nickname forever it didn’t mean that he liked it. But what was he going to do, he was stuck with her. He was stuck with them all.

Jack turned his attention to Stewart, doing his best to make his way up the last couple steps.

Thump. Thump.

He moved Joey out of the way and reached down to drag Stewart into the kitchen. He had bought a bean bag chair specify for Stewart. Stewart loved it and it was much easier than picking him up and setting him on the sofa. The bean bag was not very high and Jack could leave his food on the plate on the floor. Stewart would eat his food like a dog. Jack had always wanted a dog, but these people had become basically his pets. He feed them, he bathed them and in Darla’s case he fucked them.

“Can we have pizza tonight?” Joey asked.

Figures, Jack thought as he decided to open up another bottle of cheap whiskey.
Man he loved the burn.

*It was 2014; Jack was broke and very unlucky. In fact Jack would only have been considered Lucky once. That was when he put Jonas Gray in his fantasy football lineup. Jonas Gray tore up the Colts with over two hundred yards and four touchdowns. Jack made a few thousand dollars that night. For once his skill had paid him off.

You see Jack was a stat man. Always had been. Girls, drugs, sports, they weren’t what he was good at. It was in the numbers. “Numbers don’t lie” was probably the only useful thing his dad ever taught him. That and how to beat your wife senseless if dinner was cold.

He really had two claims to fame. The first being that he could spout off a batting average of a baseball player on a seconds notice. The second was that even at any early age Jack looked like a fatter version of Jack Nicholson, hence the name fat Jack.

His childhood was not filled with sports trophies or getting the homecoming queen to give him a blow job, his childhood was filled with sitting in front of a barely clear TBS superstation watching the Atlanta Braves play. He was fascinated with statics and his mother would routinely buy him college lined paper notebooks for him to record every stat he could. Another thing that got her beat on an almost nightly basis.

So naturally with the boom of daily fantasy sports sweeping the world, Jack thought he had found his calling. In his mind it was finally the one time he could stand up and over his peers and say “fuck you, I’m better than you”. He had never been able to even think something like that.

He was so confident that he had found his place in the world that after depositing his two week paycheck from “Edgars Hardware” into his fantasy sports account that he promptly quit.

Some might even say on that fall day all those years ago that Jack had swag about him. Maybe it was the thought of finally winning money using his skills. Whatever it was his walk had rhythm as he made his way to teller and deposited his check into the bank. All seven hundred and eighteen dollars of it.

It couldn’t be this easy Jack thought as he logged into his fantasy sports account. A mere forty eight hours later Jack realized it wasn’t easy.

He had spent the Friday before purchasing his favorite Canadian whiskey along with a few other snacks. Having zero friends made it very easy for Jack to plan his weekend around his fantasy sports. He was giddy and for the first time in a long while he felt happy. Fat Jack wasn’t used to feeling happy so this was a first for him.

The list of possibilities seemed endless. NFL season had just kicked off, EPL was in full swing, and the last remaining weeks of MLB was on as well as a MMA fight and a NASCAR race. Fat Jack was going to play them all. Hell fat Jack was going to win them all.

The burn of the cheap whiskey hitting his throat, nothing quite like it in the world.
Jack scooted his office chair over to his computer and hit the on button. The apartment was otherwise pretty bare. It was something of a studio apartment but even calling it that gave it more glamour than it deserved. He lived in a run down one room shack above a rundown laundry mat.

The few items he did have he inherited from his mom and dad when they passed sometime a few years ago. Honestly Jack couldn’t recall the dates, wasn’t one hundred percent sure he even went to the funeral or if there was one even.

His living quarters consisted of an old desk, a relatively new computer however, and an office chair that his father had passed onto him. He had no bed, only a recliner and another stiff wood rocking chair, again from his mom and dad. The apartment had been furnished with a mini fridge and Jack never upgraded to a regular size one. There was no TV in there he used his computer for Netflix and whatever else he needed.

His one complaint was the room had no windows, minus a small one over his shitter in a bathroom that even a ten year old girl would have trouble maneuvering around in. To make up for his lack of view Jack had hung a huge picture of the ocean and hung right in the center of the wall.

In the picture the world was right, the world was peaceful. The waves crashed down over an orange evening sky, the tall weed like grass that tends to gather on the sand dunes seemed to be blowing in the wind. Some nights when the whiskey was feeling just right Jack could stare at the picture and the scene would almost seem to move. One day, one motherfucking day he used to think as he sucked down whiskey.

Fat Jack was not getting any younger or leaner for that matter. He sat in front of the computer screen and wolfed down three bologna, cheese and cheese puff sandwiches. Sure there were sites he could go on that gave fantasy sports advice, but Jack felt much superior to anything some stupid website could offer him, he was determined to do this on his own merits.

He logged in to his account and smiled, his balance was a hair over seven hundred dollars. In theory he should’ve used four hundred of that to pay the asshole running the laundry mat, who was also his landlord. However by weekends end that money would be doubled maybe even tripled and he could maybe even get out of this dump.

So he went to task, motivated, which was not how one would normally describe Jack. Two hundred dollars toward NFL, another two hundred for MLB, one hundred to MMA and EPL respectively and fifty a piece in both NASCAR and NHL, fuck it. 

Arsenal had been on a tear, one of the highest scoring teams in EPL, so Jack stacked them. Had however was the key word. Stoke shut them out 5-0. Out of the nine players that Jack had been allowed to put into his fantasy lineup, six of them had been on Arsenal. Oh well just one game, he wasn’t much of an EPL fan anyways. He still had NFL, MLB, MMA and NHL. One shitty EPL day wasn’t going to set him off just yet.

More whiskey burn as he dumped the remains of his second bottle down his throat.
MLB was just about to kick off. The clock on his computer had it almost at one o’clock. He poured over his lineup one more time. He was happy. Stacking the Blue Jays was the way to go. After all they were playing in Arizona which was a very hitter friendly park and coming off back to back games Jack was sure that they would be a low owned sneaky play.

He was digging into his desk drawer; he swore he had a few Marlboro’s left. He could barely look at his computer screen. The clock on his computer was quickly turning into evening. He finally found a few smokes and quickly lite one and hopped up to stare at his picture in the center of the room.

Breathe. Inhale. Feel the burn of the whiskey.

The cigarette was only slightly helping and he did not want to turn to look at his computer but he couldn’t help himself, he looked. Blue Jays lost 11-0. Again most of Jacks players had been on the blue jays.

MLB is such a hard game to predict, even to a stats man like himself he thought. On to MMA. He took in one long glance at his picture, doing the best he could to suck in all the positive energy that emitted from the scenic beach layout.

He was making his way back to the desk chair when he heard a loud knock on his apartment door. Jack froze, not from fear, but these old floors were creaky and whoever was at the door he did not want to clue them on that he was there. His old apartment did not have a peep hole and Jack was certainly not going to open it to check to see. That would mean he had to engage in conversation with somebody. That was not on his agenda today.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

As graceful as a fat ballerina, Jack tiptoed to his desk. He did not need this shit now.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

Jack did not move, he hardly even took a breath. One more knock followed by a swoosh sound and Jack looked down to see a hand written note on his floor right by the door.

He stayed frozen for another minute until he was sure that the knocker was long gone before he went over to investigate the note. He glanced over at the computer; he had about an hour before he had to enter his MMA lineup. He didn’t want another fuck up.

The note simply said: “Rent was due two days ago. I know yesterday was your pay day. I need rent by Monday morning at the latest. Thanks.”

Jack crumbled the note up and carried it with him to his desk where he promptly threw it in his waste basket. He opened up the drawer closest to the floor and pulled out another bottle of whiskey. The note about rent already far from his mind.

He submitted his lineup and leaned back in his chair, the weight putting more stress than the chair wanted to take and he fell back. His thin hair, normally slicked back now left a few strands hanging in his eyes. He cursed, but mainly because he had spilled the bottle of whiskey. Jack drank the whiskey like water and only had three bottles left. It would be a long weekend with only three bottles.

Three hours later he was down to only one bottle of whiskey. He had drunk one and the other was splattered all over his wall. Four out of his six fighters had been knocked out cold. Not only was Jack not winning the big prize he wasn’t even hitting the cash line. Three contest down and four hundred of the seven hundred dollars was down the drain.

He stood and stared at the beach picture, even that was not bringing him any comfort. He had NFL, NHL and the stupid redneck NASCAR race tomorrow, still plenty of time to turn a nice pretty profit.

It was a long and sleepless night. For a few hours he changed his lineups for tomorrow’s contests at least thirty times before giving up on it for the night.

When sleep finally did come it was interrupted by the sound of rain. Jack did love the rain; in fact he enjoyed watching the rain just as much as the sound of it. Still dressed in his stupid “Edgars Hardware” uniform from Friday he walked to the small shitter window and looked out.

Odd he thought no rain. He turned to go back to his recliner when he heard it again. Wiping his eyes he looked out the window and still no rain. The night was dark but he did have a few streetlights lining the shops by his apartment and he still couldn’t see where it was raining. He was however wide awake and the unmistakable sound of rain was there, for that he was sure of.

Now his curiosity was peaked and he momentarily forgot about both doing so shitty in his first attempt at fantasy sports and the fact that he was dead tired. He flipped the toilet lid up and drained some of the whiskey out of his body and into the toilet bowl. His piss was an unhealthy murky yellow. Flushing the toilet he glanced outside once more, still no rain, visually at least but damn if his ears weren’t picking up a storm.

He was about to chalk it up to having too many bottles of whiskey and was making a beeline for the recliner when motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Unsure at first but his eyes began to focus on the painting in the center of the wall.

What the fuck, he thought.

Fat Jack continued to inspect the picture; he had to be drunk or dreaming for that matter. The rain storm appeared to be coming from the painting. How impossible was that though he thought. He was almost too scared to investigate further but this was something that could not be ignored. He grabbed a Marlboro that he had left on the desk and fumbling for a lighter, his eyes never leaving the scene.

He lite the cigarette, inhaled then exhaled. Doing his best impression of somebody who was relaxed.

The orange sky from the painting began to turn dark and the clouds shifted as well. Paintings could not and should not do this. Jack kept his attention on the painting. Small wet spots began to form on the floor below the painting. The rain was spilling over into real life, or whatever real life was anymore.

“What the fu….” Jack managed to mutter.

Before he knew it he was inches away from the picture with his hand out stretched so he could physically feel the wetness of the rain. Jack loved the rain. There was more going on than just the rain however and Jack first saw him out of the corner of his eye.

He had been standing so close to the painting that at first he could not take in the whole scene, but something dark caught his eye. Jack took a few steps back than cocked his head forward in the direction of the bottom left of the picture. There was somebody moving in the painting.

Whoever or whatever it was wasn’t very clear. The figure was dark, whether dressed in all black or a shadow, Jack did not know. The figure was making his way over the sand dunes and seemed to be waving his hands as if inviting or trying to get Jacks attention.


Fat Jack let out a laugh. The sound surprised him because honestly he was pretty scared. It surprised him because the laugh was maniacal. Finally all this cheap whiskey was catching up to him, he thought. Jack laughed again and again.

“Who? Me?” Jack found himself asking the little shadow man who was now fully standing on top of the sand dune in the picture.

The little shadow man had his hands on his hips and every so often he would motion to Jack, followed by a gesture as if showing him the scene in all its beauty. The shadow man had no mouth, was probably no taller than a whiskey bottle, but for some reason Jack knew what he was saying. The shadow man had come to tell Jack one very important thing.

“This could all be yours Jack. Everything you have ever wanted is right here. All for you. All for a man like you.”

Jamie Smith
therenegadeinc@gmail.com

It's all about the story, man.



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