KZ Writes Good
The internet is a huge bathroom wall, and any halfwit with a keyboard and a connection has an opportunity to scrawl on it. Take me, for instance. My name is KZ. For a good time, come find me at Prosaic Shades of Gray.
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Inside Thoughts
December 7, 2010 // 22 Comments -
"Abbott & Costello" Ain't Got Nothing on "Dawn & KZ"
October 8, 2010 // 20 Comments -
Songs for Sale
March 8, 2003 // 17 Comments -
Winning Without Trying
November 3, 2010 // 16 Comments -
Casanova KZ
December 3, 2008 // 13 Comments
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At the Risk of Drawing Attention to Myself...
May 7, 2012 // 2 Comments -
The Answer (Conversation with God Continued)
April 20, 2012 // 2 Comments -
Weapons of Jazz Destruction
March 20, 2012 // 6 Comments -
Good Night, Gentle Dreamers
March 14, 2012 // 3 Comments -
The Conundrum of Human Empathy
March 12, 2012 // 3 Comments
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May 12, 2012
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Everything everybody does can be considered mundan ...
May 11, 2012 -
My avatar sure is creepy looking.
May 8, 2012 -
It seems ironic that you think this piece has neve ...
May 8, 2012 -
Since you insist. Killjoy. Grump. God, it f ...
May 7, 2012
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I Am Not Him, But He Is Me
Some friendships are meant to be remembered, and some are easily forgotten. But then there are some friendships that have a way of inflicting themselves on you. They grasp you by your guilty obligations, your quiet frustrations. Private notions of loyalty and compassion degrade over time, varnished by a silenced eternity of stifled resentment. These are the kinds of friendships that plague you long after their logical conclusion. This is a form of friendship that I often wish I’d never known. For the rest of my life, I will be haunted by the ghost of a friend who refuses to die. He shot himself in the head like an asshole.
I never asked him to shoot himself in the head, and he never asked me if he could dump his collection of scribbles on me. He just woke up one morning and decided to do both of those things, and now I find myself inexorably linked to the most obnoxious corpse of a pest who ever wielded a pen. How’s that for a eulogy, Ben?
Until the day he died, I’ve endured Ben’s friendship for years. Now that he’s dead, it’s a little disconcerting to realize that not very much has changed. Ben is the one who shot himself, but here I remain, the walking dead, with a conspicuous bloody hole in my head. It offends the senses and dulls the sentiment. Just a bit. I am not him, but he is me.
I was about to try to say something funny buy I'm at a loss for words. I'm sorry.
I win!