I Accidentally Wrote This for You, Elizabeth Wurtzel – Poem by Cody Peters

I Accidentally Wrote This for You, Elizabeth Wurtzel

 by Cody Peters

Let me tell you about right now.

 

I am probably going to die, as my blood is full of Ritalin, Vicodin, Testosterone

Should I do a beer? If you say “yes” then that means you want me to die!

People should think a little bit about certain things.

The way I see it right now, they feel when should think

and think when they should feel.

 

Right now is a 2:34 AM nightmare and sleep is not even close to maybe

So the iron horse has tempted death the day after Michael Jackson died.

I can’t be without drugs and the shift from the real.

They can’t be with me without drugs and the shift from the real,

I am a monster and I have so much pain.

I just couldn’t think of trying to conquer any more.

Am I wrong to realize when I am beaten?

I am so sick, the heart in my chest is no longer my own.

Why it keeps beating is a God secret I hope he never learns.

Or payback will be a baddie.  God is a little flighty, but stern.

 

Right now I am afraid to sleep.  I fear the loneliness of the pillow.

This life has been so to burn the life away.  My dreams are dead and I am alive.

My heroes had it the other way around.  I am an extraordinary spirit in a mundane life.

Stuck without the will to weather any pain.  So no suicide!

My mind is not going to stop.  I am not in control.

I only know how to dodge, not endure (any more)

I am so battered from my life that the sadness is too overwhelming.

I wish I fell in love.  I did, but each time it was ripped as a piece of my heart.

Perhaps it tempered it so it can endure my need for anything to shift my real.

I know I will not heal.  I love and believe, but I just got a bad hand.

I play this game with the best cards in my hand that do not connect to make me a winner.

I look great losing though, I am Elizabeth Wurtzel without the Ivy.

I am Layne Staley without the magic.

I am Michael Jackson when it comes to being slain by the world you wish would love you.

Mostly, after reading all of the books on Amazon about drug addiction and depression

I realized that no one really understands me.  Awwww.  These days, nobody cares.

I wait for an email, a call, a visit, a drug, a change in my brain that will stop the heavy

That keeps me driven to escape so far and endanger my self.

 

For all who don’t have their own times, you have it all wrong.

Drugs don’t make a junkhead high, they are like this:

Our Elite Race of stoners, junkies, and freaks live in a constant rainstorm

We look at the boring normal people and see that they all have umbrellas

We were never given one, so we are getting cold, shivering, and soaked.

Drugs are our umbrella.  So we can be more like you.

Sure it’s like the five-dollar one you buy on the street, but most of the rain is blocked.

That is, until the umbrella starts to fade like Cinderella.

Then the cold comes again and we get sick.

We go seeking another umbrella, ironically for our own health.

Then this hunt consumes.  We are a closed cycle of umbrella patrons.

Well, since umbrellas equal drugs in this ditty, we are the famed “drug-seekers”

It’s really just a rain thing, don’t sweat it.

But I can suffer deep pain from somewhere. A broken life perhaps?

Or I can finally give up at 30 and try to avoid the hurt.

 

Right now I’m coated in chemicals and in love with the idea of dating Elizabeth Wurtzel

She would love me.  She’ll never see me because of her status.  Bad for us.

We would take it by the core and she’d foil my baddies so we could start better trouble.

Elizabeth, you were me and I will be you.  If this is true then I would call a big fan like me

Don’t you want to at least write to me and tell me some good books to read?

Or NYC hangouts?  Share stories of your societe, miss cocktail party.

I’ll give you back some years and you boost me a few.  We’re of a mind that is mystery.

I am amazed by my stanza to EW.  I’ll send her this.  If she doesn’t respond

Then I know she’s not nearly like me at all. 

Aren’t you at least curious?

 

Right now I am looking for what I need.

I always do and am fooled or am lost.

How low do you go before impact?

I must be so damn close

Here comes a crash.

 

Do you think it will hurt? 

Slipping into eternity with a Ritalin pupil dilated so

I don’t miss a thing.

Kiss Me Where It Smells Funny ::clarification::

I have received concerned emails from readers.  Females, hopefully… who are aghast at the fact that there may be a part of nakedEric that smells “funny”. 

Here’s the rub (pun intended) – Does something funny (usually) make you smile?  Well, then say it this way as you listen to my hit single ‘Kiss Me Where it Smells Funny” – Think “Kiss Me Where it ‘makes you smile'”

By “funny” I didn’t mean “bad”.  Guys know what I mean.  Silly girls…

-NE

German Man Walks Home, Forgets Car At Gas Station. Seriously.

Sometimes I forget things. I forget to lock the door or to turn off the stove. You know the feeling…

Check this out…

BERLIN (Reuters) – A German man forgot his car after filling it up at a petrol station, police said Friday.

“He just forgot about it and walked off home,” said a spokesman for police in the western city of Wuppertal.

After the car had sat blocking the pump for about an hour, a woman working at the petrol station became suspicious and alerted authorities.

Officers contacted the 63-year-old from Remscheid, who came straight back to fetch the vehicle. He had paid to fill up the car before walking off.

Criss Angel – Magic For Dummies

Now that it’s Halloween, it’s time to expose myself to children when their yuppie parents are on their cell phones talking to their hairdressers about which color would most bring out the fading color of their eyes and disguise the fact that their face is looking more and more like a catcher’s mitt due to tanning daily at full radiation. Small children can then use my tushy as a standard that helps us all. “Hey, I have a tushy too!” There is no better feeling than to know that others share your most intimate traits. Remember the first time you saw another penis or vagina? When you were a kid and played games with them. Creepy stuff indeed, but all in all, it made us realize that we were not alone in what lurked beneath our clothes. Now, ironcally, I LOVe being alone with what’s under my clothes! How wild is that.

Segue: Criss Angel

Does anyone know why this guy isn’t passed over as just another David Copperfield / Blaine rip – off? Have’t we seen this before? Are we this desperate for more skater-looking guys for teenage girls to plaster all over their walls? He looks like a ferret with a tried-so-hard-to-look-like-I-didn’t-try-so-hard look. We’re blurring the line between men and women here friends. Don’t let this happen! Demand that men look like men. All men should look like they belong in either ZZ Top or AC/DC. If not, they should have a good reason why. A job is a good one. A knock-off of past magicians’ mojo isn’t a job, it’s a niche created by our pop poop petri dish infecting airwaves and brain cells. Final note: The dude lives in Vegas. I thought that what happened in Vegas STAYED in Vegas!!! STAY IN VEGAS you corporate Mr.Potato Head. They build you to be the new “Master of Illusion”. You just look silly man. Please reduce the primping and preening. Leave it for the ladies. Your show is cool though. I never saw it. Have you read my blog? Prob. not. So until you read my blog I won’t watch your show. AND if you read my blog, let’s do an interview so that NakedEric and his readers can understand the man behind the makeup.

I once saw him make a matchstick disappear. He then made it reappear somewhere else. That inspired me to head to the throne to drop some kids off at the pool.

To prove that I’m not the only one here, here’s a ditty from a site about the femme magic man.. Check out the site. I’m not making this up.


Hey Criss Angel….

The ball-less wonder, Criss Angel. Not only did he let everyone know that he was dating
Cameron Diaz by giving a ‘cryptic’ shout out mentioning the Shrek tour, which was tacky in it’s
own right, but turns out, he already had a WIFE at home. Turns out he left her for star-fuc*ing.

Man, grow some nuts, doode!.I’m Not The Only One With Something To Say About C.A.

-NE

This Is Such A Good Way To Kill Someone!

Back in the diggidy day, when operas ruled concert halls, theatres, and penny arcades, people were often portly Supposedly, there were countless guys wearing wigs. Wine and beer was crazy! Believe me, if I was there, I’d be such the Mack Daddy with wild wiggidy wigs. What a cool random thought! I’ll tell my therapist next week!

In a show called bones, they are discussing a murder where the corpse (The Vic) was found in a Haunted House called Dungeon of 1000 Corpses. The place was filled with fake corpses. No one noticed the dead body nor did they attribute the smell of decomp to anything other than the Halloween show that was going on. Finally a little girl puked and someone called the puke police. They then called the real police. Then, they realized there was a REAL deady in the house! They finally found it, but there were no witnesses due to the darkness and the nature of the show. If there was some real a-stabbing, people would look and go “ooohhh! Stabbing!” then lick their lollies and kiss their daddies. Super kill!

So, if you ever want to go to a HAUNTED HOUSE AGAIN, you may not want to read on. Ooops, that should have went at the beginning of this ditty. Or right after my rumination of the past operatic showmanship. Shhhh. I’ll do all the talking around here. Hence:

If murdering a person is a task you intend to engage in, wouldn’t this type of location be a perfect place to do it? It says so on TV! Now that Johnny Cockran (sic) the satanic lawyer who is now being anally plowed in a fluffy fireball of hell, has died (yay!), there are no more lawyers capable of getting murders caught red-handed found innocent of murder. What a run-on sentence. No! Stay. My dog just farted. We are so similar, my doggy and I. OK, back to murder.

Do you know what I mean? By the time they found any evidence, or the body at all, I’d be in another country. Of course I wouldn’t leave until I wrote down exactly what I did, step by step on NakedEric for all of you to enjoy!

::insert smile here::

Note: I would never kill anyone. Never meaning … not NOW.

-NE

Eric’s European Elimination Edventure

Don’t you think that, with all of the incredible miniaturization and high-tech evolution our consumer products have seen recently that the bulky, injury prone excrement receptacle would have been replaced by something better?

The toilet is ugly and uninviting, It seems stuck in the past.  I want a vaccuum-like device to snag my poo and then clean my yahoo.  But Europe has beaten us to this type of innovation.

 The pblic facilities in many countries on that stupendous continent are lit on the inside with blue bulbs.  Upon entering for my first deuce (number 2) in a European WATER CLOSET (?), I was tokd by the man who was employed by the elimination franchise that it makes it impossible for junkies to shoot up because they can’t find their veins in the blue light – AWESOME – That’s what I’m talking about AMERICA!  Elimination Evolution.  Here they really WATCH your performance and ofer you goodies during and immediately after your donation.  The THEY ask for a donation.  They prefer currency though.  Very confusing.

 Here’s the cooly cool part.  The stalls.  You go in and there is no toilet.  Nope.  Just a cube that looks (in the blue light) like the dressing room in Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory with a hole on the floor.  The cubicle is sealed shut to prevent any strange exit routes (as in underneath the divider and into the next stall).  I finally got the gist (or so I thought)  and squatted like my fan Squanto and dropped off my African children from my anal caravan near, and sometimes in, the hole.  It was crazy, but the craziest thing was when I heard a beep and the door locked.  Panic ensued and I re panted my bottom and began pulling at the door.  I couldn’t get out.  Then, as if the holding cell I was in became one big shower, water began to fire at me from all angles.  I was getting drenched with a mystery fluid bathed in blue light in a country where I couldn’t understand ANY of the now frantic yelling at me after I had just shit on the floor.  What was the fluid?  It certainly was no Evian…  It smelled like pool water and a girl fart.

The soaking ceased, my doody disappeared, and the door disengaged its lock.  I emerged to a hysterical group of friends and natives as I was soaked in girl fart liquid.  I felt the desire to shoot some heroin but I knew that it would be impossible.  I mulled over the irony of this for a moment then, exasperated, left the facility without paying the toilet caddy.   My only saving grace was that it was raining that day and I blamed my wetness on the weather.  The smell, well, I just told everyone who asked that I was into kinky sex.  Looking back now, as I write this, that wasn’t that funny.  I had thought it was.  I guess that’s why I kept getting such venomous looks from those who I hit with my witty one-liner.

The event was a disaster, but it inevitably compelled me to ask locals about this mechanism.  The skinny is that The stalls lock after a certain amount of time and essentially behave like a car wash for 30 seconds or so to sanitize the area and redirect any misplaced feces.  GENIUS!  Now THAT’S WHAT I MEAN!  Elimination evolution at its finest.  Here in America we’re still dancing behind closed doors trying to trigger, or to NOT trigger the laser device that flushed the bowl automatically.  We have to catch up to those Europeans (You’re a-peein’).  Despite hosing me down with non-potable water and shearing a few yeatrs off of my life, they taught me a lesson:  The toilet CAN improve!  There is a future for Elimination Evolution!

Names of the cities have been withheld because I forgot where I was when this happened.