Nick Richars

Framed in collars, silk nooses, cuff links and creases I sit amongst the hierarchy that you only read about. My roots run deep like the creases I wear into the den I insist on calling a bedroom. Arbitrary knowledge and beer bottles litter the place where I keep the hours of an addict, though it has been a long time since that adjective has sounded anything but nostalgic to me. Spoiled juice lubricates my tongue and pays my rent, as well as feeds the man I spend many late nights with. Dimly lit, orchestral, blurry and cathartic, my home life is escapism at its most fundamental. I work in an industry that forces me to lie constantly, to a clientele that disgusts me, for a man who may very well show up under dressed for his own funeral. I’ve been ahead of the curve since I was old enough to spell pretense and I work for Al Pacino in pull-ups. I’ve created a persona based on bravado, wit and matriculation that I’ll ride as far as I can. The sunset beckons, my head grows heavy. Home | Browse | Search | Invite | Film | Mail | Blog | Favorites | Forum | Groups | Events | Videos | Music | Comedy | Classifieds