Poetry Mondays – Meta Me by Ryan Fu



When did the online

version of me

become better than

the real me.

There’s something wrong

with the world 

when people want to hang out 

via Skype.

Where we spend half our lives

looking at nugget porn


grumpy cats

watching untalented people

making a fool of themselves

to extend their 15 mins of whoring.

Don’t I have enough pixels,

aren’t I better than HD quality? 

Didn’t I receive enough 

likes on my page?

How many followers do you need

to be consider someone to like? 

Fuck your LEFT


RIGHT swipe

The Oracle was right 

we’re all trapped 

in cyber purgatory 

permanently signed on

for whole world to judge

as our footsteps gets traced,




without us even knowing


consenting to it.

Building a case

that the real you



      the virtual you 

is much better

because they can

     control you.




the real me

will disappear 

into Matrix

leaving behind 

my digital footprint


my Google searches

for Carrot Top.




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Intelligence Team by Ryan Fu



“I’m never drinking again,” said Seth.

As we tried to get our shit together after another night of debauchery with the crew inside C.I.C (Combat Intelligence Central) still pretty drunk from the night before. Good thing C.I.C was a dark place with the latest high tech gadgets monitoring terrorist activities around the world but I was just super glad there wasn’t any bright lights to show any incriminating evidence on our faces.

“Seth, do you have a black eye?”

 “What? When the hell did that happen.”

“It was probably when you got punch by that gay Arabian guy at that super gay club,” said Skuba. 

“What?” from a very confused Seth.

“Listen. I did want tell you but when you get black out drunk you kinda turn gay, which is cool, I mean we don’t ask but don’t tell anyone.”

“Yeah, you pulled us into this real dark club with bunch of Arabian dudes making out then you got into fight with this really hairy dude with his shirt off talking about marrying his camel or something,” said Skuba as he was eating a bag of tuna.

“What the fuck?” said Seth. 

“Oh yeah, I remember now it was right after we got kicked out of our hotel because we trashed our whole floor.” 

“Are you sure it wasn’t after we started a fight with those Army cunts at Planet Hollywood,” asking Skuba.

“Wild Turkey should be banned from public consumption,” said Seth having a look of regret.

“Why the hell are you eating that bag of tuna?” Looking at Skuba.

“Because dolphins are smart and it’s making me smarter,” confidently said by Skuba.

 “You do realize Dolphins don’t eat themselves,” as Seth eats a bag of oats trying to put some kinda of food down his stomach.

 “Is that why you’re eating that bag of oats?” I ask Seth.

“Of course not. I’m a thoroughbred. I need oats to feel strong,” stuffing half a bag of oats without water down his mouth.

“Duh asshole. I’m a dolphin, Seth is a horse and you’re an asshole,” said Skuba eating his bag of tuna.

What the fuck is the matter with us as I thought looking my crew inside Combat Intelligence Central, which at the current moment the most intelligent thing about the room was all those expensive machines and certainly not the monkeys working on them.

“Alright stop with the tomfoolery,” shouted the Captain as he stepped into C.I.C as we stand in attention. Our cap was a former linebacker for “The” Ohio State University, which he was still big as a fridge and still aggressive as fuck. I respected him a lot but I could not shake off his Tom Selleck mustache. I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, which I kept thinking what he would like in a Hawaiian shirt?

“Listen boys, these men are our high target priorities for this month. Please study these faces because they are Axes of Evil.”

As the Captain put up America’s Most Wanted on the War Board, I just kept thinking he’s perfect man for this post because we are a bunch of babies, who need a spanking but I just wished Steve Guttenberg was here to help us out. Fuck Ted Danson! 

“Your job men is explore, identity, evaluate, implement then execute. We are the architects that plan out the master plan then we execute putting the hammer down!”

We stand in attention again after that motivating speech as the Captain leaves C.I.C.

“You guys know what the hell Her Alibi was talking about,” asking Skuba.

“I think he was telling us get more tuna and oats at the commissary, then get some ice cream,” as Seth throws up his oats at the nearest trash can.

“I’m never drinking again,” said Seth holding the trashcan like his baby.




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My diary had her name. I wrote letters to her every night, hid them under my bed and hoped that one day, the little book would reach her. It was the summer of 1995 and I didn’t know if she was still alive.

We grew up together, she lived just two floors above me, in the same cuboid grayish building with white balconies along the front side. The stairway to her place, like a stairway to heaven, had no walls and was open to all the eyes of the passengers. 

We used to sit there on a blanket, I was Barbie and she was Ken. Jenna was older than me. When I was born she was the first to come to our place to fall in love with me. Her pale face and her blond hair had something exotic and passionate, only her blue lips and her heavy breath revealed that she was carrying something else deep inside her diseased heart. 

 She brought me little presents every day, went to the bakery with me, taught me how to read, provided me with the coolest comics and had patience with the complicated little Becky like nobody else. Every weekend we were selling our comics and books in our street and everybody who knew us would buy something. From the money we would buy new ones, better ones. We dreamt of having our own bookshop. She wanted me to be a writer, I wanted her to be a top model. She used to laugh over that, telling me she would faint after three steps on the catwalk. She could barely breathe. The disease was taking over, day by day she was worse. 

We hid in the bathroom and she took off her shirt. Her chest was full of scars, among them a big one, dividing her in two halves. She hugged me, explained what was wrong with her little heart and told me her secrets. She dreamt of falling in love. There was a boy in our street she liked but wasn’t sure if this was real love. Every day we would daydream about him and her being together, we would draw her wedding dress and giggle, we would feel disgusted when we thought about the two of them kissing, we would stop our jokes and suddenly be quiet, knowing that this was far from reality. 

She spent most of her days in a hospital. My father took care of her there and let me inside whenever possible. When she got her wheelchair we planned to destroy it and take the wheels to make two unicycles out of it. My mother would carry her in her arms when she came home, because she was too weak to move the wheels of the wheelchair. She would bring her to the stairway and put her down on our blanket where we could be alone and talk like we used to. She told me she had seen soldiers through the windows of the hospital. We made plans how she could get away in that wheelchair if they come to our street. We exchanged photos, just in case we would lose each other for a while. And we lost each other. 

It was the summer of 1995 when I got a package from the Netherlands with her mother’s name on it. Inside of it there was a letter addressed to my parents, one of my books and the pictures that I had given to Jenna. Those few pictures are the only ones which I have from my childhood. She had written messages for me on the pictures’ back and I rolled under a blanket, touched her handwriting and smelled if the photos had her perfume on. My mother opened the letter and broke down in tears. Jenna had survived the war and the terror, only to die of a heart attack in Amsterdam, during her first days of freedom.

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The Losers by Ryan Fu



The Losers

Get a real job!



leave them alone

you assholes!

You guys are scumbags. 

I don’t know how many times

I hear it in a day

before I start to believe

it’s my name.

 But I get it

this is nation of winners

we love our false heroes. 

We put our idols high in the sky

until they fall

then we all become Chicken Little. 

We discard those

who don’t meet our expectations

then turn our backs on them

like they were bastard children.

History gets written

by the victors

as the losers

fade away in the narrative.

The forgotten ones

still on the battlefield

condemned forever 

 to remember their failures.

Why is there even

a second place?

It’s first



because we all want to be loved.




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Dating Enthusiasm Scares! by A Parent in Paris (BLW Contributor)


I have internet dated in three different countries and in each country the expectations and cultural differences are genuinely surprising. One of the nicest countries to date in, is actually Belguim. There seems to be no expectations on a first date! However, today the focus is on how one behaves when they meet someone that they actually have a genuine connection with and to be utterly truthful, this has rarely happened to me. In fact, I think I can safely conclude that this has happened exactly once!

I had decided to write off the Belgain culture (apologies to all the Belguim people) simply because there was no cultural grounding that I could find with the men I had met, further to that (although I am sure this is urban legend) I had heard that they did not shower daily.

So it was surprising that when I met a half Belguim American French speaking man, I had an incredible connection with him. I have honestly never felt so safe and comfortable with someone, even to the point that I felt I was truly not pretending to be someone else with him; it was even more miraculous that I got through 5 dates and (I hope my Dad isn’t reading this) a weekend together. It was utterly amazing. He was virtually perfect and I had not loud alarm bells ringing in my head.

However, I set sirens off in his head; I often wonder how I manage this. My enthusiasm at my sheer luck for meeting someone I really liked, didn’t quite turn me into a stalker, I had some self control but it did make me break all the supposed rules one is meant to have in order to get a man to fall in love or so I have been led to believe by my lovely daughter:

Rule 1: 

Don’t invite them up to your apartment on the 1st date- yup- I broke it (but Dad honestly nothing happened, if he was still in the picture, he could verify the information.) I invited him into to mine to meet my kitten, Darcy, as he too had a cat. He was an absolute gentleman.

Rule 2: 

Respond (not instantly) but respond to texts. I have a dodgy phone so I never know when I receive a text message or not; it took me a few days (and longer than the 3 day rule) to realise he was interested in seeing me and wanted to meet again.

Well, after breaking that rule, my enthusiasm went into overdrive and there were flurries of texts that kept the mood elevated between dates.

And all was well, even up until I left for Malaga with another man. This was a planned holiday with a friend, so I don’t want to hear I told you so! It was whilst in Malaga that I managed to scare this lovely man away from me. I went into text and email overdrive, where I wrote virtually everyday or texted something silly. I hardly gave the poor man time to miss me. What I think were probably cute holiday messages were probably the killer to this potentially beautiful and wonderful relationship! Eagerness, enthusiasm and an exceptional ability to write drove this really lovely man away-reaffirming that my life is one big tragicomedy!

But it gets worse and I am completely ashamed to admit it, as I pine the loss of this genuinely great guy, I took it upon myself to let him know I was missing him a week after the end of the potential relationship.

Now if he is not thinking: Stalker, psycho, nutter about me, he is being really gracious because if someone had done this to me, I would be thinking all of the above!

It makes me wonder how one learns to curb their enthusiasm and stay in control. No doubt, whoever I meet next, I will have hopefully learnt, from this moment in time, to behave in a better manner. But it is just so hard, especially when one meets, for the first time in years, a potential soul mate.

Unfortunately, I raised his alarm bells- such is life!

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Honesty is such a lonely word by My Random Musings (BLW Contributor)




We all talk about how honest we are and how we want people to be honest with us, but in reality it somehow comes down to honesty is not always the best policy.

People constantly question others about why you hurt them or why you are hurt and then you tell them the truth as you see it, but most often that does not go down the right way, because they could not handle the truth. I am no exception to that rule, I like to think that I am absolutely honest and speak my mind (let’s not ask my ex boy friend for confirmation of that) but the truth is I know despite how I look at myself, I tend to stretch the truth sometimes to spare someone the hurt or pain.

Let me digress for a few with background story –  a few days ago a friend who constantly flakes on me did it again, despite assurances after my having told her I don’t spend time with her because of that. Fast forward a few months, she does it again. This time I decide I am done with my friendship and it’s time to sever ties. However she sends me a text asking me if I was upset with her and I replied telling her the truth, which was, that I am frustrated with the constant back and forth with plans and I dislike it. I like to make plans and stick to it. It turns out she did not like my honesty that she did what I believe is what most teenagers probably do, she unfriended me on Facebook.

Fortunately for me, my life does not revolve around FB or the number of friends I have. I use it just to post my photographs and a way to keep in touch with a few friends, therefore it did not bother me. No, let me rephrase that, her un-friending me did not bother me, but her childish behavior of not talking about it bothered me. I believe she did it because she could not handle the truth of what I told her.

I am not trying to get on a pedestal of honesty or morality, because I understand we all have our moments of weakness and make promises we sometimes can’t keep and I have no doubt there are times I have over promised and under-delivered. But for the most part I try not to be that person. I try to do my best to be honest and open, because I have learnt that one lie spirals out of control and it becomes such a big lie that we have dug a hole so deep, we cannot climb out of it.

Well getting back to where I was, I am probably no better than anyone else about handling the truth. Recently someone called me high-strung and I was aghast at that thought and refused to believe it. (In my defense I am not high-strung) If he called me impatient, strong-headed, stubborn, I would have whole heartedly agreed with him.  I don’t know why, somehow high-strung has a negative connotation to it and I had to actually ask a few of my close friends if they agree with this statement.

Fortunately for them or me, they all disagreed with that sentiment, they claim that I am easy-going, but sometimes too energetic,  and that someone who does not know me could construe that as high-strung.  However, they all agreed that when it came to food,  that I could be a tad bit  OCD and obsessive about wanting things to be perfect. It probably is never perfect, but at least I know it is not for the lack of trying on my part.

I constantly claim that I want to hear the truth, but someone tells me the truth as he see’s it and I refuse to accept that it is his idea of the truth about me. While being called high-strung upset me, what upset me more as days went by was that I could not graciously accept his opinion and would have preferred if he had not been honest about his opinion.

We all claim we want to know the truth and that we tell the truth, but somehow most often truth gets soft peddled if the truth involves hurting someone’s feelings. So I ask, is honesty the best policy or do we need to be a bit dishonest to avoid hurting people we care for ?


Do what you gotta do by Ryan Fu (The Hated Ones)


Ocean Life_Oceans Mix_Electric Jellyfish

I take a look over the starboard side as we pull into port seeing these ghost-like fish in the water.

“Hey bro, what are those?”


“They look cute.” 

“Sure, if you like kissing a thousand tasers?”


“They can kill you in seconds.”

“There’s not many out here right?”

“Oh no, they’re everywhere over here but there are more sharks but it’s cool they’re the least of your concerns.”

Wondering what else could be least of my concerns with deadly ghost-like fishes swimming all around me, I step onto the quarterdeck with the heat hitting me all at once, which I finally knew what he was talking about. Fuck it was hot. No wonder Jesus died over her.

“Hey bro, is it usually this fucking hot?” 

“Nah, it’s pretty cool today.”

“I guess they were right in bootcamp that was like Hell over here.”

“What? That was bullshit, it barely goes over 130 degrees over here on a good day. Have a nice day and enjoy the pizza.”

I salute him getting off the boat, trying to figure out what the fuck he was talking about but the closer I got to the ground the hotter it got. It was way hotter on land as could feel the heat bouncing back off the concrete. I was already pouring sweat and I haven’t got into any combat yet. Of course, my natural response to suffering is to get blacked out drunk. I ask a raghead where I could get a drink and he points me out to the Beer Hut as he stares at me like he wanted to kill me. Which I could feel the hate while was walking around on base with the natives checking me out wondering how to kill me without alarming any bells.

I enter this pathetic excuse of fun and recreation going to straight for the alcohol. I double fists two tall boys and down the medicine in my head right away. It tasted like a mixture of dog piss and sweat. So, I decided maybe should grab some pizza to go this epic beverage. It looked like a normal pizza but there was something different but not in a good way about this meal. As I was eating it both my mouth and brain was simultaneous telling me that something was not right. As I try to swallow and figure out this enigma someone quietly tells me, “its goat meat.”

“What?” With my mouth full which apparently was full of goat meat.

“It’s goat meat, that’s why it tastes kinda weird but you’ll get used it. Hopefully, you get that bacteria like this guy did last week and died.” 

Then it hit me. Everything about this place is meant to kill you.

The sharks,

the jellyfishes,

the heat 


the people all want to kill you including the goats.

Life lesson number three: What doesn’t kill you, makes you stranger.

I throw up the goat meat as he introduces himself, “My name is Skuba I’m from Long Beach. How many times have you’ve masterbated today. I think I jerked it five times today, wait, I just came right now. Anyways sometimes I use my left hand if want something new and mysterious, you know what I’m talking about?” Skuba tells me this with no expressions on his face. He seemed like a normal white dude that kinda looked a skinhead with a shaved head but there was nothing normal about this dude. He had all the qualities of a human being but he definitely was missing a chromosome or two. I tell him it was great meeting him excusing myself, thinking what the fuck was that about. Walking back to my barracks, which it was around dusk and it was still hot as fuck. No wonder everyone was such in a bad mood around here as I could hear mortars and gunshots close by with men’s voices shouting in the distance. Fuck I realized, I’m actually in Hell. I decided to call back home to check in with the folks before I hit the rack.

“Hey, dad.”

“How is it out there?” 

“Super. Everything is great!”

All fathers can tell when their own flesh and blood is lying to them.

“Just take care of yourself and look out for you.”

“I hear you dad.”

“Your mother and I are very proud of you.”

This was more puzzling to hear this than the goat pizza because I was such a hellrazer growing up, causing such pain for my parents. I guess my parents were starting to respect me for being out here as human body bag.

“Thanks dad.”

“Just come home to us. Do what you gotta do.”

(Life lesson number four)

“Will do.” Click.




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Don’t Start Nothing, It Won’t be Nothing (Martial Arts Philosophy) – Women’s Self Defense, Rape Escape

This is the first move you learn in level 1 (fight like a girl) of my women’s self defense class based on rape escape. My certification was obtained from Defend University by my instructor steve kardian. Hope you all enjoy, and look for similar self defense classes in your area. 

A work in progress by Bare Naked in Public (BLW Contributor)



Entering the funeral home, I immediately hear laughter and friendly chatter.  There is standing room only as friends and family spill out into the foyer.  My mood is lightened; this will definitely be a celebration of life. While I had not seen her in years, she played an important role in my life; colleague and mentor, my journey into administration began with her encouragement and support. I remember how proud she was when I shared the news that I had been hired for an administrative position in another district. We stayed in touch, until a rare form of dementia stole her mind. That was nearly eight years ago. A few weeks ago, it finally took her life.

The staff quietly hustled to add more chairs as the service is about to begin and I take my seat. Now I stare intently at her picture on the small program I received upon arriving. I remember her smile and her twinkling eyes. With a heavy sigh, I wonder how someone so vibrant and alive can quickly become a vacant face.  Life has cheated her and us, and it doesn’t seem fair.

After contemplating the ways of the Universe, I lift my head and glance around the room, row by row, so many familiar faces from long ago. Some of their names come easily, and others I struggle to recall.  A few of my current colleagues are in attendance as the world of education is so small. Now I search the room for the faces I expect to see, the ones I hope to see. It’s funny; when you reallyknow someone well they can be easily recognized by the back of their head, even after eight years.  . . . and there she is.

I am immediately anxious and nervous, taking short quick breaths, my heart races. Of course I expected to see her, but I did not anticipate my reaction. I consciously slow my breathing, close my eyes and listen to the beautiful words of a dear friend as he shares a story. After a few moments, I find myself back in the present, smiling and laughing as we remember a very special woman.

The service comes to a close, and folks crowd into the reception area. I talk with a few colleagues. I am standing just a few feet from her, waiting patiently for the right moment to speak, wanting to approach in the least intrusive way. I pretend to be occupied with my purse or my phone while I watch for my opportunity. In my head, I begin to compose all that I will say, knowing that she could politely turn her back on me. I hear words that indicate the conversation is coming to a close, and I gently touch her arm.

She turns to face me, surprised, smiling broadly. She hugs me tightly for what seems to be an eternity and I want to cry.  I wonder . . . Has she forgiven me? She pulls away and asks how I am, and how my family is doing. I struggle to find the words and manage a couple of okays and then I say, I really miss you. Somehow I feel like she knows life has been tough for me lately, and she tells me that in spite of everything that happened in the past she only wishes me the very best and she repeats herself several times, only the best.

She feels compelled to explain why she ended our relationship; It was all just too close she says. She thanks me for a card I sent her a few years ago, an attempt at mending our friendship, so thoughtful she says, it was all just too close. I feel tears in my eyes and on my cheeks. I wipe them quickly, and I am composed. I tell her again that I miss her, I hug her one more time and we say goodbye.

Driving home, I think about the mistake I made, falling in love with a man who was not available to me, or mine to love. It was not herhusband, but the husband of a mutual friend. He chased me, loved me, and we turned the world upside down for a little while.  He broke my heart and went home. Everyone’s lives went on as if I never existed. I paid dearly for my mistake.

I hoped that enough time had passed, and that she could forgive me. After seeing her, I realized she had forgiven me a long time ago. I do believe her good wishes for me are sincere. But she is not going to be my friend . . . . and that’s okay. It’s a shame that I spent so much time focusing on my mistakes, wishing for forgiveness and missing someone who had let me go.   Another pattern ever present in my life, another lesson learned, time to let go.

As I sit on my bed in the early morning hours finishing this story, I smile thinking about all the beautiful stories shared about our dear friend and colleague who passed away. And then it dawns on me. .  . . she created her beautiful story by the life she lived purposefully every single day. Her story is the gift she leaves for us to tell in her honor, and as an example to follow.

Today, I live an honorable life. I am creating my story, it gets better every day, and one day it will be told.

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