I Should Be RICH

My blog is worth $10,726.26.
How much is your blog worth?

The check must be in the mail. Yeah, That's the ticket.

Feeding the Beast II

We surely appreciate all of the people that called and checked in on us. Truly, we do.

The Beast has been hunting for weeks. On a good note, I don't have to have back surgery, or take the risk of never feeling the family crown jewels again. That's a good thing. It really makes you appreciate how you've taken them for granted in the past. You just want to give them a quick squeeze to make sure that they are still there.

As you all know by now, I can't write well unless the Beast is stalking and serving as my Muse. Oh, yes, such a dilemma. Oh, I can write some self serving crap, or amuse everyone by dogging myself out, but when it comes down to it my most inspired writing comes within the deepest depths of depression, when the very voices of hell rise like a choir to provide the back up for my solo. My liturgy of death. I suppose that I should be reading some message between the lines, when the most jovial and light hearted bloggers are all checking in on me. I don't suppose, however, that I can ever explain the fact that, at least for me, when you've been to that deepest depth, and did what you did to yourself, that every last little tiny shred of self respect is going to rise to the occasion and keep you from a half assed suicide attempt that is nothing more than someone crying out for attention and help. I'll never make that attempt to off myself again because it would be the ultimate in humiliation if I failed again, and I have enough failure in my life to bring the stomach acid rising in anger to my very lips.


He walked to the door, pressed his ear against it. A sudden shiver as the outside chill seeped through and into his skin. It was an uncomfortable match, though, the same temperature as his soul. He heard knocks. Yells. Someone outside trying desperately to get his attention. To get him to open that door.
It was not going to happen on his shift. The last tenant had given in to the wailing, the screams, the shouts. Had opened that black door and exposed himself. The memory of his body, chest ripped asunder, jagged broken ribs rising from his open chest like the rotting ribs of a sunken galleon. The racket outside dimmed, softened, reorganized itself. Quietly calling out. "Join us. Be Free. Be Happy, live the life you have dreamed for so long." So persuasive. His forehead touched the door, the lovely voices calling for him to leave responsibility aside, and come out and play. Let your fears, go. Let your duty go. Let yourself go. Come outside. Join us. Belong.........."
He shook his head violently back and forth. Clearing the offers, the voices, the false invitations. His eyes widened as he looked down on his own betraying hand, grasping the handle of the door, slowly turning..............
It's all he can do to pull his body back. His hand won't leave the knob, won't stop turning.........
Looking around wildly, he reaches to the shelf. Grasps the hilt of the family sword, pulling it free with his off hand. Bringing it down in a huge, inevitable, painful slash as he severs the betraying hand from his body.
He slides to the floor, gaze blurring as he focuses on . . . he smiles. Watching his life blood spill onto the white carpet covering the entire floor, he looks up at the offending hand. And laughs. and cries. Smiling as his heart pumps slower, the river of blood slowing to a stream, a trickle, and finally, the last drop oozing out.
But he smiles, as his life energy drains out with the last drop of blood. The door is still shut. He grins, a rictus of pain as his body slowly shuts down in a wild counterpoint to the last drops of blood streaming to the floor.
The fucking door was still shut. Triumph. Victory. His head slumps to the side. Still smiling to the end. Sure, he was dead as a fucking door nail, but he died on his own terms, and nothing was going to come in and find him lying with his chest ripped open, his very soul shredded as it was ripped from his dying body. He smiled. Laid his head down upon the floor. There was a tear left to shed as his eyes focused, the family blade lying within inches of his eyes. Shifting focus. The blood tear drops to the floor, as his remaining hand finally chrystallizes in his view. The last betraying hand, opening the door.......

Open Note to My Best Friend in the world

You are the most lovable, capable friend, that anyone could ever have.

You would put anyone in Otherland to shame. You've always given it to me straight when no one else had the fucking balls to do it. For that I thank you. But I have to disabuse one of your notions on life. Because when it comes down to it, there are some that aren't worth saving and there are some that no one in the world can save. That would be me. I love you to death for all of your efforts. But not even the most optimistsic folks could save me now. You just have to understand, my true friend, that some people just can't be saved, no matter what you do. It is not a reflection on you at all. Some people just can't be saved.

Tear Down the Walls

Given my incredible list of failures with the opposite sex, I was basically left with two options. In order to survive the emotional crisis inside, I could either withdraw completely from society, or I could Protect the weakness inside. When you are needy, and insecure, and completely dependent upon others for your self image, it's incredibly hard to withdraw from that necessary input, no matter how negative the input is. So I chose the other option. I built a wall. I built it so that no one could get into that quagmire, and sometimes its for their own good. I figured, I'm married, she doesn't need to be exposed to the worst of that. Who fuckin' knew that someone else was going grab a shovel and dig right under, undermining the whole thing. Collapsing it in a vast explosion of dust and mortar. I think I've pretty much explained how well all that turned out. So you think after that, I'd build it up right this time. Make the foundations deeper. Keep that shit from happening again. No, I'm not smart enough for that. I rebuilt the walls, Better, Stronger, Higher, and put a gate in it. Which I threw open to the first person that gave a shit. Sweet. I'd never wanted to be the one to keep repeating the same mistakes again and again. I hate people that do that. I detest those people. I feel so SUPERIOR over those that can't avoid repeating their same old mistakes, again and again. Looking at it with totally detachment, I should really be hating myself. Who builds a wall and leaves the f-ing door wide open?!

Michael

Vacation Autoresponse

Leaving for B.F.E. West Texas, and won't have access to technology for several days. Everyone have a happy, safe weekend and we'll see ya soon!

Resurrection

He scrabbled upward, fingernails clawing at the hardened layer of dirt above. Breaking through, his fingers felt the chill of cold, clean air. Faster, faster, digging himself through, pulling himself from the cold hard grave.
At last he was through. Crumbs of cursed soil fell around him, shaking free of his emaciated body. He peers around. The surround him in their puritanical white robes. They won't let the dead rest. Oh no, they're too connected to let one of their own die.
They gather in their sacred circle, chanting, giving him life, giving him the reason to live again. He stares deeply at each one in turn, regret churning in his very soul. Looking down at his hands, he adjusts the silver rings on his left. Puffs of dust waft into the air, as the bones of his fingers crumble. He reaches wildly as the silver rings drop to the ground. He takes a step forward.
His leg collapses beneath him, the bones crumbling under the sudden onslaught. He has one leg, one thigh left. He curses aloud.
They couldn't just let him rot in peace. Oh, no, they had to bring him back. They missed him. They needed him to fulfill their own destinies. Their life without this failing body was akin to the grave. He falls forward. Forearms shattering in their attempt to stop his fall.
Bones with skin on them, walkin' around. That was him, only he was crawling on four stumps.
So thankful that they brought him back.
NOT. They only raised a shadow. They only raised The Beast.

Friends and Lovers

I've been thinking about many pieces of this entry for a long time - and I'm going to try to piece them together in a readable whole.

I had already started this stuff, but Yahoo crashed my comp. Hua. So let me repeat.

Bloggers are a special group. Mebbe it's the fact that they have a little more time on their hands. Maybe its the fact that they are able to connect with just words. But for the most part, they just seem to care more. You won't find that kind of compassion or caring in Otherland.

Here's the short and sweet of it all. One email that I wrote would illicit a major reaction from my friends in the Blogosphere. They're tuned in. They give a shit. One email will illicit a mass reaction of concern and caring. The folks in Otherland will never match up. I won't get a single reaction from many clues from the Sigo for an entire week compared to the reaction I'll get tomorrow.

My best friend and cellmate tomorrow will be the first one to sound the four alarm fire when she wakes up and sees the sudden 4 entries in my Blog. She's keyed in to the signs. How does that happen in six months when the love of my life, my soulmate of 8 years, can't figure it out. That's your Blogosphere Buddies for you.

You explain it, Lucy. How does that connection click? Because the Blogoshpere friends are more connected. How else do you explain it?

Here's the rub.......... If it came down to it and I was in real trouble, friends like Fringes who actually live close, would show up on my doorstep despite the Sigo's reaction. Imagine that for a moment. Fringes showing up at mi casa, because she knows she's needed, while the Sigo looks on in bewilderment and suspicion, having no clue as to what's going on because we've been together long enough that the alarm signs aren't registering any more.

The Beast is hunting tonight. Make no mistake. its been quisent for too long, and it damn well knows it. It's got a blood debt to extract. It's been quiet for long time. Taken for granted. The Beast won't stand for that. It's going to draw blood tonight, and it doesn't matter what the consequences are.

WELCOME BACK TO MY WORLD, fearless readers. I know a lot of you have been missing this part of your vicarious living existence through me.

I'll lay a $100 to your $1 that my hit stats climb the f-ing mountain tomorrow.

It's a bet. See you Thursday.

Michael

The Wicker Pedia Tag

February 18th, 1966 - Yeah, that's me

Histrionic Events

1685 - Fort St. Louis is established by a Frenchman at Matagorda Bay thus forming the basis for France's claim to Texas. That would be the last time some cowardly frog claimed any part of Texas. You'll note, that this isn't in the history books. The French rolled over and played dead for the first explorer from another country that set foot there.

1878 - The Lincoln County War begins in Lincoln County, New Mexico. I have roots in New Mexico. Tracing all the way back to Prentice White - born on the Mayflower. So this is meaningful to me, if to no one else.

2001 - Dale Earnhardt is killed in a crash during the final lap of the Daytona 500, which was won by Michael Waltrip, driving in a car that Earnhardt owned. His son, Dale Earnhardt, Jr. finished second. Not to be morbid, but this was a special birthday event. Dale Earnhardt was a prick of a dirty driver, and ultimately got what was coming to him. Karma Boomerangs can be wicked. Go Jeff Gordon!

People -

1936 - Jean Auel, American writer
She manages to insert great sex scenes for Cro Magnon Man. But seriously, I read all of her books.

1954 - John Travolta, American actor
Give credit where it's due. Who else could play a Dancer in Staying Alive and turn and play the ultra intelligent villain in an action thriller. Honestly, he pulled it off much better than that manly man Patrick Swayze?

1964 - Matt Dillon, American actor
As the 'chick would say, ya'll won't believe this for a minute but I actually did a reading with the director of Outsiders for the movie of the same name that this boy was in.

Deaths:

1294 - Kublai Khan, Mongol Emperor (b. 1215)
It just doesn't get any more powerful than this dude.

1967 - J. Robert Oppenheimer, American physicist (b. 1904)
No one else in History helped kick the shit out of another country better than this old coon dog.

Holidays/Observances:

Gambian Independence Day -

Let's face it, you've never heard of Gambia, either. Let me put it this way. Google Maps couldn't zoom in far enough to see the borders of this "country", and I use that term in it's loosest possible definition. The overall outline on the West coast of Africa looks like a limp dick with a banana bend. As far as I can tell, they claimed the banks of a river. Or a stream. Or perhaps just a flood tributary.



Overall, despite the fact that only Gambia has a significant Holiday, I think the personnel list MORE than makes up for it. To be honest, I was hoping for a serial killer, or a Greek God of Sex and stiffies. Such is my luck. Such is my life. But you JUST CAN'T BEAT the combination of Genghis Kahn and Earhardt Pancakes for breakfast.


Beef, it's what's for dinner.


GAMBIAN FLAG

Michael

Imagini

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Lines

When you’ve gone that far, where do you go from there? I have the feeling that I made this very grave error back when I started this blog. I was fresh. I was energized. I was full of ideas about where it was going to go and all the things I was going to find out about myself and finally tell about myself with the aid of anonymity. The Beast was hunting full time back then, and acting, as always, as my muse and inspiration. I thought back then that if I told all about myself, that it would help someone, somewhere, deal with their own similar issues. I thought I could make the world a little brighter, one person at a time. I spilled practically my entire life history in the course of a two or three weeks. Every major thing that had impacted my life was laid out in intimate detail. I’d never even done that in a journal. I’ve never told the Sigo even half of it. Oh, I’ve still got a couple of dark secrets, but I pretty much laid it out down to the night I tried to bleed myself out in the middle of the desert. Renaissance came and went, and gave me a lot more material to work with. And jerked a few more secrets from my gut. The ER veered off course then. First it was the guest blogging. Then the Venus-Mars deal. And finally, it just up and f-ing died. There’s practically zero content in my blog anymore, when I do post. I think it crossed the line from meaningful to self-justifying excrement a long time ago. Deep down, I’m scared in my gut that if I don’t keep posting, even some frivolous spur of the moment garbage, that the small reader base I do have will bleed off like a puddle of water in a desert wind, leaving only cracked, barren earth behind. I’ve developed a few close blog “relationships”. I hesitate to label them friendships outright, because they are both more and less than that, in their varied ways. These, too, seem perched on an invisible, fragile, and very thin line, where the slightest touch will send them over the edge to shatter on the black rocks below. My list of fears grows by the minute. Add those relationships to the list. It’s been an incredibly bad year healthwise for me, and I turned 41, and I’ve reached that invisible point already when you start wondering if you’ve already passed the halfway point in your life, and wasted that first half. I fear that I’ve crossed that line, too. My worst fear of all, though, is that I’m becoming the bitter, angry, early aging leech that I promised myself that I would never become. I see nothing but the same four blank walls in my future, the same cage. I’m scared to death that my life as it is right now will never get any better, that there is nothing more to look forward to than paying bills, working, and watching TV every night. I’m terrified that my body is already writing my obituary, and that my brain will accept the final manuscript, and I will cease to be. I haven’t crossed that line yet, but I can see it glowing on the near horizon, approaching ever faster as it becomes a blur of light rushing towards me, to cut me down like a scythe at harvest. I feel like a robot already, with no heart, no feelings, nothing but lines of code, input, output, the sole reason for existence is to continue to process, without tasting or feeling or touching the world that the computer code describes. When you’ve gone this far, where do you go from here?

Michael

Blognote: I seriously considered closing comments on this. This isn’t a cry for attention. (Here I am, screening, explaining, and justifying again). This isn’t a plea for interest or more comments. This just. .. . . . is.

Good Drugs

So here we are again. I’m writing this from a drug induced haze – and not a necessarily fun one. I’ve had a minor back problem over the last few months that has escalated recently into something possibly more along the lines of major problems. When the pain got so bad that I had to buy a cane at Walmart in order to get around, it ballooned from a minor aching irritant to something a little more. . . attention grabbing. Sixteen visits to the chiropractor had only made it worse up to this point. I happened to have to go in for a quick check up in order to get my meds renewed. My previous doctor had flown the coop just after seeing me back in October. So this new doctor goes through my records, and renews EVERYTHING, whether it was a one time thing or not. We’re talking the good stuff. Sleep aids, tranqs, the whole kit and caboodle. Sweet. I told him about the back problems. He set me up with some muscle relaxants on top of all that.

Opening Day was Saturday for T-Ball. Newsflash folks. If your kid is thinking of playing, you’d better clear your entire schedule and rearrange your work hours. It isn’t like soccer, where you bring juice to every other game and just make sure that they’re there for practice. No, Little League, and T-Ball are a religion here in Texas. We produce National Champion Little League Teams all the time around here. To join, you need to pay double just to get them in. Then you have to shell out an extra $45 or sell $90 worth of candy. If you choose to sell the candy, they start you off with $90.00 worth, and at the end of the fundraising deal, you pay them $90. Even if you sold #5 in candy. Oh, yes. The shirt, hat, belt, and one pair of pants is included. You get to buy the glove, the helmet, the batting gloves, the extra pair of pants, the T-shirts for the adults. Then you get to work the concessions stand on opening day. By the end of the day, I was hobbling on the cane. I took almost double the dosage on the relaxants – nothing. So I called on Monday. They prescribed a better one that actually works. It also interacts well with my other meds, increasing their potency. It enhances the effects from any alcohol I consume. So in effect, my Anti-D’s are acting like triple the dosage, one beer affects me like three, and I’ve been walking around in a daze. Enough of a daze that people are asking if I’m okay.

It must have looked really bad last night. We went to bowling and half the league were asking T if I was pissed off. How do you tell someone that you aren’t pissed off, that it’s only you being somewhere else in your head, and not even hearing them talk to you? “Oh, by the way, I’m not ignoring you, I’m just in slow motion and by the time it registers 5 minutes later that you said something, it’s far too late to do anything about it. Have a nice night. Go Away now.” Clearly, it’s also affecting my chain of thought, because I looked up right now and saw just how long this post had gotten, and just how rambling it is. So forgive me. I posted. That should count for something, right? So here we are again. Have a nice day. I’m going away now.

Michael

Humor Break 05MAR2007

An elderly man in North Carolina had owned a large farm for several years. He had a large pond in the back, fixed up really nice, along with some picnic tables, horseshoe courts, and some apple and peach trees.
The pond was properly shaped and fixed up for swimming when it was built. One evening the old farmer decided to go down to the pond, as he hadn't been there for a while, and look it over. He grabbed a five gallon bucket to bring back some fruit. As he neared the pond, he heard voices shouting and laughing with glee.

When he came closer, he realized it was a bunch of young women skinny-dipping in his pond. He made the women aware of his presence and they all went to the deep end to shield themselves. One of the women shouted to him, "We're not coming out until you leave!" The old man frowned and replied, "I didn't come down here to watch you ladies swim naked or make you get out of the pond naked." Holding the bucket up he said, "I'm here to feed the alligator."


Moral of the story: Old men may move slow but can still think fast. .