For those interested in contributing to Hurricane Relief Efforts, some of the folks at Wunderground.com have started a relief effort. All the donations go straight to supplies, etc. for the area. You can read more about it here - IKE Relief
You will start to see the extent of the disaster over the next few weeks, if media coverage doesn't make it go away.
We were blessed with minimal damage - but the Bay areas.......... Up to you. But anything you give will be used immediately and directly into the emergency areas.
Michael
17 September 2008
16 September 2008
IKE Update
Houston got whacked pretty hard. I got out this time. No 29 hour ordeal. My house survived and we were very fortunate. Send your prayers for those down here whose nightmare isn't over. Gas and Food are still a major issue. The majority of the area is still without power.
Oh, and for those that don't think a Cat 2 is very unimpressive - this storm flooded Chicago, put power out in Cincinatti, caused Hurricane Strength Gusts in Lexington Kentucky, and did millions in damage to New York State on the way out of town. That was after we took the full power and toned his ass down a little for the rest of the country.
Oh, and for those that don't think a Cat 2 is very unimpressive - this storm flooded Chicago, put power out in Cincinatti, caused Hurricane Strength Gusts in Lexington Kentucky, and did millions in damage to New York State on the way out of town. That was after we took the full power and toned his ass down a little for the rest of the country.
08 September 2008
How Time Flies
An old friend from Otherland wrote me this weekend with a gentle reminder - It's been almost a full year since you've posted. Why don't you drop a post and let everyone know you are still breathing, or something, you utter dork!
So, as you can tell, I'm still breathing. A lot has happened in a year, and yet a lot remains the same. From the lack of posts, you can sort of tell that the Beast has been in hiding almost full time for a long, long, time. Nor have I self destructed. Sorry to blow the betting pot on that one, folks. Closest to a year without going over? Someone tell me who won - I want my percentage. I earned it.
So I'll try to get back to this. No promises. Life is too stinkin' busy right now for promises. But sometimes, as another friend wrote me this weekend - you have to stop and smell the roses, if only to push back the date of the impending heart attack.
Dream Well,
Michael
So, as you can tell, I'm still breathing. A lot has happened in a year, and yet a lot remains the same. From the lack of posts, you can sort of tell that the Beast has been in hiding almost full time for a long, long, time. Nor have I self destructed. Sorry to blow the betting pot on that one, folks. Closest to a year without going over? Someone tell me who won - I want my percentage. I earned it.
So I'll try to get back to this. No promises. Life is too stinkin' busy right now for promises. But sometimes, as another friend wrote me this weekend - you have to stop and smell the roses, if only to push back the date of the impending heart attack.
Dream Well,
Michael
17 September 2007
Dial Tone
How on Earth did we ever reach this point in life? People deserve better than me, and I need something else in my life. I'm incredibly empty right now. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.
There was a life somewhere back there, that I somehow missed the turn for. I look back along the road and I can't figure out where I missed the fork and ended up here. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.
I was almost happy once. And then out of the blue, for whatever reason, things changed. I missed the shortcut to the relatively happy door, and ended up outside in the cold, looking in, wondering where I'd wandered off of the path. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.
"Whatever you do, don't let them get this letter when they come. Make sure it gets mailed before they find it." The desert, the dust, the heat. Silver flashing, pain slamming deep into my arm, then numb. Looking down, tendons open to the dry night air. Moving. Terminaor flash back. Fuck this. Find a towel. Driving through the desert, blood loss taking its toll, the car sliding sideways, almost rolling. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.
Faced death. Been there, done that. Father died a week after moving to Houston. Middle of Lowes. Phone call. Shock hitting. sitting down in the middle of the aisle. No tears. Nothing. Just a picture of my dad, unable to get one more breath. Falling over. The doorbell ringing. Too Late, Too late. He was fucking dying awhile someone came to visit him, only he didn't answer the door. He couldn't, because he was dying. My mom wasnt' there. My Mom and first son enroute to Houston from Albuquerque. They were on the way to see me when he died, alone. I gave the eulogy. No Tears. He fucking died. What is left to say? Is there anything I can say to bring him back? No - just to ease the pain of these simpering idiots that put in an appearance at the funeral. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.
In one two minute explosion of emotion, I finally loosed the grief in a storm of agony, six months after he died. That was it. Nothing else. One little explosion of anguish, and then silence. Nothing to say. DIAL TONE,. DISCONNECT.
I hate where I am, who I am, my life. And no one is close enough to me to even begin throwing a lifeline, much less saving me. I built the fucking walls too high, too deep, too strong. I did that after someone got in. Got in and never appreciated what she'd accomplished. Burned me. Left me for dead. So I rebuilt the walls. No one gets in now. NO ONE. But then, there's no one strong enough to find the door to get in and save me. So it goes. It's what I do. Survive. No happiness, no love, just alive. Life support. Not brain dead, emotionally dead. No one left to break down the walls and free me. No one left even to show mercy and pull the fucking plug. This is me. Its what I am.
Michael
There was a life somewhere back there, that I somehow missed the turn for. I look back along the road and I can't figure out where I missed the fork and ended up here. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.
I was almost happy once. And then out of the blue, for whatever reason, things changed. I missed the shortcut to the relatively happy door, and ended up outside in the cold, looking in, wondering where I'd wandered off of the path. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.
"Whatever you do, don't let them get this letter when they come. Make sure it gets mailed before they find it." The desert, the dust, the heat. Silver flashing, pain slamming deep into my arm, then numb. Looking down, tendons open to the dry night air. Moving. Terminaor flash back. Fuck this. Find a towel. Driving through the desert, blood loss taking its toll, the car sliding sideways, almost rolling. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.
Faced death. Been there, done that. Father died a week after moving to Houston. Middle of Lowes. Phone call. Shock hitting. sitting down in the middle of the aisle. No tears. Nothing. Just a picture of my dad, unable to get one more breath. Falling over. The doorbell ringing. Too Late, Too late. He was fucking dying awhile someone came to visit him, only he didn't answer the door. He couldn't, because he was dying. My mom wasnt' there. My Mom and first son enroute to Houston from Albuquerque. They were on the way to see me when he died, alone. I gave the eulogy. No Tears. He fucking died. What is left to say? Is there anything I can say to bring him back? No - just to ease the pain of these simpering idiots that put in an appearance at the funeral. DIAL TONE. DISCONNECT.
In one two minute explosion of emotion, I finally loosed the grief in a storm of agony, six months after he died. That was it. Nothing else. One little explosion of anguish, and then silence. Nothing to say. DIAL TONE,. DISCONNECT.
I hate where I am, who I am, my life. And no one is close enough to me to even begin throwing a lifeline, much less saving me. I built the fucking walls too high, too deep, too strong. I did that after someone got in. Got in and never appreciated what she'd accomplished. Burned me. Left me for dead. So I rebuilt the walls. No one gets in now. NO ONE. But then, there's no one strong enough to find the door to get in and save me. So it goes. It's what I do. Survive. No happiness, no love, just alive. Life support. Not brain dead, emotionally dead. No one left to break down the walls and free me. No one left even to show mercy and pull the fucking plug. This is me. Its what I am.
Michael
14 September 2007
A Cry in the Night
I'm rapidly approaching that time of year. On the good side - its Renaissance. My eight weekends to escape from the doldrums of my every day life. On the bad side - October. Anniversary of my death in the desert. The one that should have been. I'm totally without connection to any of my friends here in Otherland. This summer has been oh so busy, and bizarre, that I have basically lost touch with anyone who meant anything to me in this Fantasy other place here online.
As for IRL - no friends there to lose. LOL. Try that little dichotomy on for size. I know there's a few readers still checking in. Most of those from the Barmaid Blog - for some odd reason, as she's grown more popular, and updated her links, she's never dropped me, and to this day I still get a lot of new traffic from there. Go figure. Mebbe she's just one of the loyal ones. Of course, she's 3/4 of a country away. heh heh.
Yeah, yeah. Just another could have been a nice time blown by Michael's mouth. No issue there. It will never happen any other way.
So here's to you all, and here's to hoping your October turns out better than mine - just another anniversary of a failed suicide attempt in the dark of night in the middle of the desert.
Dream Well
Michael
As for IRL - no friends there to lose. LOL. Try that little dichotomy on for size. I know there's a few readers still checking in. Most of those from the Barmaid Blog - for some odd reason, as she's grown more popular, and updated her links, she's never dropped me, and to this day I still get a lot of new traffic from there. Go figure. Mebbe she's just one of the loyal ones. Of course, she's 3/4 of a country away. heh heh.
Yeah, yeah. Just another could have been a nice time blown by Michael's mouth. No issue there. It will never happen any other way.
So here's to you all, and here's to hoping your October turns out better than mine - just another anniversary of a failed suicide attempt in the dark of night in the middle of the desert.
Dream Well
Michael
27 August 2007
Missing Anniversary
This post made One Year on August 15th, and I was so damn busy that I missed the fireworks. I'm still busy, so as my anniversary gift to my readers, I'd like to repost one of my most open, honest, and dark posts. The story of the night I died. Or should have. You'll want to keep the children away from this one.......
The Straw That Broke the Camel's Back
The Straw That Broke the Camel's Back
This particular entry is dark and somewhat – well – you might want to skip this one if you’re squeamish or have a weak stomach.
This time of year is Fantastic, Busy, Packed, Happy, Sad, Haunted, Threatening, and Hopeful, all rolled into one for me. Work always gets busy at this time of year. Construction projects start about now so they can place the concrete in bad weather but won’t have the risk of so much bad weather when they get to the finishes inside the buildings. Playtime gets really busy this time of year, too. For the next 7 weekends (and this past weekend) the Texas Renaissance Faire runs, and that means I get to dress up every weekend, exit my normal life entirely, and become a simple Renaissance Shopkeeper at one of the largest fairs in the United States. So basically, I am working seven days a week for eight weeks straight without a day off. Add four total hours of travel time to and from the fair, and my life gets pretty packed in short order. When I’m not doing that, it’s football season. Those are things that I look forward to in life. Simple things, actually. I’m pretty much easy to please.
Cut to the Month of October, 1985. Sophomore in College. Honors Student that basically tested out of my entire Freshmen Year before I ever sat foot on a college campus. Fall of 1985 – The stress of classes that I truly wasn’t ready for, and skipping classes, and problems with women still handcuffing me emotionally, and I was starting a increasingly steep and uncontrollable slide straight to hell. Do not pass go, do not collect $200.00. Toss some drugs in the mix in October.
Watch from above, like an eagle, as I pop two percodan to prep for the pain. Watch me lean toward my roommate, hand him an envelope, and tell him to make sure that they don’t get that later. Look down in judgment as I climb into my car, drive 10 miles into the eerily moonlit desert. Watch me get out, sit down on the edge of the dirt road. Wait, don’t go yet. Watch the moonlight highlight the razor as I pull it out.
No, don’t go yet. Don’t miss the tip of the razor blade entering the top of the wrist. This is better than Halloween. More Gory than Freddie and his glove. Look close as I rip that razor back towards my elbow. Oh no, no weak ass carving a notch across the top of the wrist here. Fuck no! Watch as the skin tension in the forearm suddenly yanks the open edges of my forearm skin back all the way to the bone on either side. Watch me as I look down in shock, and beginning panic, as I move my hand, and like the old Terminator movies, I see every ligament, tendon, and remaining muscle in my arm sliding back and forth.
I was lucky that night. Had my arm simply bled out, with little pain, I would have been dead that fateful evening. But when I looked down and saw crap moving in my wrist, I totally freaked out. I headed for the hospital, already disoriented from blood loss.
October was never a good month for me for a long, long time after that.
It’s a threatening time because Christmas is on us, and you’re already worried about enough money for the kids present, and the Sigo’s. It’s hopeful, because the New Year is coming, and no matter how jaded, cynical, and sarcastic I may become in life, the New Year will always symbolize at least a hope for a better beginning, for a step up the food chain, for something really fantastic to come along to make up for your suffering.
Michael
17 August 2007
Weather Report - Erin and Dean Come-a-visiting
Phrase of the Day – If you can’t do it right the first time, don’t take up Skydiving.
So here’s the weather update – Current Computer Modeling has
As an aside, Tropical Storm Erin made landfall and headed straight over
But we have about a week. If it does hit here next week, you’ll be hearing it on the evening news. God knows if it does, there’ll be no innernets, as the ‘chick would say, for no telling how long. Until then,
Dream Well, Michael
30 July 2007
Dealin wit' it
Oh good Lord be with me, the Beast is stalkin' tonight. There's a huge gaping hole in my gut tonight. Dark. Empty. Reeking of the grave. The putrid essence of decay, of death, prolonged and dyin'. Like an empty grave, waitin' on a soul, it carves me to the marrow, that emptiness, that rotting stench of death warmed over. It cleaves my soul, this loneliness, this empty basket, knowing nothing this side of death can fill the blank void of my soul. It's almost a year since this journey began, and as I come full circle, I find that nothing, indeed, has changed, or been solved. There is a piece missing in me. My greatest fear is that I'm Harold Lauder, the Prince of Darkness, temporarily absolved but never forgiven, an example for the Walkin'Dude. I knew in my heart that tonight, the epiphany, the answer to all questions, but when all of the questions have been asked, I'm still alone in my nightmare of empty discontent.There is a hole in me, a flaw, that will never be riven, never be forgiven never be healed. I walk upon this earth, an empty caricature of the foolishness of man. I could never die by my own hand, not ever, ever, again, but in my mind, I wish I could die tonight, to release the endless pain, the sorrow, the emptiness, the loss of any friend that I could ever spill my guts to. You, my loyal readers, will never know whatit is like, not haveng a single person in your entire life that you can spill everything to without fear of reprisal, or shame, or judgment. But that is the fate I find myself bound to. An endless search for someone who will find me attractive for how I am, not who they want me to be. Do you have any clue at all what I have given up, knowing that the things that did the most for me were outside the boundaries, unattainable, and a dangerous pipe dream
of a simple, naive, retard? For that is what I am, when it all comes down to it. A retard. A genetic defect. A smudge upon the cleanliness of a New world. Verily have ye found the stain within ye, and purged it out.God forgiveth sin, but he does not forgive naivite, because, when it comes down to it, God doesn't give a flying shit about a rolling donut for those who don't meet his standards. The meek shall inherit the Earth, but that doesn't apply to those weaklings amoung us who don't deal his word like an ace high flush in a poker game. God could give a shit about those that don't fulfill his holier than thou proverbs.
That leaves the rest of us sucking hind tit on the holy goat. Always the bridesmaid, but never the bride. He is real good in his infinite wisdom. He'll suck the life out of you in your "holy matrimony" but at the same time he'll skew the fukkin deck when it comes to reaching fulfillment elsewhere.
Yeah, The Holy Beast is stalking tonight, selectng his kill, and ripping the life and hope out of those who have nowwhere else to turn.
Sweet dreams, to those of you who don't make the fekken cut. Your sacrifice, your sorrow, is but the foundation for the rest of the world's new hope.
Mike
of a simple, naive, retard? For that is what I am, when it all comes down to it. A retard. A genetic defect. A smudge upon the cleanliness of a New world. Verily have ye found the stain within ye, and purged it out.God forgiveth sin, but he does not forgive naivite, because, when it comes down to it, God doesn't give a flying shit about a rolling donut for those who don't meet his standards. The meek shall inherit the Earth, but that doesn't apply to those weaklings amoung us who don't deal his word like an ace high flush in a poker game. God could give a shit about those that don't fulfill his holier than thou proverbs.
That leaves the rest of us sucking hind tit on the holy goat. Always the bridesmaid, but never the bride. He is real good in his infinite wisdom. He'll suck the life out of you in your "holy matrimony" but at the same time he'll skew the fukkin deck when it comes to reaching fulfillment elsewhere.
Yeah, The Holy Beast is stalking tonight, selectng his kill, and ripping the life and hope out of those who have nowwhere else to turn.
Sweet dreams, to those of you who don't make the fekken cut. Your sacrifice, your sorrow, is but the foundation for the rest of the world's new hope.
Mike
To Whom It May Concern
I'm alive. Work is a bitch. The Beast is prowling. Once work gets cooled down, I'll be back to regular posting. Until then......... Dream Well.
Michael
Michael
16 July 2007
Solitary Confinement
Still in solitary. But it seems one of the warden's little bitches got taken by the Three Amigos awhile back, so instead of the evening meal tonight, I got a laptop slid through the little slot in the door. No internet access, but it has a word processor, so I have a few seconds to send a little message, along with the instructions on how to send this post.
I have no way of knowing, at this point, whether Booger managed an email or not, but I'm seriously doubting it. So the summary of what happened.... we left our hero with an open cell door, and many minutes for kindly visitors to stop by and take a piece of rookie ass for free. Didn't happen. I sort of had a blackout in the middle of it, and don't remember much, but, call me what you will, I like to retain control of the one way traffic out my ass. Call me a damn traffic cop, but this is a one way street as far as you are concerned, fellas, and I feel somewhat strongly about that, even more so when I haven't had alcoholic drink one. I suppose a shot of X would grease the particular skids in question, or so I've heard, but that's probably the one non injectable drug that I didn't get the opportunity to try.
So I freaked. I'm a little guy, and don't fight, but damn it all, you better kill me, cause when I get out of the hospital I'm well and truly going to ruin you permanently.
I came to my senses with Booger standing over me, three pummeled bad asses surrounding me, and all kinds of guards looking through the damn bars in amazement, wondering how I'd managed to smuggle a couple of bats and a wood axe into my cell to create the damage on these poor souls.
I couldn't tell you. Neither could anyone else, cause Booger ain't a real good story teller, if you know what I mean.
So they tossed me in solitary. With the "attempt to maim" charge suddenly making so much more sense to most of the prison employees. But it made an impression on some folks, I guess. more corruption in the system. But I'm getting out soon. And there have been notes stuffed in the mashed potatoes of who to contact when I get out.
I'm pretty much employed for life, once I'm outta this hole.
If I could only remember what I did to those punks..........
Michael
I have no way of knowing, at this point, whether Booger managed an email or not, but I'm seriously doubting it. So the summary of what happened.... we left our hero with an open cell door, and many minutes for kindly visitors to stop by and take a piece of rookie ass for free. Didn't happen. I sort of had a blackout in the middle of it, and don't remember much, but, call me what you will, I like to retain control of the one way traffic out my ass. Call me a damn traffic cop, but this is a one way street as far as you are concerned, fellas, and I feel somewhat strongly about that, even more so when I haven't had alcoholic drink one. I suppose a shot of X would grease the particular skids in question, or so I've heard, but that's probably the one non injectable drug that I didn't get the opportunity to try.
So I freaked. I'm a little guy, and don't fight, but damn it all, you better kill me, cause when I get out of the hospital I'm well and truly going to ruin you permanently.
I came to my senses with Booger standing over me, three pummeled bad asses surrounding me, and all kinds of guards looking through the damn bars in amazement, wondering how I'd managed to smuggle a couple of bats and a wood axe into my cell to create the damage on these poor souls.
I couldn't tell you. Neither could anyone else, cause Booger ain't a real good story teller, if you know what I mean.
So they tossed me in solitary. With the "attempt to maim" charge suddenly making so much more sense to most of the prison employees. But it made an impression on some folks, I guess. more corruption in the system. But I'm getting out soon. And there have been notes stuffed in the mashed potatoes of who to contact when I get out.
I'm pretty much employed for life, once I'm outta this hole.
If I could only remember what I did to those punks..........
Michael
10 July 2007
In Dem Kuuler day 2
Yes, my loyel posse, I surfived the nite with my rektm, my ass intact. Unforchenitly, the aktuns I tuk, got me in soliterry fuk it. Mike wint syko and wupped da chit out of all dem stoopid biches. Now him in da kuuler, and I, him cell buddy, gotta try un type dis stoopid chit for em, cuz now I oh him one, and he caynt git out of dem kuuler to do dis stoopid chit. He say, Booger, yu gotta tellem my posse dat I made it. Goddam it hard enough tiiping in dis web address hoo hoo, now I gotta try and pass dat meesseg to him posse. Dis aynt workin so good, gotcha? I spell pretty gud, was smartest fello in Hokachie, Texes, but him tok too much hi falootin bull pukky for me. Ifn I dident oh him 1, i tellem get yur stoopid ass out of Kuuler and tiip this chit yerself, collej boy. But dem boys was gonna tayk turns on Booger after they rip newby Mike a new assho, and he dun sav my po Booger ass, so nows i goottah do dis chit for him. I's supposed to siine dis chit, 2, but him gonnah hav 2 deel wit it. Booger.
22 June 2007
Incarcerated - Day 1
Things didn't really work out as well as I expected. Apparently, the wheels of justice only grind long and slow if you are a hardened criminal. If you are a first offender with nothing more on your record than your last ticket for not coming to a full stop at a stop sign back in 1994, you are apparently qualified for the Jet Stream Processing at the City Lock Up. No sooner than the word came down from the Powers that be at the University of Houston that they took offense at the beating of one of their anger management psychologists, than the Houston Police Department showed up at my office with some handy little paperwork in triplicate, and a single pair of hinged handcuffs. THEY had no anxiety and experienced no traumatic disorder at the thought of me beating the shit out of one of them. In fact, it was immediately apparent that this isn't the first time that the anger management professor/guru/victim waiting to happen had been beaten by an enraged student. Apparently, this happens frequently enough that the skids through processing are already greased.
The HPD has reached a new level of technology. They no longer have to use the ink for finger prints. Just place your hands and palms flat against the little window on the machine there, if you please sir. No sir, try and sort of place them inside the outlines of the hands on the glass there. Much better. No sir, please don't tuck your thumb underneath. You what? My apologies, sir. I wasn't aware that you were missing a left thumb. >>Clearly the stupid MF wasn't aware of the magnetic plate holding the top of my skull together, as he leaned forward with his cell phone in one pocket and his little flash disk hanging from his flash disk necklace - you know the ones. Its the in style now to have your flash drive swinging back and forth over your shirt. He'll think twice about wearing it that way again once he tries to pull all of the fingerprint data that he's collected today off that magnetically garbled disk, or tries to pull his 250 person contact list off his damn cell phone.<<
I suppose I should thank all of the bleeding heart liberals for the position I'm in right now. As an incarcerated convict, I'm not only guaranteed the right to an hour of exercise a day (Paris Hilton notwithstanding), I'm also entitled to three square meals a day at the taxpayers expense and one hour of free internet access - which the general public pays monthly for. I'm here for a guaranteed six weeks. As the perpetrator of an assault with intent to maim >>Someone tell me how my public defender let THAT one sneak through without a fight<< I'm not entitled to stay in the White Collar Crime block. No, I get to spend my six weeks in D Block with the other similarly violent offenders. Actually, I'm fucking terrified, but I can't afford to let any of these brainless brutes know it. But my time is up. They're coming to escort me back to my cell, where I'll be allowed a minimum of 30 minutes "limited visitation" with cell doors open to better get to know my fellow convicts. Just long enough for the three pricks that I looked wrong at when I sat down to eat today, to enter my cell and do whatever the hell it is they're going to do to me before they lock us down. My cellmate here doesn't exactly get any positive votes from me, either. I rather expect that he'll be joining in the festivities rather than prevent them. Or he'll look the other way, biding his time until the moment I drop off to sleep before making a move of his own. I'm not very big, physically, and I didn't have weeks to build up for this coming crisis at the gym, due to Speedy and efficient justice. It's going to be a long night, and one that I may not make it through.
The HPD has reached a new level of technology. They no longer have to use the ink for finger prints. Just place your hands and palms flat against the little window on the machine there, if you please sir. No sir, try and sort of place them inside the outlines of the hands on the glass there. Much better. No sir, please don't tuck your thumb underneath. You what? My apologies, sir. I wasn't aware that you were missing a left thumb. >>Clearly the stupid MF wasn't aware of the magnetic plate holding the top of my skull together, as he leaned forward with his cell phone in one pocket and his little flash disk hanging from his flash disk necklace - you know the ones. Its the in style now to have your flash drive swinging back and forth over your shirt. He'll think twice about wearing it that way again once he tries to pull all of the fingerprint data that he's collected today off that magnetically garbled disk, or tries to pull his 250 person contact list off his damn cell phone.<<
I suppose I should thank all of the bleeding heart liberals for the position I'm in right now. As an incarcerated convict, I'm not only guaranteed the right to an hour of exercise a day (Paris Hilton notwithstanding), I'm also entitled to three square meals a day at the taxpayers expense and one hour of free internet access - which the general public pays monthly for. I'm here for a guaranteed six weeks. As the perpetrator of an assault with intent to maim >>Someone tell me how my public defender let THAT one sneak through without a fight<< I'm not entitled to stay in the White Collar Crime block. No, I get to spend my six weeks in D Block with the other similarly violent offenders. Actually, I'm fucking terrified, but I can't afford to let any of these brainless brutes know it. But my time is up. They're coming to escort me back to my cell, where I'll be allowed a minimum of 30 minutes "limited visitation" with cell doors open to better get to know my fellow convicts. Just long enough for the three pricks that I looked wrong at when I sat down to eat today, to enter my cell and do whatever the hell it is they're going to do to me before they lock us down. My cellmate here doesn't exactly get any positive votes from me, either. I rather expect that he'll be joining in the festivities rather than prevent them. Or he'll look the other way, biding his time until the moment I drop off to sleep before making a move of his own. I'm not very big, physically, and I didn't have weeks to build up for this coming crisis at the gym, due to Speedy and efficient justice. It's going to be a long night, and one that I may not make it through.
21 June 2007
Other Issues
I have major issues with friends at this point in time. Or folks that I believed were friends. Friends that look for excuses to bail and do exactly the opposite of what they say they are going to. I have to believe that, at this point in time, that I am just about the most naive MF in the world, because for some reason I keep believing that the standards I hold my self to for friendship and otherwise are something that others should be able to reach. Turns out that is a load of childish fantasy, as evidently I am the only one that can live up to my own friendship standards.
People say they're buddies. Yet they will turn the other way as you drop off the face of the earth without a trace, and never once look to see that you've fallen over the edge.
People say they're with you through thick and thin, and yet the first time you challenge something in their world view, they'll brush you out of their sorry little lives without a second thought, on the slim excuse that you just don't fit in anymore.
People say that they're tolerant of their friends shortcomings, yet a single email is enough to send them fleeing for the nearest doorway, without even the common courtesy of explaining why you are no longer worthy of their neurotic little world view.
Yeah, I'm the naive dumbass here, because loyalty and brotherhood have always been tops on my list. Evidently, the military had too much of an influence on me in these matters, because in the Enclosed little world of the average civilian - Civvy's for short, loyalty means less than the fake friendship that they wipe their sorry little asses with.
People say they're buddies. Yet they will turn the other way as you drop off the face of the earth without a trace, and never once look to see that you've fallen over the edge.
People say they're with you through thick and thin, and yet the first time you challenge something in their world view, they'll brush you out of their sorry little lives without a second thought, on the slim excuse that you just don't fit in anymore.
People say that they're tolerant of their friends shortcomings, yet a single email is enough to send them fleeing for the nearest doorway, without even the common courtesy of explaining why you are no longer worthy of their neurotic little world view.
Yeah, I'm the naive dumbass here, because loyalty and brotherhood have always been tops on my list. Evidently, the military had too much of an influence on me in these matters, because in the Enclosed little world of the average civilian - Civvy's for short, loyalty means less than the fake friendship that they wipe their sorry little asses with.
Anger Management
Today isn't a real good day. For a long time, I've had anger issues. My fuse has made short look like the longest yard. After a long time, I decided that maybe a little help was in order. So I signed up for the Anger Management Class at the Houston University Department of Psychology.
I showed up for the first class, brand new books in hand, hoping to find a solution to my dilemma. The first class in the curriculum, it seems, is group therapy. I sat and listened to 15 of the same stupid mF's that drive me nuts every day whine about how the world angers them, and how they feel they need to be empowered to resolve that dilemma without resorting to a temper tantrum.
Jesus God, by the time I got up for my turn, I was ready to kill every one of the whining little bitches.
Each face became a mask as I explained my morning commute, and why each and every road rage incident on my way to work made me want to get out and beat the shit out of the loser drivers in front of me.
They started to move away when I explained that walking in the door to a house full of defiant 6 and 4 year olds, whining like babies and throwing tantrums like a spoiled little three year old made me really wish that I could beat the little attitude out of their smart ass little butts.
The class basically cleared out as I explained to them that someday, my boss and I were going to get into it, and only one of us was going to walk away, whether he was born and raised in South Philly or not.
The Instructor decided to pull an intervention at this point. He asked me to turn to Chapter 3 of Required Course Curriculum Book Number Two, and read out loud the first three paragraphs of the chapter. I counted to three and pulled out the book, taking my time finding the reference as I used the interlude to calm down. Then I started reading aloud,
"Anger is the outlet that subjects with poor self image use to empower......"
That stupid cocksucker was empowered enough to withstand three full roundhouse punches before he hit the ground, looking for a straw to insert into his shattered nose, so he could breathe. I guess he wanted to empower his shnoz to live and breath through the beating, to better improve its worthless self image.
Unfortunately for me, the rest of the empowered little cocksuckers called security. So today isn't a really good day, as I wait to determine whether or not the University will side with him, empowering him to press charges with the Houston Police Department.
Holding my breath, Michael
I showed up for the first class, brand new books in hand, hoping to find a solution to my dilemma. The first class in the curriculum, it seems, is group therapy. I sat and listened to 15 of the same stupid mF's that drive me nuts every day whine about how the world angers them, and how they feel they need to be empowered to resolve that dilemma without resorting to a temper tantrum.
Jesus God, by the time I got up for my turn, I was ready to kill every one of the whining little bitches.
Each face became a mask as I explained my morning commute, and why each and every road rage incident on my way to work made me want to get out and beat the shit out of the loser drivers in front of me.
They started to move away when I explained that walking in the door to a house full of defiant 6 and 4 year olds, whining like babies and throwing tantrums like a spoiled little three year old made me really wish that I could beat the little attitude out of their smart ass little butts.
The class basically cleared out as I explained to them that someday, my boss and I were going to get into it, and only one of us was going to walk away, whether he was born and raised in South Philly or not.
The Instructor decided to pull an intervention at this point. He asked me to turn to Chapter 3 of Required Course Curriculum Book Number Two, and read out loud the first three paragraphs of the chapter. I counted to three and pulled out the book, taking my time finding the reference as I used the interlude to calm down. Then I started reading aloud,
"Anger is the outlet that subjects with poor self image use to empower......"
That stupid cocksucker was empowered enough to withstand three full roundhouse punches before he hit the ground, looking for a straw to insert into his shattered nose, so he could breathe. I guess he wanted to empower his shnoz to live and breath through the beating, to better improve its worthless self image.
Unfortunately for me, the rest of the empowered little cocksuckers called security. So today isn't a really good day, as I wait to determine whether or not the University will side with him, empowering him to press charges with the Houston Police Department.
Holding my breath, Michael
31 May 2007
Define This.........
Michael -- [noun]: A poltergeist sent back in time to change the course of history forever 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com |
Now That's Funny, I don't care WHO you are........
Michael
Thanks for the freebie post, chick!
19 May 2007
Faces of Death
Despite everyone's best intentions, my regulars really read this blog because they feel the connection with my fight with the Beast. Folks don't come to this blog for humor. They have MIST, and Q, for that. Folks don't come to this blog for a twist on daily reality. They have Mac and Fringes for that. Folks don't even come to this blog for tech updates. Gyuss covers all of those with a professionalism far beyond a tech reporter. They don't come here for the Restaurant/bar update. BD, The Barmaid, and Waiter Rant have totally got that covered. (And yes, BD, I'm one of your three regulars and I do put you on the same high level as Debra and the Waiter.)
People come here for the same reason they watch Nascar and read Susan and Kristina's blog. Folks visit here because they have homo sapiens deep ingrained need to watch a train wreck as it happens. The real thrill of watching racing is the off chance that someone eats it against a wall, or explodes in a spectacular fashion. They go because, there's a chance, if they are near, that they'll be an eyewitness to the train wreck, or be one of those fans that catch the free flying tire that bursts through the chain link fence will take them out, severing their head from their body.
Homo Sapiens has always had a singularly eccentric problem. If there is trouble,rather than running the other way, we'll be crowding the police line, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gore and death.
Nothing makes us feel more alive than straddling that thin line, adrenaline pumping through our veins, knowing that a single mistake will make us the object of the next crowd's entertainment.
Homo Sapiens has at least one inherent flaw. Our thirst for an adrenaline high supercedes our built in survivor instinct. The regular readers of this post are no different. They get a contact high from viewing the depths of hell. They don't want humor here. They don't want quaint little pictures. They want to see just how close I'll come to being overwhelmed and pulling the trigger. They would have their finger along side mine on the trigger, if they possibly could. Because my true readers deal with the same shit I deal with on a daily basis. They want to succeed with me, or, if that isn't in the cards, they want to watch the burning explosion of self destruction, and maybe, just maybe, avoid their own Ground Zero by a cunt hair, catching one small life line or another that I missed in the process.
So view to your heart's content, my regulars. Know that the daily fight goes on, and each day that I wake up alive, and breathing, is a salute to the hardiness of mankind. The will to live, despite the fact that everything in your life is telling you to eat a bullet. In the end, love conquers all. Even the will to live. Sometimes it is easier to die than to live without hope.
Michael
18 May 2007
Ah, Summer
Once again, the Aussies have shown themselves superior in dealing with tough situations. Australia is currently in the middle of one of their worse droughts in history. Water restrictions have cut residential water use for car washing, landscaping, etc. to practically nil. Car Wash businesses that are geared for recycled water use abound. In the midst of this stiff competition, we find that another enterprising Aussie entrepreneur has beaten his competitors to the punch - With an X-Rated Car Wash. Yahoo News gets credit for the details on this lovely innovation. I'm planning ahead for the drought in Houston!
11 May 2007
Friday Attitude Check
This is for all you wonderful folks that like to run around like the silver ball in the Pinball machine, spreading bits of hope and joy everywhere, and always reminding us that it takes more muscles to Frown than it does to Smile. Other than this choice bit below, I can only respond that I prefer to work out as many muscles as possible during a session, and I'm trying to incorporate a 43rd into my daily routine.
And now, for a good and timely example of Truth in Advertising
And now, for a good and timely example of Truth in Advertising
09 May 2007
Wanna be a Hit Man?
KB has found yet another great little name thingy. Feel free to play.
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08 May 2007
Peaceful in Purgatory
They lied. Purgatory is supposed to be a neutral type of place, a place where you spend time while
Purgatory, as it turns out, is a taste of the pain and suffering you’ll endure if they send you down that slide. It is the Cliff Notes Version of Hell, and Heaven and Pearly Gates have nothing to do with it. Purgatory might as well be the foyer to hell. Lying on a bed with every muscle in your body clenched in pain as they feed the IV line with the fourth antibiotic (which won’t work, either) as they try to bring your fever down from that 105 point it keeps hovering back and forth around. It’s not eating for four days because the very thought of food is like a strange and far away world. Rolling back and forth on the bed, shaking arms and leg muscles to let them loosen long enough for the pain to go away for a few minutes. Sleep Dep from four full days without two hours in a row of uninterrupted peaceful sleep. Sitting up in bed every five minutes in a panic, because you’re choking and you’ve coughed so hard and so long that you’ve completely ripped an abdominal muscle, and you have to sit up and lean over the bed so you can at least hold your gut in with one arm while the other desperately tries to keep you on the bed. It’s taking treatments every four hours with a nebulizer, in order to help you breathe, but knowing that the drug in the neb is also going to make you cough uncontrollably. Anticipation in that case is such a wonderful thing. Purgatory is having the little breathing tubes in your nose for 72 hours straight, pumping rich oxygen into your bloodstream, but also leeching the life out of your sinuses to the point that your nose and the back of your throat are nothing but layers of dried blood, their passages slowly constricting as another layer after another layer gets added. I read a book a week. It should have been a time to catch up. The only thing I read in five days was the daily menu, looking for something remotely appetizing to sustain me.
They lied. They said I was going to Purgatory for a few days.
Instead I spent five days in hell, wishing I was dead.
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