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.

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.

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

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!

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

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!

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

Wanna be a Hit Man?

KB has found yet another great little name thingy. Feel free to play.

Bloody Thumbs People Iced: Thirty Car Bombs Planted: Nineteen Favorite Weapon Shards of Glass Arms Broken: Twelve Eyes Gouged: Nineteen Tongues Cut Off: Two Biggest Enemy: The Arm Breaker Get Your HITMAN Name AWSOME-GAME

Peaceful in Purgatory

They lied. Purgatory is supposed to be a neutral type of place, a place where you spend time while Saint Peter’s reading the fine print on your contract, since you didn’t clear customs on the first go round. It is supposed to be a place where you can feel the heat of the hellfire, look down the red slide to the burning bottom, and possibly work that last bit of evil out of your body so you can pass inspection on the cheap bus to Heaven. But they all lied.

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.

Michael

Performance Anxiety

Jesu' Christo. You'd think I was performing for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. But I feel that I owe you all some kind of post after a month. I'd like nothing better than to post some lighthearted little bit with a lovely picture and all that, just like fringes advised. She forgot that that Shit don't make it out of the editing department here at the ER. So this is what you get. I cannot begin to explain everything and nothing that has gone on in my life the past month. Suffice to say She's probably leaving and there is nothing that I even want to do to stop it. I got home from a roadtrip Friday evening, and my stress level went through the roof the second that i pulled into the driveway. If that doesn't tell you that something is wrong, there is nothing that will.

For those of you that used to read this blog, I appreciate all of you, but there is just nothing to post that isn't negative right now so you are really better off finding a happy happy blog to go support your view on life. It isn't happening here. There just isn't a light way to look at my life, despite all of fringes good advice. Even jokes seem lame right now. So go find a meaningful blog that makes you happy. This blog will only bring you down. I love you all, but there just isn't anything to be cheery happy about around these parts right now. Sorry. Wrong Blog. See Ya. Been fun. Time to get your kicks somewhere else people.

Pirate Ways

My pirate name is:

Bloody William Vane

Every pirate lives for something different. For some, it's the open sea. For others (the masochists), it's the food. For you, it's definitely the fighting. You tend to blend into the background occaisionally, but that's okay, because it's much easier to sneak up on people and disembowel them that way. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network

Fear

Confused feelings.
I'm Drifting.
Not sure what I'm feeling.
I only know that it terrifies me,
When the Beast goes quiet,
and runs and hides from something worse.

Bad Day at the Office

There are bad days. Then there are BAD days. Friday was a BAD ass day.

We had important meetings in the morning. I dressed my best. Threw on my best dress shoes that I hadn’t worn since the Christmas Party. They felt almost magically springy and soft. I was loving it. I put them on in the semi dark. When I reached the Dentist, and laid back in the chair for the numbing narcotics to take effect, I took a close look at my shoes. Much to my chagrin, my shoes had evidently dryrotted. I basically danced my shoes off at the Christmas party. The heels and soles were crushed through. Pieces of shattered exterior were falling from my shoes like confetti at a parade. I buried them that afternoon. Do ya suppose MIST has a line on guys shoes?

I was in heavy morning traffic after our meeting. The lane to the right was merging into my lane. Everyone else was dutifully letting every other car in that hadn’t gotten the merge message 400 yards back. A large SUV decided to go to the front of the line and insert himself without waiting. I don’t like this. I don’t tolerate this. I showed him in one motion that he was number one with me, and to back off and fall in line behind me. After three feints trying to scare me into slowing down and letting him in front of me, the pilons of the right lane finally closed in. He misjudged his fourth attempt at highway chicken and did the old bump and rub. At this point he finally decided that maybe he WAS FUCKING STUPID after all, and backed off. The $250 deductible for repair on my right side wasn’t worth stopping and getting into an altercation with a clearly deranged piece of humanity. Nor was the wrath of the thousand plus drivers behind us that would have been blocked completely.

After having the filling for a cavity at the dentist, they stuck the little piece of carbon in to check my bite. Tap tap tap, then grind. The results pleased the dentist, no apparent problem. I told her that something was very wrong. It didn’t feel right. Something wasn’t working here. She stuck the carbon back in. Tap Tap GRINDDDDDD. With my jaw still closed, she pulled my lips back to identify the problem. Apparently, the entire time I was grinding, I was simply chewing away on my own numbed tongue. Yeah, it left a mark.

My boss informed me upon my return from the dentist that I was to serve as the sole scapegoat for losing a four million dollar contract. Because the firm that we’re paying to provide a specific service hadn’t done that service, even having been notified that there was a specific problem.

To close out the perfect day, I pulled into the driveway at the house, turned the car off, and reached to pull my satellite radio out of the car. The mount broke and my satellite radio lost its seat on my dash. They don’t sell them separate. You have to buy the whole $40 kit.

That was my Friday. What was your worst day?

Michael

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