I'm the bad guy
Monday, 10 December 2007:
My friend Becky died at 1600 (4PM) on 10 December 2007, not two-hundred feet from the restaurant where she worked. Billy (the shift manager) was concerned for Becky being uncharacteristically late, and alarmed at the presence of so many emergency vehicles. He finally stepped out to see what was happening, and saw Becky’s smashed green Ford Ranger and a body bag. She was 36.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007:
I’m still the bad guy at work. I was required to take an online quiz regarding computer information security, along with everyone else at work. My computer profile doesn’t allow access to the required site, though everyone else has access. I borrowed my colleague Nicole’s profile, with her permission and in her presence. I completed the quiz in short order, and noted to Nicole the irony of hacking into a computer to take a quiz warning us of the dangers of hacking. Nicole shrugged with a goofy grin "Yeah, but what can you do?"
"Well, I can mock stupidity", I smiled. I like Nicole (as a person, people! She’s young enough to be my daughter). Jim was eavesdropping. Judging from his body language and his silence he didn’t like my answer.
Wednesday, 12 December 2007:
I’m the bad guy where I live. My new landlord’s son, Travis, came by to vacuum our common hall. I moved five years ago the building was smoke-free. Over the last two years the new landlord has been renting apartments to chain-smokers - "drug addicts" as I call them. Second-hand smoke isn’t just dangerous, it’s illegal: we’ve all signed non-smoking agreements in order to rent here. None of the drug addicts have a right to smoke. I have a right to live smoke free. My landlord has failed to provide a habitable domicile, and I’m tired of her excuses. She suggested I move.
The smoking has made me sick: my eyes are burning, my throat, mouth, and tongue too. I cough up ash-gray mucus, and I’ve a splitting head-ache. The constant cigarette smoking interferes with my breathing and thus with my sleeping. My smoking neighbors, five women and a junkie-boy think my pain is a joke.
I opened my door at the sound of the vacuum cleaner. "I’m sorry - did I wake you?" asked Travis, pretending he’d forgotten I work third-shift. It was bright-time now.
"They’re still smoking", I said.
"Are they?"
"You can't smell it?"
"Well, yeah, it stinks," he cringed. "It’s not right."
Thursday, 13 December 2007:
Mike, our brand-new, 23 years old athletic director at the gym, decided to train with me tonight, after I broke a chain on the first heavy bag I’d hung - a coincidence? Mostly we worked on the heavy-bags, though I introduced him to the speed bag too. Mike is in good condition, and suffers aspirations of becoming a mixed-martial artist. I played Sinead O’Connor’s I do not want what I haven’t got, as usual. Mike had heard me working the heavy bag to her music before, and was curious why I didn’t play something more exhilarating.
I explained the timing of the work, and it’s pacing. I've no interest in training to Survivor's Eye of the Tiger. Mike was exhausted by the second song. "No worries", I cheered, "Just eight more to go." Mike hung in there as best he could, the first person I’ve met to last more than three songs. I didn’t let him see the scary goop I had coughed up: fucking smokers.
Friday, 14 December 2007:
It seems most have succumbed to Christmas-fever. Driving was tiresome: the roads were clogged with too many selfish people worked into a shopping frenzy.
Every driving mishap I witnessed called to mind Becky. We still don’t know what caused her accident. I was driving to the gym when a wild turkey burst from hiding behind a snow embankment and flew into my truck - bird strike - and damaged my hood and grill.
Saturday, 15 December 2007:
Becky’s service was today, held in Fellowship Hall. Becky had an incandescent smile. When she was a little girl she had an accident that resulted in her having only three fingers on her right hand. When I first met her - about eight years ago - she waved "Hello" as I walked through the door of the restaurant where she worked, and noted my double-take. "Most people don’t notice that", she grinned. I think it was a week from Wednesday when I last saw her, a big smile on her face as she gave me her three-fingered salute and bade me goodnight.
Becky’s service was standing room only. She knew a lot of people. Becky made mistakes: she smoked too much, drank too much, and swore too much. She was an absolute ball-crusher if you crossed her or - worse - someone she cared about, but she was always sweet to me.
I hadn’t been in Fellowship Hall in 20 years. It’s where my friends said goodbye to me when I joined the Navy - holding a dance there in my honor. I was with friends looking photographs of Becky when the crowd parted and a woman with an incandescent smile stood before me: it was Katie, whom I’d not seen since she was a giggly 16 years old. I recalled she was cold once, on the way back from camp, and I loaned her my leather jacket. I got my jacket back eventually. Now Katie is a wife and mother of two. I found her pretty much where I left her. Becky really did know a lot of people.
Sunday, 16 December 2007:
It’s another snow storm outside. I broke a door at work. I thought it was *stuck* - it was actually *locked* - and now it’s *broken*. I’m the bad guy.
Monday, 17 December 2007:
I’m a trained heavy-weight. I've no interest in alcohol fueled rednecks dry humping each other in bars. I was at the Applebee’s where Becky had worked. It’s one of the few places open at night before I go to work. As I was looking at more photographs of her put up by grieving friends and colleagues I heard some redneck tell me a "You’re a fucking asshole." I offend a lot of people just being me. I’m the bad guy.
I didn’t look his way right off. I just took of my coat and sweatshirt, down to a tight T-shirt, revealing the size of my bulging arms. I flared my 20" guns and slowly turned his way. He failed to make eye-contact as he went back to nursing a cup of STFU. His girlfriend whispered a nervious prayer.
Why is it when some chronic abortion failure is overwhelmed by the need to open their cock-holster and give me a piece of their mindlessness the best core sample they can generally provide is "You’re an asshole"?
Your ad hominem opinion is I’m an asshole: so what?
I’ve never been formally diagnosed but it’s likely I’ve PTSD. I’m often depressed, sometimes suicidal - BUT I AM NOT GOING TO KILL MYSELF. I have nightmares where I fail repeatedly to protect the ones I love - just had one today actually. I’m nauseas. This week my vomiting escalated to diarrhea, but has since faded to dry heaves - maybe I’m empty; maybe it’s all the second-hand smoke? I don’t make plans for the future because I don’t believe I have a future worth planning for.
My step-brother has an incurable, lethal brain-tumor. He’s 43. He has a teenage daughters, and people whom love him. The only member of my blood-family whom still talks to me is my brother, Dwayne, and that’s only to ask for money, and, yes, I sent him some.
I’ve been robbed and cheated repeatedly by the very human-constructed systems most everyone I’ve contact with is unthinkingly loyal to. The United States is a criminal organization, ideologues are impractical theorists, and god is a myth. Speaking observable truth does so quail the timid the best to be mustered in response is contempt or neglect: wrap your mind around THAT observation.
So what if your opinion is that I’m an asshole? It’s vanity to think one’s fucked-up ignorant opinion is going to make everything okay.
My friend Becky died at 1600 (4PM) on 10 December 2007, not two-hundred feet from the restaurant where she worked. Billy (the shift manager) was concerned for Becky being uncharacteristically late, and alarmed at the presence of so many emergency vehicles. He finally stepped out to see what was happening, and saw Becky’s smashed green Ford Ranger and a body bag. She was 36.
Tuesday, 11 December 2007:
I’m still the bad guy at work. I was required to take an online quiz regarding computer information security, along with everyone else at work. My computer profile doesn’t allow access to the required site, though everyone else has access. I borrowed my colleague Nicole’s profile, with her permission and in her presence. I completed the quiz in short order, and noted to Nicole the irony of hacking into a computer to take a quiz warning us of the dangers of hacking. Nicole shrugged with a goofy grin "Yeah, but what can you do?"
"Well, I can mock stupidity", I smiled. I like Nicole (as a person, people! She’s young enough to be my daughter). Jim was eavesdropping. Judging from his body language and his silence he didn’t like my answer.
Wednesday, 12 December 2007:
I’m the bad guy where I live. My new landlord’s son, Travis, came by to vacuum our common hall. I moved five years ago the building was smoke-free. Over the last two years the new landlord has been renting apartments to chain-smokers - "drug addicts" as I call them. Second-hand smoke isn’t just dangerous, it’s illegal: we’ve all signed non-smoking agreements in order to rent here. None of the drug addicts have a right to smoke. I have a right to live smoke free. My landlord has failed to provide a habitable domicile, and I’m tired of her excuses. She suggested I move.
The smoking has made me sick: my eyes are burning, my throat, mouth, and tongue too. I cough up ash-gray mucus, and I’ve a splitting head-ache. The constant cigarette smoking interferes with my breathing and thus with my sleeping. My smoking neighbors, five women and a junkie-boy think my pain is a joke.
I opened my door at the sound of the vacuum cleaner. "I’m sorry - did I wake you?" asked Travis, pretending he’d forgotten I work third-shift. It was bright-time now.
"They’re still smoking", I said.
"Are they?"
"You can't smell it?"
"Well, yeah, it stinks," he cringed. "It’s not right."
Thursday, 13 December 2007:
Mike, our brand-new, 23 years old athletic director at the gym, decided to train with me tonight, after I broke a chain on the first heavy bag I’d hung - a coincidence? Mostly we worked on the heavy-bags, though I introduced him to the speed bag too. Mike is in good condition, and suffers aspirations of becoming a mixed-martial artist. I played Sinead O’Connor’s I do not want what I haven’t got, as usual. Mike had heard me working the heavy bag to her music before, and was curious why I didn’t play something more exhilarating.
I explained the timing of the work, and it’s pacing. I've no interest in training to Survivor's Eye of the Tiger. Mike was exhausted by the second song. "No worries", I cheered, "Just eight more to go." Mike hung in there as best he could, the first person I’ve met to last more than three songs. I didn’t let him see the scary goop I had coughed up: fucking smokers.
Friday, 14 December 2007:
It seems most have succumbed to Christmas-fever. Driving was tiresome: the roads were clogged with too many selfish people worked into a shopping frenzy.
Every driving mishap I witnessed called to mind Becky. We still don’t know what caused her accident. I was driving to the gym when a wild turkey burst from hiding behind a snow embankment and flew into my truck - bird strike - and damaged my hood and grill.
Saturday, 15 December 2007:
Becky’s service was today, held in Fellowship Hall. Becky had an incandescent smile. When she was a little girl she had an accident that resulted in her having only three fingers on her right hand. When I first met her - about eight years ago - she waved "Hello" as I walked through the door of the restaurant where she worked, and noted my double-take. "Most people don’t notice that", she grinned. I think it was a week from Wednesday when I last saw her, a big smile on her face as she gave me her three-fingered salute and bade me goodnight.
Becky’s service was standing room only. She knew a lot of people. Becky made mistakes: she smoked too much, drank too much, and swore too much. She was an absolute ball-crusher if you crossed her or - worse - someone she cared about, but she was always sweet to me.
I hadn’t been in Fellowship Hall in 20 years. It’s where my friends said goodbye to me when I joined the Navy - holding a dance there in my honor. I was with friends looking photographs of Becky when the crowd parted and a woman with an incandescent smile stood before me: it was Katie, whom I’d not seen since she was a giggly 16 years old. I recalled she was cold once, on the way back from camp, and I loaned her my leather jacket. I got my jacket back eventually. Now Katie is a wife and mother of two. I found her pretty much where I left her. Becky really did know a lot of people.
Sunday, 16 December 2007:
It’s another snow storm outside. I broke a door at work. I thought it was *stuck* - it was actually *locked* - and now it’s *broken*. I’m the bad guy.
Monday, 17 December 2007:
I’m a trained heavy-weight. I've no interest in alcohol fueled rednecks dry humping each other in bars. I was at the Applebee’s where Becky had worked. It’s one of the few places open at night before I go to work. As I was looking at more photographs of her put up by grieving friends and colleagues I heard some redneck tell me a "You’re a fucking asshole." I offend a lot of people just being me. I’m the bad guy.
I didn’t look his way right off. I just took of my coat and sweatshirt, down to a tight T-shirt, revealing the size of my bulging arms. I flared my 20" guns and slowly turned his way. He failed to make eye-contact as he went back to nursing a cup of STFU. His girlfriend whispered a nervious prayer.
Why is it when some chronic abortion failure is overwhelmed by the need to open their cock-holster and give me a piece of their mindlessness the best core sample they can generally provide is "You’re an asshole"?
Your ad hominem opinion is I’m an asshole: so what?
I’ve never been formally diagnosed but it’s likely I’ve PTSD. I’m often depressed, sometimes suicidal - BUT I AM NOT GOING TO KILL MYSELF. I have nightmares where I fail repeatedly to protect the ones I love - just had one today actually. I’m nauseas. This week my vomiting escalated to diarrhea, but has since faded to dry heaves - maybe I’m empty; maybe it’s all the second-hand smoke? I don’t make plans for the future because I don’t believe I have a future worth planning for.
My step-brother has an incurable, lethal brain-tumor. He’s 43. He has a teenage daughters, and people whom love him. The only member of my blood-family whom still talks to me is my brother, Dwayne, and that’s only to ask for money, and, yes, I sent him some.
I’ve been robbed and cheated repeatedly by the very human-constructed systems most everyone I’ve contact with is unthinkingly loyal to. The United States is a criminal organization, ideologues are impractical theorists, and god is a myth. Speaking observable truth does so quail the timid the best to be mustered in response is contempt or neglect: wrap your mind around THAT observation.
So what if your opinion is that I’m an asshole? It’s vanity to think one’s fucked-up ignorant opinion is going to make everything okay.