Random Thoughts 12-30-07

Random Thoughts
12-30-07
7:26P

I can’t be the only person who saw the whole Bhutto thing coming. Granted, I don’t think that SHE knew that they were going to kill her (yeah, she banged her head, right) when she came riding in on her metaphorical white horse to attempt to re-ascend her Paris-Hilton-Before-The-Disinheritance throne, but I knew that they were setting her up. She didn’t get back into Pakistan just for shits & giggles.

Back when I was but a young bitter crone, they touted her as the standard-bearer for feminism and democracy and everything good in the universe. They didn’t talk so much about how she’d inherited the gig. And when suddenly, as teh republicunts & other chest-beating war-mongers are putting the pressure on the now-out-of-favor Musharraf, she decides to come back from “exile” (if you call living in the lap of luxury in the Emirates “exile” --- especially with Unca Dick as a neighbor) just as the “war on terra” is sliding down the Murkin priorities pole faster than a sweaty stripper --- it was NOT organic. You could see the marionette strings from a mile away.

Sure, she enjoyed casting herself in the role of martyr, as she enjoyed playing the part of “democratic pioneer” back in the day, while we were still learning that she’d been put upon that throne by the CIA and Poppy’s cronies. She refused state security & protection, and then blamed the state for putting her under house arrest. She was looking for a cross to climb upon, and somebody gladly obliged her. Again, I don’t think that (at least on her end of the deal) she was *supposed* to die, as far as she knew, she was just supposed to be made a more precious commodity, endangered, threatened, valuable. Kinda like the Missing-White-Woman industry in this country. Y’know, if you’re a RICH white woman.

But somewhere, in an undisclosed location, Dick Cheney is rubbing his talons together a’la Mister Burns, muttering, “Exxxxxxcelllllentttt… heh heh heh…” The Neverending War goes on, just shifting the aim, momentarily at least, away from Iran, since the public-opinion numbers are more than reticent on that idea. We’ve got our Dictator all set-up for the conquest (“Paging General Noriega to the white courtesy phone, paging General Noriega…”), we’ve got our Martyr (no longer an expatriate, eh?), we’ve got her successor already chosen (I wouldn’t trust that kid any further than I’d trust Jeb Bush), all that we need now is a great, self-appointed-hero nation to come riding in to the rescue, to put all the players in their right spots upon the international stage. Hmmm, now who would that be?

One would think, with Poppy Bush’s rapidly-advancing chemical dementia (sure, the kind thing would be to call it “Alzheimer’s” but that fucker doesn’t get off so easy), that his long-nurtured plans for world domination (“New World Order” ring a bell?) would kinda start to unravel and/or disintegrate. Apparently not. Unca Dick is no longer “just” the dangerous motherfucker in the shadows, plotting and planning and pulling the strings from behind the curtain. It wouldn’t surprise me, honestly, if he became the “dark horse” (or dark lord, if you prefer) and last-minute drop-in GOP candidate right in the middle of their convention. But that doesn’t generally follow Dick’s M.O. --- he likes to avoid the publicity unless absolutely necessary, let some other schmuck take the public spills, while he sits atop his Uncle Scrooge McDuck piles of moolah, cackling and plotting his next move.

We thought that we’d escaped the Bush/pharma/oil nightmare when Bill Clinton swept into office, idealistic young fools that we were. It was just Poppy’s nappy time. How anyone can look back at the 2000 & 2004 “elections” and not see the hand of the “New World Order” at work, right down to saddling Al Gore with Joe GOP-Cocksucker LIEberman, I have no idea. I’m not generally given to “conspiracy theories” or much interested in trying to observe & predict the movements of the freemasons, but this shit is getting on my last fucking nerve. It’s like we’re stuck in some scratch groove on a vinyl record from Dick Nixon’s era, and no matter how they repackage the same shit, no matter how “new & improved” the next stooge/puppet will be (Fred Thompson, I hope that you’re reading this, you punkin’-headed moron), it’s the SAME FUCKING STORY, ALL THE FUCK OVER AGAIN. Didn’t we pass this way before? Are we the only ones who can see the déjà vu?

Maybe Benazir Bhutto really did mean well. Maybe she’s not the heiress-to-the-throne puppet that she’s always struck me as being. But honestly, as conveniently as the “Al Qaida” phone-taps and the “coming videotapes” of bin Laden “fall” into the laps of “our” government, I don’t see how anybody can look at this clusterfuck of events and not see a pattern as old and as blatant as 90% of the “film” plots that roll out of Hollywood every fucking year. Oh, no, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain --- oh, look! Shiny objects! Keep shopping! Buy another house that you can’t afford! Depression?? Recession?? Never hearda sucha thing! OUR economy? Why, it’s as stable as… as… It’s like a rock! Yeah! Buy another Chevy! So what if they’re built in Mexico and Honduras? Jobs? What jobs? Hey, if you can’t find a job, it’s YOUR damned fault, not the Preznit’s! He said that we’re doing GREAT! So shaddup and eat your commodity cheese, dammit.

Poor people? There aren’t any poor people in this country, there’s just lazy welfare-queen motherfuckers who WON’T work, that’s why we have to bus-in our pet “illegals” and pay ‘em a dollar a fucking day, with no healthcare or Social Security paid in. THEY are rebuilding Murka, dammit, so don’t you open your fucking mouth about it. Social Security? No, that was screwed-up from the get-go, it was never meant to work this long or for this many people, that’s why we need to pour all of that money into the STOCK MARKET! Yeah, the Free Market System will save us all! We’ll make a PROFIT on your Social Security benefits, just hand ‘em over and nobody gets hurt, y’hear?

Anyway, to get back to the original topic here, I can’t prove what’s happening, I can just feel it coming. Iraq had nothing to do with 9/11, never will. It was the staging site for, and I quote from some schmuck at Avondale, “The Ongoing International War On Terra.” As they’re building an aircraft carrier called the U.S.S. New York out of melted-down steel from the World Trade Center, with help that they shipped-in from all over the country. Why on earth would anybody hire LOCALS in Louisiana, after all?!?! Just ask the Shaw Group. We certainly don’t have any fucking IRONWORKERS here, now do we. People are still drinking the Kool-Aid. The same people who actually DID vote for Dumbya, both times, are still in that same exact 9/12 mindset, all evidence (and there’s an assload of it, isn’t there) to the contrary notwithstanding.

No progress in 7 years. None whatsofuckingever. Still sliding backwards on our asses down into the bottomless ravine of hegemony and ignorance. And nobody gives a fuck. Well, put it this way --- nobody out there/here, in the “heartland,” gives a fuck, ‘cause examining the truth, examining their own motivations, examining what’s wrong with this country, would reeeeallllly inconvenience the fuck out of the sheeple. If you THINK about the effects of your behavior, much less the motivations behind it, then you might have to CHANGE your behavior, and that’d just be a royal pain in the ass all over the place, right. After all, if we all judged or examined our own behavior, then we wouldn’t need JEEEEBUS to tell us what to do (via Pat Robertson, of course), now would we?!?!? That’d destabilize the whole fucking COUNTRY!!!

And don’t miss that lovely undercurrent of how wimmenfolk shouldn’t be fuckin’ around in politics, while you’re at it. Granted, I’m no fan of Hillary, but it’s such a blatant fucking swipe at her and any other woman who aspires to power (y’know, without being a lap-bitch like Condi, ‘cause NOTHING will ever happen to THAT little princess, will it) --- unlike the “powerful” women like Pelosi who hand that power right the fuck back to the massahs whom they’d supposedly challenged in the first fucking place. If the original overthrow of Bhutto wasn’t enough of a “hint,” then her “self-inflicted” head wound certainly oughta be, eh?

Kiss your daughters tonight. Their futures just got a little farther away.

I Quit 11-28-07

11/28/07
11:59P

I quit.

When I was a kid, probably 5th or 6th grade, maybe younger, I was invited by a “friend,” not a real friend but one of those girls whose parents knew mine and with whom I was “supposed” to be friends, invited me to her church one Sunday. I stole five bucks out of the donation plate. She never invited me anywhere ever again, but that was something of a relief, considering that all of the girls in that almost-middle-class, blue-collar-but-pretending-they’re-not echelon never liked me anyway. I was a freak, they were cheerleaders and election winners, even if they didn’t have the sense to pour piss out of a boot with the toe & heel cut out and instructions printed on the sole.

My first real “charity venture” was to benefit the YWCA’s Battered Women’s Program in New Orleans, because they gave me the information and the means to pursue justice against the crack whore who tried to kill me, where the District Attorney and City Attorney’s offices had done everything to the contrary. So I wanted to pay these good people back for how they had helped me. Because of what I named the multi-media benefit show that I produced, they distanced themselves as much as possible from the actual event and despite the fact that I stapled fliers to every fucking telephone pole in Orleans Parish, we couldn’t get any decent media coverage to save my fat, sweaty ass. All of that aside, I raised $1,400 for the YWCA’s Battered Women’s Program. A girl who had volunteered to help me, and who provided me with a slide projector that didn’t work, wound-up getting a job WITH the YWCA as a grant writer. After the cash was handed over and the show wrapped, none of them knew my name.

It took me a long time to admit to being and to “come out,” in a manner of speaking, as an atheist. Not so much because my grandfather was a baptist preacher and my Nannie a minister’s widow, but because of the emotional, verbal, and fiscal blackmail of having grown up in a state where “gawd” is supposed to be the end-all, be-all answer to uppity women, where we all must splay ourselves before HIS almighty authority, upon HIS altar of ultimate power, otherwise, well, fuck, we’d just have to take responsibility for ourselves, well, OURSELVES! You do not disrupt the familial “traditions” (rituals) that comfort the ignorant and fearful, the fake emotional baggage that is the wrapping-paper and bows of fake holidays that are somehow rendered “sacred” by affiliation with whatever cults. You could get your ass kicked for daring to usurp the all-encompassing, suffocating tent of “gawd’s” love-as-domination, sometimes by your own relatives.

Maybe it’s just my contrarian nature, but I always wanted to prove to the pitchfork-and-torch-wielding villagers that, despite their very limited knowledge and experience of different outlooks and life paths, an ATHIEST could be a “good person.” That, and I’ve always seen all of the work that needed doing that somehow, despite the thousands of overly-compensated bureaucratic bumpkins in this state, NEVER GOT THE FUCK DONE. Oh, sure, you hear about welfare queens in cadillacs and how gubmint social programs are the very root of all evil in Murka, because ALLLLLL of YOUR TAX MONEY (well, that part’s true, it’s not like the billionaires who pay for that propaganda pay THEIR share) is going to help junkies and whores and lazy good-for-nothins (like myself) who, though crippled, are just too fucking lazy/ornery/inept to keep a job and dammit, they just need to try harder! At any rate, no matter what percentage of your tax dollars actually goes to “help people,” down here on dirt level, you just don’t see that shit GETTING THE FUCK DONE.

When Katrina hit, I was trapped up here on the 3rd floor of L’Hotel du Fucktards, barred from heading to Orleans by the State Police and the National Guard --- they didn’t want to help anybody get out, but they wouldn’t let anybody else go in to do that very fucking job. Marc Morial Junior, the dumbassed republicunt puppet known as Ray “Chocolate City” Nagin, had already hied his family and prized possessions to San Antonio, and despite the fact that a huge percentage of “his” city relied SOLELY upon public transportation and had no system or form of egress from the city save for RTA buses --- they were all locked-up inside of the main garage and maintenance barns, along with the streetcars and the public school buses. Ray hauls ass, leaves a couple hundred thousand people flat-out fucking STRANDED in Orleans Parish, and yet, if you ask any ignorant-ass motherfucker in this country, it’s their OWN FAULTS for not “getting out in time.” Yeah, that makes sense, doesn’t it, Mister Murdoch?

So Liz sends $200 down here ‘cause I was still going to try to bust through the barricades and get down there and load-up the back of my pickup like a non-union construction foreman down at the Cuban sandwich shop. Then Terrible sent money. Then more and more people kept sending money down here and I wanted to get in my damned truck and GO!!

Couldn’t go. But eventually, as tens of thousands of their kinfolk and neighbors were being interred in the Superdome and the Convention Center, some of the luckier ones started to trickle north, what people could hitch a ride and grab the clothes on their backs and just hope to hell that there’d be room at the inn when they got here.

And allllllll up and down the Hurricane Evacuation Corridor, be it Interstate 10, 310, 610, or U.S. Hightway 61, alllll up and down that federally-mandated escape route, exits started slamming shut. Barricades, armed by militia-minded deputies and town cops, popped-up faster than mushrooms at every fucking exit off of the interstates and 61. Wide-spot-in-the-road places that only existed alongside 61, suddenly were shut up tighter than a virgin at a tri-state rodeo. NO GAS HERE. NO ICE. DON’T STOP. NO ROOMS. NO POWER. DON’T STOP. The signs were everywhere, but I’d give both of my tits for an inch of archival tape of the local “news” coverage of it at the time --- that shit disappeared faster than John McCain’s birthday cake. It happened. Ask anybody who got out before the death and heat and willful government genocide floated across the fetid flood waters --- there was no room for them, any fucking where. They weren’t allowed to stop anywhere south or southeast of Baton Rouge. Every little mighty-white township in southeastern Louisiana shut up tighter than a rector’s asshole.

So north and west and east they came, those who got out within the first three days, before the borders were clamped-down, something that didn’t apply when “laborers” were needed for the half-assed, unlicensed Reconstruction was to begin. When they got up here to Hillbilly HellHole, these rednecks, these republicunts, didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. INVADING COLOREDS!!! NIGRAS TO THE LEFT!!! NIGRAS TO THE RIGHT!!! LOCK UP YER DAUGHTERS AND UNLOCK YER GUNS!!! Every handgun in every parish even remotely near Baton Rouge sold out in a matter of TWO FUCKING DAYS. Wonder what happened to that waiting period?

At any rate, the money kept coming down here and we had to do SOMETHING (Dullard McDumbass was at least useful for SOME of the heavy lifting, just not his fair fucking share, by a long shot), so we went shopping. Diapers, maxipads, tampons, baby food, formula, underwear, socks, t-shirts, sweatpants, shoes, slippers, groceries, first-aid and diabetic needs, bandages, neosporin, condoms, tylenol, baby cough syrup, every fucking thing that we could think of, we were hauling out of Wally World by the ton. I’ve still got the pictures, but they’re not hosted online anywhere anymore. I never set out to play rescuer, though I did post on Craig’s List that I wanted to go get my ass down there and haul people out in the back of my truck. If I’d known how my people were going to be treated by their fellow citizens, the imported cracker guardsmen, the losing-their-minds cops --- I’d have said fuck it and blasted through those fucking barricades. All I had to go on was broadcast news and CNN, I didn’t have any friends in New Orleans anymore, nobody was calling me, asking for my help or calling me period. I listened to the “authorities,” fool that I was. So as the people filtered up here and were man-handled by the self-appointed “emergency authorities” around here, we brought them stuff. We took stuff to the New Orleans food bank, while they were waiting for the help from the corporates (who would, soon enough, shuffle us off to the side like the amateurs that we were, unneeded and mocked by those altruistic yankee saviors), we hit every shelter that we could find (preferably non-denominational) and we asked them what they needed. We took cold hard cash to the LSU Vet School because FEMA had commandeered all of their resources and cocked the entire process up severely (LSU can’t do much, but they damned well know some fucking veterinary science and animal husbandry, eons beyond the capabilities of the volunteer scientologists or any motherfucker who has EVER worked for FEMA), along with every bag of cat litter, food, dog food, hay, treats, toys, you name it, we RAVISHED that PetSmart. We did every fucking thing that we could and I re-broke my back in the fucking process. And y’know what? The only people who believed that we were doing this BECAUSE IT FUCKING NEEDED DOING, the only ones who weren’t asking us if we were TAKING A NICE CUT OFF OF THE TOP, the only ones who actually THANKED US for the back-breaking, knee-grinding, sleep-depriving, hump-that-shit-into-the-truck and go back and do it again work --- were my online friends. The people who funded the entire enterprise in the first fucking place. I wasn’t looking for fame or a fucking halo or even so much as a pat on the back --- but the only ones that I got, aside from one remarkable woman at the LSU emergency pet shelter --- were from y’all. It meant the world to me, but it would’ve been nice if the republicunts who’ve taken over this state could have at least ADMITTED that there were people like us, on the fucking ground, DOING THE FUCKING WORK THAT OUR OWN STATE, THAT THE FEDERAL FUCKING GOVERNMENT, WOULDN’T. The Salvation Army was in there, the very DAY that Katrina hit, with blankets and sandwiches and the best forms of shelter that they could provide, before the floodwater ever breached the levees. And what credit did THEY get for it, while the fucking Red Cross sat on their precious asses in hotel rooms in LaPlace, afraid to go in to that “gangland” where the crackers made up lies about all of the rescue copters being fired upon by “gang-bangers with machine guns”? Who thanked the Salvation Army and the New Orleans Food Bank, for hauling ass in and out of there every fucking day, while the crooked-ass motherfucking Red Cross SAT ON THEIR ASSES AND WATCHED THE MUCH-HYPED “MAYHEM” ON THE FUCKING FUX NEWS?!?!?! Nobody. Nobody even admitted that there were hundreds, if not thousands, of people like us, like Andrea in the 8th Ward, on the ground, putting food into people’s hands, putting clothes onto their backs, giving it our all, while our “government” fucked around and pretended to play the git-tar over in fucking Crawford. Six fucking days, it took for that cocksucker to ADMIT that 1,500+ people were being murdered in the streets of New Orleans, along the Gulf Coast. That’s how I got into the “rescue” bidness. Because the people whom we had “trusted,” the bureaucrats whose jobs it was to KEEP THIS SHIT FROM HAPPENING IN THE FIRST FUCKING PLACE --- didn’t do their fucking jobs. That’s why I wound-up batting clean-up, again.

Then came Lee. Susan came to me, tears in her eyes (a skill that would have served her well in the early days of talkies), telling me that Lee was going to die. Shocked, horrified, still drowning in pain from my nephew’s murder, I couldn’t bear to lose anybody else, even though she was only a casual acquaintance, she was the only person in this town who would actually talk to me. People from around the world responded to my online pleas, my heartfelt fear of watching a young girl die needlessly, when we DO possess the technology and the surgical skill to prevent it. Over ten grand, I helped raise, along with some of the big-wigs around here who don’t want me to know them, but then I was shut out. I could raise the money, I could set up the blog, I could shift the money from PayPal to the bank, but I couldn’t know how much money we had raised. I couldn’t know to whom I should send thank-you cards. I should’ve taken that as a hint.

All that I know now is that Lee didn’t qualify for her Medicaid this year, and somehow, Susan sees that as my fault. She had the names and phone numbers of the people who RUN THE STATE MEDICAID OFFICE, but for some reason, she lost her Medicaid this year. With over ten grand in the bank, maybe Susan should’ve gotten off of her ass and TAKEN HER TO THE TULANE MEDICAL SCHOOL CLINIC FOR NEUROFIBROMATOSIS, OR TO THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA AT BIRMINGHAM, where they wanted to get her into a groundbreaking FDA study on brain tumors from neurofibromatosis. But they didn’t. She’s still working at Fred’s, she’s not dead, she’s not “falling out” in the aisles, but neither of them speak to me. That’s what I get. I have overextended the goodwill of everyone online who had a heart and a few bucks to share, and I don’t even get to make a real-live, in-person friend out of it. Selfish me. No wonder nobody online wants anything to do with my fundraisers for cats or myself or teeth or whatever anymore --- that whole Lee thing, if it had gone the way that the scum around here thought that it was going, I’d have had a whole mouth-full of fresh dental implants by now, not rotting stumps and jagged shards and still haven’t smiled since 2004. If I’d have skimmed even 10% off of the top, the way that professional fundraisers do, I’d have at least front teeth now, if not all of the broken/shattered/rotting lower teeth fixed.

I spent 3 years at the mercy of Charity Hospital residents, medical students and interns because of a scumbag ambulance-chaser corporation named Morris Bart and his hack-ass chiropractors. I’ve had four spine surgeries in 9 years of no life, no career, can’t-keep-a-job HELL because I made the mistake of calling Morris Bart because I was too ignorant of our legal system to know better. College education and no common sense, eh? Just a cock-eyed optimism that our legal system and our country actually worked the way that they told us it did in American History classes.

After the first repair & its hardware collapse in the wake of Katrina, it took me another year to find a surgeon who’d actually DISCUSS the process of what needed to be done with me, instead of just barking, “FUSION!” and charging out of the room to service somebody on PRIVATE INSURANCE. Little did I know that Mister Sensitive, this first private orthopedic surgeon that I’d ever had, was going to stick it to me worse than even Charity Hospital sadists ever could. Yeah, put me back onto the lortabs and valium and keep blowing smoke up my ass to run out that malpractice clock --- “Oh, yeah, those giant screws are SUPPOSED TO BREAK, they’re really “UNNECESSARY” after the fusion takes place, and everything looks GREAT, you’ve just REALLY got to QUIT SMOKING, or it’ll be YOUR FAULT IF IT DOESN’T TAKE!”

I shit y’all not.

And me, being once again chemically-altered, like the 3 years of narcotics at Charity that cost me the last 3 years of my Nannie’s life, dumbass that I am, I listened to that idiot.

Up to a point.

Then it finally dawned on me, when I realized that I wasn’t going to get any more treatment than a big plastic brace and more narcotics, that maaaayyyyyybe this guy was fullashit. And, thankfully, I found Good Doctor. Simple guy, no bullshit, sometimes a little too perky, but he TOLD ME THE TRUTH. He showed me the x-rays and MRIs and CTs and all of the films and information that Dr. Jackass never would. He’d print-out black and blurry paper copies of my films, where even the most astute layman couldn’t tell that it was even a SPINE, let alone wherein the flaws and fault lay. Good Doctor told me, straight out, what needed to be done to fix it. Granted, I’d have preferred that he’d have done it all from the back, because I never ever EVER want to go through anything even remotely similar to what that second surgery was like, being vivisectioned and having my guts splayed out on the table like William Wallace’s. But he did what had to be done to DO IT RIGHT. PERIOD. He didn’t blow smoke up my ass, though the gut doctor sure as hell did, pompous poufy-haired peckerhead that he was. But that’s a whole other martyrdom.

And despite the fact that no lawyer, reputable or otherwise, out of the three lawyers that I interviewed, not a one of the fucks would take a liability case against Dr. Jackass, I still believed that I had been treated unfairly, that he had done his job incompletely and shoddily, to put it lightly, and that I deserved SOME sort of justice out of this, dammit. Never mind that I’ve been the patron saint target of The Fuck Joanna Society, a long line of perpetrators, dating back to my conception. Nevermind that only twice in my life has anyone ever been on MY side when I’ve been fucked-over or done grave injustices. Never mind that I have always stood alone, facing my assaulters, without so much as a prosecutor to fight for me in courts of criminal justice. Never mind that my own mother has spent the past 20 years punishing me for exposing the fact that I was pimped-out to her son at the ripe old age of TWENTY MONTHS OLD --- I’m sick of being the fucking VICTIM of perpetrators who ALWAYS GET THE FUCK AWAY WITH IT. I was not put on this earth to be the born loser, the perpetual victim, the one who can never fucking win at anything, even when it’s fighting for my own fucking LIFE.

I was right, and Dr. Jackass and his staff were wrong. Thusly I pursued that myth of justice through the Louisiana State Board Of Medical Examiners. I sent them my narrative, I sent them my medical records and films, I sent them every piece of evidence that I could beg, borrow, or buy.

And then I never heard from them again. Not once did they ask me for any clarification, further information, or more evidence. Not once was I ever allowed to testify before a board or even present my case to anyone, sole for the investigator who then decided that my case warranted “no further examination or investigation.”

In other words, yet another form of “FUCK YOU, YOU USELESS POOR BITCH!!!” from the great state of Louisiana, through another class-warrior rich bitch whose job, obviously, is to watch the asses of the license-purchasers. Just like the ADA is there to promote their own agenda and to protect “medical professionals” and the insurance industry, not to mention those corporate hospitals, apparently, the Louisiana State Board Of Medical Examiners exists not to serve or protect the public from malfeasant practitioners, but to cover the asses of those whose moral/political bents allows them to editorialize upon the bodies of their patients. Privately-insured, wage-earning patients deserve to be healed and fixed and to go on and live productive lives. Welfare queens like me, on Medicare & Medicaid and disability, well, it’s pretty fucking obvious, via the behavior of the majority of doctors, nurses, and aides who have crossed my path, deserve nothing but more suffering, mockery, torment and pain.

Thus cometh the decree from on high. If you get lucky, you get a human being like Good Doctor (and I will happily provide his number and address to anyone who needs the best spine surgeon in Louisiana), who doesn’t care that you’re on “welfare” (like I didn’t earn any of the money that I’m getting back from Social Security), who doesn’t care that you don’t come from a moneyed family, who doesn’t care that you aren’t there from a sports injury in pursuit of an LSU jock scholarship. If you get lucky, you get a doctor who only cares about doing his/her job well, and about making sure that her/his patients HEAL. It only took 9 years and innumerable nightmares of the public health system for me to finally get “lucky” enough to find Good Doctor. It only took 9 weeks for the state of Louisiana to tell me that my suffering, my needless further crippling, an entire other wasted year of my life, meant NOTHING. That I, because of who and what I am, MEAN NOTHING.

So why fucking try anymore? Why fucking care? Why even make an effort to be a “good” person anymore, what the fuck good has it done me? I give and I give and I lose blood and sleep and money and years off of my life, and for what? So that fucking FEMA can take the credit? So that some parasitic little rich bitch from Uptown can piggyback on my hard work and get a CAREER out of MY fundraiser? So that I can be accused of SKIMMING OF OFF THE TOP when I was wanting to give everything I had away to MY PEOPLE who were being dragged, barely living, from that toxic scum-water and then dumped into redneck hell-holes where they are automatically treated as ESCAPED CONVICTS? So that I can raise money for a girl who’s not dying and never know where the money went or why and then be treated by a fucking LEPER? So that I can be the “crazy cat lady” for trapping and rescuing and neutering SEVENTY-FIVE fucking cats about whom NOBODY ELSE IN THIS ENTIRE FUCKING PARISH CARED, even though it’s THEIR FUCKING FAULT THAT THESE ANIMALS WERE BREEDING LIKE RATS AND STARVING AND SUFFERING? So that I can be mocked and treated like the illegally-imported yard help, for caring about these animals, when nobody else does? So that I can be the same fucking leper that I was when I was dragged here four years ago, except that I am now a MARKED leper, a leper who has been deemed “dangerous” or “crazy” for MAKING THEM LOOK BAD, YET AGAIN, BECAUSE THEY’RE TOO FUCKING STUCK-UP AND SELFISH TO DO THE RIGHT THING, EVER?!?!??!

Fuck it.

Maybe if I can ever get back to something resembling “civilization,” if I can ever get my two cats and escape this hillbilly hell-hole, maybe then, I might be able to believe again. Nothing has really meant anything to me, nothing has been funny to me, nothing has really mattered to me, since Tater was murdered, and these same scumbag nouveau-riche white-trash redneck republicunts COVERED IT UP and let drug-dealing white-trash-from-money GET AWAY WITH IT, WITHOUT EVER SERVING A DAY IN JAIL. I’ve always been a cynic, but I’ve always wanted to believe that somehow, someday, I would finally get justice, if not for myself, at least for Tater, and it’s never going to happen. I am no hero, and I can’t fix shit. I couldn’t fix Tater, I couldn’t save him, and all that I’ve done since then has been transcendental masturbation.

There’s no fucking point in trying to be a “good person,” in trying to prove that an atheist matters, that an atheist CONTRIBUTES to what’s left of our society, there’s just no fucking point. The motherfuckers always get away with it. Money always wins. Poor motherfuckers will never count. And no matter how hard I torture myself in the pursuit of progress, truth, justice… It will never matter. None of it ever really has made a dent, compared to the amount of evil out in this world, compared to the evil billionaires like Dick Cheney who continue to perpetrate class warfare, who continue to create ways to further legalize slavery and outright theft. A drop in the bucket isn’t good enough for me anymore. It’s not worth it to me anymore.

The predators always win, that’s why Discovery Channel’s republicunt owners love Shark Week and all of those predator/prey shows. That gazelle never had a chance. They make billions off of the meerkats, but they let them be murdered willy-nilly, as if they couldn’t have intervened.

I should’ve saved myself the money and the postage and I shouldn’t have even tried to fight for myself, when no one else would. I’ve spent my life trying to fight for myself, because there was no one there to stand up for me, I’ve always been expected, despite never once understanding how human beings justify their behavior or their selfishness, I’ve always been expected to handle this shit and fight for myself, and I never win. Somebody decided that I’d never amount to a fucking thing, long before I was born, and their prophecy hasn’t just been borne out, it’s been expanded-upon to make me into a human target. Free shot! Fuck Joanna and no repercussions! Take another shot! Nothing will happen to you, buddy, ‘cause EVERYBODY fucks Joanna, so you might as well get your jollies by ripping off another piece of her soul!

So fuck it. There ain’t no fucking justice. Our government doesn’t work for us, if indeed it ever did. Only way that the government would ever be on my side is if I entered that upper tier of the tax brackets and “contributed to society” in the only way that really matters. So why in the fuck should I even care anymore, about anyone? Yes, there are quite a few people online who do truly love me, who truly care about me, who truly help me as much as they can. None of this blathering essay negates them or their contributions to my life. About them, I will always care and do my damnedest to help them in any way that I can. But the rest of the world can go get fucked.

I wish that I could say that I have, somehow, somewhere, served as a “good example” to somebody, to some kid who feels hopeless because she’s broke and isn’t given the same opportunities to get out, to succeed, to excel, as the rich, popular, connected kids are --- I wish that something that I had done in my life had meant shit to a tree and helped somebody, somewhere. I wish that I had taught someone, anyone, something good, that made them want to be a better person.

But I can’t say that, because I haven’t accomplished any of it. I haven’t accomplished shit. So why give a fuck about any of it anymore? The selfish, self-satisfied, self-centered, yuppie-scum republicunt fuckwad sheeple don’t give a fuck about anybody but themselves and their spawn, and THEY’RE STILL WINNING. Maybe we’ve had it wrong all along. Maybe there is no better side to the human nature, maybe we’re all doomed to turn out as venal and craven and predatory as THEM. Who the fuck cares anymore.

and you live through it anyway

Imagine being sold-off, or pimped-out, at the age of 20 months, to the custody of someone who views you as nothing but a thing, property, less sentient than the family dog.

Imagine being alienated and made the pariah by those who’d pimped you out, mocked for every difference from the herd, every accomplishment derided as a failure, every thought, word, deed, feeling diminished to the point of pure nothingness.

Imagine being taught that “love” means that someone owns you, that your only value is in the orgasms of others, in the pure venal joy that they get from manipulating you to their amusement, in mocking you with a greek chorus of their “equals.”

And you live through it anyway.

Imagine trying to kill yourself when you’re five years old. But they catch you in the act and blow it off as just another example of your “clumsiness.” All that you want is OUT, is escape, is freedom from slavery, and yet they can’t let it be SEEN that you want to die. They don’t care if you ever “get better” or become “something” in your life, all that matters is how you reflect upon THEM. And no matter how hard you work, how much you actually do accomplish, no matter what you might amount to, to the outside world, it means nothing, is nothing, has no value, because it is not “of THEM.”

Imagine trying to kill yourself seven more times in your lifetime, and always failing, and once, you LET them catch you, because you are so desperate for help, for compassion, for something resembling “love” --- and in return, they imprison you, throw you to the winds of municipal fates.

And you live through it anyway.

Imagine stumbling through your life alone, always alone, no matter the size of the class or the crowd or the audience, always, always alone. The few ones whose love you could really, actually FEEL are stolen away, because THEY have stolen the power of life and death and control over those whom you love, and they make damned sure that you can’t keep them in your life. You would give anything to have taken that bullet, to have died of that cancer, in their stead, because their lives bear so much more worth than yours. And you can’t.

And you live through it anyway.

Not only are you punished, every fucking day of your life, for the rest of your life, for escaping the bonds of slavery but not escaping THEM, for all of your failures to escape them, punished BY THEM, mocked, derided, humiliated in every way that sadists can imagine. They’ve already taken away every *thing* that your loved ones left for you, they’ve already destroyed what they couldn’t steal, and it’s still never enough for them. There will never be enough, for you are the one “sinner,” the one who “betrayed” THEM by trying to BE, by trying to be FREE. You are nothing but an inconvenience, an oft-times servant, less than human and more than a mere debt --- you are the object of all of their failures, their flaws, their weaknesses and hatred, you are the black hole into which they dump all of their evil. You cling to the two little creatures who still truly love you, because they are the only “family” that you’ll ever have, and THEY can even use THAT against you.

And you live through it anyway.

And then THEY give you a big box of sleeping pills as a “gift,” and then three days later, move your abuser into the prison that they built for one who had truly loved you, the one that they made SURE that she died --- they give it to him, to him and his skank du jour, and rub it through your face, not just in, but THROUGH, until the grains of dirt and crime and blood are ground into your very brain tissue. As if their hints were ever subtle. As if they have ever told anything resembling the truth, but all the while, their deeds, their motives, are nothing but plain, bald-open, wide and glaring for all of the world to see. But still, no one looks. No one cares. No one notices, because, after all, it’s just another crazy, fucked-up bitch, and obviously, she WANTS to be that way, or she’d fall in line and be obedient and take the pills and erase herself in pursuit of the almighty dollar. She’s achieved, in THEIR words, what she’s always wanted, to be NOTHING and to still get paid for it.

And you live through it anyway.

But you don’t want to.

You stick around for the responsibilities, the connections that you’ve forged, for the commitment of friendships, but what’s the point?

You’ll never escape THEM. You’ll never be enough to be able to escape, and no matter the kind words and generous offers of others, you know that you’ll never really get out.

You sacrifice the affection and love of those two little creatures who love you so much, who trust you to always protect them, even when you can’t be there to protect them from THEM, from HIM, from others --- you fail them in every sense of the word, and you can’t even explain it to them, if they understand, if they could care, you still can’t fix that, either.

They have thrown away entire human beings, in favor of their own greed and pleasures, they have taken away what few have ever really known and loved you, and they could do the same to those little creatures if they saw “fit.” And you live with that guilt, that shame, that failure, every day of your fucking life, knowing that you’ll never be able to make it up to those two huge-hearted little creatures who truly love you. They forgive you every day, but you know that as you try to withdraw from the set-up, the ambush, the trap, that those little critters only know that you’re not there like you used to be, that you’re not there enough, that you’re not loving them like they’re accustomed to, and all that they know is that they miss you, and you can’t fix that.

And you live through it anyway.

You lose sleep because of the abuse and assaults on others nearby, the flashbacks come back and come back and come back and nobody can stop it and even fewer care. You’re surrounded by ignorance and illiteracy and THAT’S HOW THEY WANT IT. You could be homeless, a vagrant, live in a truck, but you can’t physically do it anymore. You’re not a kid anymore. You get weaker and weaker and less able to defend yourself and provide for yourself and improvise a life for yourself, every fucking day. Because that’s how they want it. What you want is nothing but a dream, a fantasy, a waste of everyone else’s time, what you want is nothing but to parasite, to bleed others for your own comfort, greed, waste, whatever. You are nothing to anyone, you are a charity case to some, a loser to most, a waste of bandwidth to most. And it’s all just confirming what THEY have always said, what THEY have always begrudged you, what THEY said that you would never become.

And they rub it through your fucking face with laughter and smug self-assurance that their ignorance, their recidivism, their fucktardedness is, indeed, “right.” That they had every right to pimp you out, that they had every right to beat you down every day of your life, that they really are the Ward & June Cleaver motherfuckers that THEIR drugs allow them to lie into what they fancy is a “reality.” And they just keep getting away with it. They will always get away with it. They always have, and nobody’s going to stop them now. Even the one or the two who try to sympathize from within the “club” of their favor, they don’t give enough of a fuck to even listen. They were able to escape, so why should they care that you didn’t? That you fucked up your life, over and over again and that it’s “your fault” that you can’t escape now? That doesn’t pay their rent, why should they be “put out” on your behalf? Why should they care if you are welcome in their lives, or welcomed ANYWHERE, that’s not their problem. They just do what they’ve got to do to get ahead, to get out, to get away with whatever, YOU are not THEIR problem.

And you live through it anyway.

Car wrecks that should’ve gotten you out, don’t. Just kill off the one thing that you did have --- the brain that made you the object of their derision. Drug overdoses don’t get you out --- just kill off more of your brain. Drinking, smoking, weed, pills, sex, even with the lowest forms of life on earth who try to kill you themselves --- still doesn’t get you out.

You make friends, you lose friends, people get sick of you, they get sick of the unending failures, the lack of “success,” the lack of “results” of their investments, whether of time or money or food or books or Pez… People get tired of someone who can’t be fixed, or won’t be fixed the way that the rest of “the world” gets “fixed.” They leave, you leave them, you lose either way. Your heart, or what you thought that you had a right to have, this heart thing, this illusion of emotion, this myth of “love” --- it’s nothing more than a passive-aggressive joke to them now, and they just keep on walking.

And you live through it anyway, when all you want to do is curl up and die and you can’t.

And as many times as you’ve tried to die, all that you remember is the humiliation of failure, of the damage that you’ve done to the beloved, by your own “selfish” acts of destruction, and you can’t even “succeed” at THAT. You almost wish that there was a Courtney Love in your life, to pull the trigger that you can’t reach, but you can’t even get THAT right.

You numb the physical pain, you numb the mental agony, there’s no heart or soul or emotions left to kill, they’ve been gone so long. So all that you are is a shell, an automaton, a joke, and you can’t even stumble through a day without being mocked (might as well be back in grade school or junior high or high school or kindergarten), without being reviled and treated as less than human by those who fancy themselves “better.” You can’t even leave the cell where they’ve imprisoned you, without pain, without shame, without humiliation.

And you fucking live through it any fucking way.

And you hate it.

And you can’t even fix THAT.

Lucinda Williams melancholy nostalgia

Lucinda Williams melancholy nostalgia
4/14/07 5:59P
L’Hotel du Fucktards


Le Petite Fromage sent me (amidst yet another wunnerful care package) Lucinda Williams’ latest album, and I swear, this woman’s been living the parallel-universe version of my life. With actual success, of course, the major difference between our universes.
The timing couldn’t be more bittersweet… She’s singing, with that raspy, compassionate blues voice of hers, those delicate guitar phrasings, that folksy-country-blues melody, exactly what I’m feeling these days.
Tracks #1 & #3 are the hardest for me, “Are You Alright?” and “Learning To Live (Without You In My Life)” --- it’s like she was there the whole two years that I was The Boy’s co-dependent friend/occasional booty-call/emotional punching bag. And it’s probably because my back is fucked-up yet again and that I’m back on the narcotic painkillers (big pink Vicodins), but I’ve been missing his ornery, shiftless ass so much lately. Yeah, I get lonesome like anybody else, and I’m glad that I’m a spinster (especially after a year with Dullard McDumbass and his pathological lying and outright emotional abuse), but sometimes, I still miss The Boy. I have three books of rants from that era, that’ll probably never be published, and four discs of the highlights of my spoken-word performances. A good 35-40% of those rants & poems were about The Boy and how he would not allow me to love him with my whole heart, ‘cause he much rather preferred to throw himself at anybody with a pulse who’d fuck him (and then reject him and he’d come running back to me, even if only as a “mommy figure” to feed, console, massage, and make him feel better), as long as they weren’t ME. I was a self-imposed doormat for him for two years, I know that. I deserved better. But there was something about him, about the way that we fit together, emotionally, spiritually, musically, and on those very rare occasions physically, that was unlike any other man in my past. Hell, even he was better to me than those few women in my past.
Maybe I’m just getting old. Maybe I’m just PMSing. Maybe it really is perimenopause. Maybe it’s because that I know that I’ll never get back to New Orleans, and even if I could, that one sparkling moment in time, when I could hold an entire barfull of people in my thrall, as I spoke my words and became myself on those stages. Maybe I miss the idea of him, those rare unmatched good times, even when we were both broke as hell and had nowhere but bars to go to, maybe I miss the few good memories of when he was really there for me, when he understood me like nobody else ever has or would ever want to do. His sweat, his pheromones, were so burned into my brain, that I could walk into a crowded, smoky, stale-beer-on-the-floor seedy old bar an hour after he’d left, and I could smell his presence still hanging in the air. I loved him with my entire being, every flaw, every weakness, every hateful way that he HAD to remind me that I was never going to be “the one” for him (especially when he’d hit on boys, right in my fucking face, in MY fucking bars) --- I still loved him. I knew the gentleness, the generosity, the odd moments of sentimentality that snuck up on me, the strength that he willed into me when it came to standing up to The Dick for the first times in my life. I knew that he had a huge heart inside of that skinny-assed body, he just wasn’t ever going to give it to me.
And I still think of him from time to time, but lately, he’s been taking over what’s left of my drug-addled brain. I’ve known many good men friends in my life, and have some of the best friends right now that I could ever ask for, even if we never do meet in person. I’ve known much better men than him, and quite a few who were way worse. He is no one’s ideal, I’m sure. But he still owns a part of my soul, even though he never wanted that gift and never truly accepted it. Or me.
Ten years ago, he was my life, when my career was going into the toilet and I was working weekends as a half-assed dominatrix at the Dungeon, he was my best friend, my best lover, and the biggest pain in my ass that I’d known up to that point. I took care of him, I made him chicken soup from scratch when he got sick and his ulcers made him puke blood. I packed-up his belongings and was terrorized by about eight trillion nasty little german roaches when his bullshitter of an ex-boyfriend and lousy roommate got him evicted. I massaged every inch of that boy when he ached, and sometimes, I got lucky and he reciprocated. Not as thoroughly as I did, of course, but he did actually put SOME effort into it.
I can’t forget his hands, his laugh, the casual way that he’d lay an arm across my thighs, the way he always came to me when he was drunk, lonesome, and dejected/rejected by some heroin-skinny whore and I’d always make him feel better and nurse him through those alcohol-poisoning hangovers that lasted longer than his flings with other women and men.
He was hell on my ego, he gave me miles of material to use in those onstage rants, not to mention the back-bedroom rants/fights between us, when he still refused to even acknowledge that he even gave a fuck about me, when he knew damned well that I’d have laid down my life for him. And unlike most men, boys in grown-up costumes, he went almost every damned time that I was onstage, he sat there and applauded (and occasionally heckled) as I ripped him to shreds onstage, as I upbraided myself for being a fool for love that didn’t exist. He at least respected my writing, if he never respected the woman. He could make me laugh when the whole fucking world collapsed.
When the Crack Whore tried to beat me to death that afternoon while I was on the phone, in bed, in the dark, with Nannie on the other end of the phone, The Boy was there for me like nobody else. He held me when I cried so hard that I couldn’t breathe. He told me that I was strong and that I was getting better. He understood every fucking flinch and flashback and every time that I lashed out in paranoid expectation of more abuse. He was my best friend there for a while after the Crack Whore, until his current sugar-mama found out about us being friends again, and then she started calling my house to get dirt on him. Such a sane couple they made, those two. When his secrets came home to roost, and his lies to her were shown in the daylight, he hated me again. If he hadn’t made a point of calling her from my house (caller ID *did* exist then, y’know), if he hadn’t lied to her about spending time with me, maybe she’d have never called my house to find out who he was. If he hadn’t lied to me about so much more, maybe I wouldn’t have told her.
And despite all of the lies, the bullshit, the manipulation, the emptiness and the feeling like I was nothing but an orifice with a car (who could COOK!), part of me still craves him. After Dullard McDumbass, I feel nothing towards sex. I think that his abuse and psychotic hatefulness finally killed my overarching libido, that monkey on my back since I was not even 2 years old. I don’t miss it that much, really. I’ve had some fun fucking, and I’ve had a lot of fucking fun, but all in all, it’s never been worth what I put into it. 9 times out of ten, the boys & girls that I’ve fucked weren’t even worth shaving my legs, ‘cause to them, I was a score, an easy lay, something to brag about in poetry-jerk circles. Even the total strangers disappointed, which is supposed to be the antithesis of a one-night stand --- no expectations, no promises, no disappointment. WRONG.
The Boy was a one-night stand that went wildly awry. He was the one-night stand who let me know, two days later, that he had no romantic feelings about me, despite the 13-hour romp in the hay (with only a 20-minute nap, I might add), when he made me feel desirable, powerful, beautiful. But he craved to have me in his life, at his service, as his “friend”, that last-resort bitch that he could take his blue-balled resentments against those who rejected him out upon. He was such a huge chunk of my life, and nobody since has ever been able to fill his big, stinky, size-11 shoes. He’s the reason that my cats have a foot fetish to this day.
I’ve never been so comfortable with anybody, even though every other minute that we were together, I was torturing myself because I couldn’t “get” him to love me.
And now that I’m at the lowest low in my entire clusterfucked life, toothless and too weak to ever get onstage again with these disintegrating looks, lonesome and crippled again and again and too broken to ever trust or try again, he’s the one that I miss. He’s done more damage to me emotionally than any man that I picked to have in my life, more than the married Tattoo Artist (although never with the passion or the sex appeal or even the ability to make me feel so wanted, so sexy, even though I was never anything but “his little slut”, even he couldn’t surpass The Boy’s dent in my life), more than the Crack Whore, who gave me a seventh version of PTSD and flashbacks that still haven’t gone away entirely, even after 7+ years, even more than Dullard McDumbass and his remarkable ability to surpass any and all psychoses of every other man and woman in my life. Dullard McDumbass could spurt out the most hateful, most animalistic ravaging of my body and soul with a smirk and those black, empty eyes, but he never had me convinced that he really loved me, so even as much as he did hurt me, he couldn’t reach the parts of me that The Boy had permanently branded with his scent, his touch, his soul.
And here I sit, decrying lost love that was never mine, missing a man who was never mine, craving those beautiful artistic hands, that voice that could hit every single note that Eddie Vetter ever uttered, those taut muscular rangy arms that looked so skinny but could hold me so tight.
This is what narcotics will do for you. They store in the fat cells of your brain, just like old acid trips, and as soon as you get another whiff of the shit, every single memory from the last time comes rolling back out, like the fat off of a well-marbled steak sliding off of the grill.
Most days, I try to keep myself busy, even if only in my brain, so that I don’t fall into that “pitiful old spinster” shit of being lonesome enough to revert to my old life of one-night-stands that only make me feel worse, especially considering that I no longer live in a city, nor anywhere near a REAL city, and when you live in Redneckistan, you can’t fuck-and-run because sooner or later, they’ll find you again and talk shit about you until they do. You can’t have the casual fuck-buddies who’ll show up a month or two later, no regrets, no anger, just another booty-call with a familiar body that still feels so good next to you.
I don’t want a relationship, I don’t want anybody in my fucking house ever again. I don’t ever want to go through what I went through with Dullard McDumbass again. Nor do I want the long-distance-phone lies and jokes and sharing, only to be realized as resentment and sexism and utterly closed-off sex-war of that married Tattoo Artist. And I never want to be that weak, weak woman who worshipped at the altar of a Boy who loved my writing, craved my friendship, relied upon my caretaking compulsions --- but never once thought to love me back. Hell, if I have to live this fucking long, I at least shouldn’t ever have to GO BACK to what I was then, much as I miss being onstage, much as I miss the passionate writing that I did then, much as I crave the approval and attention that I could only get from a live audience. If I could travel back in time, and regain THOSE parts of my past, I’d be glad to do it. But if I had access to time travel, it’d really be to go back and keep Tater from being murdered and to keep the Fallen Uterus/Beastmaster from sentencing my Nannie to death by putting her in the worst hack-joint excuse for a hospital in the entire Gulf South. I would’ve kept the Fallen Uterus from claiming “power of attorney” so that she could kill the only real “mother” that I ever had, and so that she couldn’t kick Tater out on the street so that they could buy a fucking RV and TRAVEL.
But even though I can’t find The Boy by google or the white pages or anywhere else online, I’d still love to hear his voice, to feel his laughter resonate through me. Just to lie next to him, one of his skinny legs thrown over me as he nestled in my collarbone, our long hair tangling together like an animal nest.
Self-destructive? Probably. Pointless and maudlin? Definitely. But then, there’s really no logic behind a craving, is there.

NEVER ASSUME 2/14/98 - 6:14A

NEVER ASSUME
2/14/98--6:14A

I don't know why I have to address this up here, but since the topic keeps coming up in my life, like it or not, I figured this is as good a place as any. I've never had to defend myself on this score--not that I've never questioned myself about it, but--well, fuck it, here it is.

People look at me, and, judging from my fluorescent glow, just assume that I'm "white". White people look at me and assume that they can include me in their little "club" or some such shit, like it's okay to make half-hidden references to "those people" and to certain areas, like Orleans Parish, as being "too mixed", and that shit's supposed to be okay with me. Like, it's safe to assume that I won't get pissed off at their cracker attitudes, because, hey, I'm white, so I must be a bigot, too, huh? Lost a good temp job because of that horseshit.

Black people look at me, and I don't always know what they think, because reactions vary. Some of the snottier people look at me and mutter half-assed insults about "white bitch", as their boyfriends are smiling at me. My friend Tanisha tells me, "You may look like some bright-white girl, you might have been raised by rednecks, but you ain't white. I don't know how else to tell you this, but, girl, you're black." I'm not sure how to take that, but I tell her I'll take it as a compliment. She laughs, and says that I should.

My former Chinese friends looked upon me as some sort of novelty, I suppose. Although I never could quite get the hang of their rigid social codes. I had a Korean-American friend at LSU whose parents never could stand me, seeing as how I was such a bad influence on their once-studious, formerly-obedient daughter. The Cuban parents and the Arab parents of some former friends thought I was the shit--they were surprised, I suppose, that some Southern white chick could be, oh, I dunno--dependable and friendly to their kids? Those mamas never would quit trying to feed me & trying to convince me to have kids. And my Indian friends keep teaching me curse words in Hindi.

Then there was the Israeli chick, whose husband was a native New Orleanian black guy. They were neighbors, drinking buddies, I'd known them almost two years. And then, last year, I had to cut them out of my life. This dude, this young goofball who fancied himself to be the stud, shows up at my house one afternoon, way before my usual awakening time, and tries to bullshit me into giving him a quickie. Now, do you think it ever crossed his mind that I was never attracted to him in the first place? Nope. I know how ironic it must seem, me, throwing somebody out of my house and out of my life because I didn't want to fuck him, but that's what happened. He just had to go and piss me off. And I flat-out told him no.
Is it so hard to believe that even if I had wanted to fuck him, WHICH I DIDN'T, I still wouldn't have, because his wife, who was too goddamned scary for the ISRAELI ARMY, would have fileted me like a catfish? And whether it was wounded male ego or pure stupidity, his knee-jerk response was to fight dirty. He accused me of being some kind of "closet racist", and if I wanted to prove--TO HIM--that I wasn't--I should, of course, "fuck the black man." Uh-huh. Excuse me, but do I LOOK that fucking GULLIBLE?!?!?! He didn't even pause to think that it might have been those seven gold teeth, or the breath that would knock a buzzard off a shit-wagon at fifty paces--that would keep me from wanting to fuck him. As if a woman telling him NO is such a rare goddamned thing. As if I needed a fucking reason.

He just played the weakest card in the deck, like I'm your average white-guilt Southern liberal who's never been outside of the subdivision. DON'T FUCK WITH ME, JUNIOR--I LIVED IN THE SEVENTH WARD. I didn't escape Livingston Parish and the Ku Klux Klan for this shit.
I didn't fall for that "conform or die" mentality when I was trapped in Denham Springs, I'm sure as hell not going to fuck some guy to prove my moral fiber now. I was too weird, too country, too tomboy for the prissy-ass middle-class white girls in elementary school. When I wasn't arm-wrestling the boys (and I always won, too--until they hit puberty), I was hanging out with the black girls--I could play the dozens, I could keep up with them verbally--I was "good enough" for them.

I was standing on Tanisha's porch the other day, down in the 9th Ward, and this small clique of pre-teen black girls passed by the corner. "What's that white girl doin' here? Why's there white people in my neighborhood?" Tanisha laughed it off. I wanted to snatch those little wenches bald-headed.

So, yeah, I do get pissy when people look at me and see "JUST SOME WHITE BITCH". "Just Some"? Nah, I'm a little too far-off of "everyday" to be "Just Some", like it or not. "Bitch"? Well--depends on when you meet me. Most people would verify that one.

BUT-- "White"? Nope. Can't hang that label on me. Do some fuckin' research before you try to put me in a demographic niche. I fuck up the census and the EEOC every time--I'm probably the palest Indian you'll ever meet, but I'm two full parts: Cherokee and Iroquois. And I'm Welsh, and Scottish, and Irish, Dutch, and German. I'm made up of half the races that that have had their asses kicked, at some point, by the fuckin' WHITES! Slack-jawed, thin-wristed Anglo pussies--if they couldn't fuck it or steal it, they'd kill it. John Smith and Pocahontas, my ass.
I have NEVER let anyone, no matter their income or lineage, tell me who I could play with, and I'm not about to start now. I guess that's another reason why it pisses me off when people--who have no fucking clue about ME or the South to begin with--ASSUME that "white" plus "Southern" equals "KNUCKLE-WALKING INBRED BIGOT."

But guess what, folks--this is the NEW SOUTH. And those freaks-of-nature among us who were born here--WITH above-vegetable-I.Q.s--are taking it back. So take your sheets, and grab your hoods, and carry your crosses back to the woods, because us MULTI-COLORED motherfuckers are takin' over now. And we don't have to prove shit.

I guess some people believe the Southern stereotypes they see on TV, and some people know better. I used to drive a pick-up truck, but that's about as close to the slack-jawed hayseed cotton-pickin' cousin-lover redneck cliché' as I get. It's okay if you want to assume your stupid stereotypes--we like it when you underestimate us. Kinda gives us the advantage, doesn't it.

Sigmoid Colon of Hell

These are the letters that I've sent to the joke of a management company who runs this "disabled" housing development and to the Rural Housing Authority/USDA about the ongoing harassment/discrimination/abuse that I've suffered at the hands of other residents and especially the so-called "manager" of this dump.

Just like to have a few witnesses when the shit hits the fan, right? And because I'm looking forward to finding legal aid to pursue a lawsuit against these motherfuckers.


"Maintenance" Inspection 2/07

1. I have asked Manager M.R. for help (since she told me that she had access to these organizations/businesses) in getting a Medicare/Medicaid-funded cleaning service into my apartment since September of 2006, because I knew that I would be having spine surgery in October, 2006. For four months, she flat-out refused to either find the fliers (which I have seen in her office) or to give me the phone numbers for these services, or even to refer me to someone who would KNOW these numbers/businesses. After I got home from the hospital, she THEN pretended to not know that these services EXIST. (I was medicated, not mentally-retarded.) I finally got a phone number out of her in January of 2007, and have called this service repeatedly since then, but have never once received a call back from them. So, since I have not received any help from her or anyone else in cleaning/maintaining this apartment (unless I paid her or someone else for it with cash money that I don't have --- and her offers of "help" from herself only came after she had BROKEN HER ANKLE and obviously could not carry through with any such offer), any problems that the inspection may find to my "fault" should really lay with Manager M.R. If she provided me with even HALF of the service/luxuries that she affords to other residents of this same complex, especially H.K., I'd be one happy camper.

2. The ongoing and repetitive discrimination against me, by employees/associates of this housing complex, management company, residents and such has been relentless and purposeful, and I can document every single incidence of discrimination against me since the day that I moved into this building. What really aggravates this condition is the building-sponsored (with FEDERALLY-FUNDED MONEY) participation in RELIGIOUS ACTIVITIES in the building, the "holiday" activities that do not include me or anyone else NOT of the christian cult participation persuasion, and the fact that when other residents of this building have destroyed/stolen my personal property, that their behavior was CONDONED by the management of this building and in de facto ENDORSED by its employees as a way to "punish" me for NOT BEING A CHRISTIAN. G., S. and H.K. are prime examples of this behavior. M.R.might actually have kept records of these crimes against me, but I severely doubt it, because, as is always the way, "history is written by the victors."

3. No one in this management company, except for the maintenance crew, have made any accommodations whatsoever to my disabilities. Only TWO apartments in this building are deemed "handicapped accessible", though the entire building CLAIMS to be reserved for those of diminished capacities. A bottom-loading refrigerator is a back patient's worst nightmare, in case the thought has never occurred to J&M Management. I have attempted to make changes to the apartment myself to do the bare minimum that would accommodate my injuries, and have received nothing but further harassment and reproaches for doing so, even when I specifically requested this help from the maintenance manager and had M.R. fill out work orders to go about the process "properly." This company engages in false advertising, slipshod maintenance and flat-out ignoring of major physical-plant issues that keep this building from functioning properly. The plumbing's bad? Dran-O. The refrigerator moves every time that someone crosses the floor? Ignore it. The elevator JUST got a vent fan, even though it had none when I moved in here in June of '05. Slapping a coat of paint over obvious flaws in the building itself doesn't fix anything. But at least J&M finally hired someone who is actually qualified to service a residential structure, so there's SOME progress.

4. Floor stripping: Every year, this management company extorts money from people who are on EXTREMELY LIMITED INCOMES, to maintain the floors of a building that J&M Management OWNS. This isn't just immoral, it's illegal. Beyond normal wear & tear and normal cleaning expenses & effort, no rental/housing company is allowed to FORCE its tenants to pay for the mechanical, physical, or structural maintenance of its own property. J&M Management has billed residents $35 and upwards for slapping on about four ounces of paint. Since I cannot afford this "floor-stripping service," I have received regular reminders from Manager M.R. that it'll be "my fault" if "my" apartment doesn't "pass inspection" because of the yellowed peel & stick lineoleum tiles. This is neither true nor legal. Repeatedly, she stated outright to me/offered to have my floors stripped for "free", and then "changed her mind" or changed the "information." Meaning, she wanted me to ACCEPT the service without knowing if I would be billed or not. I might be on disability, but I'm not that stupid. I know how J&M back-bills its former tenants, EVEN AFTER THEY HAVE COMPLETED THE "CHECK-OUT" PROCESS AND BEEN RELEASED FROM THEIR RENTAL AGREEMENTS --- and if they (justifiably or not) refuse to pony-up this extortion, J&M does everything possible to ruin the former tenants' credit rating. When & if I ever find more acceptable accommodations, I know exactly how this process is going to work, and I will have legal aid on my side to make sure that the same thing doesn't happen to me. If it hadn't been for Hurricane Katrina's adverse effects on the Louisiana housing industry and the resultant price-gouging and removal of several thousand units from the market, I would have left this building and its plantation mentality a long time ago. Have no fear that as soon as something acceptable comes open, I will avail myself of that facility as soon as humanly possible. If I were physically capable of living in my truck, many's the time that I was thisclose to doing so, because of all of the reasons listed above and in my previous complaints to the management company.

5. Special Privileges: I have never yet received an actual answer as to why certain residents (whether part-time and sub-letting their apartments or full-time and accommodating sub-residents of their own) receive special privileges in this building that are not available to myself or other residents.
Examples include: being allowed to use the laundry room "after hours" when no one else is allowed to do so (even though real laundromats have hours that extend past DARK); being able to take up the entire "community room" with one's own personal hobbies, and then having the results of said hobbies decorate the entire building, while other residents are not allowed to even decorate their own DOORS, except for CHRISTIAN HOLIDAYS; other residents (H.K.) are allowed to mutilate my personal clothing by "mistakenly" putting it into the dryers with THEIR clothing (on the wrong settings for MY clothing) and are not even written-up for it; non-residents who lived here on a regular basis (H.K.'s grandson E.G.) were allowed to listen at my doorway, leave tobacco spit on the floor in the hall in front of my doorway, ATTEMPT TO DESTROY THE ANTENNA ON MY TRUCK, call my house at all hours to the point at which I had to add a forty-dollar calling package to my phone bill in order to BLOCK HIS STALKING CALLS AT THREE A.M., and then allowed to MOVE INTO THE BUILDING, DESPITE THE FACT THAT M.R. KNEW OF HIS HISTORY OF VANDALISM, THEFT, VIOLENCE, STALKING, AND VARIOUS SEXUALLY PERVERTED BEHAVIORS TOWARDS THE CHILDREN AND ADULTS IN THIS BUILDING. Then --- shock of all shocks --- he was busted for having marijuana in his apartment, and was finally evicted (DESPITE MY MANY COMPLAINTS ABOUT HIM TO THE MANAGEMENT WHICH WENT UNDOCUMENTED AND UNRESOLVED BY Manager M.R.) --- and supposedly "banned" from the building, even though he is seen here, by myself and others, STILL, on a regular basis. Nothing is being done to keep E.G. off of the property of (this development), and nothing is ever done to prevent him from committing further crimes or to punish him for the crimes which he has already committed.

6. Speaking of criminals: When I moved into this building, I had to pay for and acquire criminal background checks on myself from New Orleans, Miami, and EBRP (where I have never even lived), as well as the WFPSO. AND YET --- A twice-convicted child-molester lives in the apartment next to mine, and has for at least a year. Despite Meghan's Law, in which convicted sex offenders are required to send out to residents of an area in which they WISH to reside advance notification of their intention to move into that area, J.B.M. was allowed to move into a building housing multiple children, and did not notify ANY residents of this building until two weeks after he moved in. Obviously, Manager M.R. was aware of his criminal past, IF he completed the criminal background checks that were required of me, and allowed a twice-convicted child-molester/statutory rapist to move into (this development) with full knowledge and aforethought of his background. Of course, when J.C. moved into my apartment, instead of allowing me to change my lease as she had originally told me I would be able to do, Manager M. R. refused to allow me to put J.C. onto my lease and to pay the proper amount of rent for two residents, suddenly saying that I had to wait until my first-year lease was up to have another "official resident" in my apartment, despite the fact that multiple residents of this building have had roommates and/or relatives living with them since they moved into (this development). So, in an effort to keep my mouth shut about J.M., she told me that J.C. could move in with me "off the books". But it was intimated to me in no uncertain terms that his residency here would be a very tenuous circumstance, and that we could both be evicted at any moment for going along with the situation that she, herself, set up. Since J.C. was irresponsible when it came to taking his schizophrenia medications and when it came to his behavior, M.R. had many opportunities to hold my living situation over my head. Since we had moved in together in order to save money, her regular attempts to extort money from myself and J.C. served as more than adequate reinforcement of her blackmail over us. When J.C. confronted J.M. over the purposefully loud talking/behavior of himself and Mrs. M.D. in the hallway outside my door (to volume levels that completely obscured my own television, inside of my apartment, with the door shut), J.M. called the S.F. P.D. & W.F.P.S.O via 911, told them that J.C. had threatened him with a gun (which neither of us possessed), and my apartment was then searched WITHOUT A WARRANT OR EVEN PROBABLE CAUSE by said law enforcement officers. They took the word of a twice-convicted child molester over mine, and tossed MY apartment for a gun that never existed. So of course, instead of placing the responsibility on J.M., who had made the fraudulent 911 call and lied to the police in the first place, M.R. called ME onto the carpet for J.C.'s interaction with J.M., instead of reprimanding J.M. for HIS behavior. Never once, to my knowledge, has J. M. been "written-up" for ANY of his behavioral issues (such as not taking HIS medication properly and throwing multiple and frequent hissy-fits, slamming doors at all hours, pounding on the walls, yelling and cursing in the hallway, threatening my physical safety), despite many and repeated complaints about same.

7. The a/c unit: Since I have lived here, several residents have received new air-conditioning units in their apartments, but despite my many complaints and requests for a new machine, none have been forthcoming. Apparently, that is being saved for when y'all lure the next resident into this apartment. When L was the maintenance man, he came here to spray the a/c unit with a bleach mixture, and shot the bleach directly into the path of the air vents, so that the bleach mixture would then blow directly into my face. With sarcoidosis, I have a very high sensitivity to chemicals and pollution, and I could have died, that very day, instead of "merely" coughing-up blood for three days. If I could've afforded the gas to go to a real emergency room, I'd have a medical report with which to bill J&M management for that incident. When Mr. R2 came to work on my a/c unit, he knocked the "flapper" out of the air vents, that is SUPPOSED to divert air stream into the bedroom (through one of the most bizarre air vent constructions that I've ever seen), and then pretended like it was supposed to work like that. Prior to recent events, I never even knew that there WAS a damper or flue inside that a/c unit that was SUPPOSED to divert the air flow, and that this "flapper" could have saved me hundreds of dollars spent on electricity bills in an attempt to make the bedroom bearable at night. But then, I have downloaded & printed reams of pages of information about my disabilities in order to enlighten M. as to what I am capable of doing physically (in terms of housekeeping) and what I need from this housing development in terms of reasonable accommodations (as defined by The Americans With Disabilities Acts, 1994-2000), but no such aid or tolerance has been forthcoming, though it is often hinted-at by Ms. R.
As always, I have drawn up this list of complaints as a form of self-defense against the constant nagging, discrimination, and unrealistic housekeeping expectations that are forced upon me by M. R., as well as the invasive techniques of "inspecting" the apartments as a way of intimidating the residents to keep the building "ship-shape" themselves, and have personally experienced verbal & expressive derision of my personal belongings by the management company. Ms. M.R. & J&M Management seem to be operating under the impression that the residents of (this development) are under their employ, that we are "privileged" to be "allowed" to live here, and that it is the RESIDENTS' duty to clean/maintain/pay for the maintenance of this building, when the very purpose of this building was supposed to be to HELP those with disabilities/aging difficulties.
Until J&M hired Mr. R, I had never received ANY accommodation or help with any of the above areas, but Mr. R has gone out of his way to improve my living conditions here, above and beyond anything that has ever been attempted by any other member of the J&M staff. He mounted a board (in order to shield the sheetrock and better support the hanging hooks) in my kitchen so that I wouldn't have to bend over to retrieve my pots & pans in this limited storage area. In return, he was sent back to re-do the whole job with ludicrously-designed Plexiglas underneath the hanging area, that was cut in such a way as to not even be practical as a BACKSPLASH. Mr. R has always been very kind in terms of helping me with carrying items or letting me use the dolly/hand-truck to take items out to my truck. He also is thoughtful enough to help residents with cleaning behind their stoves & refrigerators, aside from "merely" pulling those huge appliances out for residents for the semi-annual ritual invasion of inspectors. Before J&M hired R, I didn't think that they'd ever spend the money to hire actual qualified help, but at least now I can see that perhaps this management company is trying to move in a positive direction with its service to its residents, which is definitely a first.

J.E.B.
Apartment #26
February 5, 2006

And then, TODAY:

Resident Complaint Form Addendum For J&M Management:
J.E.B., Apt. #26
2/20/07

RE: M.R. & Maintenance Crew ("K."?)

I was deeply asleep at approx. 10A when the J&M maintenance crew just opened the door to my apartment, propped it wide open, and started sanding and painting a door that had been freshly painted less than a month ago. They claimed to police that they had "knocked/pounded" on my door and "called out" my name, but I heard no such actions. But if the sound that woke me up was the sound of sandpaper upon painted metal, then they wouldn't have had to have spoken very loudly to get my attention. I had assumed that it was Mr. R. doing some kind of maintenance work in the hallway, so I wasn't shocked at that point. However, when I heard them slapping paint onto the door, that's when I was shocked wide-awake and got out of bed, only partially dressed, to see my door WIDE OPEN to where ANYBODY could see in, with "K."(?)(the older, short, bald-headed worker) standing in the doorway, painting, as if I had no right to be shocked whatsoever.
I asked them why they were just walking into my apartment without waiting for my consent, and they said that they had knocked, and I disputed that, so they just put a prop in the door and walked off. I then went and closed & locked the door and called the police.
If M.R. sees my truck (about 30 feet away from where she parks her car) in the parking lot, then she knows that I'm in my apartment. She knew that I was home, and since I hadn't answered the phone when she called (I had turned the ringer off because she had made a point of calling me on the 19th, when she KNEW that I'd be asleep, just to get her sadistic joy of harassing me awake and depriving me of sleep), she knew that I had turned off the phone and was asleep. She sent them nonetheless, and is probably enjoying every minute of knowing that she has incited yet another fibromyalgia attack in me, because every time that I'm deprived of sleep or upset by a home invasion or upset by her or the other residents' behavior, I get fibromyalgia attacks. When I am SHOCKED AWAKE, especially by grown men just waltzing into my apartment like I'm not even there, especially when I'm asleep in the bed, UNDRESSED and alone, it takes me 2 or 3 days for my blood pressure and fibromyalgia to return to normal. M.R. has done this kind of crap to me for almost 2 years now, and she enjoys the small bit of power that she feels by inflicting her low self-esteem upon the residents, whom she views as slaves or sharecroppers on "her" plantation.
Unfortunately, when I called the SFPD about this unlawful entry of an inhabited dwelling, this ASSAULT, the responding officer went down to the office to inquire as to the management company's "rights" as to walking in on sleeping/undressed residents at their every whim, and M.R. convinced him that everything that they did (such as the "knocking/pounding" and the supposed "calling out" my name, which never happened) was fully lawful and within the Property Owner's rights. And the SFPD being what they are, the rights of the Property Owners are all that was protected.
Also --- when "K." walked away, he just put a wooden prop in the door, left the weatherstripping off of my door, and walked away. If I had NOT been home, is that how they would have left my apartment? Wide open and available to any thief or vandal who came along? Is this a regular practice for J&M Management, to break into the residents' apartments, rip off the weatherstripping, and leave the door wide open for anyone to enter and take what they please? I may not have much, but what I have didn't just fall off of a truck or come out of some decrepit trailer --- my possessions are mine, and I expect them to remain so and to remain safely locked behind that steel door when I am away.
Let this complaint serve as formal notice that I will no longer withstand nor submit to this ongoing and premeditated harassment at the hands of M.R. Every time that she does abuses like this, or has her/J&M's employees do the dirty work for her, I am going to attempt to press charges against her, until her criminal record matches her misdeeds.
Since I turned in the three-and-a-half paged complaint list at the most recent J&M inspection, Manager M.R. has done nothing but loudly dispute/rebuff my queries/requests, find petty little ways to deprive me of sleep and/or peace in my "home," and misrepresent me to others, such as the police department. She could not stand that I finally told the truth on her, because I am no longer afraid of being evicted or "written up" or whatever other petty, vicious, menial "punishments" that she can throw at me.
Also, Mr. R. (the bldg. maintenance man) had attempted to have K. and the work crew start out on the first floor and work their way UP with the re-painting the freshly-repainted doors, out of consideration for my sleeping habits, but K. insisted that they start on the second floor and then go immediately to the third floor as quickly as possible, obviously due to M.R.'s prompting.
While B.'s responses to my complaints were condescending and obviously designed to do nothing but protect her employers, rather than ever resembling anything like doing the right thing, I do not feel that these concerns have been addressed at all. I offered her a place to sit, but she chose to stand over me, with M.R. glaring at me, the entire time that she interrogated me about CERTAIN complaints, not all (the J.M. issue was not addressed at all, nor the complaints about E.G., she simply changed the subject repeatedly), and while she offered nothing but "That's how we do it" as a basis for how J&M and their employees treat the people who are their source of income.
I will be forwarding this complaint, if it is not addressed in a timely and at least SOMEWHAT legal/proper manner by J&M, to the Rural Housing Commission, the State Attorney General's Office, and anyone else who will listen, because I feel like the only way to get the humane treatment that I deserve is to bring these infractions out into the open. I have spoken to J&M management employees about these issues for over 2 years, and nothing has ever been improved, I have merely been the objects of reprisals and revenge by M.R. for "making her look bad."
If she did her job with any respect whatsoever for the residents, the people who TRULY pay her salary, no one could "make her look bad," because she'd actually be DOING HER JOB. Her entire attitude, the whole time that I've lived here, she's treated me as she treats most of the other residents (except her sacrosanct H.K., of course, and all of H.K.'s affiliates and spawn), as if I don't have a brain in my head nor any right to be treated with respect or equality. As I have told B. repeatedly, M.R.'s so-called "christianity" has been her prime motivation and excuse for the harassment that I have received at her hands and at the hands/voices of residents who obviously share her worldview. Since I'm apparently the only atheist in this parish, they feel perfectly entitled to desecrate my truck, steal my belongings, spit at my door, eavesdrop, destroy my property and otherwise remind me that since I don't submit to them via their cult's "authority", that I will never be "welcomed" here nor left in peace.
If M.R. or any of her friendly-to-her-cause/sycophantic residents ever actually applied the TRUE teachings of their Jesus to their actual lives, then they wouldn't feel the need to wreak retribution upon me, to rip stickers off of my truck, steal my possessions, or shove their "holidays" down my throat at every possible opportunity. If they actually understood the "teachings" in their bible, then they wouldn't constantly have to try to shove their Jesus down the throats who want no such thing.
This general attitude has colored my entire stay here, and despite the passing of S. (the one who stole my property and gave it to M.R., who was one of the ones ripping stickers off of my truck, and/or putting her magnets OVER my stickers, as if my truck were public property), this attitude has not changed. Whether G. is in residence at any given time or not (and she seems to only return in time for inspections, while sub-letting her apartment to this "Kim" person), she still feels that she is somehow "privileged" to make remarks to and about me to anyone who is at hand. And my objections to the obsessive and distasteful "decorations" at this apartment building (which are apparently dictated by H.K. and installed by her home health "nurse" at her every whim), including F.'s tacky puzzles on every available wall, while residents are not allowed to decorate their doors for any but "christian" holidays.
Again, I wish to reiterate my belief and the above anecdotal evidence that SOME residents are more "equal" than others --- there is a Jim Crow attitude towards myself and other residents, as if we are somehow less privileged because we are not among the ranks of Manager M.R.'s favored residents. From my understanding of publicly-subsidized housing, preference and courtship are not supposed to be paid to ANY religions, much less over the rights of the residents. Thus far, this has been the opposite of my experiences with J&M Management and (this development) and especially M.R.

_____________________________________
J.E.B., Apt. #26
2/20/07

And as soon as I had typed all of this up (along with the postmarked documentation as to when the abovementioned pedophile had sent out his "parolee notification" as well as copies of the "cleaning" demand lists that the "manager" had issued following my spine surgery), guess what Queen Chickenshit sneaks up and chickenshit-edly slips into my door jam?

A MEMO STATING THAT MY "use of profanity" in the holy presence of the MAINTENANCE CREW, who swear like drunken sailors in a whorehouse ANYWAY, had constituted a "VIOLATION OF MY LEASE AGREEMENT"!!!!!!

So now the fucking whore isn't just ATTACKING ME by proxy through her maintenance workers, she isn't just PURPOSEFULLY DEPRIVING ME OF SLEEP, she isn't just CAUSING ME HORRIFIC FIBROMYALGIA ATTACKS ON PURPOSE, she isn't just DISCRIMINATING AGAINST ME, she isn't just SINGLING ME OUT FOR PERSECUTION, NOW the fucking whore is THREATENING ME!!!!!!!!!!

I hope to hell that I can find the right lawyers, 'cause I SOOOOOOO wanna own this fucking building, just so that I can fire that bald-headed trailer-trash cunt.

Here's the deal:

Anybody whom I've invited to post at M.O.B. can use this blog to store long documents (like my rambling rants of late), pictures, whatever you want, then link back to here from the main page. That's why I've set it up, just to have a storage unit, so to speak. I don't know how to do the "encapsulated" set-up that some blogs do, where you have a chunk of the beginning of the post on the front page, then it links to its own page for the full post. If any of y'all know how to do this, please lemme know, if it can be done on freebie Blogger.

This way, none of my long stuff will push anybody else off of the main page, and vice versa. Dig? This way, there's more blog room for everybody! Y'know, if & when y'all have the time & inclination to post... heh.