"ReGenesis 081510" transcendental masturbation and no, nobody gets to come...

ReGenesis
081510
7:31A

Watching Peter Outerbridge because he & his hairline & voice
remind me of who you might be by now --- not scientific or powerful
in the sense of this made-up TV world
but in the ways your pheromones are permanently branded on my brain
your scent, your clothes, that mixture of cedar wood and musty attics,
photographic chemicals, Marlboros and Camels, cheap weed and the occasional 8-ball.

And as much as I tried to lie to myself, the smell of men, goth-boys, whatever you could lay your hands and your needy mouth upon... as long as they weren't me.
Mommy issues, typical bisexual-man need for plump women who'll keep you alive and comfortable while you deny them their love, you take it from them, but they never get to feel it, they never get it back.

I wonder if, in the intervening 10 years, if you've ever grown up enough to let anybody truly love you.

I still wonder why you wanted me around (aside from the obvious ways in which I was “useful,” especially when some heroin-skinny whore or coked-out goth boy had rejected you and bruised your ego...), when you knew that I fully and wholly and utterly loved you, gave myself and my life to you, when I would have been SO much better-off if I'd been taking care of my NANNIE, rather than nursing you back from the brink of yet ANOTHER alcohol-poisoning episode, like when you abandoned me to go drink in the Quarter and I had to drive myself home on half-way decent blotter acid. And then the phone rings @ 4 or 5A, and off I go, all the fucking way across town, unrested and unheeded, to rescue YOU again. You achingly sing along with Vedder, about the dead girlfriend who never existed, y'all ALL have dead girlfriends, don't you? --- and you play-out the verbs of “Black” in MY car, dreaming of a woman who dumped YOU ten years prior.

And for 3 days, I blacked-out all the windows, called-in sick to work for you, fed you soft food, got you re-hydrated, cuddled and snuggled you on that old couch with the television sound a bit too low, I was your mother whore, a woman who loved you in all ways and was nothing but a convenient cunt on a couple occasions, and a mama to care for you all of the others. You never had the money to pay for your own beer, despite the fact that you made over twice as much money as I did --- but then you'd “find” a hundred bucks or more and go blow it on an 8-ball and disappear from me and from the world whilst you cajoled and regaled strangers on Decatur Street with the adventures you never had. You knew how much I hated cocaine, and I think that THAT was part of the attraction for you, because you KNEW “mommy” didn't approve, so when you can hurt her by disappearing and making her worry, when you can suck and fuck and do whatever you want with the magic-asshole-powder that you loved, you're thinking of me, at home, alone, or at the Dungeon or the Club, drinking to forget how much you didn't love me.

Even now, when I'm craving you like oxygen, when I hurt so badly from every possible angle, when poverty and the inability to pay ANY of my fucking bills gives me fucking panic attacks (it was so easy to ignore that shit in our twenties, wasn't it? If we each had 7-10 bucks, that was a whole night out, in the right places...), knowing that I will NEVER pay my own way, especially while I'm incarcerated in Crackery, Lousy-ana, I can recall every dime I wasted on you and on trying to love you, and still never doing or spending enough or being good enough for you.

But we grokked. We GOT each other, even the horrible parts that we chose to ignore, the lies and past-lives stories that never existed, we didn't need to finish one another's sentences because of all that never needed to be spoken. We could go six or eight hours, lying in one another's arms, or just front-to-back sharing the couch horizontally while the Simpsons and Ally McBeal were on, arguing about her douchebag ex, the married guy who still wanted her, and you always defending HIM. Yeah, 'cause OUR lives were SOOOO similar to a bunch of rich yuppie lawyers in Boston. There were plotline parallels, sure, but not enough to call it a doppelganger by any stretch of the imagination. Because I, unlike Ally, had and have (well, remainders...) hips and tits and a stomach and long strong thighs and big forceful feet and small but strong hands that tempted you but never truly held you.

I try not to be a hyperventilating drama queen about Jada, a child who, in three years, I've held maybe 20 times --- but I can't stop seeing the world through her eyes (ironic, coming from a hyperlexic freak, I know, but there it is), fearing the terror of becoming more alert, more aware, BECOMING MORE, and yet enslaved, chained-down by a body that is rapidly disintegrating and somehow “needing” that Terri Schiavo feeding tube. My worst nightmare, and even my paranoid imagination can't begin to grok or grasp the truth of what that baby is living.

If our “mistake,” OUR “child”/zygote had made it more than five weeks, Jon, I'd have kept it, as much as I hate breeders for all of the bonuses and incentives for them to KEEP breeding, mindlessly and selfishly. People who are not QUALIFIED to raise children and don't DESERVE the children that they DO get --- I would've been willing to be a hypocrite on that one score, to have see what the DNA Russian-roulette wheel/chamber would have produced out of you and me. Hopefully the brains that I had before the attempted-murder brakes-cut “oopsie” of '86, the potential that I was born with and will never see. Our mutually-mercurial mood-ring eyes, ranging half the color spectrum, depending upon our moods. I could always read your eyes, even if the lies went straight over my head, I read your eye color the way that I read the formerly-known-as-BeastMaster's evil bored-deep eyes from birth, so that I'd know when to go hide under the bed or inside my toybox or wherever I could get to... I read yours not out of fear, but out of hope, that someday, even if we were never the same color at the same time on the same day, that someday, somehow, I would finally see “true” love in them. Love, yes. Need, certainly. Even craving a time or two. Pain (though the veracity was never confirmed, nor the sources), aching, melancholy reaching back to a past that never existed.

Eric The Greek's sperm-shot made it just as long as our fertilized egg did, but I was planning to have it removed anyway. He was a douche. A remarkably well-muscled douche, after a couple years of less drinking and more work, but a douche nonetheless, and an intellect that, wellllll, not really worth measuring. Persistent, nagging really, until I finally DID fuck him, but after that, he split away from me faster than all the rest. I must really have been a lousy lay --- two years with you and only 2.5 couplings, and then a year with Closet Case, the lamest little excuse for a “male” (NEVER a “man), not to mention the 3 months with the Crack Whore, sex that I never enjoyed except for the foreplay, and then the animal would hold me down and fuck me raw and LAUGH when I couldn't even piss afterwards. How could I have been so stupid? Not to see it coming? Oh, I saw it, I just ignored those giant billboards as they flew by.

I tried to “love” them, some of them, a very rare minority, over the years, after and before you, but I never truly loved anyone the way that I loved you, you bony-arsed Irish-German redneck from Rome & Derby, NY. That mole on your wrist, that arrogant grin, the laugh that made me want to smack you and fuck you all at the same time. Those strong wiry arms, those bowed bandy legs that were SO perfectly-suited for fucking and that flawless, incredibly artistic, beautiful ass of yours. Nobody else saw my all-consuming attraction to you, even the two oldest “nieces” (now ungrateful, disloyal cows) loathed you on sight. Especially after your behavior towards a total fucking stranger bitch on that damned riverboat; they wanted to cut you & throw you overboard for trying to humiliate me in front of them. Similar behavior in front of them later resulted in a certain half-assed tattoo artist losing QUITE a bit of customers due to karma... Fuck that midget and the chihuahua he rode in on. It was a long time ago, though, that those girls gave a fuck about me, or about how anyone treated me. If you were to magically reappear now, they'd laugh and make jokes about how “perfect” it would be for me, how I “deserve” whatever you'd dole-out now.

On 9/11, I called all the fuck over Houston trying to find you, to see if your Uncle Ray in Shanksville, PA was okay, to make sure that the plane hadn't landed on HIS farmhouse (seeing as how the whole fucking TOWN is named after y'all), and the twunts wouldn't even let me TRY to find you. But after I'd called all of my people, the people who loved me back (or pretended to while I was fiscally advantageous), you were the one that I thought about most on that day, because I could not forget the man for whom you were named, Jonathan Raymond... Fat lot of good THAT did me. I'll never know, will I, and I'll never find nor see you again.

Because you don't want to be found, whomever you are now, ten years after you ditched, after I fucked-up your lied-to sugar-mama set-up, after Nannie died and you didn't give a fuck. Yeah, she hated you, she was jealous of you, she DISOWNED me once OVER YOU, whilst you were FUCKING ANOTHER GIRL RIGHT UNDER MY FUCKING NOSE --- she thought that the NYC road trip was FOR you, not MINE. Thankfully, Miriam's mother made her see that I really WAS just WITH THEM, and that you were nowhere in the state.
So many stupid, silly, facile memories. But dammit, when I ache, when I fear, when I need, why are YOU the first motherfucker who pops into my mind? Why does the smell of your sheets haunt my nose and my brain when I need to be held? Why do I remember those cold mornings, hiding under the sheets and sleeping-bag “comforter,” as we whacked the fuck out of the snooze button because neither of us wanted you to go to work? Not like there was any dick or head in it for ME, obviously, but just to be held in your arms, to absorb your heat, naked or clothed, was enough. Most of the time. I learned to settle and to treasure the small pleasures, which has basically been the format for the rest of my life. I took what little I could get, what I could scavenge from what you'd always wasted on others who used you like a rubber, I joyously savored the scraps from your table, and wasted two years when I could've been taking care of my Nannie, trying to pretend that I “really” had a life “of my own,” when in truth, I was nothing but a servant to you.

Yes, I blame myself, my neediness, my stupidity, my baggage and blatantly-obvious damage --- but I hold you responsible, too. You knew what you were doing, you knew how much and how HARD I loved you, and all you saw was a free ride, not a grown woman, not anything to be valued, not anyone to be loved, just more beer & cigarettes, please.

But my hypothalamus, my cerebral cortex, my cerebellum, they won't fucking give up the mythology. They won't give up the hopeful love in all of those excruciatingly-painful rants and poems that your rejection drove me to write. They won't turn loose of the infinitesimal details that gnaw at the inside of my skull like termites. The scent of your freshly-showered body, the smells of our sex, the texture of your skin beneath my kneading hands as I taught you the massage techniques that have undoubtedly kept you in good stead in the past 10 years, as I'm sure that you have continued to use them on EVERYTHING WITH A FUCKING PULSE. You don't just owe me that camera, son, you owe me a FORTUNE for the most-intense massages that you'll ever get, and the knowledge of them that you use on every willing body that crosses your path. But I still miss it. I still miss massaging damned near every single muscle in your lanky body, upon which my cooking packed a good 30 pounds of new muscle, ya fuck. I still miss massaging your scalp and smelling your essence wafting up from that thick, wavy, almost-auburn hair. I miss being spooned and cuddled through the night, waking up here and there, and before the days when you drew lines down the bed, you pulling me in closer, whether intentional or instinctual.

There've been so many others, before, during and since, especially since you had to rub all of YOUR conquests in MY face, I tried to keep up my end of statistics... but none of them ever loved me, even as a “friend.” None of them ever KNEW me, even the self-deluded would-be “pretty-boy” closet-case schizophrenic who made me hate sex. None of them accepted my body, my scars, the innumerable stretchmarks, my baggage, my damage, all of it, and then romanced me anyway --- not in SPITE of MY flaws, but because our flaws were almost perfectly-matched. I'll never forget that first night outta the spank tank, in my kick-ass dom boots and no underwear or pantyhose... Best 13 hours I've ever spent with a man or a woman. I still have that little figurine you'd created & painted, that you dug-out for me as soon as we got to your house, appropriately naming it “The Beastmaster,” your first gift to me, aside from the flattery and other pretty words that meant so little in the end. The corpulent little critter lost an arm somehow, in all my many moves, but I've still got it. I've still got the great head shots that you took of me, as if you were looking at me with eyes of at least CARE, if not “love.” I've got the tattoos that you were witness to, even though you never let ME see YOU get poked, thankfully only in the tattoo-needle sense.

And I've got the memories of how you were THERE for me after the Crack Whore tried to kill me, when you held me and held me and held on, so strong, but so... pained, to see what he'd done to me. That night outside the Dragon's Den, when you held me and grabbed my ass (“as a joke”) after you'd wrapped me in your arms and told me that I was “doing so much better.” Never knew how you meant that, but it did mean that you were, for once, paying attention, and I treasured that. You and that idiot phony Heckler being jealous of one another, even though I was ALWAYS “just friends” with him, and forced to be “friends” with you... nobody's ever been jealous over me before. Too bad that Heckler never really meant any of his friendship, he was just, as always, out for what he could get out of whomever.

So here I sit, long after losing the house that you helped me rehab (and THE worst electrical & phone wiring in HISTORY!), long after losing everything else, especially Nannie & Tater (you weren't a fan of teh Dick, so I doubt you'd miss him anymore than you miss me), and soon to lose Jada, and I wonder if you're still in Houston, or back to NOLA or somewhere in upstate NY. I don't doubt that you've finally “settled-down” by knocking some other girl up and probably even sticking around (unlike the daughter you allegedly had but had no contact with, yet another of those classic psycho-boy legends, eh?), as long as the food is good and she asks no questions as to where you go “out with the boys.”

I don't know you anymore, all I know is a memory. Millions of memories who will never leave me go. Like the day that you came through me as Teh Dick had tried to assault/intimidate me with that cast-iron finger towards my chest, as he'd done for over 20 fucking years, ONLY ON THE GIRLS, though, he NEVER corrected his almighty dick-extension, did he... and somehow, without there ever being actual tutelage or discussion, without you ever pushing me to give a fuck about karate, you were there in that room, that tiny utility room with me, and I grabbed that big manual-labor fist of his and shoved him clear across that fucking room, at least six feet, because he had NEVER expected it, had raised me all of my life, along with the F.U. and her almighty son-king, TO NEVER FIGHT BACK, to NEVER defend myself. I not only got the momentum and the surprise, I got the physics on him and surprised the living FUCK out of that neanderthal. Grabbed my soaking-wet/unfinished laundry, said a tearful goodbye to my Nannie, as they'd kidnapped her to West Redneckistan by then, so the only way I could see her was going to THEIR almighty fucking property --- and I hauled-ass for your house and ergo, The Buddha Belly, one of Igor's best laundry-and-food bars in the chain. And we shared the not-fun mushrooms, a big-assed cheeseburger, fries and the lot, and though I was still vibrating with indignation and upset, you sat with me, so close, and you were PROUD of me. Pretty fucking proud of yourself, too, I would imagine, but you'd earned that brownie point. Changed history, ya did that day, as did I. One of your few gifts that weren't five-finger-discounts or takesies-backsies, and one that I treasure to this day.

I never said that you were “all bad,” as you damned well know; you were almost always there @ the Dragon's Den, listening to me rip my heart out on stage OVER YOU, and how you stood it, I've no idea, but you did, and somehow, acted like you RESPECTED me for calling me on your bullshit. None of which slowed you down from hitting on little horse-toothed heroin-skinny bitches RIGHT IN MY FUCKING FACE, granted, but at least you had the balls to HEAR THE TRUTH, like it or not. And somehow, you managed to tag a couple of those little skanks, yet THEY left you on the curb every fucking time, didn't they.

Yes, I'd happily gnaw-off an arm or leg to get the FUCK out of this SHIT-HOLE THAT I WILL *NEVER* BE ABLE TO FUCKING ***AFFORD***, or to have the money to get the fuck HOME, subsidized-housing scams be damned. It'd be nice to feel like I actually have a “life” again, though I won't hold my breath. But whether in Miami, West Redneckistan, Crackery or Orleans proper, I still have to carry you on my back, no matter where I go. Maybe it's some stupid OCD thing of a hyperlexic dork who's never truly BEEN loved, not in the “romantic” sense (though I do think that I've snagged more than my fair share of platonic love on all counts). Maybe it's because I am such “damaged goods,” that I hang onto every tiny memory that I do get to keep, as they are so few & far between. Maybe all of this is just another wasted hour of transcendental masturbation... most likely.

But dammit, for the life of me, when I hurt, when I'm afraid, when I'm so fucking alone, YOU are the one that I crave. Like walking into that shit-hole The Club an hour after you'd left it, and trailing your scent like a bloodhound, KNOWING you'd been there and when, and how much you'd had to drink before staggering home, you really do seem to be, involuntarily as it surely must be on your part, permanently etched upon my shriveled, useless old brain. Thirteen-plus years since you first started flirting with me at the Dungeon, over ten since you told me to fuck-off and die... and I can still recall your voice, whether laughing, yelling, or us singing-along to Pearl Jam & Janis Joplin in the car (sometimes, we even hit the proper keys!); your smile and smirks and kisses; those gold flecks in your teal-to-mossy-green eyes (and that pale-mint HULK green when you were hungover, involuntarily outta bed, and pissed the fuck OFF!); the feel of your strong, artistic hands on me (and pouring tepid water into the well at the base of my back was NOT funny, dammit!); the talents of your lying, Irish-bullshitter mouth; all of our copious hair getting tangled on the same pillow as we slept (or didn't sleep...), so that we'd have to sit there and gently pull away, so as not to rip the other's vainly-treasured locks out.

But most of all, I miss you BEING THERE. Yes, I have many true, to-the-bone friends now, thanks to teh innernet toobs and years of online misadventures, but in terms of someone actually being in the room, and being willing to hold me when I'm weak enough to cry in front of somebody else (on the phone is easy, in person is humiliating and debilitating) --- nuttin', honey. It'd be nice if there were some non-shitkicker/hypocritical-”christian” joint to hang-out in, anywhere near here, but there aren't, so I will not meet people like that until I can get back to civilization. Oh, to have a time machine to take me back to 1997 Napoleon Avenue and to un-make so many mistakes, and to avoid all of the ways that you hurt me, so that these good memories, these parts of you that I still crave would have truly MEANT something TO YOU, TOO... Hell, to go back to 1993 WRNO would be even better, especially in a career sense, but then, if I'd never gotten screwed out of any radio jobs, I'd never have wound-up schlepping down to the Dungeon to make SHIT tips beating the snot out of idiotic fucking tourists, and you'd never have finally spoken to me, Mr. Quiet, World's Skinniest Bouncer. Ironic, or sick? --- that I met you AND Teh Crack Whore in the same place, my former “other living room” ? What difference does it make, can't go back and fix any of it or save anything from either clusterfuck.

But as I freak-out over illegally-high electric bills and phone/ISP bills that will NEVER get fucking paid, as I sweat my badly-aging tits off with the thermostat locked on EIGHTY, as my chirren, the formerly-tiny black balls of fluff who developed a FETISH for your stinky work loafers and who pounced on you every time that you came into my apartment --- as I watch them aging so quickly that it terrifies me, as everything around me continues to change in ways that don't do me a DAMNED bit of good, and I have no control over anything that I'd want to change --- as my life is ruled more and more by the fear of more pain, more spine damage, more nerve damage, and the IQ-killing fucking drugs that haven't been “fun” in ten fucking years... you, ironic or sick as it is, are the still-living comfort (well, I hope, anyway; not like I can hold Nannie's hand or call Tater on the phone, is it?) for which I crave.

Some days, it just doesn't pay to turn yer brain on at the fuck all, especially when you get lost in one of those dead-end labyrinthine wrinkles that always point BACKWARDS.

I wish to fuck and back that I had half the brain of the character “Bob” on “ReGenesis,” the Asperger's Russian who is so sweet, so real, so fragile and yet SO indelibly himself (the character; the actor Dmitry is THAT good) --- yes, there are good female leads on the show, but Bob's Asperger's is a helluva lot closer to me than those size-two young hotties. Plus, he was able to have ENCOURAGING “parents,” who WANTED him to succeed, and he got through a couple of PhDs with the SUPPORT of his universities. Y'know, in some mythical land where the Disability Acts are actually ENFORCED and ENCOURAGED. No, I'd never have made microbiologist or anything remotely that high-up the academic food-chain, even if my brakes had never been cut, but DAMN, what it must feel like to actually ACHIEVE that... I'll never fuckin' know. Nope, not trying to transfer to another flavor of pity-party, just jealous as fuck of a fictional character. As twisted as my attraction to this show is, I ain't ashamed. Hardly the first man I've ever seen on screen who reminded me of you, although a much more cultured, worldly, HONEST version of you that may or may not ever exist. Other girls may fail to see my attraction to you, but I never gave a fuck about that. Your adorable, if slightly bony ass was just fine by me, though Outerbridge's butt is a weeee bit more fleshed-out, if not quite as muscular. Can't recall the others who bring you to mind at this hour, but they're out there. Wish I knew where the fuck YOU were, out there, and up to what... *sigh*

"ReGen

ReGenesis
081510
7:31A

Watching Peter Outerbridge because he & his hairline & voice
remind me of who you might be by now --- not scientific or powerful
in the sense of this made-up TV world
but in the ways your pheromones are permanently branded on my brain
your scent, your clothes, that mixture of cedar wood and musty attics,
photographic chemicals, Marlboros and Camels, cheap weed and the occasional 8-ball.

And as much as I tried to lie to myself, the smell of men, goth-boys, whatever you could lay your hands and your needy mouth upon... as long as they weren't me.
Mommy issues, typical bisexual-man need for plump women who'll keep you alive and comfortable while you deny them their love, you take it from them, but they never get to feel it, they never get it back.

I wonder if, in the intervening 10 years, if you've ever grown up enough to let anybody truly love you.

I still wonder why you wanted me around (aside from the obvious ways in which I was “useful,” especially when some heroin-skinny whore or coked-out goth boy had rejected you and bruised your ego...), when you knew that I fully and wholly and utterly loved you, gave myself and my life to you, when I would have been SO much better-off if I'd been taking care of my NANNIE, rather than nursing you back from the brink of yet ANOTHER alcohol-poisoning episode, like when you abandoned me to go drink in the Quarter and I had to drive myself home on half-way decent blotter acid. And then the phone rings @ 4 or 5A, and off I go, all the fucking way across town, unrested and unheeded, to rescue YOU again. You achingly sing along with Vedder, about the dead girlfriend who never existed, y'all ALL have dead girlfriends, don't you? --- and you play-out the verbs of “Black” in MY car, dreaming of a woman who dumped YOU ten years prior.

And for 3 days, I blacked-out all the windows, called-in sick to work for you, fed you soft food, got you re-hydrated, cuddled and snuggled you on that old couch with the television sound a bit too low, I was your mother whore, a woman who loved you in all ways and was nothing but a convenient cunt on a couple occasions, and a mama to care for you all of the others. You never had the money to pay for your own beer, despite the fact that you made over twice as much money as I did --- but then you'd “find” a hundred bucks or more and go blow it on an 8-ball and disappear from me and from the world whilst you cajoled and regaled strangers on Decatur Street with the adventures you never had. You knew how much I hated cocaine, and I think that THAT was part of the attraction for you, because you KNEW “mommy” didn't approve, so when you can hurt her by disappearing and making her worry, when you can suck and fuck and do whatever you want with the magic-asshole-powder that you loved, you're thinking of me, at home, alone, or at the Dungeon or the Club, drinking to forget how much you didn't love me.

Even now, when I'm craving you like oxygen, when I hurt so badly from every possible angle, when poverty and the inability to pay ANY of my fucking bills gives me fucking panic attacks (it was so easy to ignore that shit in our twenties, wasn't it? If we each had 7-10 bucks, that was a whole night out, in the right places...), knowing that I will NEVER pay my own way, especially while I'm incarcerated in Crackery, Lousy-ana, I can recall every dime I wasted on you and on trying to love you, and still never doing or spending enough or being good enough for you.

But we grokked. We GOT each other, even the horrible parts that we chose to ignore, the lies and past-lives stories that never existed, we didn't need to finish one another's sentences because of all that never needed to be spoken. We could go six or eight hours, lying in one another's arms, or just front-to-back sharing the couch horizontally while the Simpsons and Ally McBeal were on, arguing about her douchebag ex, the married guy who still wanted her, and you always defending HIM. Yeah, 'cause OUR lives were SOOOO similar to a bunch of rich yuppie lawyers in Boston. There were plotline parallels, sure, but not enough to call it a doppelganger by any stretch of the imagination. Because I, unlike Ally, had and have (well, remainders...) hips and tits and a stomach and long strong thighs and big forceful feet and small but strong hands that tempted you but never truly held you.

I try not to be a hyperventilating drama queen about Jada, a child who, in three years, I've held maybe 20 times --- but I can't stop seeing the world through her eyes (ironic, coming from a hyperlexic freak, I know, but there it is), fearing the terror of becoming more alert, more aware, BECOMING MORE, and yet enslaved, chained-down by a body that is rapidly disintegrating and somehow “needing” that Terri Schiavo feeding tube. My worst nightmare, and even my paranoid imagination can't begin to grok or grasp the truth of what that baby is living.

If our “mistake,” OUR “child”/zygote had made it more than five weeks, Jon, I'd have kept it, as much as I hate breeders for all of the bonuses and incentives for them to KEEP breeding, mindlessly and selfishly. People who are not QUALIFIED to raise children and don't DESERVE the children that they DO get --- I would've been willing to be a hypocrite on that one score, to have see what the DNA Russian-roulette wheel/chamber would have produced out of you and me. Hopefully the brains that I had before the attempted-murder brakes-cut “oopsie” of '86, the potential that I was born with and will never see. Our mutually-mercurial mood-ring eyes, ranging half the color spectrum, depending upon our moods. I could always read your eyes, even if the lies went straight over my head, I read your eye color the way that I read the formerly-known-as-BeastMaster's evil bored-deep eyes from birth, so that I'd know when to go hide under the bed or inside my toybox or wherever I could get to... I read yours not out of fear, but out of hope, that someday, even if we were never the same color at the same time on the same day, that someday, somehow, I would finally see “true” love in them. Love, yes. Need, certainly. Even craving a time or two. Pain (though the veracity was never confirmed, nor the sources), aching, melancholy reaching back to a past that never existed.

Eric The Greek's sperm-shot made it just as long as our fertilized egg did, but I was planning to have it removed anyway. He was a douche. A remarkably well-muscled douche, after a couple years of less drinking and more work, but a douche nonetheless, and an intellect that, wellllll, not really worth measuring. Persistent, nagging really, until I finally DID fuck him, but after that, he split away from me faster than all the rest. I must really have been a lousy lay --- two years with you and only 2.5 couplings, and then a year with Closet Case, the lamest little excuse for a “male” (NEVER a “man), not to mention the 3 months with the Crack Whore, sex that I never enjoyed except for the foreplay, and then the animal would hold me down and fuck me raw and LAUGH when I couldn't even piss afterwards. How could I have been so stupid? Not to see it coming? Oh, I saw it, I just ignored those giant billboards as they flew by.

I tried to “love” them, some of them, a very rare minority, over the years, after and before you, but I never truly loved anyone the way that I loved you, you bony-arsed Irish-German redneck from Rome & Derby, NY. That mole on your wrist, that arrogant grin, the laugh that made me want to smack you and fuck you all at the same time. Those strong wiry arms, those bowed bandy legs that were SO perfectly-suited for fucking and that flawless, incredibly artistic, beautiful ass of yours. Nobody else saw my all-consuming attraction to you, even the two oldest “nieces” (now ungrateful, disloyal cows) loathed you on sight. Especially after your behavior towards a total fucking stranger bitch on that damned riverboat; they wanted to cut you & throw you overboard for trying to humiliate me in front of them. Similar behavior in front of them later resulted in a certain half-assed tattoo artist losing QUITE a bit of customers due to karma... Fuck that midget and the chihuahua he rode in on. It was a long time ago, though, that those girls gave a fuck about me, or about how anyone treated me. If you were to magically reappear now, they'd laugh and make jokes about how “perfect” it would be for me, how I “deserve” whatever you'd dole-out now.

On 9/11, I called all the fuck over Houston trying to find you, to see if your Uncle Ray in Shanksville, PA was okay, to make sure that the plane hadn't landed on HIS farmhouse (seeing as how the whole fucking TOWN is named after y'all), and the twunts wouldn't even let me TRY to find you. But after I'd called all of my people, the people who loved me back (or pretended to while I was fiscally advantageous), you were the one that I thought about most on that day, because I could not forget the man for whom you were named, Jonathan Raymond... Fat lot of good THAT did me. I'll never know, will I, and I'll never find nor see you again.

Because you don't want to be found, whomever you are now, ten years after you ditched, after I fucked-up your lied-to sugar-mama set-up, after Nannie died and you didn't give a fuck. Yeah, she hated you, she was jealous of you, she DISOWNED me once OVER YOU, whilst you were FUCKING ANOTHER GIRL RIGHT UNDER MY FUCKING NOSE --- she thought that the NYC road trip was FOR you, not MINE. Thankfully, Miriam's mother made her see that I really WAS just WITH THEM, and that you were nowhere in the state.
So many stupid, silly, facile memories. But dammit, when I ache, when I fear, when I need, why are YOU the first motherfucker who pops into my mind? Why does the smell of your sheets haunt my nose and my brain when I need to be held? Why do I remember those cold mornings, hiding under the sheets and sleeping-bag “comforter,” as we whacked the fuck out of the snooze button because neither of us wanted you to go to work? Not like there was any dick or head in it for ME, obviously, but just to be held in your arms, to absorb your heat, naked or clothed, was enough. Most of the time. I learned to settle and to treasure the small pleasures, which has basically been the format for the rest of my life. I took what little I could get, what I could scavenge from what you'd always wasted on others who used you like a rubber, I joyously savored the scraps from your table, and wasted two years when I could've been taking care of my Nannie, trying to pretend that I “really” had a life “of my own,” when in truth, I was nothing but a servant to you.

Yes, I blame myself, my neediness, my stupidity, my baggage and blatantly-obvious damage --- but I hold you responsible, too. You knew what you were doing, you knew how much and how HARD I loved you, and all you saw was a free ride, not a grown woman, not anything to be valued, not anyone to be loved, just more beer & cigarettes, please.

But my hypothalamus, my cerebral cortex, my cerebellum, they won't fucking give up the mythology. They won't give up the hopeful love in all of those excruciatingly-painful rants and poems that your rejection drove me to write. They won't turn loose of the infinitesimal details that gnaw at the inside of my skull like termites. The scent of your freshly-showered body, the smells of our sex, the texture of your skin beneath my kneading hands as I taught you the massage techniques that have undoubtedly kept you in good stead in the past 10 years, as I'm sure that you have continued to use them on EVERYTHING WITH A FUCKING PULSE. You don't just owe me that camera, son, you owe me a FORTUNE for the most-intense massages that you'll ever get, and the knowledge of them that you use on every willing body that crosses your path. But I still miss it. I still miss massaging damned near every single muscle in your lanky body, upon which my cooking packed a good 30 pounds of new muscle, ya fuck. I still miss massaging your scalp and smelling your essence wafting up from that thick, wavy, almost-auburn hair. I miss being spooned and cuddled through the night, waking up here and there, and before the days when you drew lines down the bed, you pulling me in closer, whether intentional or instinctual.

There've been so many others, before, during and since, especially since you had to rub all of YOUR conquests in MY face, I tried to keep up my end of statistics... but none of them ever loved me, even as a “friend.” None of them ever KNEW me, even the self-deluded would-be “pretty-boy” closet-case schizophrenic who made me hate sex. None of them accepted my body, my scars, the innumerable stretchmarks, my baggage, my damage, all of it, and then romanced me anyway --- not in SPITE of MY flaws, but because our flaws were almost perfectly-matched. I'll never forget that first night outta the spank tank, in my kick-ass dom boots and no underwear or pantyhose... Best 13 hours I've ever spent with a man or a woman. I still have that little figurine you'd created & painted, that you dug-out for me as soon as we got to your house, appropriately naming it “The Beastmaster,” your first gift to me, aside from the flattery and other pretty words that meant so little in the end. The corpulent little critter lost an arm somehow, in all my many moves, but I've still got it. I've still got the great head shots that you took of me, as if you were looking at me with eyes of at least CARE, if not “love.” I've got the tattoos that you were witness to, even though you never let ME see YOU get poked, thankfully only in the tattoo-needle sense.

And I've got the memories of how you were THERE for me after the Crack Whore tried to kill me, when you held me and held me and held on, so strong, but so... pained, to see what he'd done to me. That night outside the Dragon's Den, when you held me and grabbed my ass (“as a joke”) after you'd wrapped me in your arms and told me that I was “doing so much better.” Never knew how you meant that, but it did mean that you were, for once, paying attention, and I treasured that. You and that idiot phony Heckler being jealous of one another, even though I was ALWAYS “just friends” with him, and forced to be “friends” with you... nobody's ever been jealous over me before. Too bad that Heckler never really meant any of his friendship, he was just, as always, out for what he could get out of whomever.

So here I sit, long after losing the house that you helped me rehab (and THE worst electrical & phone wiring in HISTORY!), long after losing everything else, especially Nannie & Tater (you weren't a fan of teh Dick, so I doubt you'd miss him anymore than you miss me), and soon to lose Jada, and I wonder if you're still in Houston, or back to NOLA or somewhere in upstate NY. I don't doubt that you've finally “settled-down” by knocking some other girl up and probably even sticking around (unlike the daughter you allegedly had but had no contact with, yet another of those classic psycho-boy legends, eh?), as long as the food is good and she asks no questions as to where you go “out with the boys.”

I don't know you anymore, all I know is a memory. Millions of memories who will never leave me go. Like the day that you came through me as Teh Dick had tried to assault/intimidate me with that cast-iron finger towards my chest, as he'd done for over 20 fucking years, ONLY ON THE GIRLS, though, he NEVER corrected his almighty dick-extension, did he... and somehow, without there ever being actual tutelage or discussion, without you ever pushing me to give a fuck about karate, you were there in that room, that tiny utility room with me, and I grabbed that big manual-labor fist of his and shoved him clear across that fucking room, at least six feet, because he had NEVER expected it, had raised me all of my life, along with the F.U. and her almighty son-king, TO NEVER FIGHT BACK, to NEVER defend myself. I not only got the momentum and the surprise, I got the physics on him and surprised the living FUCK out of that neanderthal. Grabbed my soaking-wet/unfinished laundry, said a tearful goodbye to my Nannie, as they'd kidnapped her to West Redneckistan by then, so the only way I could see her was going to THEIR almighty fucking property --- and I hauled-ass for your house and ergo, The Buddha Belly, one of Igor's best laundry-and-food bars in the chain. And we shared the not-fun mushrooms, a big-assed cheeseburger, fries and the lot, and though I was still vibrating with indignation and upset, you sat with me, so close, and you were PROUD of me. Pretty fucking proud of yourself, too, I would imagine, but you'd earned that brownie point. Changed history, ya did that day, as did I. One of your few gifts that weren't five-finger-discounts or takesies-backsies, and one that I treasure to this day.

I never said that you were “all bad,” as you damned well know; you were almost always there @ the Dragon's Den, listening to me rip my heart out on stage OVER YOU, and how you stood it, I've no idea, but you did, and somehow, acted like you RESPECTED me for calling me on your bullshit. None of which slowed you down from hitting on little horse-toothed heroin-skinny bitches RIGHT IN MY FUCKING FACE, granted, but at least you had the balls to HEAR THE TRUTH, like it or not. And somehow, you managed to tag a couple of those little skanks, yet THEY left you on the curb every fucking time, didn't they.

Yes, I'd happily gnaw-off an arm or leg to get the FUCK out of this SHIT-HOLE THAT I WILL *NEVER* BE ABLE TO FUCKING ***AFFORD***, or to have the money to get the fuck HOME, subsidized-housing scams be damned. It'd be nice to feel like I actually have a “life” again, though I won't hold my breath. But whether in Miami, West Redneckistan, Crackery or Orleans proper, I still have to carry you on my back, no matter where I go. Maybe it's some stupid OCD thing of a hyperlexic dork who's never truly BEEN loved, not in the “romantic” sense (though I do think that I've snagged more than my fair share of platonic love on all counts). Maybe it's because I am such “damaged goods,” that I hang onto every tiny memory that I do get to keep, as they are so few & far between. Maybe all of this is just another wasted hour of transcendental masturbation... most likely.

But dammit, for the life of me, when I hurt, when I'm afraid, when I'm so fucking alone, YOU are the one that I crave. Like walking into that shit-hole The Club an hour after you'd left it, and trailing your scent like a bloodhound, KNOWING you'd been there and when, and how much you'd had to drink before staggering home, you really do seem to be, involuntarily as it surely must be on your part, permanently etched upon my shriveled, useless old brain. Thirteen-plus years since you first started flirting with me at the Dungeon, over ten since you told me to fuck-off and die... and I can still recall your voice, whether laughing, yelling, or us singing-along to Pearl Jam & Janis Joplin in the car (sometimes, we even hit the proper keys!); your smile and smirks and kisses; those gold flecks in your teal-to-mossy-green eyes (and that pale-mint HULK green when you were hungover, involuntarily outta bed, and pissed the fuck OFF!); the feel of your strong, artistic hands on me (and pouring tepid water into the well at the base of my back was NOT funny, dammit!); the talents of your lying, Irish-bullshitter mouth; all of our copious hair getting tangled on the same pillow as we slept (or didn't sleep...), so that we'd have to sit there and gently pull away, so as not to rip the other's vainly-treasured locks out.

But most of all, I miss you BEING THERE. Yes, I have many true, to-the-bone friends now, thanks to teh innernet toobs and years of online misadventures, but in terms of someone actually being in the room, and being willing to hold me when I'm weak enough to cry in front of somebody else (on the phone is easy, in person is humiliating and debilitating) --- nuttin', honey. It'd be nice if there were some non-shitkicker/hypocritical-”christian” joint to hang-out in, anywhere near here, but there aren't, so I will not meet people like that until I can get back to civilization. Oh, to have a time machine to take me back to 1997 Napoleon Avenue and to un-make so many mistakes, and to avoid all of the ways that you hurt me, so that these good memories, these parts of you that I still crave would have truly MEANT something TO YOU, TOO... Hell, to go back to 1993 WRNO would be even better, especially in a career sense, but then, if I'd never gotten screwed out of any radio jobs, I'd never have wound-up schlepping down to the Dungeon to make SHIT tips beating the snot out of idiotic fucking tourists, and you'd never have finally spoken to me, Mr. Quiet, World's Skinniest Bouncer. Ironic, or sick? --- that I met you AND Teh Crack Whore in the same place, my former “other living room” ? What difference does it make, can't go back and fix any of it or save anything from either clusterfuck.

But as I freak-out over illegally-high electric bills and phone/ISP bills that will NEVER get fucking paid, as I sweat my badly-aging tits off with the thermostat locked on EIGHTY, as my chirren, the formerly-tiny black balls of fluff who developed a FETISH for your stinky work loafers and who pounced on you every time that you came into my apartment --- as I watch them aging so quickly that it terrifies me, as everything around me continues to change in ways that don't do me a DAMNED bit of good, and I have no control over anything that I'd want to change --- as my life is ruled more and more by the fear of more pain, more spine damage, more nerve damage, and the IQ-killing fucking drugs that haven't been “fun” in ten fucking years... you, ironic or sick as it is, are the still-living comfort (well, I hope, anyway; not like I can hold Nannie's hand or call Tater on the phone, is it?) for which I crave.

Some days, it just doesn't pay to turn yer brain on at the fuck all, especially when you get lost in one of those dead-end labyrinthine wrinkles that always point BACKWARDS.

I wish to fuck and back that I had half the brain of the character “Bob” on “ReGenesis,” the Asperger's Russian who is so sweet, so real, so fragile and yet SO indelibly himself (the character; the actor Dmitry is THAT good) --- yes, there are good female leads on the show, but Bob's Asperger's is a helluva lot closer to me than those size-two young hotties. Plus, he was able to have ENCOURAGING “parents,” who WANTED him to succeed, and he got through a couple of PhDs with the SUPPORT of his universities. Y'know, in some mythical land where the Disability Acts are actually ENFORCED and ENCOURAGED. No, I'd never have made microbiologist or anything remotely that high-up the academic food-chain, even if my brakes had never been cut, but DAMN, what it must feel like to actually ACHIEVE that... I'll never fuckin' know. Nope, not trying to transfer to another flavor of pity-party, just jealous as fuck of a fictional character. As twisted as my attraction to this show is, I ain't ashamed. Hardly the first man I've ever seen on screen who reminded me of you, although a much more cultured, worldly, HONEST version of you that may or may not ever exist. Other girls may fail to see my attraction to you, but I never gave a fuck about that. Your adorable, if slightly bony ass was just fine by me, though Outerbridge's butt is a weeee bit more fleshed-out, if not quite as muscular. Can't recall the others who bring you to mind at this hour, but they're out there. Wish I knew where the fuck YOU were, out there, and up to what... *sigh*

Life Without Dick

These are not the pictures that I wanted to post, but the one that I had in mind, I couldn't find.
Approximately 3:30P, 4/26/2010, the alleged "father," herein previously and hereafter referred to as "Teh Dick," dropped dead. Right there in that red leather recliner, in HIS fucking living room, in HIS fucking house. An astonishingly-competent (for West Redneckistan Bigotry General, especially) E.R. doc postulated that it was a combination of a pulmonary embolism (especially since he'd arrived home from work complaining of "burning lungs") and a massive heart attack, but the Fallen Uterus prefers the "medical" expertise of her nephew the physical therapist, in telling everyone that it could only have been, and I quote, "The Widowmaker" massive heart attack as diagnosed (sans autopsy) by said nephew, a republicunt narcissist to the fucking bone. Not necessary information at this point, but worth noting, as I can't stand the smug little prick.

And as in all things, I am alone. I am not "included" in anything, I do not "belong" to anything or anyone, and I am, above all else, the "evil one," the "troublemaker," the Henry II who will not recant nor apologize for fantasizing about beheading my own sort of Thomas a' Becket, in that I will not LIE to please THEM and kill MYSELF, I will not "befriend" a RAPIST, and I will NEVER stop fighting for the justice which I so richly fucking DESERVE.

Yet every pompous, sadiddy, arrogant, phony, greed-whore pretentious cunt in a hundred-mile vicinity comes here & orders me to "Take care of (my) Mama!"

Right. Same cunts who were more than happy to perjure themselves for Teh Dick & his Fallen Uterus' behalf when they tried to erase/invalidate/rewrite my Nannie's will. Sure will take THEIR advice to heart, you BETCHA.

Anyway, the picture I had in mind is either not amongst those that I've scanned-in, or was lost in the great flame-up of Ol' Bessie last year... there are very similar pictures, with his first great-granddaughter, SINCERE pictures, that almost exactly model/imitate the picture that I had in mind: a 3-year-old me, holding hands with "Daddy," as we hunt for easter eggs. Taken from the back, from a distance, by the Fallen Uterus, back before I was old or educated enough to know that THIS is not how "families" operate, when it was "perfectly 'normal'/natural" for me to be the sex slave of their almighty penis-extension SON. I've told this story so many thousands of times, I know that y'all are sick of it, but yes, it took an Ann Landers column for me to be able to put a WORD to it, to PROVE that it WASN'T RIGHT. I'd wondered all of my life, wondered whether other girls @ school had similar "relationships" with their "brothers," but never had any friends close enough to ask. One teacher stuck her neck out for me, SHE could see what was wrong in FIRST GRADE, and of course, teh F.U.'s connections got that teacher FIRED. Thank you, wherever you are, Mrs. Flanagan.

I know, this isn't supposed to be about ME, it's supposed to be about the chickenshit dead guy who TOTALLY could've prevented this death, MONTHS ahead of its occurrence, but decided that he'd rather skip-out early, do a dine & dash on us all, and never have to be bothered or disgusted by the sight of me ever the fuck again. And, I might add, the ONLY fucking witness, other than myself, to the BRAKE-LINE CUTTING that led to the infamous car wreck of April 3, 1986, wherein I lost the left half of my brain and gained a bum knee & arthritis @ the ripe old age of 15. So now the rapist not only gets away (thanks to the sexist-pig neanderthal JOKES that they call "detectives" in Livingston Parish) with rape, enslavement, torture, PTSD-invoking "jokes," et al --- he also gets away with ATTEMPTED MURDER.

All the little soldiers all fall down. First the three people who truly loved me, my Papa, Nannie & Tater... and now the one who never claimed me.

Yes, there were things that made me sad, even made me cry, but no, the rage will never subside, because justice will never be dealt, will never even exist.

Oh, and to make life even MORE fun, aside from the physical torment of moving everyfuckingthing that I own (with 2 rare exceptions, thanks to AwCResQ & a neighbor-for-pay) ALL THE FUCK BY MY CRIPPLED-ASS SELF and a TRULY sickening excuse for a doctor & "medical staff," --- on these rare nights when "fate" shines upon me and I am privileged enough to sleep indoors, GUESS WHO RUNS THE ENTIRE FUCKING PONDEROSA?!?!??!?

Guess who is the first voice that I hear in the fucking morning, as he swagger/waddles down the hallway towards a door that HAS NO FUCKING LOCK ON IT?

And guess who runs the F.U. far moreso and far more rabidly than even her precious Dick?

You got it.

The rapist. The Creature. The no-neck illiterate inbred dog-fucking PIECE OF SLIME who is responsible for Tater being homeless and ergo DEAD, and oh yeah, who had me sucking his dick when I was TWENTY-TWO MONTHS OLD. Yeah, I know, how... "CALIGULA"... even before the movie came out, I think...

So y'all can see how I can't just pour out my heart in tears & sadness for the loss of his chief enabler, defender, promoter and rewarder (if that's even a word)... I was the extraneous one, the one that Nannie & Papa had to bribe them not to abort, the one that Teh Dick always claimed belonged to the family photographer or the doctor or the milkman (literally...), NEVER the one that Teh Dick claimed, ergo, never worthy of his love, approval, pride, acceptance, and sure as hell NEVER worthy of him spending a fucking DIME on me in my entire life. HIS children had EVERYTHING THAT THEY EVER WANTED: livestock of damned near every description, trailers to haul them to every show in the Southeast, equipment & accessories for every competition, outfits to show those animals in, prom dresses, camel-hair jackets, NEW cowboy boots made of REAL leather (as opposed to the plastic ones I got second-hand), saddles, a fugly Winnebago, you fucking name it. I got a rabbit and second-hand chickens, and despite red & blue ribbons, that wasn't good enough, either. Nothing that I *was* good at, "trivia" like SCHOOL, writing, science, math (again, long before the car wreck that took all of that away), or WANTED to be good at, like music & dance (how the fuck DARE I even ASK?!?!? I giant clumsy GORGON like ME??!?! Oh, what great comic fodder this retard furnished for the schoolyard bullies in "my" own living room!) --- none of it meant a fucking thing to him. Never came to a single thing I ever did in school, never allowed me any extracurricular activities that cost over fifty cents, never allowed me to EVER have ANY of MY friends onto that 2.2-acre pretend "ranch" of his, only the snotty little bitches belonging to his construction buds, and they made fun of me at my own fucking birthday party. Gee, THANKS, Daddy! BTW, the foal in the above picture was supposed to be "MY" horse, "MY" mare. I trained her on halter & lead, I saddle-broke her (I was 12 @ the time), and then she was THEIR horse. Ask me how many times I actually *got* paid for shoveling-out the disgustingly-aggregated feces from his stud-horse's stall, too... Amazing how rich a construction plumber/foreman can be when it's for HIS kids, and how "broke" he always is when it comes to the bastard. When HE'S the one who OFFERED TO PAY FOR THE LABOR. Never did offer me a dime or a cut of the proceeds from my prostitution for his son, though...

I wish that these petty complaints were the end of it. I wish that I'd managed to hold onto my fragmented remnants of a radio "career," and NEVER had to ask him or the F.U. for a FUCKING THING, ever the fuck again. I wish that I could've kept my word in that when Nannie died, since they all took the kids away from me anyway, THAT I WOULD NEVER HAVE TO LAY EYES UPON THESE MOTHERFUCKERS, ANY OF THEM, EVER THE FUCK AGAIN.

But as we all know, I failed at THAT, too. And as long as my back stays re-broken and I am fucked-over by shitty doctors and their petty-little-suburbanite-cunt "staffs," I will never get a shred of my brain back and I will never even be able to write worth a fuck ever again, if, indeed, I ever did. Yeah, there are recordings of screaming, cheering audiences after hearing my rants & poems, there are radio demos that never got me anywhere --- but all that REALLY mattered, to Teh Dick and his flying monkeys, is that *I* "never" held a "REAL JOB." If it's not manual labor, if it isn't the same fucking job from cradle to grave (show me ONE person in radio or film who's stayed with the same company through their entire career --- ONE! Ain't gonna happen, but luddites like these assholes can't comprehend how those industries work), if you don't lick ass, balls & taint on the boss-man/massah with your every fucking breath, THEN IT AIN'T A REAL FUCKING JOB, you lazy fake-diseased fat bitch. A bad back? So the fuck what?

Sorry, didn't mean to go circular with this, but at least I'm doing it over here, instead of at the main joint. Talk about wasting page space.

It's not that I didn't fucking TRY with him, it's not like I never WANTED a "father." I did my fucking dance with the devil, not only because Nannie made me, but to stay in those kids' lives, and to TRY to get teh Dick & his F.U. to grow the fuck up and treat me like a human being, rather than their least-favorite SERVANT. I danced with the devil, over and over again, because it was always ALL OF THEM versus just me. Yeah, Nannie backed me up, she was on my side, but she was so psychologically beaten-down, she would never STAND with me, she would never "rock the boat." I love her with all of my heart & soul and always will, but paying me off, a droplet at a time, didn't achieve what she wanted it to: to fix the damage that they and their almighty Son-King had inflicted.

If Nannie was still alive, so would Tater be, that's for damned sure. But Nannie was merely an IMPEDIMENT to Teh Dick & his F.U., because she stood between them and HER MONEY, every penny she'd saved from 43+ years of teaching public school and tutoring rich brats, as well as what the F.U. hadn't stolen from every penny that PAPA saved from 40+ years @ Ethyl Chemical & his 1st-Depression-era poor farmers' baptist church. They "wanted" Nannie up here, alright, to make sure that she didn't live as long as her sisters & brothers had. Same hack who killed her is the one who gave Teh Dick a "clean bill of health" a month before he croaked. I know, y'all expect me to do the wicked little vindictive monkey-dance of hard-earned schadenfreude, but the irony is lost on me. Him dying has caused far more trouble and injustice than it could ever possibly have fixed.

And besides, it thwarted one of my lifelong fantasies (yes, I *do* fantasize about more than hitting the Powerball and taking out entire shopping malls with an automatic weapon, believe it or not...): of standing on his oxygen line, leaning over his deathbed, as he BEGGED FOR MY FORGIVENESS... And I smile (since it's a fantasy, I have a full set of real teeth and still remember HOW to smile) down into his weak, bloodshot, hateful green eyes and snarl, "NO." Then pan right as I glide out of the hospital-room door to the exit theme of his desperate gasps for breath...

If I can't dream of the "normal" shit that TV/movies/marketing scum TELLS US that we're SUPPOSED to "want," if I never know what any kind of love but the true platonic love of my friends is (seeing as how Nannie, Tater & Papa are dead, and even Oldest Niece has defected to the rapist's side), then dammit, I at LEAST deserve to fucking DREAM of what I can.

After all, when you're a pushing-40 hard & fast, unemployable homeless loser, dreams are what distract you from the pain, the shame, the futility of it all, so that you don't ruin somebody ELSE'S sheetrock with your brain matter. And revenge is a subject that I know far better, at least in the literal/literary sense, than any random batshit-crazy idiot who takes out total strangers in a school or a strip mall or an airplane. Their shit is stupid and pointless. MY shit would be EPIC, if I could ever actually pull it off. Or someday be capable of putting it to the page and making something out of it.

A girl can dream, right?

Oh, and wait 'til I tell y'all about the fucking POLTERGEIST shit... *sigh*

Moved the inconsequential award-show bitching over here...

Had more important shit to bitch about, so here's the original post from Sunday night:

Normally, you won't catch me watching this shit...

...but Mo'Nique and Gabby were worth sitting through the WORST. TV. DIRECTION. ***EVER***. Srsly. Whomever was in that booth, I want some of what THEY were fucking smoking. Horrible, just fucking horrible. And the "Best Actress" --- REALLY??? I missed Sandra's speech b/c of shite "broadcast" (ha) TV, and nothing against her, but Gabby put more on the line. No, I don't get to go TO the movies, that's above & far beyond my means, but I can tell you more about a flick from the trailer than most critics can from repeated viewings, so shaddup. Helen Mirren & Meryl Streep ain't exactly chopped liver, either, but I'd never heard of that little waif girl in my life, so who gives a fuck.

Also, WORST. SOUND. IN. A. LIVE. BROADCAST. FUCKING ***EVER***. No applause from the fucking audience?!?!? What is this, fucking MIME?!?!??! Idiots.

And no, I don't put "personal investments" in celebrities, no matter how gifted they may or may not be, but when Mo'Nique thanked Hattie McDaniel, I fucking lost it. Cried like a little bitch. I have loved that woman all of my life, and for Mo'Nique to put it down in stone --- perfect. Gabby was robbed, though.

Yes, she's young, she's got years to get the little gold man, but it pisses me off because it makes it look like Mo'Nique didn't EARN her Oscar, it makes it look like she DID get it because of fucking "politics," especially when best film and director go to A REPUBLICUNT, PRO-WAR "WOMAN." Oh, gee, first female director to get that statue, yippeeee... Gimme a fucking break. Barbra may have played it thrilled, but she knew the difference. No, I never expected a clean sweep for "Precious," but I damned well expected more than what they got.

Yes, there are myriad other issues that I need to address, especially about the egotistical crackers from Nawth Luzeeanner who presume that they're a "terrorism target" (there's your tax money hard at works, folks, thanks to the shadow gubmint of the NHS!), but that film "Precious" has hit me hard. Big shock, I know. Go figure. And then there's TONS of news from Reproductive Health Reality Check and Right Wing Watch, too, and I *will* get to it. No promises as to when, obviously, it being ME, but the article are out there and y'all need to see them.

Oh, and Tyler motherfucking Perry --- why was one of the richest, most independent, most powerful men in show bidness acting like a GOOBER on live television?!?! It ain't like you ain't never BEEN nowhere, man! Dayum. Morgan Freeman needs to get ahold of your country ass and teach you to stop makin' Southerners look like the damned Beverly Hillbillies. And fuck yes, Mizzippi cousin** shoulda won, too. Suck on it.

I'm happy for Rene' that the little Austrian dude won, but there were some Americans in there who earned it, too, so neener-neener boo boo. Lastly, fuck whatever MORON put together the "memoriam" section together, 'cause Y'ALL FUCKED THE WHOLE FUCKING THING UP, YOU IDIOTIC TWATS. You don't short PATRICK FUCKING SWAYZE, YOU BITCHES, and then make a point of worshiping at the altar of the fucking child-molester.

Shutting up now, gotta get back to packing, still haven't found a place to live, and NEITHER PLACE IN NEW ORLEANS HAS ACTUALLY MAILED ME AN APPLICATION OR RETURNED A FUCKING PHONE CALL, so there might be some... discrepancies... in the near future. If y'all get a collect call from O.P.P.*, it's me, and I need bail money. But fuck, while I'm down there, I might as well rent a woodchipper and remedy some other longstanding issues... like the piece of shit responsible for our Jada's fate... Hey, if I go to jail, motherfuckers, it will be WORTH IT.

And thanks to the Academy for reminding me of everything that I fucking HATED about the nepotism-orgy known as "film." Talk about "who you know or who you blow," that is the epitome of it. Wonder who held the gun to Clooney's head to get him in the front row...

*Orleans Parish Prison, not "Other People's Pussy/Prick," thankyewverymuch.
**If you kin to ANYBODY in Mizzippi, you kin to ALLLLL of Mizzippi.