Methadventures

A sordid confession blog.

I was young(er) and still feeling bulletproof.

Having just borrowed a house from the bank for a thirty year loan I was feeling like a responsible adultish sort of person.

Until I met the neighbor.

His name was Steve.

He had graduated from painting houses to dealing in a much more lucrative market.

The manufacture and sale of Meth.

He also taught Steve-kun-do.

The first time we met he told me how Bruce Lee himself peed himself in fear when faced with the mighty steve in battle mode.

Chuck Norris? Not a challenge for the Steve.

He had really bad skin.

I learned later that when you cook chemicals without the proper protective gear you can get residue buildup in your pores. It creates a sort of "plastic pimple" on exposed skin.

Nasty.

I like to keep to myself, let others leave me alone and I leave them alone.

Sort of.

It was the traffic that did me in.

A constant 24-7 flow of cars, foot traffic, vagrants and bicyclists would come to his kitchen window and trade grubby money for little plastic packets.

And the noise. Loud music, Loud cars, Mowing his lawn at 2am. Always the noise.

So I phoned the gendarmes.

This is when we discovered the boundary dispute. 

We lived exactly on the border between M-city and S-city.

Neither of them wanted to come out, so they sent H-county cars.

Who didn't want to deal with it.

So they left.

And the traffic continued. Day and night. 

So I asked him to stop.

Very nicely.

I even politely kicked on the front door, rather than knocking on the kitchen window.

I may have kicked a little harder then I meant to.

He called the cops on me.

Who showed up and informed me, whilst the traffic never abated, that since there was no "proof" of my erstwhile neighbor dealing drugs that there was nothing they could do.

Oh, and if you bother the Steve again, you get a ticket.

So I pondered.

Shoot him? Torch his house?Accidentally run over him? Squish him?

options and options.

I was at a loss.

So I called about the noise. Every night.

He started getting tickets. Warnings. He would cast me dark looks.

I am afraid I was not subtle.

Standing in front of steves house with a cell phone at 1am calling the cops.

He received a FINAL warning.

It only took a month.

Jail for noise violation if he had one more call.

So he got quiet.

Really quiet.

Damn it all.

The problem was beginning to look insurmountable.

It was solved, miraculously, by the sweet Dutch lady down the road.

She called Protective Services.

Apparently, the Steve had a six year old child in the house.

So, they came, they saw, they took the kid. The policia took the Steve and I figured all was well.

Nope.

The Steve had a Lawyer.

A really good one.

He was out and cooking again in less than 24 hours.

But he got smarter.

He moved into his garage/karate studio in the back yard.

He rented the house to these nice young men.

College age.

Quiet. Polite. Respectful.

Best neighbors we ever had.

The traffic continued to some extent, but since it was going into the backyard and off the street.

Well, live and let live.

Until 3am one morning when the SWAT team raided the house, shot one of the nice young men and let the dog use the other one as a chew toy.

They were cooking for steve.

He escaped. In the confusion and amidst the growling and screaming the steve got away.

At 4am I was out talking to the coppers.

What could I do?

Could I get steve evicted?

Well.

In a word. No.

He owned the house.

They really didn't have much on him.

And he had a really good Lawyer.

So.

The next day, under the cover of a bright noon day sun.

I took his electric meter. I turned off the water and the gas and put padlocks on them.

I took a hammer drill and three inch screws and fastened every single door, window and opening shut.

Then I stripped all the screws.

That night steve tried to break into his own house.

I let him play for about an hour. Banging and Cursing and generally making a lot of noise.

Until he had a fine froth of rage going.

Then I called the cops.

Who arrived just in time to see steve, in a meth induced frenzy of stupidity, trying to beat his own front door in with a decorative rock.

he was making a lot of noise.

They say confession is good for the soul.

I say, only after the statue of limitations is up.

Don't mess with us

evil-doers beware

Blogshit

People will write about anything.
I went on a tour of blogland these past few days to see what the vast army of maladjusted humans with a desire to express themselves are writing about.
Holy salted snails.
The absolute volume of total shit out there is impressive.
After six hours of reading I had to go outside and throw my pants, boots and socks away.
Wading through waist deep poop can do that.
I found blogs for and about everything.
Dealing with snails in your garden. 78 blogs over three years of NOTHING but dealing with snails.
Growing Worms in your kitchen.
Growing Pot in life size Plastic Nativity Scene Characters. (very informative)
Exploring the inner working of a self designed AI.
Anime fetish blogs.

Jesus. Lots and Lots of Blogs about Jesus and scriptures and heaven and oh my, they even type with southern accents. I get the feeling that most of them read on about a 3rd grade level if at all.
Distressing.
Depressing blogs.

Statistically speaking I would venture to say that 90% of blogs are depressing, or about depression, or anti-psychotics and/or both.
Lots of Photo blogs. Most of those I actually really enjoyed.
Much over-use of the word "adventure" in blog titles.
If everyone with a blog titled adventure of....... Is actually having any sort of adventure.
Well, they would write a lot more about cool things. Instead they make one or three entries about their plans, their goals and their dreams and then.
I guess real life catches up and smacks them in the head.
Either that or thousands of people die every day on the first step to their grand adventure.
Sex blogs.
The odd thing about sex blogs. Actually, pretty much everything about all blogs is odd so to single out sex blogs is unfair.
However.
Most of the Sex blogs seem to be written by people who are not having any.
The food blogs.
I hate the food blogs.
As if having cooking shows on all day at the gym was not bad enough.

There are billions of blathering bloggers besieged by baked, boiled, burnt and braised items. Incidentally, that is a picture of butter beans. Thematic.
I hate food blogs.

Cat blogs.
I struggled with this, because I too have a cat. I have written about him on my blog. This is NOT my cat. My cat is a kick-ass raging cool furface named jack that does not chew on cacti.

Nor do I  have 5 years of  1820 individual entries about a cat. One cat. Neither do I have 3000 followers whom are also obsessed with said feline.
One blog, one cat, 1820 entries over five years and over 3000 followers.
There are some blogs out there that are so wonderfully written, so magnificently expresses and so emotionally rewarding to read that it makes swilling through the miasma of blogocean worth it.
Wear old clothes.

Progeny

I have two small people that live in the same house as me.
They may or may not be my children.
After the older of the two, #1, brought home a 4.0 report card I begun to question her parentage.
At her age I had discovered that if you were bored at school, you could just leave. Nonchalantly stroll out the front door and meander home.
Grades? I had a vague idea about them, but nothing really penetrated.
I don't think truancy is a genetic trait. But it should be.
She even seems to like teachers, she treats them and other students with kindness and respect.
I am amazed by her. She is intelligent, Graceful, Poised and Beautiful.
Obviously taking after her Mom.
She is also very verbally quick. She can talk circles around me. The witty comeback, the repartee, come naturally to her.
I have to plan conversations in advance to avoid sounding like an idiot. Witty? Not I said the tom.
The younger of the two, #2, is an alien.
She has silver eyes.
Feathers grow from her head.
She plays ping pong with a paddle in each hand.
She looks just like her mom, but she lives on a different plane of existence.
These two, the numbers, 1 and 2, get along as sisters do.
They seem to tolerate me.
I exasperate them both. #1 is already at the point in her homework where I can only sit by and watch helplessly as she storms through paper after paper with the careless abandon of ease. #2 never asks me for help, she asks #1 or waits for the Mom.
She knows that I am good for fun and laughs but not for math.
It is a very well known fact in our house that Dad skipped a Grade.(3rd)
It is understood that the foundation for success in school was imparted to all the other students in the grade that dad missed.
My education is lacking.
They are much smarter than I.
I watch them both and marvel at their uniqueness. The way they handle things.
I remember their whole lives spread out in a ribbon wreath in front of my eyes.
Everything.
I am very grateful that they allow me to live with them. That they put up with my oddness with a smile. They kiss me goodnight before they sleep and I can feel the brush of their lips on my cheeks all night.
I was going to write a very funny story about daycare.
Another time.
Right now I am just going to sit and think of these little sprites.
Because whoever made them, aliens or mailman or me.
Did a pretty damn good job.

Seriously? The triumphant conclusion

I have been around some really dim humans in my life.
The guy who believed satellites stayed in orbit by means of a really really long electrical cord, the guy who insisted Gold was worth more than platinum, the guy who told me that bending an electrical cord would kink the current and stop it from getting through, the guy who thought I was kidding about breaking his clavicle.
On and on.
This lady though.
She wins.
I was actually beginning to suspect that she must have either had some sort of traumatic brain injury or that her Mother and Father were siblings.
She was everywhere, her shrill voice grating and permeating every available acoustic space to be found.
If I tried to talk or answer questions she was there instantly.
Quicker then instantly.
I would feel a whoosh of displaced air and her voice would screech into existence directly into my neural cortex.
"LOOK!"
Everything she said was preceded by this.
"LOOK!" 
And she would point.
The kids were actively hiding from her. Her son had developed a nervous tic at the corner of his right eye and was constantly mumbling to himself. One of the staff, bless her sweet little soul, was trying to distract the moron with shiny things and baubles.
Nothing worked.
She destroyed any and all intellectual growth.
With magnificent pronouncements such as.....

"LOOK! THOSE ARE THE SHOES JESUS WORE!"
at a footwear display.

"LOOK! THIS GUY INVENTED LIGHT AND THE TELEPHONE!"
to a famous picture of Einstein.

"LOOK! RNA! YOU ARE ALL MADE OF LITTLE TINY STRINGS OF RNA!"
to a model of the DNA helix

"LOOK! IF YOU ALL JUMP HARD ENOUGH YOU CAN MAKE THAT LITTLE NEEDLE MOVE!"
At a working seismograph. To her credit she did try.
She was actually quiet for a space after that, her failed attempt to create any sort of Richter measurement by jumping up and down for ten minutes saddened her.

"LOOK! A GIANT BEAR! AND THEY PUT HIS HANDS ON WRONG!"

Its a Giant Sloth. When one of the children pointed out the sign that said "giant ground sloth" attached to the skeleton she guffawed, then screeched.

"LOOK! THE DUMMIES PUT THE WRONG SIGN ON THE GIANT BEAR!"

That kind of self confidence always astounds me. When the whole world is wrong. Don't misunderstand, sometimes the whole world is wrong. But this Lady? The momentous ego was eclipsing the sun and all the other planets. Speaking of which.

"LOOK! PLUTO AIN'T A PLANET NO MORE CAUSE THE DEATH STAR DONE BLOWED IT UP!"

I cant make this shit up. I started laughing. Hard. The hilarity in that and the ridiculousness of this bat-shit human all caught up with me at once and I couldn't stop. I sat down next to the earth model ant farm and laughed until tears were streaming down my face.

She sat down next to me. Used her humongous backpack to push the two kids sitting behind me right off the bench. Leaned in close to me and whisper screeched in my ear.

"look, they put you with these kids to be an example, behave like an adult"

Have you ever heard a hyena choke? Me neither. But I am positive I sounded just like one. I laughed so hard I hurt myself. I just got up and walked away still laughing. Her face got redder and redder until it was purplish. I couldn't talk, I could barely breathe. The kids just stared. 

She was apoplectic. 

Splendid.

And wonder of wonders. She was quiet. All through the interactive displays, through the botany room, even the Archaeology area. Blissful silence.

Then.

The ultimate.

We walked under the giant skeleton of some long necked Dinosaur. Forty some feet above our heads.

Her son and I, standing quietly under it. He is busy  telling me all about it. One of those kids that knows all the names of all the dinos. Obviously his favorite subject. He is just warming up and telling me about its diet and possible coloration when the whoosh of idioport startles us.

"LOOK! ITS A GIANT LONG NECKED TYRANNOSAURUS REX"

Her son, in a very small voice "mother, I think that may be a Barosaurus  "

She slaps her kid on the back. Laughing at how cute he is. They are both Alternating looking up at the skeleton and at me.

"LOOK! THESE KIDS, SO CUTE AT THIS AGE, THINK THEY KNOW EVERYTHING!"

and in a whisper screech stage whisper to me

"Its a good thing we get smarter as we get older, otherwise they would believe all sorts of weird stuff"

She walked off then. Leaving me standing with her son.

I said nothing.

What do you say? What could I have said?

The boy looked up at me. Smiled a little and said.

"I really think that I might be adopted"

Seriously? Part 2

Wild Indians? As opposed to what? The tame domesticated Indians? The incorrigible ones?
The nine eight year old's were all looking at me, I was looking at them, blinking. Behind me the super educated and backpacked partner was screeching about "LOOK! wild Indians invented baby backpacks, they must have almost been as smart as people!"

An instance in which I am very glad I am not human.
One of the wee humans was holding the bridge of his nose. Eyes closed as if some great misfortune had assailed him, he seemed to be muttering.
Concerned, I knelt down next to him and asked if he was OK?
"I begged her not to come, and she promised me she would be quiet"
Aha! Progeny.
I couldn't really say anything comforting.  So I tried to distract him by asking him what his favorite thing was so far. He took me over to a nearby display case and showed me a beautiful beaded quiver. Full of arrows.
He was reading the placard out loud to me, explaining why it was his favorite. Obviously a city boy, he asked me what an "Elk" was? After all, it says that its made of Elk hide?
Before I could even utter a syllable I was mauled, manhandled, bowled over. By a short backpack wearing dwarf howling "LOOK! Don't be silly! LOOK! Everyone knows that "ELK" is just Indian for "buffalo leather!"
Um.
Yeah.
I left the poor lad there. Holding the bridge of his nose, slightly shaking his head. His biological donor drawling on and on about words and various meanings in other languages.
The other smallettes I could enjoy. Watching them flit and fly about. Pointing and exclaiming and reading about things. Whenever questioned I pointed out the placard, let them read it to me.
Then we came to the dead things.

The male version of the wee children seemed to be unaffected by the cases of furry remains, quickly moving on to the interactive human skull display. The female half, of which there were four, seemed a bit put out. Standing in a flock, twittering to each other and pointing at the fuzzies.
I knelt down next to my child and waited.
They buzzed with each other for a moment and than their erstwhile spokesperson turned to me. "Are these real?'
yes.
"Are they all real?"
yes
"Are they really dead?"
y--------
That's when the imbecilic dwarf bounced my head off of the display case. Bonk.
"LOOK! OF COURSE THEY ARE NOT REALLY DEAD! THEY JUST SHAVE THEIR FUR OFF AND MAKE IT LOOK REAL, LIKE A SHEEP"
Huh?

Seriously? part 1

Some people.
Field trips with children can be fun, exhausting affairs. They can be day-long lessons on frustration. They can re-fill your happiness bucket and let you reflect on the joys of life.
Or.
You could be partnered with the idiot.
The parent or Grand-parent that cant seem to get a grasp on the fact that children are just PEOPLE, But smaller. The parent that seems to think that volume is the absolute key to communication. The "adult" that has never realized that there really are other people in the world that can hear every word you scream in public.
There are idiots in this world. Oft times I think that I am destined to meet every single one of them.
Field trip, to the magical Museum of Natural History, one of my most favorite places in the whole world.
I was actually really looking forward to it. Going with a herd of 8-9 year old's seemed the perfect way to re-enjoy all of my favorite things.
The Native american Exhibits, The moon rocks, the seismograph jiggling in real time, the giant pendulum that shows the earths movement through space. I get a smile just thinking about it.
I promised Child #2 that I would do my best not to embarrass her in front of her friends. Being an 8 year old rock-star is hard enough without your parents along to dorkify your life.
We arrived at the school, complete with a packed lunch and good walking shoes. I even brushed my teeth and combed my hair.
#2 checked me over before we left and accessorized me with a scarf.
The perils.
Milling about with her classmates and nodding at the other parents, that boiling excitement of leaving the school during school electrifying the air.
I was introduced to my "partner"
A mom.
Standing about 5 foot 4. Wearing the approved mom adventure uniform of jeans, hiking boots and sweater.
My first warning should have been the backpack.
She had on a backpack as big as herself.
Packed full.
If only I was smarter. I would have ditched her at the school.
Our group of wee-uns started at the very top of the museum. The 5th floor, native American exhibits.
Of course, being inquisitive small humans the children start asking questions.
Whats that? Whats This? Being lazy, I pointed out to the curious youths the placards. Marvelously numbered and placed in plain site below each exhibit. I know from previous visits to places with this same group of mini-folk that they can all read. Three of them can read English and Spanish, two of them read at advanced levels and the rest are on par with their age.
I was on my knees, in front of the Pacific Northwest Exhibit. Reading with the children about the displays when the imbecile walked up.
I guess the backpack slowed her down.
She planted her feet firmly behind the group, pointed up at the display and Screamed
 "LOOK! WILD INDIANS MADE THAT STUFF!!!!"

Bully

Do you know what a bully is?
I am not talking about the dictionary definition. Or even the popular one.
A Bully.
Is a person who uses their size, temperament,ability or just plain meanness to intimidate, coerce, cajole, threaten or force others to bend to their will.
That's it.
All there is to it.
I was a small child. I had a big mouth that got me into a lot of trouble. I also had (have) a defective gene that tells me I can kick anybodies ass.
I never "bullied" anyone. I saw others get bullied, I knew both bullies and the bullied.
It confused me.
Even if you get your ass stomped, the bullying generally stopped. Willingness to fight for your own self gets a lot of respect.
I am speaking primarily of the male version of the species, the female side is quite mysterious to me and I am vaguely aware that they have very different rules for their bullying.
I spend a lot of time at my children's schools. Volunteering for this and that and field trip chaperon. I realize its not manly but I really want to be a part of my kids lives.
I see what goes on amongst the small folk.
The children.
Their squabbles and lives are every bit as involved and dramatic as ours. The adults.  More so in some ways.
I have seen the two boys whose fathers belong to separate gangs fight each other since kindergarten, the little girls grow up to be sweet or vicious and the normals stay normal.
One boy I have seen develop into a bully.Textbook case.
He is larger than all of the other small humans, meaner, problems at home and much older siblings cause him to terrorize the other children. He likes to pinch them. Small little pinches that probably hurt a lot.
I have spoken with him, with his teachers the Principal and his Father.
His Father tried to bully me.
That was funny. Funny for me, I don't think he enjoyed it much.
I have also seen one of the other boys. Small and loud. A very quick mind and a mouth to match. He frustrates the teachers and delights the other students.
The bully takes great joy in torturing him.
I have had to physically restrain the bully on field trips from hurting this other child.
He is agile and fast this little guy. Always has a smile for everyone.
Seems to have a bright little light of excitement about him at all times. I know that he is having a difficult time at his home as well. Very similar to the bullies home. odd
He reminds me of me; this little human.
My child told me a story about today. A play by play of what happened in her little world.
The bully was bullying. Had a couple of kids up against the wall. Pinching them, laughing at them. Being the little asshole that our emasculated society encourages.
So the swift mouthed little boy dashed in.
He was not involved.
But.
That little bright light he has shines into the darker spaces, leads him there. He taunted the bully. Drew his attention.
So the bully grabbed him, shook him, knocked him down and pinched him.
His mouth and brain caught up to themselves and he stood and punched the bully in the face.
He was suspended.
The Bully was not.
Because like all good bullies, he can manipulate adults and situations to his advantage. Becoming the victim in a milli-second.
Clear bright little lights are incapable of this sort of deception. So they get punished, and the bullies walk free.
I detest that.
I abhor the society we live in.
I see the majority whine about bullies, complain about them, coddle them, encourage them.
This society that only wants everyone's light to be dim.
America is a Bully.

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Jaded

I used to be a nice guy. Helping old ladies across the street, slaying dragons, giving money to those in need, smiling.
No longer.
My brother told me a story the other day.
He had been getting these snarky little notes stuck to his door from some anonymous asshole. Fatuous threats and foul imprecations penned by this gutless wretch would appear as if by magic on his door.
Requesting that he not have fires in his back yard.
Which he never had.
Demanding that he not have fires in his back yard.
Which he still had not had.
Threatening to call the Police if he did not cease to have fires in his back yard.
He went and double checked his backyard just to be sure.
No fire.
So imagine his delight when one night (fire less night) a knock came at his door and there stood the asshole in all his puckerish splendour.
The conversation went something like this.
Brother of Tom: Are you the asshole that's been leaving notes on my door?
Puckered asshole: I might have been
BOT: Well ....
At this point the Wife of the Brother of Tom smoothly stepped in and told BOT to go check the Baby.
Conveniently the baby was crying.
BOT tried to get passed the WOTBOT but she was Gandalf.
And the Baby screamed on.
So, defeated by WOTBOT and screaming baby BOT sulked away. Thanks to the WOTBOTs timely and wifely intervention the asshole lives to squirt another day.
I think they do that on purpose.
Wives.
Stop us from punishing the stupid.
It makes us ornery.
Mad.
Not nice.
I used to be a nice guy.
A girl came up to me while I was waiting for the wife at the grocery store. Our child #1 was very fresh and new. She liked to cry.
The girl told me a story, complete with tears, about her and her Baby. Their car. Sadly out of gas and just wanting to get home.
I gave her all the money I had, and when wife came back from the baby formula excursion, I gave the girl with tears all the money she had as well.
It was the tears.
A month later.
Walking into a store in another parking lot, Me holding the wee infant, Wife and MIL up ahead talking about whatever it is that they talk about.
I am approached by a man.
He tells me a story.
Complete with tears, that sounds strangely familiar.
Car,Gas,Baby,Home.
At his emotional conclusion he gestured to his car.
Inside the car sat.
The girl with tears.
Same story, same girl.
It is very hard to rage when you are holding a wee infant.
But I did my best.
I was screaming at the Wife to come and take the infant from me so I could crush this miserable pandering puckered asshole into the ground.
I had it all planned out.
Hand the wee infant to the wife. Crush the PPA into the ground, use his head to break out the windows of his car and than take all of his valuables.
Stymied.
Wife would not let me play.
The wee infant was left in my arms.
No manner of begging would sway her.
She was adamant.
So, in wee infants first adventure I chased the (by now) very alarmed extremely puckered panicked asshole to his car.
Yelling.
The Girl with tears recognised me when I kicked the car.
I saw it in her tear free eyes.
The wee infant chose this moment to have a blow out.
For those of you that are not parents, a "blow out" is when baby poo is so forcefully expelled by the baby that it shoots out the legs of the diaper and coats the surrounding area, or dad, with baby poo.
Lots of Baby poo.
The evil doers escaped.
I hung my head.
Wives.
They do that stuff on purpose.

Spite

I have a motorcycle.

Its a glorious two wheeled expression of freedom.

I ride a lot.

I even took some longish trips astride its aluminium and steel frame. States and blacktop whistled under my boots. A set of tires wore themselves down trying to keep up with the travels.

The cat.

Bear with me here.

We have a few cats. Fat Jack you should all know by now. He is not the only feline to grace our lives with their furry little personalities however.

There is Baby Jack, Blackie, Potty Kitty, (so named because she lives IN the bathroom window) and Fat Penny.

Fat Penny hates me.

She is the semi-feral all evil progeny of Fat Jack and some female kitty. I hope Jack enjoyed himself. The wanton little mac-daddy.

She hates me.

In my defense, I only actually kicked her the one time. To be honest, it was not through lack of trying. She is just too fast for my slow foot to catch. The evil little brute sneaked into the house and made yuck on child #2s bed. I caught her in the act, trying to slink away with a satisfied little smirk on her petulantly fuzzy face.

So I snatched her by the scruff of the neck and punted her into the front yard.

The cat, not the child.

She traveled about 20 feet in the air and true to form and advertising, landed on her feet.

I was so pleased with myself.

My chest puffed and my head back emitting ringing guffaws.

Until I had to clean the yuck. Then I cursed her and wished I had punted harder.

Vile little beast.

I rode up to Canada. With two friends.

Its a really long ways and very scenic. A really great ride. We didn't see a police car. The road was relatively clear and the company was excellent. Even through Idaho and Montana.

I traveled in a sort of slow bliss, ear buds in and the wee little god inside my ipod serenading me about all the good things in life. Focused on the road your mind can only wander so far.

People you care about, things you want to do, to create.

It is a grace. Traveling that way.

Canada.

Its a silly place.

They hate Americans. I don't care for them much either, but the Canadians seem to make a sort of unspoken national pastime out of it.

At the border all they wanted to know, is when we were leaving.

Welcome to Canada! now go home.

They have some Laws there.

Some of them very similar to here. Some not.

Helmet laws here, for example, are lax.

I rarely wear a helmet.

I own several. I recommend them. I just don't really care for wearing one.

Canadian Police folk insist on it however.

So at the border I unstrapped my fantastic full face helmet.

For you rare breed that don't know what this is.

It covers the whole noggin. Face, Forehead and the entire cranium. Even mine, as huge as my head is. (Thank you Special Order ICON)

This is the hard part.

The evil spite that exists in the heart of all things.

Especially kitties that have been punted.

Fat Penny had peed inside my helmet.

As I pulled it over my head and smelled and felt and experienced the foul little beasts expulsion on and around my head. I was filled with regret.

For a week in Canada.

Across the silly nation.

Nothing removed the smell, Nothing.

So regret was my constant companion.

Remorse.

"I should haves" filled my head.

But one rose to the top of every still lake of thought.

I should have had Fat Jack neutered at birth.

Well then

Its been an interesting time.

This is going to be a pattern of words that I will struggle with. Whatever I write this time is going to hurt.

Hopefully it will not hurt everyone who reads it. But I know it is going to hurt a few.

That really is not my intent.

Its more a matter of self expression at this point. Typing a few of the things I need to get off my chest. This pattern is all about me. Selfish and deluded perhaps, but I am giving in to some pretty petty humanity at the end/beginning of the year.

I learned a lot about people this year. What I learned mostly is that they are never content. Never. If they have what they want they want more. If they have everything, they want what others want.

Nothing is ever enough.

No kindness, no sacrifice, no words are ever enough.

People are made to want.

I have been hurt horribly this year, and undoubtedly have hurt others as well.

Intent.

I have learned that intent does not matter.

Not really.

If you say the same thing over and over and over again, it doesn't become true. It becomes noise. It becomes static.

Actions are what matter.

Mine and others.

They matter to them and they matter to me.

I have learned that if you give, people expect more, and more, until you have given everything you can and there is nothing left of what could in anyway be called you. Back to the whole bit of being content. They are not. Ever.

That sounds so bitter.

So very selfish.

Something else I learned.

or rather, something I am learning.

I am selfish.

I think and act and behave in ways that benefit only me.

I used to fight against it constantly. Every hour of every day I would try and remind myself not to be selfish, to think of others first.

What shit.

I was not doing myself or others any favors by behaving this way. Not at all.

I need to find a balance.

Martyrdom is not for me. Never again in fact.

It may make me more like a human, this attitude.

However, if I do not think of me and act in my own best interests. No one will.

This arrogance I have, to think this way. Is really astonishing I realize.

I have never really done anything with my life that qualifies me to make such grandiose statements and pronouncements.

So what?

I am sorry. To you whom I have hurt.

Not just words, those, truly. I am sorry.

By my actions this coming year I will prove that to you.

Because I am learning.

About you humans. About me.

Every hour I learn a little more.

And every hour I try to be just a little better then I was before.

T