Demons Drinking In His Head

He was slumped over, the brass buckle coming to rest on the silver hair that covered his head.  The cracked wooden bar hung above a pile of shirts, stained with his blood from the failed attempt to cut deep enough.  The leather strap tied in a knot had broken in two from the strain, his dead weight pulling on it for days.  A black tee-shirt and grey gym shorts were all that covered him, as his body started to decompose, in the tiny closet of his small run down studio apartment.

He had been sober for over a year, a fact no one knew about until it was too late to tell him, “congratulations”.  The struggle with alcohol had been seen as a character defect in his ironically addicted filled family, with most of them cutting contact with him years ago.  He knew he was an alcoholic, and during that year of sobriety knew that one drink would be the start of the end.

His last year had been filled with  hope and a happy optimism for the chance to once again have the accomplishments he craved.  His ability to make something from nothing had been acquired from the success and many failures he had experienced in his 63 years.  Four years of struggling with homelessness and  a year of not drinking had changed his definition of what he considered success and what it meant to have it all.

No longer was a Porsche wanted, just anything that would get him to his destination. The dream of buying a condo with cash no longer mattered, just the peace of mind knowing his weekly rent was paid. Having enough quarters to wash the few clothes he owned had replaced the desire to pick from a sea of garments covered in plastic from the local dry cleaner.  The ability to pick up dinner from a hole in the wall Mexican food place once a week, would have been the icing on his chocolate cake.

Sadly, a summer that had started with such promise had turned into a fall with too many disappointments.  The many hurts, and too much suffering, had crushed his fight to “keep punching the bag “‘, as he liked to say.  The pain unbearable, he walked across the street, knowing the purchase he was about to make would be the beginning of his end.

Days following his first drink, had been filled with unsuccessful attempts to reach out to the family that had turn their backs.  E-mails written, never to be sent.  Phone calls made, never to be answered.  Misunderstandings clouded with stubbornness and greed would continue to linger, the guilt never to be lifted.  He would remain alone with the demons screaming in his head.

His heart had been kind and generous, always giving what he was able…money, time, advice, friendship, encouragement, laughter…He was loved greatly, and forever remembered by the ones he left behind.

When Your Cyber-Bullies Are Family

As our entire world becomes immersed in social media, the increase in stories of teenagers who take their life over cyber bullying is alarming.  As a teenager it was difficult enough to deal with my three to four very close friends and the 100 or so acquaintances I would say hi to in the hallways.  With Facebook, I see kids with 900 friends checking to see who “commented” or “liked” the twenty-minute old post about their choice of breakfast cereal, and it could make or break their day.

It is so much easier to bully someone when you are looking at a screen with only your own words.  There is no face to face interaction, no back and forth dialog.  You do not see or hear the cue from the other person that tells your brain, “Hey, your being an ass, knock it off”.  School ground fights used to end with an adult stepping in telling everyone to break it up, the crowd dispersing and those involved dealing with the consequences almost immediately.  Now they have assemblies and pass out pamphlets about the damage cyber bullying can cause.  These are usually after some poor kid is tormented online, puts a gun in his mouth, and pulls the trigger.

My family not only allowed but encourage one person to make up whatever he wanted about me, my husband, and our 12-year-old son, and use the internet to spread it around.  So many things were copied, forwarded, and made up and sent or told to everyone they could find, I have no idea who thinks what and why.  The fact they flipped my life upside down with no thought, is telling on how easy it was to do from a computer.  Not sure it would have been that simple, if they had to look at my son’s face while it was happening.

After almost a year, I know longer care what they say.  Their efforts telling me I need to move on, I ignore.  That being said, it is horrible to go through.  I cannot imagine dealing with something even close to that as a teenager.  But, I can understand how they get to the breaking point.  Hopefully, society will figure out a way to keep human interaction from completely being lost in cyberspace before we forget what it is like.

I have sent my own e-mails, posted on Facebook, and created Spun, to deal with my mess as it was happening. And although I enjoy seeing them, I need more than a “like” or a “comment” to process what has happened.  I require the old, face to face, school ground fight. Except a judge, not a teacher will be the one to break it up, allowing for everyone to deal with their own actions.  Just like back in the old days.

 

Hit Delete,Butterfly’s Will Come…

Last Christmas my father told me about a wonderful invention called the delete button, and from my understanding it is on most keyboards.  Apparently if you get an e-mail that you believe will cause you distress, you can actually delete it before you open it and POOF, it never existed.  Time goes backwards, and the creator of this distressing e-mail is struck down by lightning, losing any recollection of why he even sat down at his computer.  Amazing!

I learned about this as my father’s brother was using me to try to develop his skills as a fictional writer.  I am all for creative writing, but writing fiction requires the ability to remember certain aspects of the story as you write.  If you do not have consistency, there is confusion and your creation will have no believability.  Especially if you are taking fact and twisting it into fiction.  If you cannot keep your story straight, you may want to rethink your plan.  Because when twisted fiction affects someone’s life outside your bubble of followers, it may not end like you want.

That being said, most of my family lives in a bubble. Too many of them like to hang out there, which results in brain damage from the lack of oxygen.  Common sense becomes non existent, and they lose the ability to understand that fact and fiction are not the same.  While fiction usually has some facts, the wanna be writer’s of my bubble family took fiction and passed it off as fact. This created such a frenzy, their demented crap leaked out of their bubble into the real world, my world.

When I asked my father to stop his brother from harassing me with his fictional e-mails, he put his beer down for a moment, and told me about the magical delete button. I could just touch that button, and butterfly’s would fill my room while his brother was hit by lightning.  All the e-mails that were sent to everyone saying I was a drug addict that steals from family, would go POOF, and rainbows would fill the sky.

I was astonished to find my delete button does not work like my father said, maybe because I do not live in a bubble.  I have since learned his retirement was getting boring, so he created some of his own fictional bullshit about me for my bubble family to enjoy.  They drank their Kool-Aid, and followed along like good little non-thinkers. Unfortunately for them, I do not like their Kool-Aide, it tastes funny. I do not follow anyone very well, and I could never live in a bubble full of bullshit.  However, I am just as stubborn and like him I do not back down easily when I think I am right.

People screw up, make their mistakes, and the universe has natural consequences that follow.  I have written e-mails that gave me a year long vacation from owning a gun.  A natural consequence I learned from.  I send the occasional e-mail into the world of my bubble family, letting them know I am not pleased about some of the things they have done lately.  It gets forwarded around the bubble and they talk about how horrible it is that I can type the word Fuc8, and that I need to move on and stop bringing it up.  They should know at this point, their acceptance is not really my concern, I know what kind of person I am.  Mistakes happened, natural consequences will follow, and life will go on.  As far as the irritating e-mails I send, they can hit their magic delete button, and watch the butterfly’s fill their bubble as my words fade away and go POOF!

Our Valley Verde Sundays

I remember Sunday afternoons running through the trees. The sound of fall leaves being crushed under my tennis shoes as I reached the big flat rock I knew so well.  It was part of the mountain, but so barren and grand it looked out of place.   I felt the sting of the brisk air as I ran up the side, slowing only to drop to my hands and knees as the slant of the rock reached towards the heavens.  With the grand rock behind me, and my goal reached, I stood on the edge looking down. Not knowing how blessed I was to see the beauty of that untouched valley below me.  The sun setting and my stomach growling, I turned back to look towards the house. Closing my eyes I could see the chili simmering as the game of trivial pursuit was being put away. I raced the sun running back down the mountain,  Again, slowing on the huge rock as I looked like a crab climbing down. Reaching the house, I opened the mud-room door, the smell coming from the kitchen making my mouth water as I kicked off my shoes.  The chili warm and spicy, mellowed by the honey dripping corn bread filled my rumbling stomach.. As I half listened to the stories being told, I let the voices turn into a calming white noise.. I was content, I was safe. Years have passed. The calm voices are long gone and the beauty has been touched by greed. But, I will always be blessed to have known, and now be able to, cherish the memories of our Valley Verde Sundays.

Arizona’s Bullet Proof Paper

Hollow PointCreating one email to insure an order of protection will be placed on you is not that easy.  It has to be a detailed step by step run down of what you would like to do.  Involving the elderly will improve chances the judge will issue it against you.  However, if you really want to see your name after the word defendant, make sure the plaintiff writes fiction well.

With an OOP, they are going to arrest you first, ask questions later.  Which will probably stop most from contacting the plaintiff for the next year.  You do not want to spend the night sleeping on urine saturated cement, digesting a dry bologna sandwich and peanuts, with twenty other happy souls and one toilet .  If you are lucky enough to live in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s county, you will get to enjoy your meal in a 120 degree sweat filled tent wearing pink. I do enjoy being outside, feeling the morning sun on my face, and I look good in pink.  However, I learned years ago that, I, in fact, do not like Joey’s bologna sandwiches.

You have to be careful, especially if you are not certain who is involved in wanting you to meet the sheriff. Situations will be created, enabling constant contact with the authorities.  While this can be stressful at first, most cops are understanding of the situation.  They have even heard the F-Bomb dropped once or twice, and probably will not freak out much if you slip. If they ask strange questions, remember they were probably told a story, so just answer the best you can.  Once enough police reports are written documenting you are not crazy, but the plaintiff may have some issues, the questions fade.

If you ask for a hearing, and it results in anything other than dismissed, Brady will apply.  Which means you are on the “Fed’s Gun Blacklist”  for the next year.  You probably want to re-frame from having a gun within your reach.  Notice, I said “a” gun, it does not have to be one acquired for yourself.  If you know it is around, according to Mr. Brady, it becomes yours.  You might ponder that idea into clarity, over the next five years in the Federal Pen, if it confuses you now.

I one hundred percent believe in the second amendment, and in Arizona’s gun laws.  If a criminal wants a gun, they are going to get one. Or five AK-47‘s with a thousand rounds, if that is their desire.  Regardless of the law, Mr. “What You Need”, is always standing on the corner, like a Walmart greeter to the black market.  Supply will never disappear as long as there is a demand.  Until society does a 180 and someone figures out why we shoot each other, I demand the right to defend myself.

Which brings me to the bullet proof paper that has me listed as a defendant.  The creative writer of fiction, the plaintiff,  is quoted as saying, ” I have no doubt, she would use a gun if she had one.”  I did have one, when I sent my OOP granting email, a nice Smith and Wesson 45 with a hair trigger.  The hollow point ammunition that filled the two clips may have even been illegal, I do not really know.  I can promise there is not a lot that would stop one of them once the trigger was pulled.  Certainly not a piece of paper.

I do respect the order, and the gun sold with me never breaking the Brady Law.  My beautiful Smith and Wesson will be replaced one day.  When it is, I will still continue to fight my battles with words, maybe even a F-bomb or two.  That being said, come at me with an intention to physically harm my family, it is a guarantee, I will use my right to replace F-Bombs with hollow points.

Child To Throw F-Bombs-Close Your Eyes Assholes

Today will mark the 100th day that we have been “on the run” from family who have lost their minds.  This is what they are saying with their loving actions….

“Sorry, Dear, you are guilty of theft, period.  We will not ask you anything about your guilt directly.  We will only speak through emails.  We will tell anyone that may give you a word of encouragement that you are a piece of shit that deserves nothing.  And now that we have reached 100 days, we will be forwarding out a three-month old email,  trying to prove that this entire FEST is all your fault.  We did nothing wrong.  We did not steal clothing and give it to Goodwill.  The JUDGE did that remember?”

“Of course, Dear, we read every thought you wrote, typed, or drew, and kept for 20 years. We had to steal something we knew for a fact you could not get back from us.  Here are your thoughts back dear…See, we cannot give them back.  However, we can and will share them with others…friends, family, police, courts, CPS, and anyone else we can think of.  We are so happy you are good with that! ”

“Oh, your son?  Well, we thought it would build his character for ALL of us to completely ignore him on Christmas. We wanted to show him exactly what kind of people we are. We spent the day with his sister, we had to make sure she got her gifts.  Oh, his sugar glider died?  I am sorry, we cannot ever acknowledge that.  We do not even see him. You allowed him to have a potty mouth in the email he sent out, and our eyes filled with our own blood blinding us for life.

For this 100th day, in recognition the death of the innocent sugar glider, “Shug Zoe”, mate of  “Shug Night”, I am posting that twelve-year old’s email as he sent it, potty mouth and all. I guarantee he has handled this shit storm better than the adults who dragged him into it.                                  IMG_0215MA19759833-0014

December 28, 2012

So, you screwed us once again. You know…. I’m starting to lose count of how many times you have just straight pissed me and my entire family off.  Come on what the hell did me or my family ever do to you prior to these events?  Nothing…Absolutely nothing.  You know, I don’t consider you family anymore, or anyone else in that bloody house.  Except “XXXX”, who I would consider a friend.

You are one fucking idiot, man.  By the way, who in the hell fucked with my father’s FX Light Saber?  That shit was sealed, and we got it only to find it open.  I am done being quiet now.  It’s time I gave my opinion on this stupid situation.  You tried to get into my mom’s safe, didn’t you?  By the way, the only way you could get into the Ford Explorer is… Guess what?…BREAKING AND ENTERING!

I am absolutely fed up with your bullshit.  I hate you with a passion, I guarantee you that.  Oh, and guess what happened, just today?….You know our sugar gliders?  Yeah, there WERE two of them…But guess what?  ONE OF THEM IS DEAD!  And you know it’s your damn fault.  If you didn’t drive us into this damn hotel, we would have been able to care for them properly, and they would have been fine.

All because of this lie XXXX said, you automatically, Hell, I would say INSTANTLY accepted as one-hundred percent correct without even asking us.  Nice job with the restraining order against my mother, but you didn’t get one on my dad or me.  That means we are allowed to go to the Explorer, and you can do nothing about it.  Because you can try to twist the law into your own vision and make it all happy for you and your family, but in the end you will pay.  You can think yourself a god, but once again, you will pay.

Nice talking to you, Asshole.

Not Sincerely,

The Twelve-Year Old

Ego of The Asshole

The adrenaline rush that comes when you wake into your life and realize the insanity is not a dream, is like slamming some Starbucks for an hour before you open your eyes.  When you know that your thoughts from years ago have been taken by people who are supposed to be your family, vomit mixes with your morning Starbucks.ASS

You have to be some prideful assholes to open someone’s mail.  A statement not addressed to you, and from a doctor office…God must have taken a day off, so the assholes stepped in for a bit.  Holding another piece just to see if someone will loose their property in another state, it is time for a hobby.  Doing it all while a mental member of your cult chases someone with his fucking insanity, distracting them from what year it is, it might be time to pull your happy ass’ out of retirement.

When you have to actually touch people thoughts, and steal their things to “GET” something on them, your brains have shrunk from all the “DRUGS” you swallow.  You are demented in thinking returning SOME shit after your greedy grubby dirty ass hands have touched it all will make us go away and move on with our lives.  You should know by now nothing ever turns out like you think it will.  Kind of like when you tried to force someone into a shelter by kicking them out with nothing a week before Christmas. Acting as if the child involved means nothing more than dog shit you stepped in on the way to the bar during your holiday.  That would have been so much easier…Damn that free will, it can be a bitch when you think you are gods.

Some assholes think they are the smartest thing since Al Gore invented the internet.  Looking up law suites and financial information so they can say “I know blah blah”, as if is some sort of magic crystal ball only they have access to.  Before running your mouth about who has law suites filed on who, pull your head out of your ass for two seconds and look up the difference between plaintiff and defendant. There is a thing called a dictionary.  Shit, try Wikipedia once in a while, the schools wont allow it for reference, but I think they might for the special assholes.

The punks and assholes need to take a break from raping someone’s thoughts, rolling around in stolen shit while naked and say the word enjoyed by so many…”Hmmm”, and figure out what zone three primary residence means.

A favorite “Hmmm” quotes from the “all-knowing ten-year old girl”.

” Does your son know about the drugs?  I hope not.  You say you’re not on them, but why would someone go to the pain clinic on Oct 26th?  Hmmm, I can only think of one thing, that’s where you get drugs.”

How did you come to find out October 26th was the exact date genius?….Sorry, too late to think up the lie…who would believe a little girl’s rant without a little backing…The assholes are not only so VERY smart, they are physic. 🙂