Thursday, September 15, 2016

My Insomnia

I have been going years without sleep for long periods of time. I'm exhausted and decided to throw in the towel for a few months of therapy.

Thursday, August 25, 2016

Strawberry Shampoo

Just jotting down some evening thoughts after a long hot summer day outside. I have never read the original script to True Romance, but my favorite line from that movie today is, "She tastes just like peaches."
The company one keeps; my God! Its so nice to have confidence that my company is intelligent and observant. I had a brief summer relationship with someone who always noticed when my hair was washed with a strawberry scented shampoo. He only told me once that he loved the smell of my hair, but when he held me before sleep, I always noticed him nestle his head in my freshly washed hair. The scent of a woman is beautiful.
As well as a man of course. My father used cherry scented tobacco in his pipe when he smoked. I remember he kept his aftershave  in the medicine cabinet. Old Spice.
I am free of a five year relationship that ended as it needed to end. No more yelling and pleading and calling people to waste their time talking about the same issues over and over. No more negotiations and unnecessary drama.
Two weeks ago, my partner for 5 years skipped a movie I had waited months to see to hang out with a guy he sees  regularly. If that seems petty, there are so many issues that lead to that being a big deal that I don't want to go into ever again.

I told him okay, have fun, and for a second my voice cracked. I swallowed hard, and as the swallow tightened my throat I felt years of strife, drama and bullshit disappear for good. I had made my decision.
I feel so fucking amazing. I was worried that I was too old to be alone. Or that I had no money. Or that I was co-dependent. While its true that I can't use Marc Jacobs Daisy body wash anymore, who fucking cares when getting that body wash means dealing with a ton of bullshit.
Its nice to be around intelligent people. Observant people. When I respect someone's intelligence, I can relax in a room knowing that they are there to contribute to my day, or chill and hang out; to do whatever.

From now on, these are my two relationship breakers:
Two things:
One- once you say something to someone, no matter what apology follows, some things can never be undone.
Two- Zero tolerance for cruel behavior. I should have followed that rule with most of the people I had in my life. Once they say something fuck-up, fuck them.

I wrote a blog a long time ago about Passive Aggressiveness in the English language. I was on a lot of Adderall while I wrote that blog, so the essence is lost. Instead of saying, "Could you please pass the salt?" Why not say, "Salt" with a gesture. My point, or what was supposed to be the point of that particular blog, was the thesis that if passive aggressiveness is embedded in our language, how much does it insidiously affect our behavior? Our confidence? Our guilt for being confident and does confidence mean arrogance to the masses of English speaking Americans.

The same with confidence. Eliminating a lot of unnecessary ma'am  (I live in Texas) and please and yes sir, blah blah. That does not fit with the topic of a woman's grace, so two different superficial dialogue are going on. I had to call my sister. I will so something with this tomorrow.
I have a long neck that I love. An observant man pointed that out to me once. Confidence is not arrogance.
I love a woman's long fingers. I briefly played the violin (not well) in college. A long tall woman named Carmen (she told me that means, "Song") also played the violin, but her hands were long and slender and elegant.
I love the moment when someone interesting says something that adds an extra dimension. I love when talent unfolds slowly before me.
I'm so fucking glad to be free! I'm not overly body conscious. My time is my own. No serious talks about giving a little more. No.
I'm shouting: Freedom Braveheart style.
I am not looking for the next relationship. But if I do find someone, I hope they notice subtle things that make up the essence of a woman. Put strawberry scented shampoo in the mix.

Friday, August 19, 2016

Scooby-Doo Movie Wrap Up Ending

I'm tired of erasing paragraphs for succinct definitions. Maybe a separate blog for those definitions are in order. Here is the rant that leads to the definition.


Although the title has been in my head for a while, when I Googled, "Scooby-Doo Ending" a Youtube clip from the movie, "Wayne's World" comes up with a sorta literal Scooby-Doo Ending. A clever literal translation albeit, but the title was been created before this blog. So the Beatles lyric:"Nothing you can make that can't be made" wins out again. Good. Now all I need is love.
The literal translation of the cartoon, if I remember correctly, would be that the 'bad guy' surfaces in the beginning for no more then a full minute as an inconspicuous character. But at the end of the cartoon, Fred or Scooby-Doo , or nerdy Velma, or the hot Daphne (These characters had last names? Yep. Shaggy Rogers for one); one of them solves the crime. Then the bad guy, wearing a costume with an easily removable mask, gets exposed and explains his (I don't remember any 'her's') motives for being said bad guy, and before he is carted away, he exclaims, "And I would have gotten away with it if...." We all know the ending if we are children of the early 80's. Or very late disco death rattle of the late 70's.
Side Note: I was born on the very day "they" drank the Kool-Aid. I think its still the largest mass suicide in history, but definitely don't quote me on that. Jim Jones, his charisma, and his shenanigans caused me to be delivered by a nurse, rather then a doctor, in upstate New York (in Albany actually, keeping with the "A" tradition of the cities and towns I have called my home.) The doctor that was suppose to deliver me was obsessed with that breaking news, and he went home that cold winter day to watch the breaking story unfold with the worst possible outcome. He guess wrong that my mother would have a longer labor. I was just so excited to make my entrance into the world.
That is not the definition I am submitting as my version of "The Scooby-Doo Movie Wrap-It-Up-In-A-Perfect-Package Ending." My definition fits most mainstream movies in theaters today. In particular, horror and suspense movies. Or detective suspense. I saw the movie, "Nice Guys" in the theaters a few months ago. Damn good writing. Acting was great. That should be the standard for movies. I only wish.

But movies like, "Silent Night Deadly Night Two" are solid gold movies as well.

I just saw the sequel to the very scary, "The Conjuring" in theaters. I loved the movie, but I'll use it as an example of a 'Scooby-Doo Ending.' At the very end, with about 15 minutes until the credits start to roll without any resolution, the female protagonist on the train had a brain orgasm about the evil presence haunting the home. A brain orgasm that flashed through a lot of explanations and left her with a bloody nose. It was a bloody nose type of epiphany.
-Side Note To Charles Baxter: Sorry, but they do exist.
The loving couple in this movie, who always had the power to solve the mystery, quickly rush back into the haunted home because suddenly time is very important. The female protagonist, Lorraine Warren, whose nightmare premonition of her husband's (Ed Warren) death mirrors the exact picture in the exact circumstance, and we love the husband's character and their love of Elvis songs and soul mate stories. So my eyes are glued to the screen as the husband (whose compassion overpowers his reason) may get the classic horror movie spike through the body.

Side Note: How many horror movies use the spike through the body to kill off a character? The spike never hits the arm so they can get unstuck. They want that character gone. The Breed (about dogs, hmm) had the female land directly on that spike when she fell from the two story house. It would have been comical if it did not impale her, and she only slightly missed it. She had to go, and being a horror movie, someone takes a spike through the body.

Let me answer my own question. How many horror movies kill off their cast with a spike through the body? The Omen. The Priest gets impaled. The Breed, as explained already. The somewhat fun Friday the 13th, (The one where Jason is watching and guarding his weed crop) when the rich bitch male character gets impaled on whatever was protruding from the truck. I expected a more gruesome death from that annoying character. Okay, done with memory recall....

Back to the ending of The Conjuring 2. Lorraine Warren (played by the lovely Vera Farmiga) conjures up two tricks in her  handy, 'save the day' bag. First, she reveals that when facing off with this evil spirit, knowing the name will overpower it. Okay. I accept that. The mythology and rules are for a movie about real life ghosts. So after Lorraine Warren, in a loud, intense scene with this creature, ultimately controls and banishes the creature/evil spirit/ what was it? This is a Scooby-Doo Ending because all these rules and deep, nose-bleeding revelations surface within 15 minutes to the end of the movie. No where that I noticed in this movie, did anyone say the rules for banishing a big bad monster. The Conjuring 2, put everything together in such a neat package at the end. just as you Its almost Disney. I won't go there.

Roman Polanski's, "Chinatown" does not have a Scooby-Doo Ending. You do discover many answers to many issues, which  turned the average crime aficionado viewer into detective. As an audience, we were pulled in. The end of Chinatown took the normal movie format, disposed of its cliques, and gave us a refreshingly depressing ending. In the end, instead of the bad guy going away in tight handcuffs, he wins. Its not even a traditional win in the traditional sense. Things are left up in the air, but the win of the movie is that the detective gets to leave without any more harm done to him, we can logically assume.

So how do I define a,"Scooby-Doo Ending"? Most movies that wrap everything up in a predictable fashion- that's one trait. A detailed explanation at the end is another trait. The bad guy getting caught and explaining why he/she did what they did.

Example:The movie, 'Fracture' with Ryan Gosling and Anthony Hopkins. Anthony Hopkins literally sits down with the lawyer that failed to convict him, and he explains why and how he did the entire crime. In detail!

I should just upload the end of Primal Fear. He Scooby-Doos the ending with his explanation of how he was insane.
Obviously, this 'Scooby-Doo Ending' format is used on horror and detective movies.
--------------------------------------
My definition of a Scooby-Doo Movie ending as concise as possible
A' Scooby-Doo Ending' is when the problems that the movie present are solved within a half an hour of the movie's end, and solved mostly through spontaneous confession on the part of the villain. A Hallmark trait of a 'Scooby-Doo Ending' is that the villain explains why they did what they did and what motivated them for their evil actions (or actions in general that relate). 

I think I said the same thing twice in my definition.

Examples of movies the end like that (that are not necessarily bad movies at all) include:
-Primal Fear. -Fracture. -Friday the 13th (the very first one only.)
Those are three examples of movies that have spontaneous confessions by the villain at the end that explain their actions in the movie. They tell instead of show.

Here are three examples of movies that do not do that:
-Pulp Fiction. -The Thing. -Green Room.

I can only list three movies a piece because I'm out of any type of caffeine in my home.











Friday, August 12, 2016

Who Invented The Back-Scratcher?

The Back-Scratcher is not a household name enough to pass my spell check. I did not realize I owned one until yesterday, when I realized I was walking around with Ambien in my bedside tin. That is how it works. I don't remember how I came to own a back-scratcher, but here...backscratcher...I'll start the trend of making it a compound word. Someone probably hates me enough to have replaced the fruitcake for a Christmas gift. Or realized that I was a fruitcake and needed a backscratcher to complete the set. What else would be fitting for that Dollarstore (compound word, I summit) shopping cart? Wall-Dry (its generic for Benadryl.)

Side Note: I know someone who checked into rehab for that particular addiction. I laughed until I was buying my Wall-Dry in bulk at the Dollarstore.

I'll cut to the chase. I was up with God knows how much Ambien in my system last night, stuck on a 20/20 called 'Rehab Mogul'. My goodness. My will to wrap that around my head was very weak because that is the world I live in. That easily Youtubed episode (Rehab Mogul),

Which I had to laugh had the most watched hits on it after I did the research that this meth-addled felon rehab Mogul (he likes the term enough to make t-shirts with the name, which is just as scary as the fast sales of these t-shirts, probably by the addict residents.)
Where was I? This guy is being sued by a man named Cliff Brodsky, who had the most hits on his 20/20 uploaded episode that he put on-line. I got a laugh that the guy who was a forerunner in suing him for the most money led the initial campaign against him publicly.
I know he is suing him but I did not read his reasoning behind his lawsuit. One thing I can assume...it was not for his long hind legs (also the name of a good band.) But this bad guy that this episode is about deserves to be taken down (and replaced with the same personality.)

The Lex Luthor of this episode has a name: Chris Bathum. He owns 70% of a popular rehab chain in Southern California (I wonder how many Benadryl addicts are there.) This guy is a villain. A meth-addled womanizer who targeted the most beautiful vulnerable women trying to get out of the drug world in one piece. He molested beautiful women, putting meth in orifices that are unorthodox for getting high. He sucks. But..

I'll be the villain by stringing in my lawsuit for getting knocked onto the Mopac (Austin's popular highway) by a woman who refused to apologize to me. There is a connection to my lawsuit for the license plate tattooed on my thigh with these rehab-molestation lawsuits. These women are rightfully suing this drug rehab owning drug addict. They are, and I hope they bleed this leach dry. But women who have high cheekbones ten years after they claim that the drugs left them with nothing but a overpass for their rooftops, believe me, these women know all the rules people break to exploit them. Its a sad fact that apparently does not apply to me. Somewhere in my three day Ambien binge I tried to get a job by applying at the local 7-11 (never turned in that application but I'm surprised I used a pen to fill it out!) and also an escort service. Yes, in a semi-conscious state I applied for a job as an escort via phone. I vaguely remember doing that. I am not quite sure what a real escort does, but I am good company while watching a movie in public view. Anyway, the guy on the phone of the escort service I called seemed like a pimp. He probably was a pimp. When I added a decade to what he thought I said my age was, his interest dropped as he saw my confidence rise. So the stories that I know of escorts (involve crime shows like, "The Craigslist Killer") will never be fleshed out. Damn. My high school reunion is next year too.

My lawyer was awesome for my lawsuit. He loved my father, who did most of the talking. When my father listed a string of reasons why this woman (an Asian driver...like my stepmother) should pay me lots of money, I would only inject, "Its not that bad now." The lawyer's answer was always, "No! You are hurt. Remember you are hurt. Say that you are hurt. She did permanent damage..."

Well the same with these beautiful women. When you have a decade under your belt of hard drug addiction, you have been through every sick exploitative manipulative man, and you have the power to beat most of them. This is not their first rodeo. But after telling their stories, which I am certain are true, they add, "I still have nightmares that I hear his voice..." Okay, okay. That's implied.

And this guy is so smug and arrogant that he really believes his intelligence will be enough to outwit all of these women and their lawyers. He is going down swinging, but he is definitely going down. Oh, and my point! I do have a point. He's a felon, like me. To me in my rookie first year as a felon, there are two types of felons. So far. Kind of.

1.) The kind that are working at 7-11. Or have an application filled out in their bedrooms while they tell their hairdresser, manicurist, inept Sephora make-over artists that they are indignant for being labeled as such. And...

2.) The one's that adjust and make something of themselves. They make backscratchers and drug rehabilitation facilities. They are kind of like pimps. I'd like to think that the creator of the Backscratcher has thumbed his (or her) nose at the system and is, at this very moment, wearing a lime green leisure suit and five pound gold chain necklaces.

I fit into the first of course. Chris Bathum fits into the second. I think his felony came from pretending to sell expensive exercise gear on Ebay. He is a pimp selling a clarity he seeks as well, but in the thighs of six foot blondes. He would have been better off inventing the backscratcher.


Thursday, August 11, 2016

Mongoloid w/ Bruce Conner.



Even though he is dead, a friend of mine swears if you say the name, "Bruce Conner" you'll get a free Master's Degree. My friend is alive and well, if that statement is ambiguous.

Monday, August 8, 2016

I Just Want To Ride My Motorcycle


The reason I have been doing these blogs with consistency is to shift my focus from tomorrow, which is my one month a year detox. Oh man alive it sucks. This smile (taken at 11:30 this morning) is my last for roughly 26 days. Since it is summer, I have the ocean behind me artificially. Here is my Humboldt County Dreaming...
This was my last summer in Arcata. The beaches there can be dangerous. Someone was bold or foolish enough to attempt to drug me with my tolerance once on a beach alone. What he achieved was me politely locking him out of my apartment and sleeping for 13 hours. He only helped to cure a day of insomnia.

This comes out of nowhere, but I started thinking of that movie 'Tape' that came out a long time ago. With Uma Thurman. That is an excellent movie. It breaks my heart. That will be my entertainment if Youtube is selling that tonight.

In death there is a stage of bargaining to have more time. I've been in the bargaining stage about this detox all day today. I've also been writing paragraphs at a time then deleting them in their entirety. I can't bargain to push back the clock anymore. Tomorrow is showtime. Merrily I go to have my head cut off...
Lucian gets a photo in my journal too. We have been through four of these do-not-try-this-at-home detoxes. A time machine would be a helpful invention.

Friday, August 5, 2016

Fluffy and the Bearded Lady

Originally, Ned Flanders freak out was meant for this blog, but I suppose the emotions had to fester before they were spelled out. Fester like the massive owie that the bearded woman's cat bite did to my arm. Now no one likes the word puss, but if you delete the last 's' in that word, it means: cat. My next door neighbor's cat, Fluffy, left a welt of dead white blood cells inside my forearm. Fluffy has unchecked aggression. Fluffy is a gorgeous Persian cat who masquerades as an adoring love bug, but at night he stalks my overweight...He stalks him:

Lucian can not handle himself in a cat fight. Fluffy has cornered my cat twice now, bit the hell out of me when I try to stand between them, and a few days ago that bite led me to get emergency care. I'm a cat fanatic and I had no idea that any cat could fight like that.

I'd describe Fluffy as having the soul of a condemned death row inmate who tortured and killed for kicks, got sloppy and was caught, convicted, and was condemned to the electric chair. But before his execution, he vowed to come back through reincarnation as the most inconspicuous life form possible and continue to wreak havoc on the world.

Fluffy would have a decorated biker's jean jacket on with a cigarette dangling from his lips if he were human. Fluffy can fight like Muhammad Ali. At 37, I've never seen such a bass-ass in fur form.

So this condemned inmate came back with a guardian of course that was also inconspicuous. That would be my mildly mentally handicapped neighbor. I knew it; I knew that no one could be THAT sweet. I reach my threshold for kindness after a certain amount of time with an ear to ear smile. I have to retriet from public and regroup. I knew she would be that way too because she is human.

Yes, I have yet another neighbor that I'm at odds with again. This time this was not my fault.

I am about 115 pounds of bouncing anger in the form of both dance moves and a game of charades when I am really revved up, and wanting to explain myself to the closest poor soul walking my way.

Side Note: That song, "Blinded by the Light" I thought the lyrics were, "Wrapped up like a douche in the middle of the night." It makes no sense, but no one knew the lyrics when that song popped up while we were at a poker table. The winning hand did not chime in.

This morning it was a maintenance man that innocently crossed my path. He was trapped in his golf cart and I was blinded by the light of anger. 115 pounds of awkward tits and a nasally east coast voice. That Seinfeld episode where George Costanza looks like an angry gorilla when people observed him without hearing him because of a wall of glass? That's me. Except a woman with hair and knobby knees and elbows.

Side Note: My previous neighbor began too early in the morning with a rant of his own; gliding, yelling, dancing- and he was not asking me anything. He was just blowing off steam. He was like Tom Cruise's Oscar Nominated (did he win?) role of Jerry McGuire, angrily dancing his way into a solid gold performance. I never told anyone, but as that neighbor, Jason was his name, was moving about and dancing his anger out and yelling- especially since it was a rant and he was not allowing me to talk- I distinctly remember thinking, "I am in love! This is my soul mate. I found my other half. My heart is floating up to heaven..." Then he ended his rant with, "Today your cat is dead! I'm calling animal control today. Your cat will be dead." And those comments snapped me back into reality and my heart dropped back into my chest, but sunk even lower.


*Big Bend National Park. At Jo Mama's RV Park. I bet a day at a real trailer park would be fun. I bet there are many bearded ladies. The right talent scout could make money raiding a big trailer park. The one closest to a home of mine had the best liquor store. Not that I would know (Who me? couldn't be! No possibility.)

I told the maintenance man about my blossoming feud with my next door neighbor. Her cat, Fluffy that Badass, bit me so hard that I had to go to the emergency care section of the doctor's office. It cost a down payment of $50, and they gave me one shot. They wanted to give me the dreaded rabies shots

Side Note: I've had them once before, but for one probably fatal (if not immediately caught) case of anaphylactic shock. I had no choice about having those needles put into my stomach. That is one hell of a way to die. You die from suffocation, but the pain of severe inching and panic make lucid thoughts nearly impossible. Then I'd have the stigma of a peanut as the murderer weapon on my death certificate.

I kept texting my neighbor, begging her to tell me if Fluffy had his rabies shots yet. Her responses were things like, "He likes to jump on the table!" If you think I'm being mean about my neighbor, wait until I explain my issues with her. Also, she has three rather successful grown children and a nicer apartment then my own. Plus a surplus of government money. She is no drooling victim when she talks (because the beard catches any wayward saliva.)  I have not explained why I was angry with her yet.

The doctor wanted me to call animal control because it was the second bite from Fluffy, and the doctor assured me that he would not be harmed. I refused. The doctor told me that in four days (that is today) if the welt does not go down, I have to pay for the rabies needles. Plus in all seriousness, it was a huge welt that really did hurt. I could not sleep after the second night because the bump swelled so much. I also could not initially afford the antibiotic, so the bruise could, in theory, get a lot worse. The antibiotic prescribed is called Amox-Clav 875-125, and at my corporate pharmacy, twenty capsules of these little healers in pill form are slightly over seventy dollars.

That second night, I texted my next door neighbor of a few months about the bite being serious enough to need antibiotics. I asked her if she would pay for them. This was a very reasonable request because the bite was not my fault in any light. No response. She usually did respond by text, even very late at night. I then got nervous thinking she could make my life hell, so I followed the initial text up with, "Just forget about it. I am your friend and I am on your side." Then I sent her two more texts, telling her that I was sorry for asking for any money for the antibiotics. If I had provoked her cat, I would never ask for money. Or if her cat were trapped, scared, was being picked up, or groped, I never would have asked for the required antibiotics. But her cat followed mine, cornered him, and I never touched her not-so-innocent Fluffy to expect the flying squirrel blitz attack to my right arm. That came out of no where. She's responsible for what her cat does when the act is aggressive and unprovoked.

The following day, the maintenance man who I just went ape shit to about the situation (this morning) showed up at her door as I was simultaneously walking into my adjacent door. This was a few days ago. I said to him, "Check out this cat bite." It was gross. There was, um, dead white blood cells in one of the two fang marks. Five minutes later, there was a knock on my door. My neighbor (usually abnormally kind hearted and friendly to creep-type levels) said, "Let me see your arm!" I gave her that arm. She starts pulling my arm with phoniness to her inspection like a rotating sausage on a stick, all while coyly mumbling, "Where is it?" It was in the center of my forearm and very obvious. She said, "Stay away from my cat. You obviously swell easily. Never touch my cat again." Then she went inside and a text popped up from her saying, "You are after my money. I don't have any." So this was the fifth or sixth time I apologized to her and said it was fine. But she would not stop texting. Finally, I went aggro-Ned Flanders and said, "Enough! Stop texting me!"

The next morning I had 5 texts from her. Each one was crazier then the next. So that sucked. I said, "I apologized for asking for money. I'm keeping my cat inside. Stop writing me." "You stop writing me." So that is our stale mate for now. I hope it remains a stale mate until I am called to leave this apartment.

That's it about this subject? Did I rant out? That's a first. My rant has never had an end before.

And it won't because I have something to add. Today I checked my account balance. I have $19 in my account. I walked in the merciless Austin summer sun to the closest mini-mart with my brain calming down after my skinny girl dance of anger about paying for my neighbor's cat bite. That was a much needed release. Then I got to the little corner store, pulled out my tall sugar free Redbull and real Mango sorbet (Mangoes are good!), wished them a good afternoon, and my visual mind thought back to my red Visa Card on top of the covers of my bed. Its my higher power's way of saying, "Take a second lap to calm yourself down." It worked.

As far as the "Calm Down Diddly" blog, let me leave nothing to the imagination. My host in L.A., who is my brother's brother-in-law, first walked me in my guest room to talk about our mutual issues with not abiding by the law and having a wicked attraction to alcohol. But after my father came in to say, "We are good in here" (leave us alone); they both went back to get more blankets or something. The host came back, morphed into Pepe Le Pew-

Side Note: Dave Chappelle was right in calling Pepe Le Pew a rapist.

-And he jumped on top of me as I was laying down. He was drooling on my face and asking me to kiss him. That's not cool. My father saved the day but was none the wiser, and I whispered to my dad as our non-consensual host left, "Please don't leave me. I'm scared of that guy." My dad put zero thought into it, and we went to sleep.

The next morning I told my older brother that I was scared of him. The brother that supports me financially. I said, "That guy attacked me last night." The word, "Attack" was a bit dramatic. But when I'm laying down and this guy- with my family in the house- is asking me from above, "Kiss me." Multiple times...I'm not tough. I was scared.

I am very good at being mellow in situations like that.

The issue with me is that, first, my older brother was furious that I was saying these things about our host. In no way did he stay close to me like I begged him to do. Second, when my older brother finally heard from others [his sister] that he would and could do something like that when he was drinking, my oldest brother told me that I should be ashamed of myself for not understanding that he is an alcoholic like me.

That was the straw the broke my back. If he did not understand sexual assault, fine. But don't blame me for missing compassion when I was the one the was jumped on. I was angry enough to take it out on myself, because that is what I do when I am angry: I hurt myself.

Hurting one self is a common problem that many people act upon. Especially people with a suicide (or two) in one's immediate family. After all, you are 50% more likely to follow your parent's example. If your father ran away from responsibility, you are 50% more prone to that exact same behavior. Divorce, suicides, all make the parent's children have a coin toss's luck or ill fate in their future. Of course this was told to me by Professor Michael Zimmerman at San Francisco State. He teaches James Joyce mostly. But I believe him. I also believe that intelligence can alter that 50% chance with better positive odds.

I was furious that not only did the subject become one that I was told to, "Drop," but my own brother scolled me after initially admitting that he did not believe me. Then he had the nerve to yell as a passenger in a packed car about my "drug use" (insomnia medication) being an issue that is, "Literally killing him";
How about how I feel? How do I feel to be too weak to defend myself and blamed and sentenced like the gypsy from The Hunchback of Notre Dame? No, it is not normal to jump on people just because you are, "A Friend of Bill's." No, I am not going to say its my fault this happened. I'm sick of it. For my own older brother to have hate in his voice about my accusation, then the hate morphs into some abstract but negative emotion when he asked me where my sympathy is for this poor soul?  I think my sympathy is placed where ever that man's apology to me is laying around.

Finally, I am in serious financial trouble. I am thoroughly fucked about money and medication. I can not afford my medication. I can not afford food. I can't keep this up. I wrote a small (two person) list of people who had the ability to help me financially. People who were capable of contributing to just one nice outfit that I can wear while I apply for a job. That was my simple request; to have one power outfit that makes me look employable when I make my, "Are you hiring?" rounds. The first was my brother. The one who said, "Where is your compassion....?" So that did not surprise me terribly when he said, "NO." The second was my Uncle's partner, off and on, for over a decade. Our conversation via phone was less then two minutes. I told her my medication is just too expensive and I needed help.I pointed out that I had not asked for money (except what was in my grand mother's Will) in years. Her reply when my uncle asked what I wanted was, "She spent her money on drug therapy..." The words 'drug' and 'therapy' never came up in this one minute forty six second conversation. I clocked it and retaliated in the only way I know how: In a letter via a social media site. I've lashed out in Yelp reviews. I've demanded humane treatment via Facebook. So I politely apologized for calling and tried to smash my phone like a little kid. I internalize my anger.

I had a friend who told me, "I [as in 'she'] would commit suicide to prove her point." I can understand that. I get so frustrated that there are people rooting for me to lose. In that same vein of logic: I was watching a Youtube on the Ghostbuster women talking about how their co-star, Chris Hemsworth was, "Annoyingly Perfect." I got a kick out of them saying that they were rooting for him to be an asshole, or not such a creative threat, because he is so sweet, beautiful and talented. He's also married to a gorgeous Spanish (I think?) Goddess that is 40 years old (and is annoyingly gorgeous herself) and the couple have three children. Well, I have a few more years to be okay in a crowd. Thank you Spirit in the Sky!

I do the exact same thing too with talented people. I have seen perfect-looking people who I scan repeatedly in search of a visible defect before I can confidently approach them. I once knew a tall, shapely, gorgeous young woman who was so perfect, even a full year later I was looking for non-existent flaws. Yes, I'm human.

Jared Leto's beat down in Flight Club was understood without any more then the line, "I wanted to destroy something beautiful." I doubt post theater conversations included,"What the hell was that about?" Maybe a ''Grass is always greener"envy. Maybe a lawn growing with a deep green jealousy. A lawn filled with super-nutrients and plush vigorous grass adjacent to my brittle sun stained yard. Just like I've thought every blonde woman (including my slender and sweet mother) gained the upper hand because they are exotic, ironically so, to my dark features.

Side Note: Pepe Le Pew's sister (my sister-in-law) is a natural beauty that happens to be blonde. When she met me at the airport and I said that I was thirsty, she did not need to stand in line to ask an employee at the airport Starbucks if she could have a cup of ice water. They oblige her request with a smile. She handed the cup of water to me and I said out-loud: Oh to be blonde. What else do you secretly get without lines or payment?" Her response, "Well, I asked them to get that cup of water ready for me while I was waiting. They told me they would. It took long enough." Oh. I thought it was a secret wink to Nordic features. Glad I asked!
Having the genetically gifted as friends is a major benefit. I'd like to build an army of super Uber friends that make my days like dreams.

Side Note: I've been saying this for seventeen years. Everyone has a flaw, or a vulnerability when caught on a subject that (can be used against them) can make them more endearing actually. Marilyn Monroe may have been beautiful, but that soft voice and inviting smile in "Some Like It Hot" (even though she was pregnant, if I read that correctly) make her accessible. Flawless beauty without accessibility can be a problem.

Whatever one's personal definition of beauty is, most beautiful people can generate envy that can in turn change their personality to suit their counterparts. Envy in large numbers can insidiously push kind people to apologize. Too many apologizes will erode the soul's natural grace. I like Peter Bogdanovich's term, "Unicorns" for rare beauty.

Side Note: That's about the only thing I like about Peter Bogdanovich. His taste in Dorothy Stratten was obvious good taste. I did read (and actually own) a copy of, "The Killing of a Unicorn." I love the metaphor of a unicorn and its rare, unrepeatable beauty. But in that book its amazing how Mr. Bogdanovich does not comprehend that some of the things he openly hopes Paul Snider's private detective saw the two doing are things that probably added to why Dorothy Stratten was murdered before she was old enough to legally drink alcohol.

Yes, good people are very often mistreated. Or forced to alter their beauty to adapt to their environment. I've shaken off my shy nature in the twenty plus years since my high school graduation, but I'm pleased to know the shyness was a chameleon trait of necessity in an outer city high school, but the kindness came from my mother's blessed genes. This subject stays dormant in me always, but at night and especially with the pain of insomnia, these thoughts surface in waves. Humanity can be ugly to good people because of how they look; they adjust to avoid what seem to be countless apologies in different forms. I suppose parents are suppose to teach their children to apologize to no one if they are living their dreams out. Not all of us have parents that teach. Some just supply the genes and pop in to do damage now and then because they are bitter about their lack of parenting. This cycle can stop with anyone at any time.

Side Note: My father is obsessed with a painting by Goya called,"Saturn Devouring His Son." I'm not the 'Thought Police' so he can like what he wants, but being absent was not my father's biggest (fatal) flaw. He is excellent at using words to bring people down. Specifically his own children. My oldest brother...only wears green. I'll leave it at that. I am a felon and have had multiple failed engagements. My 1% brother (I joke, because he lives in San Diego) has two Master's Degrees from Cornell University. He married the most beautiful woman that Redding, California was graced with having as a mismatched resident. Next is my brother Ambrose. The brightest light burns twice as bright but half as long. We lost Ambrose at the age of 24. Death tends to freeze those who passed that gate in purity and a often artificial holiness. He had the most potential, but he was beat down the most. Far more then any one of us.The memories of these events that were unfair to him are too many to single out. He was tossed from home to home by my father. I was an unfit and selfish guardian. Ambrose never received the constant love of a mother because my mother passed away herself when he was only seven years old. A good memory of Ambrose is that he had these wild blondish red curls. My mother smoothed down and massaged those curls as a meditative act for her; as he laid half asleep on her belly when she was pregnant with her final child; my sister. I'd describe my sister as a Perfect 10 in body, mind and spirit. She's a survivor and a nurturer.

Ambrose had a very sophisticated sense of humor, and humor was the most important quality in his everyday life. He was a beautiful man. He had better lips then me, and big brown soft eyes. I once asked some random jerk who knew both of us what he expected would happen to Amby when he became an adult. His answer was, "I don't know? Supernova."
One of Amby's talents was his excellent eye for gems: for people and clothes, and in his version of art. His creativity was best put to use in finding exciting things to do with little money. Even if he had to be the one to take the hit; he would do what he could to make sure that other people were having fun. When my former roommate married him at my gentle urging (ironically) to help her pay for the bills she was rapidly generating with her famous quote,"Put it on my tab," it was my brother who made sure she received half of his military money for her travels, even though she left me with a ton of bills.

Side Note: Bills that I pay off every month, and will be paying off every month, for the rest of my days! Their marriage was a sham for military money, and Ambrose, being compassionate and caring, dived the bonus money in half. He also got into severe trouble when the sham was discovered. My roommate left my apartment as I was busy working back east for extra rent (at $850/month in San Francisco); to travel by jumping freight trains. He only once gave me $50 at her request (yep) for me to buy groceries. Even though it generated arguments with my brother and me over the money I was left to pay, I understood his heart. He gave her half of his bonus money for marriage, yet my own sister is legitimately married to a military man and she does not see shit of their 'bonus marriage money'. What did his extra money go to on her travels? To a fortune teller, alcohol, heroin at one point, and Heaven Only Knows what else because I never mended my relationship with that person, even though I forgave her immediately. I'm compassionate too. I cared for her safety. I started to flesh out this topic and my Internet froze. I'll take the hint that I should move on with this blog and with my life.

Amby liked to drink hot sake in a sauna. He owned the best velvet comforters to combat the insomnia both of us had/have. With a murder, you have one person to blame. With a suicide, I read that the average suicide causes an extreme impact of guilt and blame in at least 16 people. I feel as if he was murdered before he took his life, because his life was full of abuse, misunderstanding and injustice. Whether those things made him fight back with compassion or he was forged with a heart of gold, I only know the finished product. I am here instead of him, so when people root for me to fail, I have learned to fight back with everything I have. What more do they want to happen to me? After a while, wishing my failure seems sadistic, especially given the loss of my mother and brother before I turned 30. I collect friends and extend the term family to many of these friends and lovers. I want a wealth of people in my life because my life began with grief and loss.
Last Side Note: A drawback to losing two immediate family members way too early is that I don't hold my friends to a high standard of conduct. I'm learning, especially now that I started off fresh in Austin. Man, let me just say, Stay the hell out of Redding, California! Their brochure for that town was probably shot by Annie Leibovitz and assembled by a bevy of motivational voices that convince smart men that water can become wine. I'd like the same ensemble to create a brochure on a notorious jail like, "The Tombs" in New York. People would line up to commit crimes.
It's hard for me to articulate how my brother's unique humor presented itself (that sounds like I'm talking about Shingles!) Here is one quick joke. I was in Nebraska watching my 24 year old cat (maybe younger because she died at 24) and I was complaining on the phone to Ambrose about my new live-in fiance. He said to me, "Rose, I'm going to send you a video. Watch the entire thing, okay? Its about five minutes. Just watch it."

Yes, my name is in his name.

It was an R. Kelly song called, "Real Talk" and right at the point where he is singing his opera that,"Bitch I wish you wouuuld burn my Mother Fucking clothes...with your trifling ass...Milton!" Ambrose called back laughing so hard it became contagious. He said, "You don't want to sound like the woman on the other end of that phone."
I remember his frustration that his humor was misunderstood. Even in creating a simple joke at work; telling his peers at the restaurant he worked at that he finally bought a nice sofa. He was saying to co-workers that his new sofa would be delivered to his apartment that day. When some of them asked what it looked like, he laughed and said, "Maybe we can test drive it out together." They branded him as, "Gay." Or as, "Insincere." I remember him telling me that he could not even make a careless joke without mean comments about his sexuality. He was vulnerable because he was in San Diego alone. He was disliked by some because he had a certain outgoing social persona at parties, but in reality he was a quiet man who wanted to be loved. He was a genuine man.This is him in Annapolis.


I have a video in my apartment that was made into a DVD with Ambrose on it that has some hilarious antics. I have only seen it once, within a week of the news of his passing, and I have not had the courage to watch it again. But there is one part of that DVD that I'd like to upload. It should go between these two
lines
one
day, when I heal more and gather the courage to praise the time we spent together. Okay, I'll give the gist of part of an antic on this DVD now. Amby is at Bethel Church in Redding, California interviewing...I kid you not...a 'Former Satan Worshiper." I guess the Dark Lord gets capitalized too. This guy is cloaked from head to toe in black, including his eyes which are dilated because he is freaking high on some extremely funny stimulate. Funny? Well, it made him tell my brother, on tape, that he knows that Jesus is real because he [The Ex-Satan Guy] can... control the minds of squirrels. Yes, I seriously think it would go viral because it nearly made me pee my pants. The stoned-outa-his-freakin-holly-rollin-mind guy explains: "See that tree over there? [He points to a patch of grass with no trees anywhere in site.] Well, I can tell that squirrel over there [no squirrel in site], to, well, brother, pick up that acorn over there. Now go climb that tree. Climb on the left branch, throw the acorn to the right not the left. Praise Jesus."

I really need to upload that lightening rod of The Word of God. I'd become a Christian if I could control squirrels too. I'd have an army of squirrels to carry out...Okay, no sense in imagining where that would lead.
Unfortunately Amby laughed his way out of Bethel Church, which is the only way to leave if you have a brain.

About an hour after I got that phone call that he was gone- which I can only guess because I had no concept of time-I almost laughed. Some weird noise came out of me and I said to myself out loud, 'I did not know that I would die today.' Nothing was ever the same without him. You can see my personality change in this blog after I lost him. My very last blog with him in calling distance was called, "Joy to The World Baby" and the subject was a 'Best of Craigslist." The change is very obvious. Even our family reunion was strange without him. I kept a locket on me through the entire reunion of Amby as part of the necklace and my D on the other end.

*Look at Ambrose's eyes and face, then look at mine. We had the same voice. He was sick growing up and after he left us, I got those lethal allergies. The killer peanut being one. Corn being a lesser bother. Most hard liquor is distilled with corn. I quit drinking almost two years ago, except maybe a half dozen drunk occasions.

I drank on the last plane, after a transfer, on my way from San Diego, then a transfer in Arizona, finally ending in a connecting flight back to Austin. I got stuck by the window seat (usually a plus) with a well liquored salesman who could not stop talking to me. At first I played the exhausted card. Then I tried to make small talk. But when the drink tray went by, I snapped and said, "Here is a $20 bill. Give me two white wines, then keep the change." I was cornered! I had to drink my way out.

Finally, today marks my first full year as a felon. Here is the one year photograph before I was fingerprinted and sincerely apologized to the substitute judge (which my lawyer capitalized on; the judge that was sick that day was, from what he said, the most feared judge in all of Texas.) I apologized for my embarrassing behavior. I told the judge that this felony destroyed the value of my Bachelor's degree though, so we are even. I gave my speech shaking honestly, and was thanked by the judge. I got to turn myself in, just like the Dave Chappelle skit where the white man is damned to prison to,"convert to Islam" and the black man sings, "The 5th!" and turns himself in when he deems it convenient. It was convenient for me to go in the first day of October.