Because murder is still illegal, and this guy started it: Google: Jerry Pittman. This should have been made into the 3rd act of Chinatown.
If you know me, you know this was a long time coming. The Nurgemberg defense did not work for the Nazis either.
I think that communism did not work for a reason. But I wish that it had.
This former chief of police in San Antonio brutally raped his own niece, then charged her with falsifying a police report when she finally spoke up.
Police are suppose to protect us. Not the rich. Not the poor. They are suppose to be blind to every economic circumstance. They are suppose to fix things.
I can not repeat how many times I have reported my own family. Over 60 times in over ten years. The police outside of Annapolis are lazy. In over 60 phone calls, the only time I was asked to repeat myself was when I included a police officer's son in the violence. They took a name down. That was about 8 years ago. I still have the same phone number.
They are not all bad at all. My 3rd arrest was by an actual man. I real man. A man that knew that he was up against the most biased police force I have come to know: Those in Northern California. And there they are on my side. Its always nice to have power on your side.
The man who wrote this article is very brave:
And probably has a great lawyer too.
My own defense lawyer hates me. But we are very well acquainted.
I heard about Jerry Pittman, former San Antonio Chief of Police, from a woman working at their rape crisis center. He murdered two prostitutes. This guy needs to get killed. In a riot. Which should be happening now because of his crimes. Police officers serve their people. They need to protect us. Fear us. Not pull their weight.
Yesterday I bought an ice tray. It costs a lot of money. My thinking was that ice symbolized civilization. I knew that when this guy came home to me yesterday, he wanted...kill me...dinner ready.
So I wrote a blog, laid around, and smoked weed all day yesterday. He comes home, and the first thing I tell him is that I went grocery store shopping. $50 went to...5 packs of Ramen noodles. The vegan kind.
I have to believe that, because we all have the same brain, there is something behind that bad haircut. I have to believe that. I feel best about myself when I am helping others. I'm not an altruist person. I'm a lonely person. If I can have someone coming home to me, all the better.
Everything that was said yesterday circled back to happiness, his lack of happiness, and my conclusion was that he is better off with me. He has more problems then me, and people need to help each other out.
So my strategy today is to order dinner. For every problem there is a solution. I don't get the whole dinner time thing. I don't think he wants to hear that ice cubes are a first world feature. Before this I decided to buy a painting over furniture. I decided this because paintings are better then furniture. I've never been challenged about my choices and mannerisms before.
As the title of the blog alludes to, these people are not master criminals. People who commit murder and get caught to be specific. Melanie Mcguire was one of them. I love when the lawyer argues, "Well the murdered spouse also had access to that computer as well!" Okay Sherlock Holmes, I'll venture that the spouse that got murdered was not the one Googling God's Red Right Hand. Or things like, "How to kill someone with chloroform." I'm not a master criminal so I took it a step further. I Googled, "How to kill my boyfriend William, then frame my cat Lucian Price." "How to frame Trump for his thought crimes against humanity." "Postal worker by proxy." How to decapitate someone and make it look like an paper cut." Or, "How to convince the police the victim shot themselves in the knee cap...twice." That sort of thing. Because when you don't de-frag your hard drive after murder, you are not going to have an easy time in jail. My cat is my scapegoat. "How to get away with killing my ex and pitting the charge on my cat, Lucian."
Side Note: I saw a documentary on The Son of Sam killer, David Berkowitz, and he now claims that he was part of a cult that killed people. This was in 1976, a time I was only a thought my mother was dreaming about, while I waited for the stork to fly up to heaven with his polka dotted blanket and I caught the next ride to Albany, New York. My point: Berkowitz claims (and I believe) that this cult threatened members of their families. He said that he came up with the insanity case to protect his family. I've always imagined that the dog who he claimed coerced him into committing at least one murder was a tiny little Yorkie with pink ribbons in her hair. Not a Rottweiler guarding the gates of hell.
People are the greatest fun.
What is creepier then doing that web-surfing is that there are sites that actually exist like that. In all seriousness, that is disgusting. I wrote a blog on the 5'7 Wonderland victim Ron Launius a while back. It did not fit in my blog at the time. Now anything goes. This is my Diary. My Church. My Confusion. My racing thoughts. Example of complete lack of form would be:
Now I move on the the good stuff. The positive 4 letter word.
Since I am in the early stages of completely revamping my lifestyle, I thought a list on fun things to do with the number one drug of choice for me: LOVE. Music would be a close second. Dancing would be third.
There have been many dark times in my life. Tonight is not one of them. I must have done something right to have a golden hearted angel sleeping in my bed right now. I don't even have insomnia around him. This newfound sober love feels like the time I won a hand of poker with a professional being one of my competitors. The 25% Irish in me came out.
This blog idea came up because my new partner and I are both broke and both have a newfound love of music, movies, and making love. The holy trinity to life; the three, 'M's.
Or I could go with 'fucking' 'films' and 'feel good music.'
I'm a genius.
I have to be careful with my jokes. The banana peel joke did not go over well, but what I failed to state in that blog was that I loved Ian like a brother and it devastated me that he chose to go bananas on me.
For now, I'll keep this blog open for ideas. Sex is free (arguably.) I'd rather lose control in laughter then to touch another drug. I beat this addiction (one day at a time); but addiction gains muscles with each sober day. This voice lives in my head, my cotton wool of daily life, and my battle is at a temporarily cease fire with the truce that I have a problem. Step one.
Side Note: Self delusion is powerful and fatal. Towards the end of my drinking career, I was hiding trash bags full of empty wine bottles because, I justified, I did not want to be bothered by the avid A.A. attender due to the fact that he might see said empty bottles. I bragged that drinkin was part of my Lithuanian heritage. I claimed I was bored and the unemployed need to drink regularly. I was only hurting myself. One day I realized that everyone who cared about me have accepted that I would not change. That made me want to prove them wrong.
Alone I can be a very ugly person. Two can be an ugly number when a relationship becomes toxic. Okay, I'm stalling. Here is my list so far. Of course gas costs money. Food (especially health food) is costly. I get that. This blog is just my way of celebrating my love for a man that is perfect. To me, kindness is paramount to inner beauty. Outwardly, he's tall, gorgeous and has an exotic accent.
1.) Take a hot bath together.
2.) Google your local options. Google coupons for those options. Austin has a bridge with bats that set up camp there. Its peaceful.
3.) D.H Lawrence took picnics in a manner that I'd call a labor of art. He packed alcohol in his picnic basket though. I know that if we were drinking, things would get ugly. But we wake up sober and entwined in each other's limbs. I put my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and thinking, "You lucky lady." If I fuck this up!
4.) Cooking. Having your partner cook for you (or prepare the food) and do the same for them. I've read about this from a serial killer relationship with his wife.
5.) Swimming together. In life, if you have the opportunity to swim with someone you love, its a sin not to do so.
6/) I've been trying to find the perfect word to describe his eyes. In color and also in intensity. They are hazel, but I can do better then that. Grade school rebooted last month, and during that time (growing up in Maryland) I'm always reminded of the cooler air and the leaves turning color. Those sensations are synonymous with those elementary school crayons. They built up from just the ROYGBIV colors....
Blue is my favorite color.
...to so many different colors with cool names. I'm not into narcotics at this point, but when I did them color names made me go into heat. I felt like I was in a watercolor painting. I regret not attending a community college class that I signed up for simply titled, "Colors." The catalog said something about the benefits of knowing the psychological aspect of colors for art therapy. Plus, I love the smell of crayons. Growing up a Catholic (then my dad switched us to Eastern Orthodox) I loved melting crayons on candles. I love all art, but only as an observer.
"50 Ways to Please Your Lover," was the title of this blog, then I switched it to its current title because I immediately thought typing up 50 ways to make someone happy was too daunting a task. So rare it has become that I drop my guard to fall in love...I need to reprogram my brain. Like most people, I love The Beatles. I use to listen to Beatles Brunch on the radio on Sunday, and I remember a conversation that reminded me of my current hangups. The song, "Getting Better." Paul McCartney (a lefty...which interests me) sang, "You got to admit it's getting better. It's getting better all the time." Then John chimes in at the, "All the time" with, "It couldn't get much worse." Contrarians.
My boyfriend called himself by that name today. He moved in. I can laugh at myself about something regarding the two of us. The doctors in detox gave a blanket statement diagnosis to all of the patients it seemed to me. All the cool, positive, hall pacers were diagnosed as, "Bi-Polar." I had no preconceptions about the illness until this ultra positive man, named Bruce, kept coming up with these fascinating ideas to entertain us. He had detailed plans with steps and he handed out these responsibilities accordingly.
One example was his idea to do away with the power struggle of the remote control and the socio-economic ebb and flow and the strength in numbers deal going on in the entertainment room. He inventoried the DVDs selection that the hospital had and we all agreed upon, 'The Last Crusade." But the DVD was under lock and key and he could not find the key. So he appointed who he thought was most determined to bug this nurse or this lab tech. He was awesome. He was also very vocal about his love of meth, hatred of Redding, California (that is a moot point) and his bi-polar disorder. He was also a lefty of the original, half and half left handed patients. I liked him immediately. I had always wished to be brave about my brain chemistry.
I did not get that diagnosis. I tried to duck out from any diagnosis all together and state that I'm an addict because I'm an insomniac. For insurance reasons, everyone gets a diagnosis before they are admitted. Not a fan of violence; not me. My diagnosis is always the same: Post Traumatic Stress regarding some ugly violence.
My job there was to obsess about the coffee intact of the detoxing patients. Mainly me. I would try to get up when the night shift switched out so that I could supervise the coffee. No decaf commie bullshit. It was the only thing that I could control. I was not exactly McMurphy from One Flew Over...I'd give that honor to Bruce. I was more like Tom Robbins character with the beer, but coffee in its place. Ativan is beer in a pill. We would drink coffee all day long and start breaking apart around 5pm. Three separate times I sat down and refused to move back up to the detox floor; the 4th floor (we had music therapy, and our band name was, "The 4th Floor.") My brain was so active in parts that were numb, dark and covered in cobwebs. So much so that I could not handle the sensory overload. My foundation was always, "Well, murder is illegal so you guys can't force me to stand up and..." Then Zack would hug me and I'd apologize and crack my wrists in a fist and go to my room like I was 5 years old.
I asked the doctor if I did have Borderline Personality Disorder. I know someone who said I had it without ever having been a patient of hers and I think the word, "Projection" would fit her well. The doctor said, "Ah, no. We would know if you had it because you'd be trying to sleep with all of these people." Well I did take one home with me. The good huger. The one with the mad scientist hair and long legs. I wonder if they told him, "We'd know if you are a sociopath by now because you are exploiting..." We compatible diagnosis work well. For the record my doctor said I had PTSD and depression. I did not even get the glamorous depression as it manifested itself in Bruce.
There was a white trash woman who spoke so loud on the phone with lines like- well just gross lines in general. I thought she carried a copy of, "To Kill A Mockingbird" to fool people. Then she came out with her Baltic heritage and, okay, you're the type of crazy. I asked if I could read her copy when she finished it and she signed it over to me, then warned me that she stole it from the library. These people were a trip.
The last thing to say about that experience was that it was a very positive one except for one group on one day. The times I did heroin with my brother, I wish I had remembered. Yeah, it will kill you, blah blah blah blah, but we thought we'd both live together later. I thought that at least. This idiot social worker was talking about how addictive pot is (come on!); addicts that are not addicted to their poison are very smart in general. I felt like she spoke down to us. She had me read a paper that had the definition of the word, "Independent" three separate times. She said, "Now you have the same illness as someone with cancer or diabetes." No lady. No. Medically, yeah, we know that. But if you have a heart attack, you don't go to jail. She said, "Hmm, a good observation." No, its the only observation for that discussion. We know what we have and how to care for ourselves. We know. She needed to educate people outside of those walls. I didn't go to the hospital when I took in a toothless loser who behaved like a 4th grader and ran away from a bar after trying to cause a fight.
That is how I got my felony. All the stars aligned in the wrong perfect pattern for mass destruction. At least I did not drive drunk and accidentally kill someone though. It could have been worse. I got arrested and was stripped of my credentials. They won that fight.
On all of this coffee in detox I started to think my goal should be to organize protests in Austin to say no to either Presidential incumbent. They are both evil. But Trump, man alive he scares the hell out of me. What the fuck? That should be his slogan: What the fuck happened to America?
"If my tits can help you through a sleepless night, I'm happy for you Allen."
*I've had that Robert Frost Poem memorized for 23 years.
The first stage of love. The sunshine was always there. The flowers were always available. Love opens the eyes to what is always there. I love people; my human race.
For a while now I've been in the frame of mind that my blog has gone so far astray from what it was supposed to be; my college class note. Three days ago I checked out of detox (separate from expensive rehab) and I have come to this conclusion:
I don't want my addictions to define who I am. But if I can say anything to destroy the billion+ dollar business of getting people fucked up and blaming everyone but the drug companies and pill selling doctors, I am very proud to do my part in shedding light on how ugly addiction can be if you take that spiral down.
So three weeks ago I finally made the leap into detox, and I absolutely loved seeing those highly intelligent people (most addicts are awesome when not intoxicated.) Their personality was a mirror for me to understand some things:
1.) Only the strong survive.
2.) That is what I act like to doctors when I want a sedative?!
3.) Everyone had a hard life in that group. So therefor...
4.) I am not so alone in my head.
5.) Five is my cynicism: There were a few very obvious junkies running around trying to manipulate the entire staff. They were too arrogant and/or too far gone to drop the act and ask for help.
6.) Never judge a book....
7.) Listen more and talk less.
8.) Phys patients are really into themselves.
8.) These are my peers and comrades.
The best advice that I could give to someone struggling with alcohol and drug dependency is to go into detox (you'll be okay) then TRY SOMETHING DIFFERENT. What you were doing in the past obviously did not work. We are all in this together, and I want us all to make it out okay.
Yesterday marked the end of legal kratom sales, which I predicted over a year ago. When you're visiting family in Humboldt, and it takes four separate head shops and (I know) health food stores, that is a clear indication that Uncle Sam is stepping in. Plus three of the four Humboldt employees looked at me as if I had just confessed to a murder.
It's midnight. I am a fucked up person. I am a semi-attractive, old, brain-scrambled idiot when I deal with people one on one. That's the truth. Image with words are pointless. Words that don't stick are pointless. You have to hit people with your diction. Or sooth them. You can't just ramble. That does not make for long lasting relationships.
So detox....First, I thought I could never let go to get help. My cat needed me. I live in Austin, Texas in severe isolation with a boyfriend who knows how to keep me in check. I don't see him often, and we are not monogamous. I did not want to leave Lucian in his care, and my catastrophic thinking came to fruition when I walked inside my home after I was discharged. I had forgot why I was there because the urge for people to leave was contagious.
Detox for me was 12 days, and I was discharged without the doctor's consent. When you get into a fight with George Foreman, even if you are Mohammed Ali, you are going to feel it. I don't believe anyone should detox off of hard stuff without help. Its not about strength, its about living. I have something called PAWS (Post Acute Withdraw Syndrome.) That means that, according to the nurse, my brain is wired in a way where I unable to sleep for long periods of time. Eighteen months tops. Maybe that is one of the reasons that I am up still awake. When I came home to a dirty fish tank, a dirty apartment, with dirty dishes, I said, "Welcome to Sobriety" and called the social worker to ask if I could come back. My cat's pee-pee scent saturated the air. I left my cat in the care of my boyfriend, and he did nothing.
I am so afraid that my discourse with people centers only on arguments. That is how some people connect. I'd rather connect with love of course.
Of course I took people home after I detoxed. Of course I did. That's what I like to do; and in some bizarre way, it makes me feel useful. Now the last man I took in was a drug addict. This was a year ago. With that man, I'd wake up to him snorting crap up his nose in the living room, which made him more angry that happy. When he left, he left all of his clothes. That's avoidance. I had little respect for him. He was some dumb guy on Craigslist that met me through an ad he put out regarding drugs.
In detox I learned to be proud of speaking openly about my addictions. So here is the breakdown for my life, and we all have different vantage points.
While a student at San Francisco State, I was one of 3 women on my block who was given Xanax for anxiety. I was so naive that I had never heard of that drug. Alcoholics often say that the first drink of any type of beverage felt so good to them. Not me. But Xanax, it was my first love, and a toxic love at that. That was in 2003. Since then, the only other women out of us three is still messed up on it. I think about it every day.
My first love did not love me back. My first person love. In a room full of people, I fucking rock. I'm clever and happy and its easy for me. But put me one on one and I'm up writing a blog about how ugly I am because someone is sleeping in my bed. This is what this blog is about: My failings as a person of substance.
In A.A., which they let up go to on the ground floor in detox, I heard an interesting story. This guy spoke last. I wish he was not the last so I could have paid closer attention. He was quite beautiful. He had a rope bracelet that tide around his finger. But his long, natural eyelashes are what stunned me. He was young, and he got the last word explaining to us detox folks (we had hospital socks on) that A.A. saved his life. He said something like:"I had any woman that I wanted. I had money and drugs and I wanted to kill myself. I thought those things would make me happy. They made me miserable. Alcoholic's Anonymous made me happy though. I had to leave my native New Jersey to sober up in Texas."
So naturally, I went again and again to find him, just to fuck him once to understand him. He was there with a group that one day only, and it was simply to support a friend. I saw one of his friends much later in the real outside world, and it never crossed my mind to ask that friend for him number. I don't do things like that at all.
There is a 6'2, ass kicking, woman-defending, sweet man sleeping in my bed right now. I chewed tobacco for the first time today because of him. He does not love me. In a group, I am good company. At home, not so much. I just want to be left alone for the rest of my life so I could say that I never tried, so I never failed. He was very good to hold on to when I cried in detox. I loved being there. I'm a highly reclusive person. I go out to get food, and that is about it. So to be at home with some gorgeous man who is always in his head- I don't understand him.
He not only knew about a strange, highly violent murder, but he knew all the people involved, both victims and assailants. He's from Florida. How can someone who knows stuff like that be so mellow. I tried to figure him out. He talks openly about fighting, but barely. We have nothing in common except sobriety. Having someone not love you is hard.
In detox, I saw myself in every person there. Until you get it , and I could ramble on and on, but once you understand it, there is no turning back. A silver bullet, bass string, grab a bucket and say, Fuck you to this:
All three of these photos were taken this morning, Natures first green is gold, as they say in The Outsiders via Robert Frost.
I don't understand that person in my bedroom and its making me crazy. James Joyce's last words were supposedly, "Does no one understand?" That's horrible.But speaking of detox and European writers/ poets, the best last words came from Dylan Thomas. His doctor told him that he would die if he drank anymore. He drank something like 47 shots of whiskey after that and his last words were, "That must be a record." I guess he took that news hard.
I thought if I write and write and write then I would sleep next to that man. The truth is, I'm terrified. In his unreadable brain, he could be thinking how happy he will be to leave my home forever. So I will put my notice in and move. I probably should have cut him off after detox. I wanted to take everyone home with me. My heart is not callused yet. Its the same old shit. I fall for someone and pay way too much for my loss of control.
The video below I try not to watch. Especially when I have insomnia. Ambrose went days at a time, not just without sleep, but in horrific pain. I loved my brother more then life. He hurt himself for a thousand reasons, but none that he deserved. He was always a loving person. When I got the call that he died, I did not really understand but at the same time I knew my life would never okay. I hated myself for taking so much for granted. I remember that my fiance at the time was wearing a yellow t-shirt. I held him so close because I knew it was over for me once I left him go. About an hour after I got that call I sat on a couch and literally laughed. I said to my ex-fiancee, 'I did not know that I would die today.' What can I say? The title is probably from the Bible verse from Saint Paul:"We see through glass darkly."
Now time to watch a ton of comedy moves and leave words alone.
His much deserved day of reflection - Monday, January 16, 2017
I heard this on too much (or little) coffee while detoxing. I clung to this quote like it was my Bible. Damn he was good. I too want to shoot for the night stars. He carried so many people with him. He's a more relevant ________as 2016 does its final death rattle.