Monday, February 6, 2017

Charity

"People that are uglier then you and I, they take what they need and leave." -The Smiths. 

My brother, who has supported me in comfot for about 10+years, took the lyrics from Sublime's 'What I Got' to heart last week. He took his money and gave it all to charity. His cause, which he pronounces in one breath, will go to all the Starving-kids-in-Africa. Now that my free ride is over with, I can honestly say that I was in the upper bracket of wealth for a while. He works as a machinist and does coding. My goal in life was to focus all my existential angst on what color my manicure should be every other week. Welcome to this world.

My brother's  income is being skimmed off his paycheck every pay period. He feels good with his decision. My partner works his cute butt of every day starting at 5am, so I'm not drowning from this decision. I have a fat cat to support as well as a butter ball dog. If I had spare money to donate to a good cause, below are two that deserve special attention.

The Western Service Workers was a charity that I volunteered my time for when I lived in white-poverty-dump of a city called Redding, California, I don't know the specific of this group, but I can define my role in the era that I was a part of it. As I understood this group, our job as volunteers was to aid the families of hard workers in low paying jobs(such as fast food employees) that could not support themselves without a little help from their communities. In the morning, I collected money from good Samaritans outside of grocery stores. My role was no different from the bell ringers during Christmas time. In the afternoon, I helped to pass out lunches to families that came to our headquarters. After lunch, I went door to door to apartment complexes with low rent to ask people if they wanted to eat salmon that was caught fresh that day. Or to ask them if they would be interested in meeting at our headquarters when a local doctor donated his/her time to field questions. The money we collected in the morning went towards lunches, dinners, doctors who donated their time, and many more ideas.  I did this when I was just 19 years old. Even with government help, some of these families needed extra help from their communities. As the saying goes, "God helps those that help themselves." Only a select few people took advantage of our services, so it became very frustrating to rally for this low economic group of people who had no interest in our interest to help them. The day we cooked the fresh salmon, most of it was wasted. We donated that meal by knocking door to door. The money that was donated went directly to these causes and not to getting some middle man fat.

The other cause that I put a little money into is the Innocence Project. There is one for each state. 48 hours and Dateline are highly processed forms of entertainment, but the idea to help innocent people in jail came to me after hearing the speech of a convicted murderer who was very obviously innocent. As long as racism and poverty exists there will always be people who are innocent that go to prison. The first case of an innocent man false accused to come to my attention was a poor white man with five children named Raymond Jennings.  He was tried three times before he was convicted. Recently David Temple was released from jail on bond. Despite an 'ear witness' that heard a gun being fired while Temple was in a grocery store, he was convicted largely because he had an affair. The list goes on and on. Suicide inside of prisons is way too common and not talked about in mainstream media. Before we brainstorm a better solution then shipping men and women to prison to just sit around, we need to concentrate on who belongs there by our law versus people who had no money to fight for their very freedom.

The rich need to care about the poor. The strong need to help the weak. It should be a moral obligation to invent good charity not connected to any organization and with no fanfare. Taking in homeless women is something that I'd done several times that I have the money and shelter to help. When I have the means, I help out. You have to be selfless and expect nothing in return.


Friday, January 13, 2017

About the Shirt that I'm wearing

I actually am playing Solitary until dawn. I have a tie game between the computer and me in chess. My life is in shambles. I have a broken vacuum, broken dog, broken truck; everything is broken. I tune out with Solitary and The Four Seasons. My life sucks.
I was wearing a shirt up until this morning that I've had since I was 33. I don't know how far I want to go back to explain the story of how I got to own the shirt that I was wearing, but file this blog under: An Answer to Cynicism."
I'll start at being 33. At 33 I was living with a South African narcissist who benefited from me living with him. He was never outright abusive to me physically, but he did give me a few good scares. And one of those scares was the catalyst for this story.
Abusive people rationalize their behavior unlike no other. He was fighting with me over our mutual vehicle which I needed to get to an 8am class. I took the keys, and as I was walking out the door I heard a loud banging sounded that effected my elbow. I looked down and there was a screwdriver on the floor. He cleared off the table to demonstrate that he was angry and a screwdriver went flying and hit my elbow.
That day when I was in school, I looked around hating everyone who had the luxury of paying attention in class. I decided that the next time I was physically touched I would call the police.
Fast forward about a week. I drank an entire bottle of whiskey and woke up with bruises from a struggle for me to get out of the house. I literally ran to the neighbors screaming, "Help help!" at the top of my lungs while this guy chased me right into a neighbors front door.
This was Humboldt county, and domestic violence is a big problem that no one wants to deal with ever. The same with the neighbors who allowed me to be in their home. Not one out of a half dozen neighbors called the police. I waited until I was certain that no one would call the police, then I called them.
It turned out badly for me. One power tripping cop told me to shut up or I would go to jail. That cop transported me to my brother's apartment, where I had gone for sanctuary 17 times since I met this South African narcissist. I was not a happy camper. This time I set to move to a safe place.
This is getting tiresome.
Long story short, I was in a record store in Arcata a few days after this event and an employee there told me that I could move into a home that he shared with one other man. After this man told me this, I made the biggest mistake of my life by telling him: "Money is no object. I need a safe place."
This story has two narcissists. The record store man was far worse.
I bought a crystal chandelier lamp from a head shop in Arcata for my new home. My older brother drafted a cashier's check to this record store employee. It read: To Matt Jackson. For: First months rent, last months rent, and the deposit. I still have a copy of this check.
I was in this home for 3 days before that beaded chandelier lamp shorted out, caused a serious fire, and in that fire everything that I owned burned to ashes. It was The Wrath of God. This is why I stick with The Old Testament. I saw my future go up in flames.
In that fire I learned that I was not cool enough to try to save my cat, Lucian Price. I was outside crying hysterically when Matt Jackson showed up to see the house he lived in burning down. I did not know there was a such thing as a fire report. I told Matt: "I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you. Even if it meas that you keep my deposit."
He kept my deposit and asked for more money. He was completely insured against fire damage. Because of the illegal way that he moved me in, I was not insured. I lost everything that I owned and in this state of shock, he took more money from me. He kept the entire check and got $300 in addition to the check before I literally hid from him rather then sticking up for myself.
I had to move back in with my abusive ex.
At this time I saw the worst in people and the best in people.

Side Note: Let me flesh this idea out. While Matt Jackson was capitalizing from this fire and the money he could get out of me, there were Red Cross volunteers that bent over backwards to get to me where ever I was just to help me. A group of people in a stress management class that I was in pitched in to buy me clothes. A set of sheets that I had were bought for me by strangers. You can not be cynical when there are strangers who volunteer to help strangers for nothing. You can't. As long as there are good people out there that do compassionate things with no fan fare, its self pity to wallow in a, "Poor Me" state. There will always be people who capitalize on someone's bad fortune. But there are no shortage of volunteers. The Red Cross is full of bleeding hearts. I can't even remember the name of the Red Cross volunteer who came to me at college just to give me a $75 coupon for free food and shampoo and conditioner. He was as compassionate as if he was a dear friend.

I was still in Spanish 2 when someone who was sitting behind me asked how my text book was half burned. I told him about the fire. This person sat behind me for months without talking to me. The day he asked what happened to my text book I asked him to give me a ride home.
He did. As he was driving me home, he asked me a strange question. He asked me if I remembered him. "No."
-----------------------------------
When I was 27 I was a mess of addiction issues. At one point my addictions were so bad, I did not want to live. I got an unwelcome visit from my then boyfriend. To shoo him away I drank a bottle of vodka and was as unattractive as possible. That day, after he left, I don't remember what happened but I know that I nearly died from the combination of heroin and vodka. I know from the records that the paramedics gave me two shots of adrenaline before my brother admitted that I was under due to opiates. They gave me a shot that caused me to get up and run. I took off my clothes and ralphed. I don't remember this. I do remember waking up in an ambulance to 2 paramedics telling me that they saved my life. At the time I did not want to hear it. I've thought about it often.
---------------------
One of those 2 paramedics turned out to be the man who drove me home from my Spanish class. After I told him about the fire and my abusive ex he took me clothing shopping under the condition that I told no one that he did that for me. He bought me $50 in clothes, then promptly dropped out of the Spanish class we had together.

I still own one of the shirts that he bought for me.

Friday, September 30, 2016

Epic Questions in Canada


Spreadable Toes

Notice that when I get bored or annoyed with writing something specific out, I'll just start another blog.

This has nothing to do with anything in this blog. My tuxedo cat (he works the night shift) can spread his toes out to bite out any straw or dirt in them. It reminds me of the stupidest idea from my brain in a long time. I've got toe envy. I can't spread them out that far. So, because I'm my toughest critic, I thought (as a college student...that's where Uncle Sam's $$$ went); well I thought that only highly advanced people could spread their feet apart. So one day I met Mike. Don't know his last name. Don't care.

He was an only child from Fredericksburg, Maryland. My own family took the 3 hour, one way, ride so my mother could see her children slip and slide down a rock waterfall like lima beans.

He was confused. Mike was the man responsible for the quote, "You like to swim in the deep end. I love the baby pool." How poetic. Mike towered over me, and I'm not short. He drove a Lexus, which was his identity, or he seemed to feel that way in a good light. One day when we were having sex, I turned around to see him flexing his biceps in the closet mirror window. I dumped him like heavy chair being carried up a flight of stair with no thank you attacked. That's how I spent half of my yesterday anyway.

But his toes! It was not his car that got me. Or that he lived in a safe heaven that my family loved to visit. Those were the happiest times of our lives. But Mike had no place in that life other then be the guy who could....throw tennis balls with his toes! I kid you not. The man is a circus freak show.

So my one week fling with this Mike from Maryland character ended quickly, but he had one funny story that was worth writing down. He was the joke of a funny story that is also worth writing down.

Order of Operations:

The second story hurts me too, so I'll save it for now. The first story is of Mike's first acid trip. I may have peed myself when he told me this story because he never once told it with a laugh. See, I don't care. I'll run behind a tree and laugh until I can compose myself, which takes a while.

So Mike and two of his friends drop acid for the first time...in Mike's parents house. They ate a plate of spaghetti before the acid kicked in. Spaghetti with meatballs.  They must have been famished or nervous because the meatballs went down too quickly.


Mike went to the bathroom to wash his hands, and as he was leaving, one of his two friends spewed meatballs everywhere. Mike yelled, "Help us. He's coughing up his stomach!" The three men ran in three different directions leaving Mike's parents at home to wonder about their cooking skills. And damn if Mike could do that story more justice.

Why does this 6 day affair get a blog? Well, Mike came over one day with a flower in a flower pot- a black plastic flower pot- that definitely was found doing a plastic tumble roll in Arcata. Its the thought that counted, so I was very happy (didn't we break up the following day though???) He had a somewhat scripted ramble that accompanied his makeshift flower pot. He said, "Since your name is Rose [the flower was a purple larkspur], I saw the most beautiful flower on the side of the road and said, "Gotta get my girl that." (Again, it did not last a week.)

So the story that makes us both look funny came from my vicious Boston transplant neighbors. I consider one (out of the three) still one solid dear friend, even though he is punching his was through Massachusetts as I write. The other two were knee deep in imaginary pussy. I hung out with them often (which makes me an authority fearing weed-loving Boston natives.....no it doesn't.)  The day before Mike brought that long, purple, highway flower over, these Boston neighbors were watching him through their window. In Humboldt it gets boring because you literally watch plants grow. These boys hated my blonde Fresno, Californian roommate, and probably still hate me for picking her over the Japanese violinist.

Side Note: My favorite therapist told me that as long as I don't visit, nor settle in Fresno, I did well by her.

So my neighbors, The Massholes, were joking about Mike banging on the kitchen window, the front door, then coming down to honk his horn, then back up again. One of them even demonstrated his defeated posture when he realized he was not getting on the opposite side of that front door.

"You're roommate has a steady stream of men. And they all look them same;  like a bunch of fuckin monkeys. This one came by in a Lexus yesterday with a dead plant.....He kept banging and waiting. I almost felt bad for him. What was he afraid of? She was back in her bedroom replacing him? Fucking monkeys."

I never spoke up because-wowch!- I did not know that he was that frantic to get me that flower. It did die a few days later. curses to those black plastic pots. This is the blog that does not fit. If I were to snap a photo of someone like this (Meatball Mike) in more blogs, no to even comprehend!!!No sir.

Climb those Appalachian mountains until you touch the sky. And of course, keep that Wade the Duck life persevere on at all times. I'm not alone in the world.



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.

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.