Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Tell Them McCrackin Sent You!

*The title is not of my creation, and it does not fit this brief blog. No one is taking score.
These lovely yellow flowers were outside my front door this morning. It's hard to see in this photo, but those flowers are being held in place by desert crystals from New Mexico. A few moths ago a different set of (now former) neighbors put them outside my home for 'good energy.' I am grateful.

Since I am going through a transitional phase, I won't be writing for a while. I wanted to add that the yellow flowers were from my neighbor Julie (the 52 year old neighbor I write about in the previous blog.) She has been putting flowers by my front door whenever she gets them herself, which is often because she has a PhD and her last name translates to, "light,' appropriately. The desert crystals were put there by an interesting, good-looking young couple that noticed my cat and took up the practice of feeding him daily. Neither kind act from either group wanted any recognition. Of course after a while I knew that flowers usually came from Julie. The motive of both parties was kindness; the process of making someone happy.

I worry if my spelling will improve. Or that my blogs sound cool. One fear is that behind my bravado I am a transparent fraud. I'm just an awkward woman, both nervous and inviting, that wants to fit somewhere. My message is simply: Be proactive with kindness to those in your life. Never entertain the notion that it is okay for anyone to be mean. I don't care how gorgeous the person is, or creative, or unique. Don't allow mean people any opportunity to fit into our society. Then they'll get the message.

Side Note: Did I weave the title in logically here? Ah, no.

I have a unique background so I've spent much of my life as a Plain Jane observer. I have a different slant in viewing the world; but I suppose everyone does. I don't care so much about fitting in or finding the perfect mate as I care about being kind to others (though I often fail.) That's what I want to be remembered for; my compassion. The rest should fall into place. I am a misfit. I am an outlaw. I am a freak. I have tried the alternative: to count diet pills and focus on tabloid scandals in line at the grocery store. My brain is not wired that way and I have long since given up trying to cure whatever makes me a misfit, outlaw, and freak. In the end I want to be remembered for simple kindness. Remember that love can only be repaid with love.







Friday, June 10, 2016

Who Needs God When You Have Steve?

*Steve is the name of some hipster's cat who is out on my back patio eating all the stray cat food. I am a walking clique. I have stray cats. My bathrobe matches the fur coat of my only cat, which I think is so damn funny. I have to amuse myself. Steve, that scrawny little cat, is why I have been composing sad notes in my mind for the past two months. Steve is the reason I am facing homelessness. To his credit, he is very photogenic.



The Internet, I still say, is a venereal disease. What I like about this blog is that it suits my lifestyle. In two days I have no choice but to leave this apartment. I moved to Austin for the second time (after a full year here, then a full year back in Arcata, California) in 2013? I can't remember because I move so often. My neighbors in Arcata the last year I lived there were as bad as people could possibly get. I move often. The Internet is omnipresent & this blog chronicles my thoughts and keeps them safely stored through many moves. This blog became my traveling black suitcase. It's the only thing I have control over, going on move number 19 or 20 in eight years.

I have had the worst luck with neighbors. I'm sure many would say that I was their worst neighbor. I can put myself in other people's shoes. As my friend here told me, with me, prolonged arguments have two common elements to them: They involve friction between a neighbor and the argument involves a cat. I concur. The last time I use the word concur was in the middle of an argument that ultimately led to my downfall. My removal from this apartment, which now (as a felon) is the last apartment kept in my name.

After the fall could mean William Blake mythology. My best blogs are the class notes from my Shakespeare professor, who was a Blake scholar. They don't make them like that anymore. I lived with him years ago after I puked during one of his lectures. He bought me a red rose shortly after that, and when I found out that (small world) his crazy family have a connection (geographically) with my crazy family, we became good friends. I moved in with him. He took care of me even though he was known for his extreme alcohol abuse for the 40 years he lived in Humboldt County.

He dug his own grave once in one of three failed suicide attempts. He took a bottle (I imagine by this point it was a huge bottle) of whiskey to a graveyard in Eureka, California. He took a shovel and that bottle of whiskey and a collection of pure Valium that he had been saving for almost a year. This was definitely a premeditated suicide.

Side Note: I'm not a premeditated person in any respect. I'm more of a manslaughter person.

I know him well even though he stopped speaking to me a while ago. He loved big breasted women. Another passion of his was winning personal lawsuits so I won't say much about him other then this failed suicide attempt. He spent a night in a grave yard (which is creepy as hell) digging his own grave while drinking straight whiskey.  He woke up laying next to the hole he dug that night with a group of people watching him being loaded into a gurney to be sent to a hospital, then he won a free stay in the Arkham Asylum of Northern California: Eureka's Sempervirens Psychiatric Health Prison.

In all seriousness I loved the man and still do. And in all seriousness I will write that I don't know if this was his last suicide attempt (out of three) but he told me what incident caused him to stop trying. He was found after taking a bottle of Valium-

*I never will understand how someone can be an alcoholic yet hate to take Valium.

-He woke up on his last gurney ride and screamed, "God Damn it! Why don't you people just let me die?" Someone responded, "Because we love you." That was all he needed to sober up after hitting rock bottom. He told me that a feeling of compassion consumed him and that moment it was the greatest relief to hear those words. For me, any compassion to my depression cloaks me in armor.  It's a runner up to a mother's love.

Now that I wrote all of that down I feel petty talking about how Steve forced me out of my comfort zone and almost out on the streets. Look at how unassuming he is in his photo.

My big butt-farter, Mr. Lucian Price is my sidekick. He is also overweight (which took me a year to accept and two separate veterinarian's opinions.) I'm his advocate and his is my angel. People don't remember me when I leave, but they don't forget him. He was born in a tuxedo. He was once dubbed, "The Mayor" because he goes from place to place, apartment and homes, checking up on people. He's a born politician. He also had an abusive owner in my ex, so he developed serious stress related issues. When his environment is not stable or he feels threatened, his kidneys shut down. The first sign of that presents itself in his pee. He pees blood.

The multiple vets who have treated him when this has happened (three times now) say that it feels like broken glass going through a man's urethra. It's pure hell on him and pure hell on me. What makes Lucian feel his environment is stressful? When other cats come and stay too long as guests. This condition explains why I don't have a dozen cats (like my older brother does.)  The timing of Steve's arrival made it the perfect storm for a blog on a title such as this one.

Steve had a few names before my neighbor took him in. My neighbor and friend, who is very attractive, 52 year old, and an obvious student of yoga because of her smoking hot body. She gives these strong, crushing long hugs that initially made me feel like she would have to be asked to let me go! I liked this woman very much. I e-mail her often, and she e-mailed me one day that she found a cat that she named, "Abigail." I wish I could post the photo of her with Abigail (a.k.a. Steve) because its a cute photo. Like I said, Steve is very photogenic.

I was calling him "Bernie" at this time because I hosted a Manhattan resident who came to Austin to campaign for Bernie Sanders and the cat seemed to arrive when this activist did. This cat is sleek and androgynous. My 52 year old neighbor told me she found him (who we changed to 'her' then) and she wanted to keep this cat. I should have stayed out of it. But I had to butt in (damn texting ability) to tell her that her cat was too thin and always at my place. She initially took no responsibility of this cat, so when I saw someone hurl him/her in a Texas football pass that looked painful, I became outspoken about her need to claim the fucking cat because he was getting hurt, way too skinny, and always trying to get inside my apartment for Lucian's food. Here is where Steve story becomes my story of getting kicked out for the fourth time (4 apartments in a short time here in Austin...every one relating to a fight with a neighbor over a cat.) All of these fights are really about different things though.

Lucian became threatened over Steve's invasion to our home and his food, to the point where he began to...pee blood. I had a childhood cat that lived to be 24 years old, and taking her to the vet the last 4 years of her life was pure hell. So taking Lucian to the vet for pissing blood and failing kidneys was pure hell. It was $600 for the first round of pain pills, antibiotics and appointments. When Steve still came around because my lovely neighbor stopped caring for him after her photo-op e-mail, Lucian relapsed with the blood piss. I went into fuck-a-bitch-up mode. I thought my cat was dying. I'm sure Lucian felt like he was dying. I had to hold him still three times a day while my partner shoved pain pills down his throat.

Two things happened here that I really don't feel like fleshing out in words because I've prepped the premise up enough with enough fluff. Down to the point. One facet was a threat from my 'beautiful-on-the outside', 'passive-aggressive-on-the inside' 52 year old neighbor. She texted me that, "Today is your last day to bow out the yearly lease." and "I suggest you take it." Something like that. That was one important factor. The other was that she was getting all dolled up to go to my other attractive neighbor's place. He is a man; an enigma that can be so sweet and lovable but vicious and scary when not on my side. I had been in hell fighting with him for about six months. I was fighting....over a cat. Over his horrendous treatment of my cat. That I don't even want to rehash.

After months of fighting that left me skinny, shaky, paranoid and in tears for months- months and months of terror of this male neighbor that ended only because I filed paperwork requesting help from the owners of this complex, in Chicago. He apologized although I don't think it was sincere. Then I drugged him (Ambien) and spent an entire night talking to him and found out that he really is an interesting character.

Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome. He was a U.T. graduate in film and Literature. So I need to write a blog titled, "Sociopath or Literature Student?" One day I will. He eventually stopped being mean, intentionally provoking me, and doing insane things (like putting a Hansel and Gretel trail of chopped-up baloney from the sidewalk to the patio where my cat hid from him.) I actually looked forward to my 28 days in jail to get away from him. In the same paragraph I stand by my need to protect him and observe him as a strangely exotic person. Even as I write this, I know I will miss him. when I move. But he was a mother fucker for a long time. When I found out he was a film student I asked him if he wanted to borrow my copy of The Dutch version of The Vanishing.

So my 52 year old neighbor went to him to pit him against me, again. I would rather be shot. I have told him that too. That day, after I received that threatening text from her, I guess the manager broke the rules to tell her to threaten me with rejecting my renewal of the lease. All of those paragraphs boil down to this one:

I was threatened that I needed to leave that day or else (it was heavily implied) that my cat would be in danger. It may have been in my head in part, but when I saw her shoot me 'the look of death' after walking back and forth from the other neighbor, the enigma who bullied me to tears for months, combined with the manager disclosing my day to renew my lease or leave (confidential information that I did not even know) I went to the office to report the threat and sign away my ability to renew my yearly lease. It took three people: My 52 year old (friend for God sake's) threat, with the fear that my former bully of a neighbor was on her side, with the knowledge that the manager was disclosing my personal information to hostile neighbors. Those three factors added up to 'abort area immediately.' I told the manager that I felt threatened and therefor I was going to sign the papers to exit my yearly lease. This is where it got down right cruel-

I told the manager that I wanted to rent from month to month. So I signed all the dotted lines she pointed at to exit the yearly contract, and wrapped that up. I then said that I wanted to rent from month to month now until I feel ready to leave. And her words to me were, "Now here is the part where I get to tell you that I know you are a felon. We have known for some time but could not do anything about it because your crime happened after you signed the lease. Now we can not renew any contracts with you so you have two months to pack up and leave."

That's my story. That is how the residents teamed up with the management to kick me out of my secure apartment next to the Greenbelt in Austin, Barton Springs in Austin, and Taco Deli in Austin. It took malicious team work to get me out on that exact last date. All because of Steve's well being. So to answer my blog, Who needs God when you have Steve? I needed all the angels in heaven to care that I am a felon needing a home.

As for Steve, he became Lucian's right hand man. They get along now. I did not see that coming.
                              Lucian's Big Lebowski dreamin.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

I Am As God Made Me Sir

Job 23:10

Here, I'm listening to this:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2LQdh42neg

This blog's function is to focus my thoughts on anything other then my inevitable move from this apartment in South Austin, and I have to leave in just three days. I'd rather write, deflect, and day dream. Procrastination, masturbation, education, procreation, illumination.

One of my favorite movies is 'Enter The Dragon'; yeah, it's that story. When I was 26, I started to cultivate my manipulation skills thinking that people would not see that sucker punch coming. But I have rules and tact. Don't hurt the good people; the gentle souls. They do exist always.

I have a blog called, "One Answer To Cynicism" that is a true story about coming into work one morning while in the mist of a difficult time. A secret hard time. I took my ripped up jeans and my backpack and drove the scooter my family forced me to learn to drive to work. Crazy Lithuanians. It took 45 minutes just to get to work, which was for my friends at a French cafe-

Side Note: I forgot about the French band: Air. Or the Italian band Blonde Redhead. I had a bunch of mixed tapes from a comic book control freak that I dated in San Francisco. He'd make the tape cases into works of art. I still have the actual tapes with black ink, stars, and layers of construction paper taped and deliberately pulled off in a perfectly ripped effect. His CD cases were better. I still have a few propped up around my little apartment.

-That's such a random side note I forgot what I'm saying. I walked into work one day and found a guitar with a note taped to it with my name written in black marker. There were no people cool enough in my life then to surprise me that way. The note was a typed history of the guitar, what music store its previous owner thought were best to patron, and a request to leave this guitar outside of the cafe when I am finished and have, "upgraded to a bigger ax."

It was signed, "Anonymous."  After a little thought I deduced it was...the musician who comes into the store with his wife. The guy I almost cried to about wanting a guitar on a particularly busy day at work. That guy. His name was Tracey. His wife and him had a baby girl they took into the cafe. My point is...

If Tracey had ever come back into the store, I would have thought he had a motive. If his wife ever came back, I would have thought the same. But he never did. At least not in the five months following this gift. Maybe people try more often to be cool, but the gesture is lost in search of a motive. This musician and his wife had no motive but kindness. Being on the receiving end of such a gracious gesture during a painful time was one of the best feelings I have ever felt. This story is my life's thesis. There are genuine people in the world that put time into making others happy just for the sake of the process of making someone happy.

I suppose you can say that it makes them feel better to be cool. That is the extent to their 'selfish' act.

If I did this random act of coolness to someone having a hard time (which he knew nothing about by the way), I'd have done my part to turn the world with a purity that rises above human nature. The condition of selfishness that I believe is inherent in the human core. We can rise above our instincts.

After saying all of that, I can go the opposite way just as easily. 'Enter the Dragon' has always been on of my favorite movies for some of its quotes. I love the discipline of martial arts. My older brother studied Aikido when we lived together after school. He accidentally kicked me in the nose once. It hurt.

In 'Enter The Dragon' fashion, I broke yesterday when I received an e-mail in response to needing help in finding a place to live. So far I have been interviewed by a goat owner (he owned goats) on a commune in Austin. Then a Fulbright Scholar I nearly gave $480 to for a scam. The last was a Chinese poker player who wrote the e-mail that sparked this blog. He is not in the drug world. I am not in the drug world. It is far away in the distance and I am not looking back. The poker player told me he would help me...if I slept with him. I know that talk well.  I never sold my soul in that manner.

I woke up in tears again today because I have a few days to make a serious decision and the weight is crushing. Where the hell am I going to live? Felons need to network. Everyone needs to network. My family has a farm in Maryland. That farm is just ruins of a better time when I was very young. I never got a single phone call in high school. I played soccer after school with my brothers.

I don't like what I'm trying to sell in this blog.

The premise to 'Enter The Dragon' is as old as the idea of a brothel. Get women addicted to drugs to control them. To trap them. Now that I am a felon (I feel bad for felons) I have to summon all of my skills cultivated from when I had an $80 a day addiction to feed and no job. I hustled for two years before I admitted that I'm not a good poker player. Or that I am an excellent one. In the end all I had was bravado.

Example of later stages of hustling: Taking my former fiance's birthday gift of lesbian porn in DVD format (which included my favorite director Micheal Ninn's Fem Dolce with Sophie Moone, [Yowzers!])  to Arcata's  Mom & Pop record shops to ask if anyone would buy them at a discount price from me right on the spot for cash. I remember the waiting time with such focus and hope. By then I had lost any iota of embarrassment, which returned naturally as I sobered up (in spades.)
A decade later,  I still remember the ordeal of standing around in an elegant black trench coat that hid an unattractive waif figure; waiting for what seemed like a half an hour for the employees in the back of the store to return with their answer. Those were the final days of my addiction. I sobered up cold turkey in the corn fields of Nebraska, where I decided to write my thoughts down in a blog I titled: "The Maladjusted Rants." Well I'll be. That is a graphic overshare. Moving on...

The stain of what I saw in people will never leave me. When I have panic attacks, like this morning (nothing coffee can't fix) it's about that type of ugliness in people. When the world falls apart I want everyone to follow the rules. I'm a lot like The Big Lebowski's Walter Sobchak. Every day I'd love to take a crowbar to a car just for the release. We live in a society. I take Valium instead.

Side Note: I still have a petition with over 300 signatures to replace the statue of Mckinley in Arcata, California with a big ass statue of The Dude with a bowling ball in hand. If someone wants to champion that cause, I've got that petition still. In fact now that I think of it, the reason I moved to Austin, Texas was because I followed the advice of the Professor that I had an affair with (got an "A" baby!...affair started after the class of course) who allowed me to give a speech in his class about replacing Mckinley's shaking hand with The Dude. It's Humboldt County. The Dude should be our mascot.

Another thing about that Mckinley statue: The drugged out bums that line the bars there cut off the thumb of that statue and sent a ransom note to the City of Austin board of directors asking for a million dollars in exchange for his thumb. I do not believe their demands were met. The pigpen cloud of weed above their heads made them bad candidates for proper negotiation.

I am going down swinging. My brother staged a perfect exist when he could not escape the hell he put himself in. I'm not going to kill myself over too many choices. I'm still fighting to stay here in Austin. Every day I make a phone call to get a plane ticket to the BWI airport; then I straighten my posture, dress to the 9's, and make two phone calls to stay in Austin. I carved a life out here in cowboy territory; all mapped out by Cormic Mccarthy in Blood Meridian, the only book my cat's dead beat dad claims to have read. What the fuck was I thinking? Oh, I was drinking! Drinking, not thinkin.

My priorities are to keep my cat happy and free. I want to remain free. I'm no different from anyone else.

By the way, my favorite quote from Enter The Dragon is from Williams (Jim Kelly.) He says, "Defeat? I don't waste my time with it. When it comes, I won't even notice; I will be too busy looking good." I'm going to stand up before I get knocked out.

I have to add something that makes me laugh. I have a stalker who I can't quite file paperwork against because of something he wrote me that makes me smile every time I remember it. I told him that my grave stone will read, "It's all good." His was better. It would read, "My Mother Told Me This Would Happen."






Thursday, June 2, 2016

A Yes Man For Pussy

Please Consider My Request To Add This Term To The English Urban Dictionary-
Noun. Yes Man For Pussy.
The term used for a man (or woman) who has morals, integrity and strong values that remain mute when asked to speak up against their partner in a third party argument for fear of not getting any pussy that night or for their foreseeable future.

Side Note: Actually my sister told me that her child, in kindergarten now, corrected her when she used the word: 'Snowman.' It's actually "Snow person."
(My auto-corrector has not caught up on this political correction.)

Example: "I believe to my core that your husband does not agree with your justification, so ask my partner. He's more reliable because he is not a yes man for pussy." 

A worm, whose need for pussy prevents them from asserting their beliefs for fear of jeopardizing their chances of getting laid. 

Political Correctness would alter the word from Man to Person.

Try: "He's not a Yes Person For Pussy." 

Ah, it sounds better as: Yes Man For Pussy.

I'm living in the Ice Age.





Sunday, May 1, 2016

The Banana Peel Serial Killer

Since I received that cease and desist letter taped to my front door by my neighbor, I have had one very awkward encounter. I put his note on here under "The Banana Peel Incident." Shortly after that happened, I bought a new smartphone with text message ability. Recently my texting abilities were revoked.

I sound like a kid. I can't text anymore. It's a bad function for someone with no current job and too much time on her hands. I always feel like I should be drunk when I'm texting. It's just too easy to reach people. When a thought pops up, I grab my phone and share it. Not always clear and concise information. There is more then an electronic pong game going on in my head I'm sure. Insanity has nothing to do with intelligence. Intelligence makes insanity worth sharing for entertainment purposes only.

Before I got my text messaging revoked because of misuse, I wrote the author of the banana peel letter a lot of text messages. He was a good friend of mine for over a year and I was trying to reconnect with him. At the very least, I wanted to suppress any irrational fears on either of our parts so throwing the trash away would be hassle-free.

Long story short, I was taking out the trash a few days ago and I ran into him while he was standing next to the only community trash can while talking to a middle aged woman. They both ran like chickens without heads in separate directions and left me scratching my head.

The power of avoidance moves me to accomplish great things. I stopped drinking and started attending alcoholic's anonymous because this banana peel fearing neighbor (Ian) was an outspoken recruit and he chain smokes next to the only community trash compactor. Its annoying. I started piling up my trash to avoid him. Then I tried to get brave by mentally mapping out times he smoked and correlate when I could safely be out and about. I hid behind a parked car once to avoid him. He eventually ambushed me. Now I'm sober.

He is a lawyer by training, and he's also a modern day Rain Man. He can memorize numbers; he knew my whopping four digit apartment number for a good six months before taping a note to the door. I know he has some form of autism. I really liked the guy a lot. Which is why I kept texting him (with no reply) to please talk this out; at least for the sake of my trash pile-up depression. I warned him by text message just days before this happened; that one day I might run into him and it would be awkward.

I had a thirty pound bag of used cat litter in one hand and a little shopping bag with lint (for all I know, one neurotic tick of mine is picking up cigarette butts, and type of trash; I like the woods to be free of litter.) I saw him talking to a woman and I started to turn around. But I noticed he could see me, and I did not want him to feel like he could bully me and I had to be fearful. So my gait switched from causal stroller to angry power walk and I went for it! I walked right up to him and this woman with my trash in hand (smelly urine soaked cat litter...oh man...I'm already called the crazy cat woman by many) and I yelled, "This is what I mean by an awkward meeting!"

Now, I can only assume what he said to that woman when my ears were ringing as I touched the trash can as if it was my safe home base, but after the trash went in, I calmed myself down and slowly turned around to see them running helter skelter in separate directions. He is at least six feet tall. I'm a puny little nerd; the type of person that was the last to be picked in every grade school sports event. When by default I was put on someone's volley ball team, the ball would bounce right in front of me, or hit my head as I was looking at the clock on the wall to see how much more gym class I'd have to take. I peed my pants in gym class once because I could not stop laughing. My shorts never fit my hips and the elastic was not tight enough to keep them from falling down. I'm not a butt crack girl. I'm a pancake no-butt girl who gets hit in the side of the head by soccer-volley-kick all types of balls. That makes classmates double over in laughter that I analyze for the next four grades with a secret deep seeded resentment that one day comes out in a $200 therapy session as the root cause for why I did in fact inhale.

There goes my political career.

To find a person from the same culture who fears me is...awesome! But definitely a mistaken emotion that is completely wasted on someone like me. I am far more fearful of him. I don't have the nerve to tape a note on anyone's door accusing them of harboring a murderous intent via banana peel. That's fucking crazy.

And it is refreshing for me to label a duck a duck and a crazy note just that when the subject is about random banana peels causing intentional pain for my, 'entertainment and giggles'. No one in any of our mutual circles has laughed about this entire thing. They are actually trying to understand him. Not me. The man is afraid of a banana peel and a 120 pound woman whose arm has never bent a tiny amount when I had to attempt a chin-up in school. Throughout my entire painfully mandatory gym class career my arm has never moved a minuscule amount when forced to try for a chin-up. My arm has never slightly bent.

He is afraid of me?

The woman ran one way, he ran the opposite way and hid behind his truck. My heart sank when I saw that. I'm human and that hurt my feelings. I composed myself and aimed my walk intentionally at him to confront him and tell him to stop this craziness. But when I took that first step in his direction from the trash compactor to him, he took off with more running, and this time a fast sprint out of sight.

About an hour after that, I received a text message from someone whose apartment window faced the parking lot this took place in. The cryptic message implied that I am a bully. I have been throwing away my trash at 3am for the past two weeks. I got brave...and threw away the trash in broad daylight. I am in my isolated apartment (with insomnia and blankets tacked to the windows) so often lately, when I come out and people scatter like that, I am left to try to make sense out of nonsense. Which is why I am writing this down. Now it's down and its out of my mind. There is no sense to be made of it.

I should buy a large banana costume and wear it to take out the trash. Things could not get more bizarre then they already have over nothing.

That's all I have for today.




Saturday, April 30, 2016

My Morning Roar

(Family DO NOT READ. It will scar both of us for life.)

Today is my last day of a full month in Austin. Barton Skyway oozed into me taking a stand your ground approach to my decadent and lazy lifestyle. In the past I had issues with having no accountability, responsibilities, and places to be. Now that I am a convicted felon (how did I fuck a good thing up that bad?) I have to leave.

I don't want to do anything until I am ready to move. I want to buy everything pretty on-line, and lay in gold and silver jewelry like The Dragon Smog. I want to be both Gollum and Smog until my family comes and gets me and drags my pancake butt back to California, where people hate guns and I can see the ocean. The more expensive Holly Yashi jewelry becomes, the better it looks in my mailbox. La Perla Brazilian bikinis (an overshare?), this is war! I am drinking an entire two litter of Pepsi a day. Red Bulls, calling in refills of prescription feel good fast runs with twenty minutes of social interaction for whoever drives me to and from the nearest Wallgreens. I am careful not to use the word "I" too much; which is hard when having only twenty minutes out of isolation to get these medications.

Also, the reason I felt the need to write as soon as I got up this beautifully humid Texas morning, is because I was just put on new sleeping pills. New for Austin, not new for me. Soon I won't be able to think clearly. But my bedroom window has four ornate Asian blankets tacked over it as if I am a tweeker. A tweeker without the benefit of ever getting high. So throw that into the mix of having no responsibilities. I put Christmas lights over the blankets to distract myself from looking directly at this light blocking insomniac idea. I have not slept more then three hours a night for the past two weeks. My doctor remedied that, and sleep is a nice trade off for a curvy figure and fewer lucid thoughts.

One of my favorite things to do in this soon to be past tense directionless life: Getting dressed up to go out to the movies. I stop at Sephora and have false eyelashes put on. I love the Sephora 'Regal' false set. Going to the movies, false eyelashes in, and buying sugary drinks. My tin pillbox in my purse has one five hour pain pill. I take a ton of photos that stretch out as examples of my social life on Facebook for the next week. A horror movie tonight. My boyfriend and I get along best when we go out. I have to plan everything because he is a worker bee. I envy him.

Right now he is in love with my 23 year old, Tim Burton-ish, glowing- like there is uranium in her apartment- neighbor. I noticed my nemesis, a good-looking Lit grad with a questionable tattoo that I will never get to ask him about (tattooed a spine on his back? Is he saying he is spineless?) ; I noticed he likes her too. My boyfriend is doing funny things to grab her attention, like banging on the widow that is directly in eye-shot of her balcony for five minutes (instead of turning the door knob like usual.) I told my dad about this funny business with him lately, and his reponse just added to her charm. He said, "If he thinks he is lucky to get you, Wow! I mean he has no chance with her! She is gorgeous." I know. So I threw in the towel and fell for her too. If that is what women in Iran look like; if that is a big conspiracy or best kept secret, I am in! She's such a sweet woman. Her nails are flawless. And every time I see her I feel like a fat, balding, beer drinking American.

I told her she reminds me of Liv Tyler's character in the movie, "One Night At McCool's" and she said she would watch it. I immediately felt stupid for mentioning it because she's going to think I'm a trashy American. For example, my one night out in Austin with her to see a concert (she learned English from a prolific American band that she took me to see at The Moody Theater.) She has black hair, and a Russian-ish accent (I'm embarrassed to admit that I assumed she was from a Baltic Country.) Its embarrassing because she is highly cosmopolitan for such a young age. She knew how to work the GPS! The word 'lovely' fits her perfectly. Yet she is whip smart, always smiling, slender, and the first thing I notice is always a unique smile. She's got a cool name that literally translates in English to phonetically sound like: Hell Yeah! I have to put my arm and stomach into the pronunciation. I am not joking about her name. She is a perfect person. And she loves my cat, Lucian Price.

Tangent...Oh, I was explaining that when my hot Persian neighbor and I went out, people kept asking her if she was from Mexico. I was quite proud of myself for being able to name one actress that came from that region (and yes, I had to look up the correct spelling, and usually I don't care about spelling, grammar, incorrect punctuation, any of it. I'm a grammar anarchist until put on further notice.) Shohreh Aghdashloo. There you go. The movie The House of Sand and Fog. One of the most depressing movies I could imagine watching. She was lovely too.

Opium rich colors type beauty. Dark and polished. Blood red lips. Sex sounds vulgar when applied to her. She wears Mac Jacobs Daisy perfume scented lotion. Every time I see her smile she is on her balcony with a cigarette in a delicate hand. Pine tree sap from a tree that grows strong beside her balcony hits me every time I see her. She is an experience, not just a person.

If there is any meat or meaning in my thoughts lately, its in thoughts about my departure from Alcoholic's Anonymous. I wonder if being maladjusted is a clique fit too. Alcoholism. Drugs. Depression. Yes I love Morrissey (damn proud of it.) Everyone is afraid to be put into a box and I am no exception. Blanket terms for mental illness with symptoms like 'anger' or 'vindictiveness', are emotions that I imagine everyone feels. If I could pick and choose what symptoms I have and leave some out, I would have all of them. Anger is a healthy emotion at times. It is in our brains because of some evolutionary necessity.

When I was in jail I withdrew from Valium (Klonopin actually.)  One month in jail (28 days; like the movie...lots of movie references, I have movies on the mind.) I was too thin, stupid and shaky. The doctor assigned to me (was a compassionate man) said that jail will be twice as hard for me due to withdraw. He explained that fear is a healthy emotion that is necessary to adapt in a foreign environment. Benzos like Valium, Xanax, Klonopin: they suppress natural fear so one is not aware of their surroundings (that is why 28 days later employing Valium as a tool for Carl Lewis- athletic zombies was a good fit.)

Side Note: That red dress in the dark with the tulle combined with that music and the idea of relaxation was beautiful. The image of that red dress on cream skin, or the angular beauty of the catlike black actress; perfect effect. My new word is PERFECT.

Alcoholics Anonymous goes against everything a literature student should embrace. I believe I am missing the point because I am not happy. Some of those people are damn proud to yell their name with their affliction. Rose! Addict! Alcoholic! One time, one of my last times there, I 'shared' with the group that I have so much anger sometimes I do not know how to channel it. I was blowing off steam by sharing that as I don't often feel that way. Afterward, I messaged the chair of that particular group and apologized if my share was inappropriate. He said no. I can say whatever I want. But he does not have to agree with it and he does not agree with me. That just made me more angry.

I think of Alcoholics Anonymous the same way that I think of Christianity. Let me explain the similarity to me. Christianity is a beautiful religion if you actually follow it. Don't judge other people. You have to pull the plank out of your own eye. That sort of thing. I'm simplifying highly complex topics, I know. Oh well. The book, The Bible, is beautiful. But people get crazy and misuse its purpose, to me, is about love. Well, I feel the same way about The Big Book (our A.A. handbook.) It's well written. I read Bill's Story in jail and the phrase Lord of Light stuck with me. Maybe not 'Lord'. Something powerful associated with light. What I got out of a year and a half of alcoholic's anonymous meetings was that there are many beautiful recovering alcoholics who put their eyes to the ground and do daily personal evolution practices.

But there is a huge turn off effect on me when someone misuses that Big Book and quotes it to feel morally superior to me.  I saw that way too much in my end days being there. I saw hypocrisy, politics, people picking favorites and ignoring others. I saw people who used a group that is really about life and death and pervert it in such a disgusting way, I actually drank a bottle of wine last week. They call that drinking poison to hurt someone else. Or 'a case of mistaken identity' in who is the intended target. I had a falling out with one of the people that I really loved at one point. He was a father figure as I have collected them throughout my adult life. He began to text me quotes from A.A. that he used as a sword and a shield and a sponge to absorb any responsibly from moral wrongdoing. I thought he had independent thought. If he did it was clouded in blanket statement catchphrases. I asked him if he could think for himself and his answer was another A.A. catchphrase.

They fucking judge. When I drank the bottle of wine I told people. Every one of them said that they would keep my secret safe. I'm 37 years old! I am way past the legal age of buying alcohol.

Domination, moral or otherwise seems like the backbone to a lot of concepts. Sex sex sex. I've got so much pent up passion, my next orgasm is going to shatter every glass window.

To my core I will confess that it was painful to be treated that way by someone who once shared stories of his family with me, and his hopes for recovery in others, and his humor and past pain.

I can't even bring up a subject without it being shot down as a conversation because so many of these people have sticks up their asses (I have never used that expression before in my life!) I was outside with the chain smokers waiting for a ride one rainy day and I said to a long time member, "Did you know that Charlie Sheen was against A.A.?" I did not give it much thought but I had heard about his complaints against alcoholics anonymous earlier that week. Someone said, "Who cares!" You can't have a conversation without getting nervous that something is offense. That environment is a killjoy for spontaneous and creative expression. An alcoholic mind needs to keep limber with sober expression or anger builds and clouds and your are not worth your salt in a conversation.

A reoccurring fear of mine is that I have to always be "On" or else my entire personality is disposable.

The final thought that I shared with my A.A. home group (find the right group!) is that the woman who contributed to my felony record came to stay with me because her company with alcoholics rusted to the point of hanging out with a quality of person who committed suicide while drunk at a party. That's the origin of my felony story; taking in this particular woman. I was helping out a person I had not seen in fifteen years who freaked out because she saw her friend shoot himself in the head. When I shared that story, someone walked out of the room in anger. How dare I bring that up and taint the group collective with gutter stories?  Her stories were about firing her accountant after knowing her for fifteen years. I can't relate to that. I can not relate to someone shooting themselves in the head at a party either! That does not mean that either of those topics are invalid. I saw snobbery among people who were desperate to be understood. I walked away from it all; the good and the bad.

I carry pepper spray now, and the effect is an instant shot of self confidence. Maybe subconsciously I am scared of people. I don't know. My main man has an open carry permit for a gun. He always has a handgun with him and this fellow has an amble amount of charisma and self esteem. I get it now even though I loath guns. You have to have been pepper sprayed yourself to understand that pepper spray is all you need to be safe out there. I was pepper sprayed at point blank range by a rouge cop when I was a 23 year old honor student going to San Francisco State, and I can tell you that it will stop the strongest of the strong. You see only black and feel pain. I distinctly remember everything stopped and went black and my last thought before I let go was, "I am sorry." My purpose was helping a friend, and it stopped when I got pepper sprayed. I could hear her screaming and all my momentum let go in a snap; then instant darkness. Pepper spray is all that is needed to keep the society that I operate in safe for me.

I think I am mixing up the order of verbs, nouns and subjects in my writing. Sleep pill side effect? I would stand in a long line to turn in my personality for happiness and healthy sleep. As long as I get to keep my compassion then I still have my humanity.

My last thought for this blog in Austin is that I just want to leave as quickly as possible. l am leaving as quickly as possible. My future is in limbo now, and it can go either way. For now I have the power of the metaphorical middle finger by being in limbo and saying Sayonara suckers and mother fuckers.




Saturday, April 16, 2016

Lawsuits Are A Load Of Fun

Separate then freedom fighting lawyers in criminal defense, there is no better fun then prolonged lawsuits. I've stayed in Austin for two years for two separate court cases, the first being for money, revenge,and principle.

Christian Bale's loud and angry Ha! after he throws the chainsaw on the sweet blonde prostitute who almost escapes would be how I describe winning a lawsuit. That's how I knew he was such a great actor. That's anger/ disgust/ victory with no mercy. People have made that exact same declaration to me regarding money. For me it is never about money, it's about crushing their will and spitting in their face legally.

This blog is about my first lawsuit ever. It was against my employer. Her name was Carol. I never want anyone to meet any version of this woman. My first lawsuit felt like a David and Goliath challenge.

I have extreme anger issues, which I acknowledge. But I'm also one of the sweetest people you'd ever meet. When I worked as a cocktail waitress (hooker basically) I took the back room, The Twilight Room (which the employees called "The Tweeter Room") because no other waitress wanted to cater to the poor. I should write a separate blog on how opposite my personality is to that of a bona fide waitress, but for now let me say that I'm not competitive and treat people like human beings. The girls fought tooth and nail to go to the Poker Room, which guaranteed any waitress a minimum of twenty dollars for a single three to five minute sweep. I did not like fighting for that room because I'd rather post half nude photos of myself then get paid for sloppy drunk men to get my name wrong while making crude comments about my legs. Instead I stayed in the 'Tweeker Room' with people who do not tip. I'm a people person. They shared their speed with me for my long night shifts (this was years ago) and I'd use the money we all started our shifts with to buy birthday drinks for the customers. Money is not an issue with me, unless it is an issue to someone I don't like. Money is not worth being mean to others. Ever.

My employer's name was Carol, and she was a bitch. When I say bitch, I mean paranoid, dishonest, and generally horrible. I got that job from my next door neighbor, who was up at five in the morning walking anxiously outside when I asked her if she wanted to have a cup of coffee with me. My neighbor told me she had an abusive boss. She told me she hated her job even though it was working with a mentally handicapped adult and a five year old adopted girl. I thought she was being dramatic when she said her employee, a mother, was a viciously abusive woman.

My theory that my next door neighbor was a drama queen cemented itself in my mind when I met this abusive mother. Carol had a slim figure and soft spoken nature. Imagine Anne Coulter's slim body and mousy face on a shrinking violet. That is Carol at face value. She adopted a five year old girl from China, and bought this beautiful girl only ornate Asian themed outfits for school. I thought that was stupid. Her son was barely twenty one. Carol never told me what was wrong with her son but there was something severely off with his communication skills. Neither me nor my neighbor ever knew what was wrong with her son because Carol successfully hid this secret by shipping him around different boarding schools in multiple countries.

Carol had a bullshit cover story that a doctor made him 'that way' by giving him Seroquel. If I were not an insomniac, I would have believed her. When I asked her questions like why any doctor put him on that medication to begin with she would cloud the answer. I reserve the right to think he was a questionable character because of his mother's overbearing nature.

On my first day of work Carol insisted that I drove a car alone or rode my bike to her house. This was because she was paranoid about who knew where she lived. She lived in a different town and since I don't drive I took a bike ride there; over an hour one way.  By bike it was literally a little over an hour and twenty minutes. On my first day of work, her son let two wild horses out in the backyard, which was dangerous. She lived right next to a busy road. Her daughter was running around outside with these wild horses near her in a closed back yard. I have seen the end result of a horses back legs to someone's head. It paralyzed a neighbor I had growing up in Maryland. My first day of work sucked.

That day and every day I worked, I had to empty my pockets and count out every penny and hand Carol every receipt from the twenty dollars she gave me that was never enough to treat her two children to lunch, put gas in her car, drive one to school and the other to college (yes, he was enrolled in college, but with closer inspection it was a subject held in the college but not affiliated with the college; yes I said that right.) By the end of the day, I was paying to work for her. I'll get to that later. My first day was bizarre.

After putting the girl on my shoulders while completing the most ridiculously long list of things to do, while also bringing in those horses that day, and counting out the money I spent on their lunches back to Carol, I grabbed my bike and headed home. I was about ten minutes from my front door when Carol called my cell with bad news. I left my house keys at her house. My heart dropped, because I was exhausted and dehydrated. I automatically checked my pockets thinking they would be empty, when out pops my house key on my custom made key chain, my last name framed with it's Irish crest. I told her that they were not my keys thank goodness! What followed was the first sign that something was off with my new employer. Her tone changed quickly from sinister to accusing; Carol asked me why I would say that they were not my keys. (Because I have my keys in my hand.) Her tone got more stern and more angry when she asked me whose pink key chain would be at her house. I don't know what she was accusing me of, but after a good five minutes of telling her, then explaining to her, then pleading with her not to cause me to go back there, her son finally piped up and said that they were his keys. She did not apologize, and quickly hung up after only saying, "Oh."

When someone acts in a way that seems off like that; and it feels like a warning, I never pay attention. I live in a world of honest people. I've taken basic psychology. I know about mental illness. What Carol had was a viciousness that she hid well, but slowly, when she stopped caring what others thought, the mask slipped off to show a mean spirited horrible bitch of a person.

Example: This was in an economically deprived town. So having a job was very important to people who were not surviving on financial aid like I was then. Carol put out an ad for a house cleaner, and offered them ten dollars and hour. She hired an elderly woman, and gave her the task of deep cleaning her bathroom. This woman was close to seventy years old. Carol told me she got on her knees and scrubbed the tiles. She cleaned the toilet. She bleached and disinfected the entire bathroom. It took her three hours. Carol never intended to have whoever answered that ad actually work for her, and she knew very well that the first task she gave to her 'new employee' would be one that was thoroughly done. She paid the woman thirty dollars in cash and told her she did not need her anymore. Then she laughed to me that she really worked for that thirty dollars. Carol was an evil bitch.

She never gave me enough money to pay for the food she wanted her children to eat, so I paid for their meals with the money generated from working there. Carol told me that she wanted her son to eat the most satisfying burgers because she believed any happiness in his life, no matter how small, was important. So I started taking him to what I was told (as a life long vegetarian) was the best burger spot in town. I paid for his lunch. When her daughter wanted to go shopping for toys, I bought her the toys with my own money. Carol was very aware that I was doing this because I was never allowed to leave the house without explaining how the day was spent and counting back her money, showing her what I bought her to make sure it was mother-approved, and then I was off on my long bike ride back home. About half of my paycheck went to buying her children gifts and good food. I loved her five year old daughter, and I liked her son.

When she saw that her children wanted me around she developed what she called a, "Free Friends Friday" which was to show her children that I was not just there for a paycheck. I worked for free every Friday, for months. Then I started working on the weekends for free. I worked often, and rode my bike whenever she changed the schedule at the end of many impulsive phone calls. I was always there when she wanted me there, and I was very good to her children. Working long hours like I was, it was only a matter of time before my body gave out from the long bike rides to and from her home.

There were a few days she asked me to come over for free, then changed her mind after I got there.

One day I was drinking a cup of coffee at a nice cafe directly before riding the extra mile to work. I stood up and fell down. I woke up with my head in between a set of grand mother breasts. I had fainted from exhaustion which has never happened before or since. Someone called 911 and the paramedics were asking me what day of the week it was. Who was our President? Then Carol came by because her number was the first one on my cell phone.

By this point my relationship with her was so fucked up, I was profusely apologizing for fainting. Her son had rode my bike from the coffee shop to her home. Carol drove me home. Nothing was said except from me, and only that I was sorry. She dropped me off, and I did not know that I would not see her for another half a year, and only once more.

Then next day I received an e-mail from Carol saying that I was fired (for fainting) because she believed I was hiding a history of seizures due to epilepsy. What a bizarre claim. A false claim. I did not contest her decision.

Side Note: I've had more then one seizure in my life, all stemming from breaking my butt. This happened in an attic in my mid-twenties. The story is funny to me: I kept telling friends who visited that someone could break their neck on the ladder to the attic. I said it often. Well that someone was me, and it was after I put on cashmere foot glove socks and slipped on the first rung after eating a bunch of xanax. Karma? I launched into the air and landed about seven feet below...on the corner of a metal space heater. Shattered my tailbone. To this day my butt hurts when I sit down for too long. Maybe I can use that as a reason I need a prescription of morphine? The next time I fall it won't hurt so bad. Also, I fell while skating at the lamest skating rink and had a bonda fide acid flashback. But I definitely do not have epilepsy.

I worked two days before I fainted and Carol refused to pay me for those two days. So my first lawsuit was for exactly $43.70.

That's a hell of a lot of foreplay to get to the part about suing bad people. Yes, I get cynical often and write blogs about "My Jesus Christ Heart", but in reality I am actually a very compassionate person. Nice people often get exploited, but I have never been exploited to this degree before. I paid to work for a woman whose children I loved. I often took them to state parks, bought them ice cream, had them feed ducks, and cleaned every inch of the house. I cleaned her home with her daughter on my shoulders because the list of chores in the time frame I had to complete them was absurd. The problem with suing Carol was that she had my time card, and I doubt she would bring that with her to the court date.

This is where I spell out how bad of a person Carol was to her employees. Yes, she exploited me, and my next door neighbor, and an elderly woman before me regarding work. I only asked for her to pay me $43.70. If I calculated all of the free days I worked, or money I spent from my job as her employee or my college financial aid I'd have hundreds of dollars owed to me. I only asked for the two days that I worked for her. I'm an honorable person. She responded by not responding to my one phone call and one e-mail a day for two weeks stating that I want my $43.70. I wrote the California labor board and turned in all of my work information. My work routine. My pay. What days I worked to earn that money.

Carol responded by writing the labor board with three ugly lies. The first lie was that I stole money from her home. Lie number two was that I had crashed her car that I used to drive her children to school, and for games. Her third accusation was that she paid me every penny she owed me to date even though I was working under the table for her.

The labor board noticed the comment that I worked under the table for her and wrote her and me a letter stating that a contract is valid regardless of the circumstances of employment and for me to counter her accusations within the next week. So it began for a good six months that Carol would lie about some new claim and I had to go to the public library to print out my typed response then send that response as a certified letter to the California labor board. If I waited longer then a few days, they would have thrown my case out. It was so easy for her to lie and so stressful for me to come up with proof that it was a lie.

Finally a date was set for the court to deal with the issue of my former employer, the mega-bitch Carol, (Goliath) to stand before a judge. The labor board turned that $43.70 into $1,600. I can only assume that small amount of money was calculated on a scale of my complaint versus the ordeal of getting her to pay me. I would love to believe that whoever read her slanderous letters versus my normal letters saw past her bullshit and set the price so high because you can not treat people like that and get away with it by law.

Not relevant side note: My older brother sews his own clothes because he does not want to support sweatshops. He's a first world worrier. He can afford to worry about who is being exploited and try to make a small difference. That's his deal. All of my siblings are great people.

How did my first lawsuit end? Not well. I was terrified to be in a room with Carol and I had very little support on my side. I had one gas station attendant to back up my claim that I filled up her gas tank the week I worked for her with no pay. He was telling the truth, but his many tattoos, missing teeth and drugged out appearance did not go in my favor. I told him that she will do everything she can to intimate me, so regardless of what she says to me, let me go before the judge!

Side Note: I forgot the biggest complaint. Carol said that she believed I had epilepsy (to the labor board, who did not care) and that I was a paranoid schizophrenic. It was a low blow because I had confided in her that my aunt was (and is) a paranoid schizophrenic because I was talking to her about medications her son had taken and what I knew about those medications.

The freakin judge was not prepared. She told both of us waiting in this tiny room that she was running only five minutes late. In those 5 minutes,  I looked Carol in the eye and spoke, which was my downfall.
-Why did you tell the labor board that I stole money from you?
-Why did you say I crashed your car?
-Why are you doing this to me?

Her response was no response. Instead she reached into her over sized purse and pulled out a two inch stack of freshly printed papers. She said that a reference of mine (a friend of mine who became a child psychologist) was stalking her online and she had the paperwork to prove it. I was baffled by the claim, which was the desired effect. If I had looked at the paperwork I would have instantly seen that it was a ploy. There was nothing there. The friend (child psychologist) e-mailed Carol a reference for me. Later that friend had gotten a computer virus that sent a discount for a certain brand of shoes to everyone she had ever e-mailed (including me, by the way.) I am good with panic. I should be by now. I realized there was nothing I could say to her, so I stopped talking. Then it came out; Carol's trump card: Please don't do this to me. I have kids! Think of my kids!

That's all she had to say and six months worth of work to get my $43.70 turned into $1,600 was ruined. I told her to pay me what she owed me and I'd walk away. Her response was, "This is all over $43.70!" What was interesting about that response was that I never told her how much she owed me. I told the labor board. In my e-mails I simply said I worked Monday and Tuesday. Carol had the time card. She knew to the penny how much money she owed me. I asked her to double $43.70, to pay for the certified letters I had to send to the labor board to debunk her lies about my claim. She became indignant and flatly refused. I relaxed and said, "Well, I'll see you in there." She yielded at that and took out her check book.

Instead of $1,600, she paid twice the amount she owed me, which did not even cover all the certified letters cost. When the judge came out of her room to call us in, Carol happily said that we were settling out of court. The judge said, "Good. Because one of you would have left very unhappy."

On principal alone, I won this battle. I took a bully to court. Someone who exploited elderly women eager to have full time work. Someone who lied about owing chump change to skinny little nerds who love children. The cruel behavior that my next door neighbor went through was not completely in vain. The bully went to court and she was scared.

I wish I could say that it was enough.

A year later I wrote Carol for the first and last time since the court case, telling her I was no longer satisfied with the merger pay out because of her bullying, manipulative and dishonest behavior to avoid the court room and ultimately, accountability. Five minutes after I sent that e-mail, my phone rang. It was her. I did not answer the phone and Carol left no message.

That was my first lawsuit. Since then I realize that there are adult channels for cruel behavior. As my Chinese stepmother said to my father recently over a person taking them to court: American laws are based on fairness. Ironically before she answered the question of what is the foundation of American laws, my father gave an impassioned speech that did not come close to the word 'fairness.'

Years later control freaks who seek ninja type justice just hire a damn good lawyer and know the truth will bring some sort of accountability for cruel adult behavior.

An Afterthought:
My dad was late in coming to support me that day in the court waiting room. Now he is up against a similar lawsuit as the defendant. Empathy is a beautiful thing. My dad was not supportive at all about taking Carol to court. American justice. I only know what I was taught myself, and what I learn through my own experience. I have to forgive my dad for teaching me jackshit.