Yesterday the results came back on my father's DNA tests:
family_finder_population.pdf
I wonder if that will open. No, it won't.
If not, I'll like to point out to the few stalkers in my life, that you should read my ethnicity (before you kill me) because I am 7% Mayan (on my father's side). So believing that we were Cherokee for how ever long my family did- generations- was incorrect. And killing me would be a lot like wipping out an endangered species. There should be a law against that. On top of murder. And the food in jail is supposedly not nutritious, so you'll never be 100% to top Don Quijote's jailed author:Cervantes', which I'm sure you'd want to do with all that time on your hands in jail.
No, I can't control who reads these blogs, and I've covered everything from fascism, to DC comics verus Marvel, to the importance of happiness, a good stylist, Alrerd Hitchock's lovely chin, Sergei Rachmaninoff, extreme grief, my three year engagement, my rubber chicken conspiracy theory, and sometimes a random personal blog (like this, completely aimless) comes in.
But I did not cover my Kawasaki Ninja 250. The 250 stands for CC's, which does not alway correlate to speed. Since I was introduced to motorcycles, I never wanted to ride on the back. My discovery to motorcycles happened at 20, although I've had dirt bikes (and know second gear well!) since my early teens. At 20, a Born Again named Mike lived across from my roommate and me. In exchange for going to Church on Sunday (and Churches of that nature in Redding, California are insane) we (roommate included) got to travel California's back roads.
I was assigned Kevin, and no one with the name Kevin is a bad ass. Still, I was nervous around him until getting on the back of his bike, with the rebel yell: Let's go to where the wildflowers are boys! Kevin would often take the Jesus stance with his arms (why intentionally assume a crucifixion pose when happy?) and yell, "Thank You Jesus! Praise Your Name!" He was sweet, and I did get along with him for a long time. My many moves made us lose touch.
Back to my Ninja 250. I'm going to buy one, probably used, just to travel the 1 in California, and the 101 before that. Although I'm selling my puny bike now, I'm keeping my brain bucket. In Austin, I saw a man with a long rope attached to his right hand's throttle, and a big spike on the end. My friend pointed out that one swipe of that rope, which is designed to gain momentum, and a windshield would crack right open. They are given to paramedics. Not bikers.
At the moment, I'm stalling completely in doing anything productive. I don't think I'll be able to keep these personal blogs after I leave this complex, because my lease is almost up.
Here is a wonderful story about when I lived in Arcata, and an unsung hero came into my life. At 26 I overdosed. This was the day after I did the graduation walk, and I was frazzled that a intimidating man had showed up, unanounced. Vodka and being as unattractive as possible solve these problems. After he left, I know I asked for some heroin. I've never hid that I had a problem with drugs when I was 26 years old. That was close to a decade ago
Side Note: I spent a year in Nebraska drinking Redbull, researching and detoxing. During the end of my stay, a friend from college in Arcata met me in Disney Land and asked me to move in with him. I have not touched hard drugs since I left Arcata the first time. Just Ambien, which is doctor prescribed.
Back to my wake up call. I woke up in an ambulance to the words, "We just saved your life." I thanked them with a "Fuck you!" and passed out until much later in the hospital. I knew what was coming. I was in trouble. My younger brother later told me he came back into my bedroom on a whim to find me blue and not breathing. My roommate and a random friend I would not even know to thank if I saw him helped with rescue breaths until the paramedics came and Pulp Fictioned me. After giving me two of the wrong adrenaline shots, someone there finally said that I may have opiates in my system. I don't remember any of this, and I never found out how long I was out to know how many brain cells are gone. Let's blame this incident on my spelling these days.
After the nurse gave me a speech on how lucky I was, and how many calls my brother had made to check on me, a letter was given to me. I still have it. A break-up note. The timing was ugly. I understand why, but tact would be to wait until I'm out of these IV's at least.
That is the premise of this story. Later I was in a bad fire, which destroyed everything important to me. My Spanish book was half gone, and I used duck tape to bind it. So many classmates asked if I had gotten frustrated and thrown the book in a fire place. NO. The Spanish partner behind me was one such person. I explained the fire to him.
Later in the semester I asked for a ride home. During the ride, I was asked some strange questions about drugs. Drugs lead to STD's, AID's, Hep-C. Did I have any? I thought that was strange to ask me (and for the record, NO. None of those, no criminal record, nothing. I almost died though.) The guy blurted out, "You don't remember me do you?" He was one of the paramedics who saved my life.
He did not drive me home either. He took me shopping, telling me to get anything I wanted, under the condition that I never told a soul that he had anything to do with my new clothes. So half my new waredrobe is from him. And that's the story. He was just a kind person. No motives. Nothing. He saved my life and helped me after that fire. So I gave up being cynical.
That's enough for the day. This photo (below) was taken the day of the fire. That lamp is the cause. The comforter on me was one week old organic silk, costing nearly one grand.
The fire in a nut shell: It was 9:30pm. I thought my ex-fiancee's duck tape had fixed the sparking. I'm incredible intuitive. Never in my life have I said: [fill in the blank] could cause a fire. I told two adults this. My ex used duck tape, not electrical tape. The lamp was from an head shop, which I'd been eye-ing for over a year. So this freak accident was inevitable to happen when I initially moved in, or not at all. The move jostled the lamp, which was very old to begin with.
I plugged the lamp in, was annoyed that someone seemed to be going nuts with the fire place way down the hall (smoke was hitting the bathroom celing), walked out of the bathroom and saw this massively engulfing image of fire. A wall of heat and flame. Two minutes was all it took. The fire is public record, and for five dollars, you can know exactly what I told you. I'll add that the fire department estimated that I lost $9,000 to $10,000 dollars in belongings, from most of my clothes to family heirlooms, to money burned in half. The next day two truck loads of clothes, pictures, purses, bedding, etc where dumped into the local junk yard. I dressed my best and took photos, because I knew I would beat this in time.
Another unsung hero was a woman who got me out of the house and immediately called 911. Notice the rubber chicken? That was at the point of origin, and if there is a God, he has a warped sense of humor. Rubber chickens are fireproof. No one was hurt. Even after the fire, acquaintances bought or brought me clothing, bedding, even money. The Red Cross was awesome. That fire could never have been forseen. I don't believe in religion, but guidance. If you look for guidance, and count your good luck, life is a word that beautiful does not cover.
