Monday, September 28, 2015


"I'm sorry... but I feel you REALLY need a BIG hug."-- Pacemaker.

So, last night I was REALLY losing my shit. I'm talking raging so hard, I was ready to hop in my vehicle and drive up to the bay with my vandalized painting, finding my godson, and finishing the destruction of my painting by smashing his face through it.

The disillusionment I have with this kid is unparalleled. I have NEVER been so disappointed and disgusted by a single person in my life... ever... like... maybe when that whole thing with my grandpa happened that ruined my childhood... but even then, I was seven, and the negative feelings only built up a little later in life-- when I was a bit older to really analyze the situation for the fucked up violation that it really was.
This time, it's was the most abrupt removal of the veil... fucking shit blinded me.

I decided to go to bed on it-- to chill the fuck out before I blamed anyone and potentially ruin our relationship.
I interrogated everyone who entered my sister's room in the last six months.
Everyone was removed from the line of suspects, everyone BUT my godson.

I discussed the subject with Pacemaker, and that's when she apologized for the shitty situation I'm encountering.
"I can't begin to imagine how this must all be for you. I know you really trusted this kid... and have done so much for him because you wanted his life to be better. It's just... I'm really sorry for what you must be feeling right now. What a horrible transgression. I know how personal your paintings are..." she said.
I didn't cry. I haven't cried. I'm so... shocked... and confused... I don't find a point in crying, as angry and upset as I may be. The confusion is so strong, it only gets me to laugh.
What the fuck was this kid thinking? HOW did he do it? WHY did he do it? WHEN did he do it? What the fuck? What. The. Fuck?

And I'm still wondering what the hell happened. What goes through the mind of someone who intentionally wrecks the work of someone else? How do they justify that shit?

... Am I really THAT bad of a person who deserves this sort of shit? Because FUCK! it is fucking astounding how much bad, hurtful shit is done to me intentionally... it DOES get me to wonder if I'm really a shitty person and just don't know it... and I need this sort of shit to happen to me so that I can open my eyes.

I. Don't. Know.
I don't fucking know.

Sunday, September 27, 2015

Too much fuckery

You know, this totally ruins the vibe I had going on here. I have two posts already written up, but not published because I was looking to edit them.
However, life happens, and right now, I'm REALLY FUCKING PISSED-- so FUCK vibes, I'm posting this shit instead.

I have been very creative lately-- writing, reading, painting, shit, I've even danced a lot.
The painting streak I've taken full advantage of, because I know it's pretty damn fleeting.
After finishing up two different projects, I decided I'd go back to some old unfinished work. This is where I went to my sister's uninhabited room, and found this:

No one had been in that room but ONE person-- my godson.

That little motherfucker did this, and didn't tell me about it. I don't even jnow HOW this happened... what the fuck punctured this?

You know... It's one thing to verbally assault me and talk all the mad fucking shit you want... But to go after my work? That shit is so fucking personal... Especially since I hardly ever show it to anyone.
It could have been an accident... And I WOULD forgive an accident... But this? Come on! What in the fucking hell?!

I wasn't going to mention the drama I have with this kid, out of respect for our good years... But this is crossing the line. This really fucking tramples all over the line of respect for me.

I fucking hate who this kid has become.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

Chill blue

I've been back for a few days now, however, as has become my motherfucking cutsom for the last five years, I returned with a horrible case of... being old.

Another Mexico trip, another parasitic intestinal infection. Damn infection has left me weak, trembly, lightheaded, and unable to maintain a healthy appetite.
At least I didn't puke on the ride here this time around.

No, rather than spend my few days in the motherland confined to the bathroom evacuating my gut in some form, I spent my days READING (imagine that shit!), writing, listening to music, walking... and crying. Good lord, did I cry. I cried like I would back in the good ol' days... like the good ol' confused, emotionally abused teenager I was 15 years ago.

Yeah, I have different versions of crying... there are different vibes to it all.
For the most part, I would say my crying sessions in my teen years, while heavy and heartbreaking, still carried this silver lining to them... a sense of hope. Something in the back of my mind would always calm me down... give me the illusion that "YO! You still have like... so MANY fucking years to fix this shit! It's going to get better! Just you watch!" I also had Tyson to calm me down during that painful time in my life... that little cow was magical.
And so... if I could assign those crying scenes a color, it'd be pastel pink.
My crying sessions in my 20's were brutal. There was intense desperation in them... there was intense, uncontrollable vomiting... so much fucking stress. SO MUCH disillusionment. So much failure. Then when the decade started coming to an end, it all went black... it all fucking died... especially once Tyson died. I felt nothing. Hopes imploded. Dreams disappeared. "WHY DID I STAY?!" type desperation. FUCK. THAT. SHIT.
Yeah... the crying meltdowns in my twenties... I wouldn't repeat those for all the fucking money in the world. Black... the darkest fucking black is what I'd assign those crying sessions. Jesus. I'm uncomfortable just recalling it.

ANYWAY, this time around, my crying was... it had almost the same feel as they did in my teens... shit, the crying was milder. There was never any sobbing, or shaking... or sound, really. I would be sitting back, usually laying face up, thinking or listening to music... and tears would begin to roll down the sides of my face. Quiet little tears. Actually, I did sigh one time.-- the only time I sat outside in my backyard where Tyson would sit beside me as I'd cry bitterly at night. I looked up at the stars-- bright and glorious as they always are in Hometown-- and sighed at the sight... then tears quietly began to run when I looked over at the empty spot Tyson would have been occupying if he were still alive. ("I'm still alone, Tyson... but unlike all the times before... there's no desperation, but instead quiet resignation that no, it will NOT get better... so I no longer feel that sense of urgency for it to 'get better'... it's a peaceful sort of quitting... of giving up. Makes it so much easier to live... to just accept")
What color would I paint these crying scenes that I now begin at 30? I'm still uncertain about the hue... but I'm leaning towards a blue. It's not dark in the sense that I feel lost and frustrated... angry and agitated... but it's also not lined brightly with hope for a positive change. It's quiet resignation that it doesn't get better... it just boils over and pacifies for a while. It's sadness... not desperately begging for an end, but calmly waiting for it. It's watching those around me experiencing happiness, and feeling genuinely happy for them, while simultaneously NOT angrily demanding why the fuck I am refused this same, seemingly common privilege... just accepting that I won't. It's chill sadness... chill blue sadness.
Nice change I welcome... I was getting tired of screaming into my pillows, anyway.