Left behind

There was a time I had a group of people I hung out with. That time I wasn't sober. I enjoyed their company, they enjoyed mine. I suppose I needed them at the time and I wondered if they needed me or were they just growing. They were cool, drank a bit themselves, mostly smoked pot, but I didn't do that shit. Too much hit is too much for me. I'm not that crazy. Not that pot smokers are crazy, but we all have our own poison or vices or whatever you want to call it. Nowadays these guys have kids and families and I sit at the bar, but it's just me, and eventually I don't sit there anymore because if you want to sit there you gotta drink and I don't.

I do sometimes, but less. Now I'm trying to work out more, if you can believe that, maybe even eat healthier but you can't escape addiction or maybe I'm just using that to escape. Reality is never reality. I wish it was. I wish there was an actual reality (there is, but I'll get into that later), but everything is so false. The way people speak, the way they act, it's false. It's not who they are. Who they are is when you leap into their bedroom and find out they're wearing panties when they should be wearing briefs or vice versa. Or maybe they have a line of cocaine stashed under the bed and you're interrupting their midnight snack. It's the coke that makes them who they are, makes them the great players of the world, but really they're cokeheads. Makes me wonder if I have to be cokehead in order to be a great player in the world.

There is an actual reality like I was saying and that reality is Jesus. Oh no, here is comes, you think to yourself. He's going to go on preaching now and we didn't come here to listen to that shit you're probably thinking. I'll say this. When I went that direction, things got better for me. Here's the kicker though. The person that led me in that direction, Corrie, I haven't talked to her in maybe a year? I miss her. She used to visit me every now and again, but she's been busy. It's more than that though. She's grown. Maybe she's outgrown me? That's what I think. It's not her fault, it's just the way things are and that saddens me because I think I really need her to help me in this world because it feels like its falling apart and yet, she was the person who led me to the door. That was her job I guess. I went through the door and now I have a new teacher named Jesus.

It's not that I think Jesus is a hack. I think he's great and holding on to him and following him is probably the smartest thing I've done in a long time. What's sad is there are some who believe in him who are hacks or are hypocritical. These guys hide behind the phrase "we are all sinners." Yes, dipshit, we are sinners but does that mean you can sin 24/6. 7th day you go to church. I mean these guys tell you how you need to pick up your life and be with Jesus but here they are trashing their lives away. I'm speaking in general I know. Well, let's get specific then? I'm thinking of Corrie. Well, Corrie is an alcoholic, but doesn't know it yet. I assume she's getting better. She's also filled with problems. I mean she gets through it with her faith and she doesn't judge me. No, scratch that. She does judge me. Because I don't go to church on Sunday. Here's the kicker: neither does she. Well, she does, but not every Sunday. We're not all perfect though, but we're trying to be is the phrase that comes to mind. Corrie's not that bad though. She doesn't rag on me like some other people would. I just haven't seen her in a long time.

Funny, actually I can't think of anyone I know who has that hypocritical Christian flavor. I mean I've met people who are like that. But, personally, I don't know anyone who is really like that, thankfully.

Corrie was my light though. When things were down, I could always go to her for a pick me up and now I can't. Makes me think I have to let her go since she has her own life. Have to try and continue without her because I have God now. It's hard especially when God is not in physical form, but that's the whole point. If he was in physical form you wouldn't be able to touch him like you can now.

I had a friend I had known for 14 years. I haven't heard from her since Christmas. I sent her a card though for Christmas. Not her birthday. I remembered her birthday, but a week before and I had too many things going on to get a birthday card mailed to her. Haven't given up though. Maybe this Christmas I'll send a card. No email from her which is alright seeing as how my previous email account is deleted or something happened to it. That's the only one she knew. I don't remember what email she used because we both started talking on this gaming site that she no longer plays on. I miss her. She was part of my stability. It was like I could do all this other stuff, but then when I went on there, I'd see her and things seemed right again, just normal. Now I feel like I'm in a strange city with no friends.

MJ? MJ is still around. I'm scared though at how long she'll be around. She hasn't been online a lot lately, but that's because it's summer or close to summer and she's been going outside. Ordinarily I wouldn't worry so much, but added with Corrie and my other friends, it scares me a bit. I mean MJ is still in email reach and I can always call her if I needed to. But T, the one I've known for 14 years, I thought she'd be in my life forever but I haven't heard from her in forever. Maybe it's the whole when we see each other again, it'll be like we haven't been apart for a while, you know catching up where you left off kind of thing?

There was this group I used to hang out with online a couple of years ago, maybe? I've stepped away from them. Partly because of all the online drama that happens. I miss them though, but I can't go back there.

So this makes me left behind, alone. The co-workers I bonded with years ago, after the pot one's grew, they've grown and moved away. I still talk to the pot ones from time to time, but they're less druggies and more responsible, more family-oriented. They have kids, if you can believe that. Well, you probably do, but I still can't. I picture them as those 20 year old partiers. Fuck, they're like 30 now. Or the oldest is 30. We're all getting old and they've all grown up. Grown up without me and here I am with the only friend I've got at the moment. My writing. It's the only thing that's been constant to me throughout my entire life. Maybe the only friend I can count on?

I know that's not true. I know there are still friends in my world, starting with MJ, but I miss my old friends. I miss T, I miss Corrie, I miss . . . goodness, those online people. I miss the gamers on that gaming site I used to be on.

I miss some of my old writer friends which I've met 5 years ago maybe. A few of them have gone their own way. Presently more are going their own way. Moving out of the city or just becoming more busy with real life. The older you get, the more busier with real life you get. I get that.

And even though my old friends pass away, not as in the dying sense, but just drifting off, I have other old friends wanting to sneak back in my life. Let me rephrase that, old people wanting to sneak back into my life. People I've known from my school years who never gave me the time of day then, but now want to hang out with me because they have no one else. They ring me up on facebook and say hello, and I want to say fuck off because they never talked to me then, so why talked to me now. There's this rich bitch that used to know us back before she was bitten by the rich bug. Seen her a few years ago with her mom. They both weren't pleased I was working at a restaurant with no future ahead of me. Didn't mention I wrote stories. They believed what they wanted to believe. A few months ago, they see me again, and they were happy to see me, impressed by my ability to work hard and enjoy what I do. They want to be my friend, but I don't want to be theirs. Maybe that makes me too proud?

It annoys me how people want to know me when they see me. Not because they want to hang out with me, but out of pity because it looks like I'm alone. They think I write because I have nothing else to do. I write because I'd rather not do anything else. I love to write.

My dad told me last week actually about the constant of family. How you can always depend on family throughout the years. How friends come and go, but family will always be there. I'm beginning to think that now. Though my idea of family is limited. Mother, Father, siblings. That's about it. Cousins are crazy hacks. Uncles are either crazy drunks or just dead. Not dead like my nice uncle, but dead in spirit.

Yeah, I can't wait to go to Heaven. I'll get to hang out with a lot of people. Oddly enough, some of them will be some of these idiots I spoke about in this entry.

The Police?

I just finished writing a novel. The novel is about this abuser that's abusing his wife. Anyway, the story is from his point of view, and he's trying to explain why he's innocent. It's a touchy subject. Also it's a personal one for me, so I really have to super edit the novel. I definitely want to get this one out there. I'm going to send it to MJ. She likes reading everything I write, so that's one reason to send it. The other is she can let me know how it is. A thumbs up or thumbs down kind of thing. It's always a thumbs up. Thumbs up means I got something; thumbs down means burn it.

I'm feeling better than the last entry. I feel like I haven't written in ages, but it's only been two weeks. I feel better, though naturally I have something on my mind. Lately I've been working out a bit, trying to myself into shape. Not to be some sort of athlete, but to be something presentable, something alive. I'm mostly dead right now. This working out thing is working out and I enjoy it. It's tough work though. Especially when I have to wage-slave in the mornings.

What good are the police? Why do they exist? The police provide order for our society, but when you want a police car, they're not there; and when you don't want the police, they're there. They patrol because it's cool and makes them look good, but they don't see anything. People are too smart for them. They patrol when they feel like it and when they get a lucky break, some kid who's jaywalked or something, they lean on that person like there's no tomorrow. They book the hell out of them, wave their gun at the kid, trying to impress nobody that's really there, because they really have nothing better to do. While they're booking the kid, some other person has made off with a kid, or killed someone or beaten a wife black and blue, and the police go to these calls and stand there as if dumbfounded, take information that maybe gets used. They have a job to do. Counseling is for counselors, not the police. I don't even think they're detectives. Not these street guys. All these street guys do is patrol the streets and try and make the police look good.

There was a report recently in the paper about some guy who got mugged. He's a crime writer for the paper. He gets mugged and sure, a police cruiser comes by once the guy calls them. The police luckily caught the guys. Where were the police when the crime writer was getting mugged? That's my question. They weren't there. They claim to patrol, but they don't. Who's fault is it really? Is it the smug police officer, wearing the fancy badge, and lamely walking the streets because he got a new outfit? Nowadays we have to do our own patrolling, our own defensive measures. It's illegal to carry a concealed weapon, but what do you do when someone draws a weapon on you? You can't defend yourself. Some can. Others can't.

The police are after the fact. They get there after. After the event has happened, not before and not during. A crime has just been committed, you have to call the police to make a report. This is to prevent the crime from ever happening again. That's nice. Someone else won't get hurt because the police have the information to nab the perp. But what are you going to about your scraped off face? The police just nod and tell you to get looked at a hospital. You made the report and it's just a matter of time that they'll catch the perp.

The police tire me. I don't think it's respect I have for them, but fear. I wonder if many of us are like that. An officer stops us and our first question is "Problem, Officer?" which translates to "Please don't arrest the fuck out of me, please!!" Behind their polite words, firm stance, is a gun ready to shoot you down. They don't need their gun to shoot you down, they just need their uniform and their arrogance and their bravado.

All they do is walk the streets. I could do the same thing too, except in my case, I would have a gun and I would use it. Too many scum getting away with shit and all the police can do is just nod and say "Better get to the hospital and have that checked out."

There are ways to defend yourself. Most of us don't know how to do that. And I'm not talking Martial Arts, I'm talking street smarts. Not walking into a dark alley, stuff like that. We're relegated to defending ourselves. Sure, they have defence classes. So then if we defend ourselves, what do we need the police for?

Sick

There's good news and bad news about being sick. The good news is you can't do anything else except stay home, drink fluids, eat soup and sleep. The bad news is you can't do anything else. Here's the bad news for me, I can't do either. It's my day off, so this is when I can do that stuff. Drink juice, eat soup, eat toast, look at the screen. Figured I'd come and write in here. It's a gloomy, rainy day outside, one I love. I haven't been outside yet today for obvious reasons. I need to buy more food. I have enough to last for maybe a week? Did another meatloaf, so that'll last me. What I need is more soup, more medication. I have a bit more nyquil left, probably only two days worth, but I need more.

When you're sick, that's when it's all shot to hell. That's when you need food and drink. I can survive 8 hours with just coffee and water I discovered. Foolish to actually try it, don't ask why I did, but still foolish. But when you're sick, there's no way you can do that crap. You have to take care of yourself because if you don't, you don't get better. And if you don't get better, you get worse. There's things to be done, but it's hard to do when you're laid up in bed. Feels like just the time I'm sick is when everything happens. Family calls, friends want me to come out. I'd love to come out and play, but I can't. Need to stay here and get well. My family...well, mother's day is coming up, so you know where I'm headed. Have to get better before then so I can spend time with the family. Never seems to be time for just me. If there is time for me, I'm recovering from all the time not spent with just me. Spending the time trying to get better. Kind of funny too when I have someone asking me "how was your day off?" How about you fuck off and let me worry about that?

I don't do anything special because I'm too worn out to do anything special. To worn out. This year is the worn out year, though I felt myself lately starting to become stronger. Mostly thanks to Grieve Table. Grieve Table, Grieve Table, making me stronger. I can feel it. I feel important. I'm walking differently, slower, more cautious. Cautious about the world around me, the world that's going to eat me alive if I'm not careful. Everyone around me is zombies and they want a piece of me. Those zombie writers are write. Zombies are everywhere! They're on the streets, on buses, in subways. They were suits and ties or fancy dresses and are too suited to play with themselves. Those are the zombies. And they're just killing to eat you alive if you're not like them. Why would I want to be like them anyway?

People ask me what I do, do I go to school. No I don't go to school. What I do is write. But to them writing is not really doing anything. You have to be a lawyer, a doctor or some hotshot zombie-ass businessman to actually be doing something. I could care what they think. I could whine and cry about how they don't get me, or I could say fuck them and just do what I do and write.

"What do you write?" Does it matter? I write what I write to stay alive. If I'm alive, doesn't that matter? Apparently not because I have to do something with my life. But if I were dead or almost dying then writing to stay alive would be important. They would say "OH God! Yes, write to stay alive, don't die, don't slit your wrists, we love you!" But did you love me when I said I write and didn't do anything else. No you didn't? It's only at the brink of death when you realize how important I am.

Funny. I realized that myself. That's because I gave in to what everyone said. Gave in to the fact I was a loser, which I wasn't, but I thought I was because they said I was and so I was. And that's what I am now: a loser who writes. Difference is, I'm happy.

The orange juice goes down smoothly, the car on the street slides by. We're all living our lives the way we see fit. Last bit of toast goes down. I am doing something with my life. I'm trying to live and get better.

Molesters

They come in all shapes and sizes and I wonder why someone would enjoy touching a kid's ass at 13. I'm walking down the old neighborhood where my folks used to live. We were down there for a holiday, visit the ancestors so to speak, and we meet this one aunt. Or not an aunt but a family friend. It's always the family friends it seems because they don't have to have any accountability. They're not related. It's just a gig. They just come in and go. I'm walking down the street and the lady is behind me pinching my ass from time to time. It makes me uncomfortable, makes my cock throb. I'm at that age where I could sperm anywhere maybe. The ripe age. I don't know what makes me adorable. What makes a lady want to touch a kid's ass like that? I'm half your age lady. I could understand if the person was in high school or maybe early College but we're talking an old lady. Not an old lady close to her rocker, but an old lady according to a 13 year old. An elder. They say, respect your elders. How can you respect someone so...monstrous? They say women can't be monsters or molesters. They're gentle, they're nice. It's always the guys. They're the horrible ones. Creepy guys hiding behind bushes. It's a myth. They're everywhere in every shape and size. Thin, fat, short, tall, blonde, brunette, those fuckers are everywhere and they infest our human condition and you wonder how to get rid of such contagion.

Talking to my dad the other day. He made contact with some old relatives back in the old neighborhood. Mentioned her name. Assumed I didn't know who she was. I remembered. Oh boy did I remember. She told him she remembered me. He assumed she must've seen me as a baby. Forgotten I saw her when I was 13. Yeah, she remembers me. I remember you too you sick fuck.

Makes me wonder about justice. Makes me wonder about going up there and ripping her eyelids out, then again, you wonder how this monster came about. Maybe she got infected by a monster herself. Who's to say I'm not a monster myself? Sure I didn't do that shit, but I've done shit myself, I'm no saint. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, is the saying. I've touched a boobie when I shouldn't have. Sure it wasn't someone half my age. That would be stupid. I've looked at porn at people have my age. Am I like her? Am I like this sick mother?

Turns out there's a guy back in the old neighborhood, related to us, who "might" be a molester. That's not talked about much, but let's just say the people watch him closely. Makes me wonder about myself. Was I ever in his hands? Don't think I was, but if I was, it might explain a lot. Probably just reaching, reaching for nothing.

I do know about you though, girly. What kind of lady touches a kid's ass? I thought about going up there and ripping off her eyelids but really it all comes from the pain. That's what it all is. Pain. There's that ache. It's not a physical ache. It gets you in the heart, like a fist in the heart. It wants to rip at your eyes, make water come out of them, so you can't see. Pain makes you blind. It makes you do crazy shit to end the pain. I can see why people attempt suicide, or cut themselves just so they can feel the pain of the cut. It's not because they're sick bastards...Okay, yes they are sick bastards, but the pain of that cut is supposed to take away the pain of the emotional hurt. I get that now. I get why they do that. Couldn't before. The emotional hurt is big. I've forgotten how big it could be.

Sure I could go down there, tell her what a sick fuck she is. But why bother? Why bother talking to those demons? Why bother paying attention to evil? If you ignore evil, it'll go away. Not the same as pretending it doesn't exist. Why pay attention to evil when there's so much of good to pay attention to?

I never told MJ any of this. I didn't even really think about it until this past Friday when my dad mentioned that person. Made me think. Made me want to get on a phone and call her, but she was sleeping. Least I think she was. Couldn't bother her. She can't take away the pain. What could she say to take away the pain? It's been more than 10 years since I was 13.

Happened a long time ago. Wasn't even a big thing, though it feels big to me, feels big to a 13 year old. People don't get that and it's funny because I don't care what they think. I was having this conversation earlier with somebody: "Who cares what they think?" That's what I said. Now, I say it to myself: "Who cares what they think?" I know what I know.

Was I cute? Was I attractive at 13? I was shy and silent. Maybe easy prey? There's no easy prey, just prey. And the predators are just sick. That's all there is to it. I don't care if they were molested before. Doesn't change the fact, that stuff is still sick. Get help if you were molested before. Don't use that as an excuse to hurt other people. Sick fucks. Can't kill them. They're human.

Words in the night. Left work in a rage that night. Had to go. Had to go. Took care of my pain. Dealt with the pain. You don't deal with the pain, it deals with you, destroys you. I dealt with my pain. Talked to D, not about this. Just talked. Forgot about this crap. Forgot about this crap until now because I remembered. I told myself I had to write about it. Writing is what gives me freedom; writing is the weapon I use toward these sick fucks. Or the sick person who decided to touch my ass at 13. Don't try to hide it. It wasn't playful, it was sexual. I know that now. Difference is, you knew it but didn't want to show it.

Don't hate you though. I feel sorry for you. Feel sorry that you have to stoop to that level. Me, I don't need to do that. I write, that's what I need to do, and that's what I do.