Inebriaupdated

Hay, guyz.

That’s kind of an “old-school” Intarwebs thing.

My wife sent me to a mental asylum.  You know that, right?  Yeah, I said that already.

Well, the latest trip courtesy of my dearest beloved only one was to the Erie County Holding Centre.  ( Yes, it’s spelled like a Canadian would. )  I readily admitted my propensity toward self-harm and was rushed into a man-size oven-glove, snapped the Velcro around my shoulders after a brief but poignant threat in the lady’s shower-room from the Eric County sheriffs regarding not “fucking up their shift with a suicide”, and then went on to whatever “const-obs” (constant observation) cell was free.  It was in a “pod” somewhere.  Cells around a common room.  Some fellow incarcerate was having a fit and apparently needed a room of his own, so they shuttled me down to some other cell block.   Floors, really.  Named after Greek letters.  Nobody really gets that here.  I do.  Lot of good that does me.

First night, alone in the four-bed chamber with a Rican dude.  He speaks Spanish.  I dunno the difference.  Seems like a drag queen.  Probably got one out of a hundred rapes that were not welcome and made it down into this area.  We’re out of gen-pop.  Away from the “normal” criminals.

( I saw him later, when my bestest friends (of the Indian Sub-Continential persuasion) bailed me out.  “Hey, Santiago!  Como esta?” )

The meals are like high school lunch.

The guards are like high school teachers.

Some are good.

Some are very, very bad.

All resent having to deal with you.

I can’t really blame them.  Most of these people are assholes.

I had an experience.  There isn’t more but details to spend on relating the story.   References to Fiddy-Cent lyrics I don’t understand.  I acknowledge this.  He’s cool.  Good guy.  All good guys.  Some doing years for stealing aluminium cans.

Fuck this country.

The bull-pen was the worst.  ( At first. )

Three walls.  Two rows of seats.  Varieties of effluvia on the walls you would not care to identify.  Although, the bondsman number on the bathroom wall scrawled in faeces was a delicious (if you’ll pardon the adjective) touch.

I eventually sat down, hands on knees.  Tried not to speak at all.  Best not to do so when you’re out of your element.

Everyone was actually pretty cool.   Just don’t pretend to be or know more than you are or do.

They stole my e-cigs when stripping me down upon entry.

After the visit with my friends who bailed me, I had to strip naked, squat, and cough.

Does me wife realize this?  Does she realize what she forced upon the father of her children?

The alleged crime?

Leaving flowers on her doorstep on the occasion of our twelfth wedding anniversary.

FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS BOND.

Five thousand cash.

Thank you, KP and Manas.  Both for the money and for the fucking of your weekend.

The judge didn’t look at me once.  I ask, “Your honor, can’t I be released on my own recognizance?  I have a job–”

“No.”

Later, I learn the arresting officer lives in the same apartment complex as my wife.  Coincidence?  Does it matter?

Reality.

Deal with it.

Don’t be an idiot.

Learn.

Learn that those you once “loved” can turn into monsters.

Learn that there is nobody in this world but yourself and those who prove themselves.

Like my best friends.

Out and to their house forty-eight hours after finding my place in my oven-mitt “smock-block” attire.  Drinking pizza.  Watching futbol.  Being verbally reamed by one of them for being the idiot that I was alleged to have been.

I do have friends.

A week before, my talky-doc mentioned that to feel alive, to feel real, to feel at all, requires interaction.  I expounded that this, as on the micro level, involves interaction.  Without the rub-bump of particles, we are cold.

Cold and alone.

I treasure my friends.

I am alive.

I intend to stay that way until my natural end.

So, I treasure my friends.

I’m seeing my girls every week.  That’s good.  Fifty dollars per two-hour visit.  Still less, per week, than I’d spend on eating out and mini-golf or arcades or other entertainment.  Still, she tweets about getting two hours off a week.  How about dropping the protection order?  I’ll take them a day or more.

I love them.

I love only them.

I appreciate many, but I love only them.

My girls.

And they love me.

There was a wife, but she’s dead.   Wife killed bride.  You know the tired analogy.

Do not ever believe she still loves you, or cares for you, or has any remotely human compassion regarding your fate.

She does not.

Get a lawyer, and let him deal with her.

It’s over.

The women do it more than the men, you know.

Throw away their solid stead for the hopes of reclaiming their youth.

Men?  Well, for my part, and I’d say for most of us, we “resign” ourselves to being husbands and fathers.  Men are creatures of duty; women are creatures of whimsy.

In any case, I am free — for the moment.

Skyrim, Pink Floyd, Vodka.

It’s not the life I chose, but it’s the one I’ve got.

And I intend to live it.