Through the fish-eyed lens of tear-stained eyes, I can barely define the shape of this moment in time. And far from flying high in clear blue skies, I’m spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide. If you negotiate the mine-fields of my mind … … and if you beat the dogs and cheat the cold electronic eye … … and if you make it past the shotguns in the hall? Dial the combination. Open the priest-hole....
Opposing counsel accused me of being an alcohol and marijuana abuser. How did she come up with any marijuana abuse? Apparently she subpoenaed ECMC. Can they do that? Isn’t there some kind of doctor-client privilege? Oh well. In any case, I was presented in quite an unflattering way. So, I arrive at nine-twentysomething and the hearing finally commences at sometime after noon. All this after (a) having my fucking Droid lose its GPS connection, (b) driving around the labyrinthine streets of...
All of you. All your fear. I lie, inasmuch as I don’t know the truth. Inasmuch as everything I say is some dialogue of script I’ve written moments before, seconds before, split microframes of life before speaking it. And I mean it. At the time. But it all fades. Truth is ephemeral. It’s a whisper misheard and repeated with mutations and twisted with prerogatives and turned into hateful resentment. I’m drinking now, and I’m posting publicly. Now, I know this...
I’m not really “up” this late. Had to have a piss, remembered a bag of chicken-wing side-carrots in the fridge, saw my phone flashing, wrote an email, then had a smoke because my mind was out of sleep too long to just splash back into the pillow and the thoughtless bliss of dreamland. That last post is about my exish/wife inadvertently (ahem) instigating my being committed to a mental institution for a week. Wanted to give that synopsis, and didn’t...
There are times when you feel you have hit bottom. You fell hard, and that surface you hit sure as fuck felt like concrete, but you hear this creaking, then cracking. March 2nd, 2012. 277 days after her separation from me by SMS, backed by the threat of not returning with our daughters until I vacated our rental home. The night before, I’d posted one of my usual absurdist fiction bytes as a Facebook status. Months before, I’d made everything...
Geronimo Horatio Wilder sat on a wooden bench, fingering a holdout pistol in his pocket. Like the ones gamblers used in the wild west, a century before he was born. Like it, but not quite. Rather than gunpowder to propel its deadly charge, its sterile casing contained a real charge: a bundle of caged electrons straining to deliver a single 50-watt laser blast. It was appropriate for his wild-west birth-name bestowed by his whimsical parents. An outlaw. A geriatric outlaw....
No. Not really. It ain’t going anywhere, is it? It’s part of me. To “cure” myself would be to kill my self, and I don’t want that now, do I? MAOI is done. See the log up top for the final entry. Next up is “Viibryd.” As noted there, WTF? That’s one hell of a random-number-generated space-name. Sounds like something my character would be smuggling in my Star Wars campaign. I haven’t bothered to look it up. What’s the point?...
I pick the girls up on Friday around 7PM and bring them back at 2PM Saturday. Friday usually goes awesome. We get something to eat, bring it home, and watch some movie or two. Saturday, not always so well. It starts good, but as the leaving time draws nearer, the Elder will start to get grumpy, and sometimes go into a full-on tantrum. Every parent knows what this means. They’re hungry. They didn’t get enough sleep. Something is wrong and...
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One response to “Everybody Hurts”
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