Northward Midget

Tag: separation

  • Uneasy on Sunday Morning

    An account change notice from Verizon inspired a brief and generous presumption that my bill would be lowered due to a large chunk of monthly payment having been extracted.

    That was, of course, a ridiculous notion.

    In any case, friendly advice to the genital pubic: if an exing-relation wished to extract eir service from a shared martial{sic} account, said relation could get an independent line and tether Internet access to eir house over 4G, getting faster speeds than what s/he pays for DSL now.

    S/he may not be able to do that on eir current account, as each line may have a usage cap since the unfortunate demise several months ago of Verizon’s omni-benificent data-usage grandfather.

    Also, s/he could get eir own auto insurance, and probably at a cheaper rate than half of what the other-half pays now, and considering the other-half was probably court-ordered to pay half of what that half had been salaried, and will be paying half (or less than half) now that said half’s company may have expired — well, when the other-half finds a new job that likely will pay half-of-half of that previous half, such a cost-cutting measure would not be for the other-half’s sake but for the sake of all involved.

    And eir medical insurance may expire at the end of the month.

    And s/he should consider public assistance.

    And s/he should definitely find a job that pays the money required to keep eir children in food and clothing and under shelter.

    Especially if s/he hasn’t managed to do so in twelve or more months since kicking eir sole provider out of the house, presumably because s/he has been too busy holding eir children hostage from the other parent with the friendly help of the Mrs Doubtfire gub’mint.

    Speaking of which:  When one is allowed to see ones children only through professionally supervised visitation, and such a court-ordered condition is predicated on demonstrably false accusations involving no danger of harm to said person or eir shared children– Well, they would be demonstrated  false (in this hypothetical case) if the state cared to afford a parent accused of such wispy, nebulous charges an audience to do so,  and considered the emotional support of a single parent (even a *shudder*  “father”) more important to their well-being than an inconceivably remote chance of danger to them that was never actually claimed by anyone—

    Er.

    When that is the case, one should consider whether or not the money paid for such visitation might better be spent on feeding ones children.

     

  • An Olio Of Miscellany

    Some fat fuck entitled his periodic article in The Times-West Virginian as such.  No matter.

    There is so much I cannot say, for it would be printed out and delivered unto “Justice” to keep me from the children who so desperately need my guidance — a firm hand leading them toward some happiness their father could never achieve and their mother cannot deliver.

    That is enough to be said of Herl.  You are familiar with the history, I take it?

    Behind me now is a flag purchased for ten, perhaps owned by a believed patriot.  Rather than burn the symbol in solitude, I’ve pasted a series of letters in a quasi-revolutionary font upont, forming a phrase in a “dead” language:

    Sic.  (Thus)

    Semper. (Forever)

    Tyrannis.  (Tyrants)

    This conglomeration of individuals pasted likewise such through the force of Law under the guise of Justice, we sit and we type and we hammer and we money-change through our days and we go to bed tired rather than angry as the Will of the Land intends.

    Sprinkled throughout will be such aphorisms of dubious import and unlikely provocative of any sort of meaningful introspection by the likes of the public at large.

    APHORISM, n. Predigested wisdom.

    The flabby wine-skin of his brain
    Yields to some pathologic strain,
    And voids from its unstored abysm
    The driblet of an aphorism.
    “The Mad Philosopher,” 1697

    How am I?  I’m drinking less.  I de-activated my Facebook account, then re-activated it ostensibly to spark the contacts I have connected through its medium.  Without the drunken ranting on Facebook, I am but a pathetic old fool in his man-cave drinking alone.

    Perhaps I am that, regardless.

    To rewind a moment: “She” did indeed bring a stack of papers (easily forged, you indeed know) which kept Justice from re-uniting me with my daughters without the state-sanctioned supervision for which I pay $50 per two hours per week.  Thus, I refrain.

    “Asylum” in its truest etymological sense means a place of refuge.  Sanctuary.   However, as you descend through the synonyms, you encounter more sinister (left-handed) connotations.  Cover.  Covert.  Den.  Dugout.  “Funk hole.” (I like that one.)  “Safehold.”  “Snug harbor.”  (How cute.)  Psychopathic hospital.  Sanatorium.  Padded cell.  Nuthouse.

    Bedlam.

    She sent me there first.  Not directly, of course, but it was her volition that instigated my commission.

    Then the flowers.  Fifteen thousand dollars bond from the cunt of Amherst.  Mark Farrell or Geoffrey Klein.  I don’t recall.  He didn’t look at me.  I’ll never call a judge “your honor” again.  There is no honor in a position.  Honor is earned, not bought or elected.

    Am I in contempt of court?  Indeed.  I hold it in contempt.  I hold every judge in contempt.  I grab the flag on its staff and drive it through the black heart of …

    Sorry.  Getting purple there.

    I’m fine.

    Visited a strip club for the first time in forty years.  For a dollar, a beautiful woman will rub her breasts against your face, and hover with athletic thighs her most sacred temple of wrinkled folds centimeters from your lips.  When she is done, when the music is finished, she will kneel to the lit floor tiles and scoop up those single dollar bills and walk off stage.

    It is sad, for certain, but then, so are the men with dollars clenched in their teeth.

    We are all sad.

    Some are more brazenly mercenary than others, but they are all whores.

    We are all whores.

    I’m running out of steam at 10 o’ the clock.  Pink Floyd’s “Animals.”   “Rage” in the 360.  Blast the fuck out of mutants.

    Me?  I’m fine.

    Near broke.   $150 in the bank account on the Monday after paycheck.   I couldn’t afford to pay the pimp-mother to see my daughters a few weeks ago.  I think this stretch will forego the double overdraft of the previous fortnight and boost my reserves summat.  Credit is night depleted.  FSA health debit card is suspended until I pay for the involuntary committal to Erie County Medical Center.  I don’t have the $333 for that.  Buying co-pays with what little credit remains, redeeming that the old-fashioned way with mailed receipts, and then get the card activated again.  If mommy has to co-pay, she should keep the receipts, and feel the sting of consequence of putting the father of her children into Bedlam.

    But, again, I do not wish to speak of She.

    This is just an update.

    I’m not a rocket scientist.

    I rock the house.

    And sign the tits.

    And that’s it.

    My apartment resembles a dorm room now.   The inverted flag with that Wilkes-Booth screed.  A rotating disco light.  Lava lamp.  Posters and self-made beaded door-curtain.  Hanged guitars.  Ironic blonde Jesus affixed with a blasphemous Post-It.

    I’m leaving now.   That’s the state of the disunion.

    Just thought you’d like to know.

     

  • 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.