Of Hollywood and Violence

I watched a film and I liked it. Not exactly a groundbreaking statement with the various ways one has to enjoy movies these days, but nonetheless there it is. And while I was initially skeptical of this film, it turned out to be much better than I had expected. Call it morbid curiosity, call it work-related research, or just call it watching a movie, the film I chose was a small, relatively unknown and unmarketed film from 2001 called Gang Tapes. While it was not widely known or even that well received, I liked it (like kissing a girl but without the cherry chapstick or big fake tits).

The whole premise is fairly straightforward, a young boy in search of his manhood, and himself, aligns with a street gang in South Central LA and, through the ever-present eye of his home video camera, documents the life he chooses to lead and the relationships he forms with those of his set. Along the way, our young protagonist becomes mired in some next level shit and seeks to avenge (7X) his fallen homies only to succumb to the inevitability of the path he hath trod. At least that's my synopsis of the plot.

The official description, as noted on Netflix, is a little less than truthful. The claim is that the tape is 100% legitimately genuinely real and that the boy captures all the stuff on camera and then it somehow ends up in the hands of the LAPD and leads investigators to bring down all the people involved in the crimes that were documented. While I understand that Hollywood is in the business of making up shit that sells, how the fuck is that not A) false advertising since I assume they marketed this the same way 10 years ago B) why are there no regulations on the type of bullshit you can claim is true? To each his own I suppose, and really that is neither here nor there since the film only tested in major markets and was so ill-received that it was sent straight to DVD.

As far as the movie goes, it was decently entertaining. Storytelling was fluid and made a lot of sense, well as much sense as being a gangbanger can make I guess. I figured I would have a problem with the use of Handicams to make the movie, but it was well done and actually served to keep the illusion that it was all a home video (unlike that insufferable Blair Witch Project that was so damn jumpy and epileptic that I think I actually had a seizure without knowing it since the screen was bouncing just as much as I was).

That being said, I do have some contentious points to make about the stroy in a couple of places. Whilst I myself have no knowledge of actual gangbangery, I find it hard to believe that a thirteen year old boy would be taken to a bedroom by a 30 year old prostitute to have his virginity stripped off him like a peeling top coat of bad paint. For starters, even though sluts have zero morals or brains I'm fairly certain that even they would draw the line at pedophilia. I could be wrong though, maybe I will ask my ex about that.

Secondly, there a scene near the end of the film that, while I don't want to ruin much of the movie just in case any of you want to rush out and find a copy after reading my raving review, just strikes me as completely implausible. Again, I've no gangbangery in my past but I can surmise from sheer common sense that when one who chooses to enact a violent retaliation goes to do so it is not on a bicycle. For starters, that is the most inefficient way to get anywhere. Riding a bike is good exercise but not exactly a great way to traverse many miles without feeling like you are made of jello by the end.

Then there is the logistics of carrying a sidearm. Gangbang enthusiasts often carry their weapons in one of two places, the front waistband or the rear waistband. Both of these places are stupid for a couple reasons. First is the fact that if, okay WHEN, when you had to draw down on a rival or a grandmother or a cop, there is absolutely no secrecy to your intent. So if you were trying to draw on the sly and get the drop on someone, you would be fucked since they would see your overly ridiculous move to the crotch or the ass crack. Secondly, if you were a gangbanger riding a bicycle and strapped you would either impale your penis repeatedly from the pedaling motion or the gun would fall the fuck out your pants so many times that it would be a week before you got where you were going.

These two facts alone are enough to bother me within the closing minutes of the film but are not, by far, the most insane. That is reserved for the following: South Central is crawling with gangs and is thus used to the sound of gunshots, true. However, if you roll up on some nigga's hood and start tango blastin' like some dumb ass Dirty Harry, I can guarantee (through learned inference of gang culture) that the chances of no one from that hood or set coming outside with a piece in his hand and firing wildly in the direction of the first shot are slim to none. Retaliation and "protection" are a big part of the criminal world, so the fact that the protagonist camera child just walks in, guns down a guy, and then rides his one speed back out and safely to his house is fucking stupid.

But overall, the movie was a decent exploitation of former gang members (aka most of the cast) and the depiction of life in a gang even if it was written and directed by some white Jewish guy who probably shat himself every day they were filming in Watts.

Dancing With Myself

There is a man outside my office window. He is huge, if I had to venture a guess I'd say around 6'4, 'bout 2-fiddy lbs. If I had to describe him to the police, I would say he was HUUUUUUUGE! Somewhere between this awkwardly shaped Chinese guy and the Empire State Building. Not a very helpful description, but I would pretty much be shitting myself if I met him in an alley somewhere, not least of all because I know he is a convicted criminal.

And this guy, this behemoth of a man, is standing outside my window watching mun2, probably to see the bikini clad self-esteem deprived women with daddy issues dancing around like the disease addled lesions of society that they are. This is not an uncommon occurrence in prison. The men routinely awaken at 5AM because there is a program dedicated solely to people, predominantly whorish women, dancing in what could only be described as a swimsuit in the loosest possible definition since it more closely resembles kite string holding together handi-wipes. Such is the life of a prisoner I suppose, get it where you can and sear the image into your brain for late night gratification.

While I am now very accustomed to the various habits and practices of those locked away from the world, sometimes they do something unexpected and it makes me giggle. That's right, I said giggle. It's not a girly word, shut up. Anyway, so this bear of a man has done just that. I am trying hard not to laugh visibly for fear he might stop his actions, and they are funny. Through my slightly opened door I can hear the music playing on the TV and while I'm so damn sick of the song, Katy Perry's Last Friday Night, the visual foreplay I'm watching is worth the trickle of bloo coming out my ears. This large black telephone-pole-shaped man is singing along with the musical abortion which is entertainment enough since he is, it appears, tone deaf, but he is also dancing. And dancing awkwardly, it's eerily similar to the way I would convulse and shimmy on the dance floor if I ever danced (which I don't because I'm whiter than Wonderbread). I am half expecting him to, at any point, bust out the Carlton and start singing Tom Jones.

I can't tear myself away, and I really need to since I have much work to get done. I guess it can wait until he decides to stop...oh, now we've progressed to some Nicki Minaj song and a modified version of my personal favorite high school show choir move the step-ball-change. Oh, that recall is being announced and my entertainment is now about to have to leave. Maybe he will be back this afternoon but I doubt it. He looks like the sort that enjoys playing dominoes in the noonday sun.

My Writing Demon

I wish I could get paid for reading. That would be awesome, and I would probably be moderately to amazingly more affluent than my current situation indicates depending on how much I would get paid per page. I imagine it would be comparable to those people that do the medical record transcription stuff from home, and while it's not more than maybe 15c a page, I could bank that shit away like a boss. I love to read, always have, and I constantly keep a rotation of at least 3 novels at all times. And I don't mean idiotic drivel meant to ensnare hormonal young girls or their desperately-seeking-validation-because-I'm-in-a-loveless-marriage-to-a-secretary-banging-manwhore mothers by perpetuating some farce that interspecies love is not only right, but life-alteringly beautiful and "deep." Nor do I mean I stock an insipid e-reader with the bestsellers list or a collection of pre-modern propaganda and philosophy because I simply must rail against the consumerist society through the ironic means of buying anything with a piece of chrome fruit affixed to its side. I mean honest to god paper and glue, tangible, wonderful smelling books. Currently, my rotation includes the Mitch Rapp series by Vince Flynn, Dostoevsky's Demons, and Mentor: A Memoir by Tom Grimes.

Along with that, I read a lot of blogs as well. Some good, some bad. Many are funny on some level, either intentionally or because I have a twisted sense of humor, and a few provoke actual thought. And some, well if I'm being honest, I just started following at random for the hell of having something to read and they hold no particular spot in my heart or head. Recently, I came across one that has both proved humorous and made me think by way of appealing to my literary and alcoholic nature. And it really got me thinking about myself as well since the co-authors of the blog are both semi-professional(?) writers.

I have always been, in my own mind, somewhat of a writer either because I have something to say or simply because I can craft numerous words in a relatively short amount of time that makes sense on some level. While I am narcissistic, I'm not so much so that I think that everything I write is amazing, funny, or worth reading, but then I am my harshest critic as I think most writers are or have to be. For me, every word, each sentence, every paragraph or story needs to be as close to perfectly crafted as possible or it is a monumental failure. Perhaps that is why nothing I have ever written, save a couple poems in grade school and this blog, have ever been published in any true form. Usually I will bang out thousands of words in the course of a day or two, feel good about it, and then I read what I have and figure out where to take it. I write on impluse or at some impetus and don't actively have to think about what I am saying, it just materializes in my brain somewhere and out it comes (not unlike the way I speak).

Once I hit the point that words don't flow, I start to edit and critique and question exactly what it was I was trying to say in the first place. That, more than anything, is probably why much of what I write has a terrible conclusion. I spend far too much time doubting my premise or searching for a different word to sound more polished than I should, and when I try to wrap things up, as untidily as possible, it fizzles and sends me into a sneaky hate spiral that can derail my magical yarn train. Part of me then spends weeks festering in that seething, brooding hatred of what I have done that I start hating my mother for having grown up Catholic and passing on that sense of shame and guilt down to me.

I should really not bother with editing my words, I can find someone else to do that, but damn it all I like coherence and perfection too much to let it go. In my head the perfection of a piece of written word is like winning the US Open (any of them, just insert your favorite sport) and I'm a competitive motherfucker so I have to win no matter what. I'm like Charlie Sheen without the crazy. See? Even there, I couldn't stand that crass, culturally relevant but overused cliche and now all I can think of is a rant about how Charlie Sheen has ruined being able to draw out metaphors and similies about winning shit. Fucking Sheen, even when he isn't playing he fucking wins.

Then again perhaps my penchant for perfection, and my adept ability to articulate alliteration, is a strength. In fact, I think it is. If I were not so persnickety (finally I have worked that word into one of my posts), I wouldn't be a writer-esque person. If I just pounded the keyboard or scribbled with my pen and didn't care to notice structure, flow, or word choice, I would be no better than a Stephanie Meyer or any number of willfully ignorant dolts hu sp33k li3k d1s, or a kitten walking on a keyboard.

A Passionate Cry

There is a ridiculously prevalent idea pervading and perverting the landscape. An idea so vile and loathsome that it makes me cringe every time someone says they are doing something, and in the back of my mind I can't help but think, "Dear God, that is (or will be) awful." I blame it on MTV perpetuating this idea that if you are a chronic drunk, a whore, or so stupid that the even more stupid public would think you being totally incapable of a functioning thought is hilarious, you can be famous. This idea is really more of an intrinsic feeling from the person choosing to pursue an end, and that is passion.

Yes, passion. That oft mentioned, overutilized and misguided feeling of attraction toward someone or something. And while there is no denying that people are passionate about anything in this world from animals to assholes, both literal and figurative, to me it is often completely absurd. Call me a cynic, call me pessimistic, call me whatever you want, but it just doesn't seem to me that passion is worth anything. Simply saying that you have a passion, to me, is indicative that while you might actually really, really, think something is fantastic, there is no reason for you to try and pursue that which you have a passion toward.

For instance, last night I came across someone who, on a whim, has gotten together with 4 obese gangbangers (probably in every connotation of the word) and they have created what they are calling a "hip hop/hardcore rap/blues" group. They have created a website, a facebook fan page, ringtones (WTF for I don't know), and, I was told, are making a self-produced record. Great, just what people want to hear, shit music that doesn't make sense to anyone but them that will sound as if they recorded it in their bathroom on an 8-track. So after all the "fun" of making the technological aspects available to a completely unaware and uncaring public, they seem to think their passion is going to just will them to amazing stardom or some shit.

I visited the website for this asinine project and first read the "About Us" section. And the thing that stuck out to me was, of course, that they said "we have a passion for music." That in itself made me want to gag and shoot a duck out of a slingshot, but then I ventured to take a listen to some of what I guess is loosely considered music. There were sounds in the background and some sort of vocalized atonal speech mixed together with insufferable tinny noises. And that pretty much confirmed my position that passion doesn't amount to shit.

Passion for passion's sake doesn't amount to anything if you have no discernable talent for that which you profess to be passionate about. I love tennis, but...no, that's not a good example I'm good at tennis. I have a passion for cooking but I can't even...no, no, I can cook something fierce, self-taught, I'm pretty amzing. Ummm, huh, I'm actually having a hard time coming up with something I don't have some sort of talent for. Oh, I know! I am passionate about reading but I don't go around recording myself reading books and trying to sell them to elderly people or the blind or people who don't like to read, not because I don't read out loud well, but because I know that my voice, when recorded, doesn't hold the right timbre or flow to be appealing. And it's that simple.

And before you go thinking, "Well who the hell are you to judge what's good or bad or complete shit? You don't know everything." You would be right, I don't know everything but I've been cursed with soemthing called common sense and a background in music. I may not know every facet of it, but I know what sounds like total garbage and that passion will never pay the fucking bills. Passion is important, but so is talent. And it's true, you can work on something if you are truly passionate and become good. I have no problem with that but in this case, knowing what I know about the one person in this musical atrocity and can infer about the other based on the person I know and the people she associates with, I can say with 100% certainty that they have no drive to learn and they all suffer from delusions of perfection stemming from unchecked narcissism.

Oh, a last funny thought. The website has menu buttons that are locked until they get X number of 'likes' on their facebook page. The page has been up for at least a year and they have amassed an impressive 36 likes. Not even their entire families like them.

My Friday or How I Learned to Stop Sleeping and Watch Something Die

For most people Friday is Friday, a day to look forward to the prospect of not working for the next couple days and just relax or do some menial housework. But for me, Friday, in the traditional sense, is Wednesday. And that makes Sunday Friday since my "weekend" is Monday and Tuesday. But add to that that the work week is recognized as Sunday through Saturday instead of Monday through Sunday and then Sunday-Friday becomes Sunday-Monday-Friday and my days off turn into Monday-Tuesday and Tuesday-Wednesday and I get paid on Friday-Saturday-Wednesday. It's a ridiculous semantics nightmare, but for purpose of this post you only need to know that Sunday is my working Friday.

Right, so Sunday night, a time when I am often at home relaxing with sporting events, beer, and Xbox gaming, I receive a text from an acquaintance. She had gotten a dog, a puppy, a few weeks back. I know this because unnecessarily she sent me a picture of said beast and I cared nothing for it. Well, the text Sunday was a frantic, misspelled lump of poor grammar and insanely unnecessary emotional overuse of the exclamation point. Within said text, there was one word that I keyed on and that was 'seizure.' Once I was able to cipher the rest of the nonsense, I figured out that her dog was having them and she was flipped out because she had no idea what to do. So, being the nice epileptic person that I am, I agreed to come over and sit around like an idiot so she could calm the hell down, thinking at best I would be there for a couple hours.

Upon arrival, I was given a very awkward hug. Not awkward because it was too long or I was inappropriately groped (it was those also) but I just dislike hugs from people that I really have no desire to be connected to, it's fucking weird. After the physical assault, I get the full story that the dog has not been eating, drinking, etc and that the vet thinks the dog might have distemper. I think to myself, why the fuck don't you leave the dog with the vet then? That would make sense, right? Leaving a sick animal with an animal doctor...hmmm.

I sat silently for the first hour, reading a Vince Flynn novel to keep from having unnecessary and idle chat about whatever stupid thing it is that 21 year old girls babble about. And then the dog went into another seizure, sitting bolt upright and convulsing, slobber and foamy drool coming out of its' mouth for the better part of two minutes. After it was over, I went back to reading my book and the girl started whimpering and crying and asking why I hadn't done anything. What the fuck was I supposed to do?! You can't stop a seizure, you don't DO anything it has to run it's course. And besides that, I'm not a neurosurgeon so even after it was over I couldn't have done anything.

More minutes drag by, and the girl decides she is too tired to stay up anymore. "Thank God," I think, "I'm going to sneak out while she is unconscious." Unfortunately, right before she passed out she asked me to stay a while and make sure the dog didn't seize again and since I know what it's like for people to see a seizure and cope with it, I decided to stay. 

I stayed all night. Until Monday-Saturday morning. During the night, I attempted to waken my acquaintance when the dog had a seizure the first couple times but that didn't work. So I gave that up and just started playing count the seizures. Around 5AM, the dog had a string of 4 seizures back to back totaling 20 minutes in duration. I checked on it at the end of the spree and it was barely breathing, not moving, not responding to anything (and I had done everything short of pick up the crate and drop it upside down). Then, about a half hour later (give or take, by this time I was delirious and unaware of what time was anymore), I heard the tell-tale sound. The shaking and clawing of another, bigger, grand mal seizure. It was bad, and it lasted for nearly 3 minutes. After it was over, I waited a little bit to check the dog again (I needed to finish the chapter I was on, lots of action). No movement, no response, no breathing. I knew it was coming, I could feel it well before it happened. And so, I left quickly....

Okay, not really. I'm heartless, but that bad. I waited around until my acquaintance woke up around 7 or something and I told her what happened. I was again inappropriately hugged but I sort of let it slide cause, hell, there was dead dog 3 feet away. And then, after an appropriate amount of time (15 minutes) I took off. I was tired, I hate emotions, and I really had no desire to watch someone cry and whine about the death of her pet. Was it sad? I guess, but not for me. Should I have stayed through the emotional crap? Not a chance.

So, how was your Friday?

Turning A Girl Into A Slut Is Easy

There once was a girl who did not gird her loins. She preferred to gild herself, wishing all she had was gold. Her desire took hold and plunged her into a hole. Hope sprung from within her as she would get her hops from her collection of slinky tops. This girl was very good at playing "Taps" while mixing various types of tars.

One day, she made the round of her local bars where she met herself a wonderful bard. Although he was bald, he was also very bold. Many stories this man had sold even though he suffered a chronic and constant cold. He was an odd man, quite out of the fold of society, choosing to drive some god awful Ford. He explained to the girl that he used to live in a fort, but was told to leave because of his obnoxious fart.

The girl soon left and headed to a farm, where she hoped to be out of the way of this man's flatulent harm. As she walked along the road she spied a large herm with a plaque that read "When you arrive, you are here." The girl walked a bit more and spotted a cattle herd being driven by large rancher men. When she neared them she swooned, but they paid her no heed. She was unaware but they were desperate to find a head.

The girl fell chasing the men, and injured herself and needed to heal. As she cried in the dirt, she questioned whether all this was real. She thought about how she wished she could read and not just shake her rear. The fear soon set in that she would forever be alone, but just then another cowboy rode by. He took one look at the girl, dismounted his horse and contemplated having his way with her. So the cowboy decided to tear the girls' teal Team Seam Seal shirt, and make of her a delicious sexy meal.

He clawed at his pants, revealing his meat, quite a feat that was hard to beat. The cowboy radiated heat, the girl could feel from her seat, and she looked at him expectantly. The cowboy took her to a nearby slat of wood, more comfortable than the dirt, and he gazed down at her young slit. And he bandied about, banging her til she shit. Then he came hard and she took the whole shot.

If only the girl, naive and young, had been taught to keep her mouth shut she would never have become such a slut.

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And here is how I arrived at such an absurd story.

The Best We Can Hope For Is a Tactical Nuke

For some inexplicable reason, I have been watching "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?", and I have come to a conclusion. While I am cognizant of the fact that I know relatively very little when weighed against the vast amount of knowledge in the world, I am incredibly intelligent and ridiculously good looking...and humble. I make it a point to be such since intellect is the most valuable, though underappreciated or utilized, resource of humanity. But that's not really what got me thinking, well in a way it is but only in the most tangential of paths.

In watching the show, listening to it in the background actually, I have found myself incredulous at the contestants. For those not in the know, the premise of the show is get an adult and ask them elementary school questions that are pretty much common knowledge and watch them fail miserably. Simple questions like: Is a tyrannosaurus a carnivore or an herbivore, Which of the following is an improper fraction 2/3 4/5 6/9 4/3, or What is the noun in the following sentence - John ate a bucket of chicken. And sadly, while the above examples are not exactly as worded on the show but more a template of the simplicity, full grown adults with MBAs or PhDs have missed such easy things.

I really do not know what to make of this, are these people actually that stupid? Are they forgetful? Did they, in earning advanced degrees of "education," manage to cram so much else in that their memory effectively reset itself to retain only the more recent information? Part of me hopes for the latter, as this is the least embarrassing of the options. But given the nature of humanity in general, and the shameless willful ignorance of the American public as a whole, I highly doubt that the people on that show are there for little more than a chance at a paltry sum of "free" money and to be on TV. And I would sit here and argue memory reset versus accepted medical knowledge, but the Rangers are on, the children are bitching about something stupid, and I have no more patience for the day.

Something Has Basted My Oatmeal

Hello, old friend. Seems it has been a while since we last had a chat. I have been thinking a lot lately about a great many things. Good things, bad things, things that are generally neutral, and even some things that could potentially lead to my being locked in a mental institution. Of the great many things crossing my mind of late, I have decided to harp upon something, a rant if you will. And what is the thing that has earned a place in my distaste, you might ask. Well if you could find it in your heart to be a bit more patient as I ramble, I might tell you. Or perhaps I already did, depends on how well you are able to pick up context clues. Okay, actually I didn't, but I wanted to make you think I did.

As with anything that becomes a pet peeve, or a nuisance, or a downright annoyance, time is an inevitable factor. Sufficient time has now passed pertaining to my particular source of annoyance that I can no longer bear it in silence, ironic because in actuality that is exactly how I combat the thing that causes me to want to club hippies with a baby seal. For some, this thing might provide entertainment or even be of non-consequence, but some others of you might understand where I'm coming from if you ever had dealings with it. I speak, of course, of the radio.

Yes, the radio. Mankind's gift to musical artists the world over. I do not speak of this one though, I am more concerned with the closed circuit, CB-style walkie-talkie utilized to maintain the security and integrity of a house of incarceration. If you were still using your context clues, you have deduced my mode d'emploi. The reason behind my disdain of this innocuous piece of equipment designed to, in event of crisis, save my life, is fairly simple, and it could be argued that really I am not angry with the radio at all which is only the manner in which my true peeve is received. In fact, I'm certain of that, now that I have thought of that argument. Well done, me. You deserve a star.

I'm sorry, CB-style walkie-talkie, I was never angry with you. I apologize if I have in some way hurt your non-feelings, it's just so difficult to discern where my hatred and loathing should lie when you are the one transmitting the things that bother me the most. Can we still be friends? I would greatly appreciate that, CB, can I call you CB? I would greatly appreciate it, CB, if we could still be friends. I do rather enjoy the comfort of knowing you have been my constant companion these long months, and I know that I can count on you in a pinch. And really it isn't your fault that you transmit such things that stir my anger, you are just doing your designed purpose.




Right, so on to the real irksome matter at hand - unprofessionalism. I realize, of course, that such a subject is a broad and sweeping generalized term that can encompass a great many things, but in this particular case it mainly refers to the unprofessional nature in which people, generally, use the radio at my place of employment. For as noted above, the radio is a tool with which to conduct daily business and, in times of crisis, a failsafe designed to ensure the safety of those within the confines of the double fence. It is not, nor should it be seen as, a toy or a means to snipe at others.

Due to the diversity of people employed within my specific facility, and in general across the company, there are a great many personalities that need to be taken into account and dealt with in as many different ways as those who bear them. Unfortunately, thanks in part to the internet culture, people are no longer adept at dealing with difficult personalities or situations on a personal and discreet manner. Because of the anonymity provided by their home life on the internet, people in a prison setting (at least in my experience so far) utilize the radio as a portable internet forum where they believe they can say what they wish in a manner comparable to how they would speak online.

A perfect example of this was yesterday. There are many other instances that are similar but as this was the most recent, I can remember it verbatim. The early afternoon sun was beating down, as it has done for the past 6 months, and making everyone just that much more miserable. Early afternoon is typically when these types of things happen since those that are working have been here for anywhere from 6 to 14 hours and they are clearly growing edgy. I overheard the following exchange and it pissed me off, mostly because it never should have happened over the radio where everyone could hear:

1: Control, be advised I will be entering perimeter road in my personal vehicle.
Control: ....
1: Did you copy control? I will be entering perimeter road in personal vehicle.
Control: YES! I COPY! I AM ON THE PHONE WITH <other facility> RIGHT NOW....SIR.
1: 10-4, control. I was just advising
Control: I SAID I COPIED! I'M TRYING TO TALK TO R&D RIGHT NOW!
1: 10-4. <sarcasm> Just doing my job ma'am. </sarcasm>
Control: 10-4, sir. So was I.

Now, while that may be lost on many people, the face that this conversation took place at all is unprofessional. More to the point, the control officer should never have spoken that way to an officer doing his job and ESPECIALLY not while on the phone to another facility. As I said this is one example. There are countless others where similar arguments over petty things have occurred, but my favorite, almost daily, conversations are usually to do with discussing whether or not to order food and from where. In addition there are also numerous conversations that are just two or more people going back and forth quoting movie or TV show lines...over the radio...at work...while there are administrative staff present.

And while that is not my only contentious point, I believe I will stop there before I happen to get myself into trouble moreso than I already probably have.

My Brain...I hate it.

"I amar prestar aen. Han mathon ne nen. Han mathon ne chae. A han noston ned gwilith."

Lately, I have been troubled. Things that have been in motion for quite some time have finally come to pass, as they will often do. And while I am, on the one hand, glad of this there is still something bothersome that remains.

Most of you, okay maybe two of you, that happen to glance over this blog and avidly non-read it, may know that recently my parents finally made their move. The end of a painfully long and laborious process is both a joyous and sad occasion. Twenty-seven years in one place, people sort of become a fixture of that place. Interestingly mother mentioned to me on the day we were actually moving the belongings from the house that even though they had been in this town nearly three decades, had plenty of friends, close or acquaintances, only a small fraction (read: 3 families) had even come by, or called/texted/emailed, in recent months to wish them farewell and express any sort of emotive response. And while I am the most stoic and unemotional person, that still struck me as odd. But that is neither here nor there, as the bulk of humanity are narcissistic assholes anyway, also that is not really a point of contention here. I only mention it because it pretty much sucks.

The big issue that has been plaguing my mind is an old one. Well, two really, but only one of them am I willing to speak about. And it once again harkens back to darker times, wherein that stupid piece of my brain keeps agitating me, seething and growing like a tumor. At this point, I probably have an actual tumor so that's less of a metaphor and more a bleak medical self-diagnosis.

Ever since my parents moved, like a week ago, I have been bothered more and more with thoughts of my long lost sister. The problem is two-fold. One is that on the day I was moving my parents, and it was just me helping father and mother for the bulk of it since many people had to work, were out of town, etc, I was told during the ordeal that my sister was coming over to say goodbye (a seemingly innocuous and selfless act). I had no problem with that, it was understandable. However, what I had a problem with was that she brought the entire brood with her as usual because she is not allowed outside sans supervision for fear she may run away. Aside from that obvious intrusion, I was told (not asked) by mother that when they arrived I had to stay in the emptying house so that the bitch and her master would actually get out of the car. That pretty much pissed me off. Why should I be the one to suffer such injustice when I have actually been an upstanding person? I didn't run off to fuck some disease-adled, meth addicted, lying, womanizing fuckbag with insecurity, control, legal and daddy issues...

Not wanting to upset my mother and spoil the last chance for a good while that she would have to see her precious illegitimate devil-spawned grandchild-like blob, I, wonderful son, submitted to the command and stayed in the house, pondering how best to murder someone. I would never murder someone, but I can think it about it all I want, and with my imagination I derive much pleasure out of it.

So that's issue one. Issue two is a bit more complex. Despite all the lecherous, selfish, backstabbing, bullshitting, fear mongering, loathsome, vile, heinous, lying, coniving, self-indulgent, victimizing, trite, and otherwise evil shit that my sister has put to my family, I have been wrestling again with biting the bullet and crushing the spirit of my sister by once again being the bigger, better, more narcissistic (but controlled) person and reaching out...again. The last few times have not gone well, but that is to be expected. When you are dealing with someone who has the maturity of 2 year old, the brain of a snail, and the poor-me victim mentality of an inmate, things will never go well unless you play it right. I know how to play it right, but because I also know that I am in the right, I do what I always do and speak the damn truth.

And while I never back down from my convictions, for better or worse, I am considering taking one for the team. I want to do this for two reasons: 1) I want my mother to be happy again, it's pretty important to me. 2) Most importantly, I would be the one who pieced my family back together. Thus my narcissism, and me, win in the end.

I hesitate to do this, however, because of my wealth of knowledge of my sister and her master. I have known my sister for many years, some would say all her natural life, and though she has been lost for the last 2 years, I still know everything about her poisoned mind. The biggest reason I am hesitant is because I know exactly what will happen in the aftermath of conversing with her. Let me show you:

Picture if you will, a dilapidated home infested with cockroaches, dirty dishes piled high as the ceiling, various piss and shit stains on the carpets, walls, and inexplicably, the ceiling. In the corner of the living room is a makeshift couch of milk crates and plywood. On the couch there are two people, my sister and a former inmate. They are talking about recent events wherein I have been the bigger person and tried to make amends for the shit they have done to my family. As they converse, laughter erupts...

"HAHAHAHA! What a fucking pussy! He's so stupid!"

"Oh, no shit! He's never been very smart, but he thinks he is. How damn dumb can you get? He actually apologized! What a dumbass!"

And on and on the scene goes, ad nauseum, until the two people collapse from exhaustion and drug overuse. All the while, the infant child lay in a pile of his own shit, crying in the corner unnoticed. Slowly the child dies.

While I want to fix things I do not want the above scenario to play out, and I know for a fact that is how it would go. That alone would in turn make me want to kill someone al over again. In being the bigger person, I would be ridiculed and that does not sit well with me...ever. Secondly, because I know my sister so well, even if I were to get her to agree to speak to me and hammer things out, the conversation would be non-existent; it would be more of a monologue because I know everything she will/would/could say.

I am her own personal Jesus. I know what she is going to do, think, or say before she does. So really, there is no point in talking to her. I know what her counter arguments would be to anything I say, I know how to parry them back in her face and prove her wrong over and over and over, I know exactly what button to push to make her speak or shut up. It would be fairly one-sided, almost unfair to speak to her because I would already have heard everything.

Did I just talk myself out of doing what I started off saying I was thinking of doing? Maybe, I don't know.