Thursday night, my car all but died.  Friday morning, I was supposed to have a fix, but didn’t.  Friday afternoon, I was supposed to get picked up, but wasn’t.  Friday night, I was so stir crazy I couldn’t stand it. 

     Saturday morning, I was supposed to get a call to help with the car, but didn’t.  At 11AM, I decided, “Screw it, I’ll find someone with tools to help!”  And while he got the bolts out of from behind the exhaust manifold — and directly under the intake manifold — to change the thermostat, I removed and replaced the water pump.
     After all that, I started onto the process of body work where I hit the deer back in June…
     Now, the car is fixed.  As long as I leave the air conditioning on… which means, there’s obviously a temperature sending unit bad, since it’s not turning on the second radiator fan.
     I also managed to scald both my hands in process, get various cuts, and break the top of my right hand — it now has something akin to half a golf ball atop it, just like two months ago. 
     Only one word comes to mind: F#&$.

     And so, last night, stir crazy and exhausted, yet unable to sleep (two and a half months now), I went to walk around downtown.  At Market Square, I sat and reminisced about the days of old when Preservation Pub was Mercury Theater.  I thought about the Snakesnatch Lounge and all the other places that were there twelve-plus years ago.
     I thought about celebrating Pirate Susan’s birthday there in 2006, when she stood atop one of the benches near the door of Preservation Pub, arms outstretched, yelling, “I am an asshole bleacher!”

     But even more, I thought about the day the Wildcat and I went to Preservation Pub… QSL later… and that night… and that kinda did it for my mood, because I miss her more every day.

     A drink would’ve been in order, but I had to quit that after a few too many bad nights…

     Then I learned that last night, a friend of mine was sexually assaulted in her home by a “friend” of hers who she actually knew very little about.  Packed her kids in the car, drove them to a mutual friend to be watched and took her to the ER.  I prepped her a little beforehand about what was going to happen, having been through this with other friends I’ve known, and just pretty much tried to be there for her so she didn’t feel totally alone.
     Fortunately, the KPD investigator was really good, as was the crisis unit who performed her exams and tests.  They were pretty unbeatable, and I was out of the room most of the time — I didn’t need to be there the whole time, anyway, because it just makes me wanna kill someone that much more.

     She’s really young … and all I could think about the whole time was how bad I missed the Wildcat, how bad I missed the kids, how much they meant to me, and what I’d do to someone who tried something like that with any of them.

     Finally discharged, I took her to get some food after her battery of medication, fill another prescription and back to her place, where I stayed until her sister could get there.  I can handle the “crisis” portion calmly and capably, but for the rest… she’s gonna have a long road ahead.

     Sometimes, life is hard.

     And sometimes, other peoples’ are even harder.

The Wildcat and the Volunteer are finally together.

Permanently.

I’m moving to Tennessee!

We really found out who our friends were at Mary Breckinridge Hospital — maybe two or three — and the rest can kiss our asses! In Knoxville, Mark’s friends became better friends than I ever had in Leslie County. When they ask you how you’re doing, they really mean it. And when they say they love you, they really mean it, too.

At this moment, we’re right where we need to be. We’re right where we belong. We’re soulmates. Right where God intended us to be, and nobody can keep us apart.

Mark, I love you with all my heart. I’ve never met anyone who’d fight this hard for me. You proved it… you proved your love. Because you stuck by me when no one else would, you showed things that no one else ever has. Your showed me what true love is.

And for that, all I can do is return that and say, thank you so much. 

Kenny Chesney: Better as Memory

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBgNbSA4WdM)

But he finally met somebody he can’t just be a memory to.

Oh, baby… I love you.

Always.

So to all the ladies before me, thank you for moving over so the Wildcat could move in!

     I am pissed.  Really PISSED.

     Alright, so I moved to this tiny, insignificant small town to be with a woman who I love more than live itself. 

     I still do.

     So, after moving to Hyden, KY and working for a sister company of Mary Breckinridge Hospital:

1. I have had someone try and charge me rent for the “closet” I lived in at $250 a month.
2. I have had the people I am supposed to be working with screw me in never giving me enough access to do my job.
3. I have had her family tell me to “drive away, and never come back again.”
4. I have had resistance after resistance when trying to train these people how to do things in such a way that it miht be helpful to both them AND the patients.
5. I have to put up with someone running aroudn town telling people I am beating the shit out of my Wildcat on a daily basis.
6. I have had my job being threatened by people who aren’t hospital emplyees, nor health providers, saying that I would be fired if I did not give them access to personal health records,  Thanks to Frank Baker and Connie Norris, the recipient of social security numbers, addresses, phone numbers, etc. of pateients without their knowlege.
7. I found out who kept giving Connie Norris access to the afforementioned records — John Hoskins, son of the esteemed womanizing-yet-prize-employee Norman Hoskins — and turned it in to my boss at the Clinics, Ben Peak.
8. I have been gossip[ped about that I beat my Wildcat on a daily basis.  (I took the joke, and said, “Goddan, I take a break on weekends!”)
9. I have been accused of criminal trespassing when going to see my family doctor.
10. I have been threatened of my life for showing up to pick up my personal belongings.  By the way, you assholes at MBH owe me EVERYTHING that was in that notebook case — not just a frew checks and paystubs.  You owe me what was under and on my desk, too, dickheads,  Severak thousand.  You ready?

     At some point, this fucking drama in Leslie County, Kentukcy has to stop.

     Even the Police Department, County Attorney’s Office, and even the Kentucky State Police have been embroiled in this mess.  FOR WHAT?  I HAVEN”T DONE ANYTHING WRONG!
     Leslie County pussies.
     You wanna use the Cops to do your dirty work, and eventually the police officers and judges are going to get sickand tired of your bullshit.  Get that, Randy?

     I have also been accused of endangering the life of My Wildcat.

     I love this woman with all my heart.

     I’ve lost my job, I’ve lost my things, I’ve lost my dignity, and for fucksakes —- WHAT FOR?

     Bullshit.

     And THAT is why I was so happy when Pizza Dave decided to push me for a change.

     He didn’t use the cops to do his dirty work.

     He was a MAN.

     It’s bad enough the people in that fucking town are lying, backstabbing pieces of shit.  I’d just hope they do it somewhere else. 

     I have a GHOST-clean record.  I do NOT need you assholes in that county trying to pull dirty tricks to use the Cops to do the dirty work you should have the BALLS to do yourself.

     And for my family, who I miss like mad, I love you.  I love every damn one of you.

     No matter what you think.

     As for MBH, they admitted to a hospital for a panic attack.  They fired me, without my knowlege, in the meantime.  Cancelled my insurance.

     Took my notebook.  Sure, it was a work notebook.  But the case contained:

1. My Glasses
2. My Contacts
3. My contact solution and case
4. My Stratitec card reader
5. My Stratictec USB hub
6. My copy of Windows VIsta Ultimate OEM (from Ebay)
7. My copy of Office Ultimate OEM (from Ebay)
8. My Intel Webcam Pro
9. My Corssover network cable
10. My 8′ Network Cable
11. My 25′ Network Cable
12. My USB Docking Station (Kingstong, I believe)
13. My personal notebook (a ring-bound notebook, black with copper spring)
14. Multiple business cards
15. Multiple post-it notes, some non-work related
16. A $50 Starbucks Gift Card
17. A couple sticks of 1GB DDR-400 Memory
18. A Sandisk Cruzer 8GB Titatnium with all my IMPORTANT stuff on it?
19. A couple of Lexar 512MB keys
20. A couple of Lexar 256MB keys
21. Multiple offbrand 64-256MB keys (at least 4)
22. My CD case full of Microsoft install disdks/

     Atop my desk?

1. An Intel Quad-Core 2.4 CPU, OEM
2. A Coolermaster CPU fan for the above
3. 2 BFG 8800 GTX PCI/E Video Cards
4. 4 Gigs of DDR2-1066 Memory
5. An ATI Video Card for a Dell Notebook
6. A large, silver N-Force Coffee Cup
7. 1 Cannister of Folgers Black Silk (given by a co-worker as a birthday prent)
8. A $15 Starbucks Gift Card (given by a co-worker)
9. Multiple businesss cards, post-it notes and personal items

     They did send me a box containing:

1. Ny glasses
2. My contacts (some)
3. My contact case
4. SOME of my expensse checks
5. SOME of my mail
6. The $15 Starbuck’s card

     Fuck Hyden, Kentucky,

     Theives,

     I have also been deprived of my personal belongings, having been threatened of my life, by one Alan Osborne, boyfriend of esteemed psychotic former landlord — and daughter of Mary Brechkinridge Hospital administrator, Connie Hubbard —- but, hey … None of that’s illegal in Leslie County, is it?

     You assholes stole my things.  You fired me illegally.  You haven’t given me paperwork one. 

     And you think that’s ok?

     And you call the cops when I come around trying to figure out what’s going on?

     Thanks, Randy North.

     Don’t you think they’ll get tired of that soon?

     I am clean.  Totally. 

     Bring it on, Asshat!  I never even HEARD you didn’t want me there til you called the COPS, asshat!  You think they enjoy wasting THEIR time on your bullshit?

     I love Ann, My Wildcat.  It’s not in me to abuse her like she always was.

     I did, however, break a wheel in trying to drive her back to the hospital we worked at during one of her panic attacks. 

     And if that’s cause for alarm.  Fuck Leslie County REAL hard.

     But it’s certainly not enough to embroil me in this caustic bullshit that seems to propagate from nothing.

     As for what went on between me and my Wildcat, she screamed.  I got scared.  I asked her to get out, and she wouldn’t.  I panicked.  I have panic attacks now.  Thanks, Leslie Country.  But I got her safely to a parking lot — safely after I hit a curb in trying to go where she wanted.  But I got her there because I couldn’t go where I wanted to — back to the hospital, where she wanted to be.
     I got admitted there against my will, where one Dr. Lauff, upon asking him for an apologiy called me a “fuckass” and told me he didn’t owe me “anything.”  Then I cussed him up one side and down the other — yet Leslie County says I attacked and cussed him and was being disrespectful?
     Fuck Leslie County.

     Fuck MBH.

     MBH fired me.  MBH fired my Wildcat.

     For shit that DIDN’T EVEN HAPPEN THERE.

     I love you, Ann. 

     I love you, Jerry, Steph and Dale.

     Fuck those people.

     We all deserve better.

     And, Mary-Mary, if you open your fucking mouth one more time, you’re inviting a slander suit, bitch.  I heard that today from someone else — Not good, deary.  We’ll both gang you in court.

      Just like you Leslie County people like it….

      In court, and legal …

      Like it isn’t.

      I miss you, Junior.  You could see the bullshit.  But I promised my Wildcat I’d I’d never put her against her family.   And I meant it.  You were a father to me where I never had one.

     [ The following is angry.  If you don't like anger and angst, don't read it.  But it's shit like this that's a big part of my problem. ]

     I have no brother, either.

     After all that crap, mom coming in and trashing the place, breaking computers and beating on me because it’s “her” house (even though she lived in Indiana and I was in Powell keeping the place up and paying the fucking mortgage), my own Brother decides to turn on me.

     Check out this Audio clip.

     He’s pretty sedate on this one.  The subject matter is amazing, considering I didn’t write poetry.  And if I did, how the Hell would he get it?  That’s just bizarre. 
     I didn’t know he was even working at the time, but when I asked WTF he was on about, I was told he drove a dump truck.  And things fall out of those pretty frequently, and people call in pissed.  Me, I’m smart enough not to tailgate dump trucks and wouldn’t've called in anyway.  Besides, I was working too much to bother with bullshit like that.
     But hey, he was having “someone” come and evict me, even though I’m supposed to face “him.”  That’s sort of ironic, really … getting someone else to do the dirty work?  When the truth is, he came and put rubber cement in all the house locks, stuck nails under my car tires, and even had the audacity to come and let the air out of two of my tires while my car was parked at a client location!  Got him on camera and everything!
     And it’s amazing how he never thought that maybe I hang up when people who start cussing me out and hurling abuse from the time I pick up the phone.

     After the court case, there was this one…

     This is immediately after the Judge ripped him a new asshole for lying on the stand.

     But I wonder who I was gonna murder?

     Pretty cool!  Sounds like it make a kickass book, and I have a great name for a lead character!

     It’s kinda fitting that in October of last year, he got the same treatment outta Mom.  He gave her money for a loan he’d made, and Mommy Dearest never bothered to tell my Father.  She also tried to subvert his wife just like she did mine, and he called to whine. 
     All I had to say was, “See?”

     In March, he called me to tell me his daughter was in the hospital.  He didn’t say what hospital, what room, what town he was in, or anything pertinent.  He just bitched that I didn’t call or care.

     When I finally got hold of him a few weeks ago, all he could do was whine about all the things Mom was doing to him, since I wasn’t available as her target of choice.

     I told him to suck it up and quit whining.

     Just like he did me.

     Except, uh, I didn’t sound like an inbred, paranoid hick when I said it.

     I hope to never hear from Asshat, Jr. again.

     [ The following is angry.  If you don't like anger and angst, don't read it.  But it's shit like this that's a big part of my problem. ]

     Back in 1999, I had some pretty bad misfortune fall on me in a foreign country.  I met a woman.  I liked her.  She was hot.  She was fun.  Everything else in my life was turning sour in that damn country.  In February of 2000, I moved in with her, and she helped me out for a few months while I got everything back on track.
     I met and loved her family.  We were all supportive of one another.

     By June, things started getting weird.  She started getting emotional.  By July, she was completely bonkers.  In August, she finally went to the doctor.  In September, she had surgery.  I felt so bad for her.  And on the 29th, I married her.

     Things got better.

     We both had good jobs and were able to do pretty much whatever we wanted.

     We took out an insured loan of $27,000 so we could have a bit more cash onhand.  With the insurance, it became a $30K loan.  We needed a refrigerator, which was around $8,000 in that shitty country.  We could have afforded it in a couple months, but needed it then.  And then, for some reason, I wanted her to meet my family.  We took a very, very long trip through the United States and Canada and back to the Hell country we lived.

     In May of 2001, we moved to a new house.  And that’s when the trouble started.

     She became distant and quiet, and completely and totally demanding.  She was angry at me 24-7.  I didn’t know what to do. 

     After watching 9-11 not happen on local television, hearing radio personalities go on about how we deserved it, getting a ration of shit for trying to buy cigarettes on multiple occasions and having a Prime Minister ensure her country that “The events in the United States have no influence on New Zealand,” I decided I needed to be back in the United States.  
     It was a long process.  In February, I had to beat the shit out of a Consulate guard just to get in and keep my appointment.  Everything kept getting worse.
     I lost my job in February because my sorry-ass South African bosses didn’t want to pay salary or bonus or wage increases or anything else, and decided that in order to reduce costs, they’d claim that I was stealing intellectual property.  A real joke, being that I was Senior Developer — the only developer — for that company.  
     Fortunately, our $30K loan was paid down to just over $8,000, and being insured and my just having lost my job, that was pretty well done.  The policy clearly stated that they would pay my payments for a full year in the event that I got divorced or lost my job.  It didn’t have all the fun stipulations that most do, and I’d clearly lost my job.  However, they were unhelpful.  They ignored the insurance policy and started threatening and cussing me out.
     I told them to stuff it.  It was their $8,000 to pay, and I had a signed contract to prove it.

     Finally, in June of 2002, we made it back.

     We lived in DC then.  I had a pretty cushy Government job and she was teaching school at a prestigious-yet-shitty institution who didn’t pay their staff even half of what their public school counterparts made.  It was disgraceful.
     Still, my wife was distant, angry and demanding.

     I had a six-figure job offer in Knoxville, my hometown.  And so, in June of 2004, we moved back here.  My six-figure job was a lie.  Everything was.  I started another business and kept us afloat until just after Christmas of 2005.
     Things had stayed the same between us.  She was distant, angry, demanding.  There was no budgeting with her.  On top of that, she took a part-time job working full-time hours as a substitute teacher at a school, and the school board would make no exceptions for her foreign experience.  She wouldn’t get her stuff together to get a full teacher’s license, and by this time, she wouldn’t drive anywhere.  My responsbility to drive her around, to and from work, and I’m trying to work, but dear God, would she take the bus?
     Eventually, she wouldn’t leave the house anymore… just sat there barking out orders from the couch, and spending every single dime we had if she went out with my mother.

     They were best of friends.

     In January of 2006, I felt so much pressure that I was about to kill myself.  I told her… and she responded with 847 more reasons why I should go ahead.

     I pulled myself together.  I told that I wanted a divorce and that I wanted her to get out.

     Back to New Zealand for her, a one way ticket.  Instead of feeling pain immediately, I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders.  Not long after, the depression hit.  If I couldn’t keep my promises to her, what good was I?

     By April and May, it was pretty obvious that talking to her was like talking to a wall.  I stopped for a long time.  I sent her final divorce papers in June, and she never bothered to sign them.  She said she never received them.
     In July, the National Bank of New Zealand started letting her have it good and hard claiming that we owed them $23K.  I sent her the papers for the loan, along with previous balance statements.  Open and shut, right?
     By then, I was well into a major depression.

     In November, she came back to pick up some of her things.  I thought we could at least part as friends.  She apologized for the way she treated me, and that was good enough for me.  I spent every dime I had making sure she was comfortable on the trip, as Mommy Dearest dropped her on me and took off.  She signed the divorce papers before we left Knoxville.
     For a short time, I thought we talked about reconciliation, but apparently I was incorrect, as was blatently pointed out.  I filed the papers, but the property settlement was kicked out.  I sent her an ammended property settlement to sign, and she never bothered to respond to it or the emails I sent her.
     I mailed back more of her things in 2007, all to no avail.

     Eventually, her phone was disconnected.  All of her mail was returned.

     In January of 2008, I filed another divorce, having been two years (which showed abandonment) hoping that I could finally get on with my life.  The Wildcat and I had plans.

     In March of 2008, she finally responded … that I owed her $27,000.

     After supporting her for four years and having her spend every single dime of every single paycheck, regardless that we had to pay rent or insurance or… Yeah, stress, when you have to magically pull money out of your ass for four years because your wife is too lazy to get off her butt, get her license and actually make a decent wage for a change.

     But oh, I owe her $27K.  And I still don’t have a divorce.

     Yeah, I’m still married.

     And while she’s sitting around in New Zealand making $50K a year — about fucking time — I owe her $27K when I made us far more than that for six years solid… And me, I can’t afford to pay attention.

     Right this second, I’m thinking that since we’re still married, maybe I should just move back to New Zealand and move in with her.  I mean, what could she do about it?  I mean, she is my wife, isn’t she?

     So seriously, Mommy Dearest’s bestest little buddy — GET OVER IT AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!

     [ The following is angry.  If you don't like anger and angst, don't read it.  But it's shit like this that's a big part of my problem. ]

     When I was three years old, some pretty bad things happened to me.  When I told my dear, sweet, innocent mother about those things, she beat the living crap out of me for it, and called me a liar.  So, at three years old, she took a wide, thick leather belt and wailed on me with it until my legs were bloody.  She did it a million times — wherever and whenever she could.  Legs, ass, arms, torso, face … you name it.  And it wasn’t just the belt.  It was anything she could pick up.

     Whenever anyone asked what happened to my legs, she’d always say that I got eaten up by mosquitos, and had scratched myself to death.  When they asked about the stripes which went most of the way around my arms (lengths of belt tend to wrap unless doubled, and she never did), she’d tell them that I was tying things around my arms, and to not let me do that.  A blow to the head, “Oh, he fell off the swing.”  A bloody nose, “Oh, he’s prone to nosebleeds.”
     I don’t scratch my bites.  Wrapping things around my arms is laughable.  I’m only clumsy when drunk.  And I’ve only had two nosebleeds in my life outside of the ones she gave me because she had no self control.

     Nobody ever bothered to think or even to try and stop it. 

     In public, she was so coy.  So convincing, calm, victimized.  There were facades to keep up, you see.  She had to appear to be financially secure, while spending every dime they both made.  And she never let my father live down the fact that she made more money than him.

     And so, I wish him a Belated, yet Happy, Father’s day.

     Happy Father’s day to my father, who watched the Devil he married beat me my entire life.  Happy Father’s day to the man who, just last year, let her come and trash my house and start breaking computers and beating me with a plastic bethroom shelf.  Happy Fathers day to the man who, when I got a restraining order against his wife, he allowed her to have me evicted, thus destroying my credit regardless of the fact that the judgement said I didn’t owe her a dime.  Happy Father’s day, to the man who got up in court and perjured himself repeatedly during the restraining order hearing, so much so that the Judge saw right through the inconsistent bullshit of his, his Devil wife and his son.  Happy Father’s day, to the man who’s whining to everyone in the world about how it’s tearing him up that he doesn’t hear from his son, and the day that I finally call, all he can do is bitch and call me a liar.

     Ultimately, it is you, Father, who allowed that situation to continue. 

     It was you, Father, who came to my house threatening me to drop the Order of Protection that I needed.

     It was you, Father, who made up your story in court.

     It was you, Father, who didn’t call me or return any e-mails.

     And it was you, Father, who turned on me — yet again.

     And it was you, Father, who perpetrated and condoned her lies and condemnation — “See?  He’s a liar, just like he was when he was three years old!” — even when you knew better.

     You, Father, are why I never had a family.

     I never deserved any of that, Father.

     And unlike you, Father, I could never do to people that I care about what you both did to me.

     So, to the biggest liar of them all, and the perfect role model of a crying, useless husband, Happy Father’s Day!

     Are you Happy now, Mr. Good Christian Man?

     I certainly hope so.

     The opposite Love is not Hate. 

     It’s Apathy.

     Something you’ve always had plenty of.

     I have no Father.

     Thursday can’t come soon enough.

     Right now, even tomorrow looks brilliant…

Tip: Randal Munroe

     Last night was rough.  I didn’t sleep well, thanks to a psychotic cat — an obnoxiously loud cat who constantly whines for food and will not shut up — who insisted that running about the place at full chase and jumping on me with all four sets of claws was a good idea.
     It so was not…

     When I did finally wake and venture into the land of the living, it truly seemed that everyone was in a bad mood.  Of the thirty-four people who I spoke to today, only four didn’t jump right in the middle of my ass.  Thus, I decided to ignore the outside world altogether, come home, write some music and catch up on some coding projects that I’ve been putting off for some time.
     After getting two sites completed — which were really tough, mind you — the thought crossed my mind that, “Computers are sometimes more forgiving than people.”  The third site was just midbogglingly complex.  It was simply too much for me to wrap my muddled head around today, so I quickly revised my theory.

     This weekend, I requested the observance of a new, annual Holiday on February 20th.  I really do hope that “Quit Trying to Make Mark Steel Have a Bad Day Day” is a success, because I’m under a lot of pressure right now.
     In addition to a lot of ridiculously extreme, external bullshit going on lately, last Friday marked the twelve year anniversay of the death of one of my best friends.  This Thursday, February 21st, marks the one year Anniversary of the death of another.
     I know for sure that if those two were still around, one of ‘em would be kicking some peoples’ asses for buggin’ me, and the other would be joining in, all the while laughing maniacally and inciting a veritable cornucopia of other could-be-ass-kickers to assist!
     Yes, I miss those crazy bitches.  I really do.  Unquestionably, they were crazy bitches.  And if you think they’d get offended at that, all you’d've had to do was ask them.  They’d laugh in your face. 

     So, yeah, you could say I’m a little introspective today, but it’s not sadness, per se.  On days like these, I tend to evaluate what’s important to me and what’s not.  Right now, there’s a single issue that’s important to me: Thursday night, my Wildcat and I are gonna be able to hold each other and relax.  The mere promise of that one, simple event keeps my spirits up.

     Tomorrow, though, I’m gonna observe “Quit Trying to Make Mark Steel Have a Bad Day Day,” with “Quit Trying to Make My Wildcat Have a Bad Day Day” running along side it.  And I hope the world celebrates “Quit Trying to Make Fill-In-Your-Name-Here Have a Bad Day Day” with us, too, because dammit, sometimes we all need a break!

     I think it’s a worthy, humanitarian cause.

     I mean, for fucksakes…

     Not to sound like Rodney King or nothin’, but…

     Can’t we all just get along?

     I mean, except for this friggin’ cat.

     I may strangle her just so I can get some sleep.

     But fortunately, Donnie Hoyle does.  Check out the First Four, the Fifth), and here’s Episode 6 of “You Suck at Photoshop.”

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lys2MxjzE94)

     Yeah, extended travel can hurt… Especially Uranus…

     Remember this one?

The patient says, “Doctor, it hurts when I do this.”

The doctor says, “Then don’t do that.”

     An old joke that we’ve all heard a billion times, and proof that Henny Youngman will never die.

     But seriously …

     When I try and deal with certain problems, it does nothing but create a Hell-storm.

     Yesterday, in order to try and move forward with my life, and hopefully help her to do the same, I dug around a little too much and actually managed to locate a woman who is, through some fault of her own and some fault of mine, making our lives a living Hell.  As usual, she just ripped me a new one, reminded me of every single thing I ever did wrong, and got me all worked up and depressed again.
     I honestly can’t handle it, can’t handle dealing with her at all, and simply haven’t since earlier last year.  That was probably the wrong thing to do on my part.
     For me, the pain caused by it all is one thing: I couldn’t keep the promises I made to her.  It was impossible, because by the end, I was so depressed, I just wanted to stop living.
     It’s been two years, trying to get the situation resolved and keep us out of each others’ hair forever.  Yet, every single attempt to do so has led to failure.  Every time I deal with her, it puts me right back there again, where I feel completely and totally hopeless.

     So Henny Youngman’s immortal joke comes to mind again…

The patient says, “Doctor, it hurts when I do this.”

The doctor says, “Then don’t do that.”

     But in the meantime, neither of us can move on until it gets resolved.

     I can’t deal with it any more.  She can’t deal with it any more.

     And if the two of us are honest, and truly think about everything we’ve lost, we should know that we don’t owe each other anything except:

     …to have the chance to go forward and move on.

     I swear, that’s all I wanna do, and I’ll wish her well, leave it and be done with it, because the hate and accusations and bullshit and ridiculous requests have been are too much to deal with.  Neither of us are happy, and we deserve little happiness.

     Maybe, after thinking about it, she’ll come around.

     I hope she does.