You kids were around enough to know better.  That’s what fucking pisses me off.

     Yeah, what really happened, S.?   Why?  How long had she been drinking?  What shit was coming out of her mouth?  Oh, I’m sorry — you don’t wanna grow up like that?  Do you think anybody wanted that?  Do you think I wanted you to see that?  And WHO did WHAT after that?

     Yeah, sweets.  Wake the fuck up.

     Yeah, I threw her beer back in her face.  Not the glass, not the bottle, like dear ol’ dad.  No, the rest of the cup she put down on the counter — after she’d already covered my face with it — went back on her.  And you remember what happened that led up to that, and even still, I hugged her.  And then, Ms. S, you started crying like it was the worst thing in the world.   Because, well, some got on you, didn’t it, when she thrashed it on you? 

     But you still got what you wanted, huh?  More attention when you were afraid she’d leave? 

     Problem is, S., I’d already offered you could live with us wherever we were.  Like you did there … And your brother, J. … Did either of you ever ask or give me so much as a thank you for using me like you did?  Because — you weren’t kids anyway, were you? 
     But I damn sure love you like you were.  And I did my best to give you whatever you needed.   Hell, J. had a good job.  I only made half again as much as your mom… and you both treated me as a benefactor …
     Above and beyond what your dad ever did, mind you… He always expected something in return, didn’t he, because that’s why you came to live with me?

     “S. is the reason I’ll never…” she told me.

     So what was the reason for all the other shit that led up to that, S.?  Do you remember?  I told her — “Baby, I’m afraid you’re an alcoholic.”
     Looking for that escape … by any means …
     And what’d you say when I told her that, S.?
     ”Shut the fuck up, Mark!”
     But you knew I was right.  And you knew she was right, too.  Just like with London boy, S. … We wouldn’t tell you what to do, because you were over eighteen.  But yeah, we tried to discourage because we didn’t wanna see you in the same situation as your mom, trying to escape so badly that you’d fall into the same trap… With the same kind of asshole…

     So, yeah, I wanted to check on ya last night.

     “Hey, baby.”
     “Who is this?”
     “S.?  Is that you?”
     “Yeah, but why the fuck are you calling here?”
     “Because I think it’s time you all started telling the truth.  And just remember, S, I do love you.”
     “Fuck you motherfucker!  How dare you call this number!  I’ll call the law on you!”
     “Oh, baby girl, you go right ahead.”

     I attempted a similar phone call, much earlier, with J.  And, as usual, he threatened to put a bullet in my head.  Just like he did his own mother, leading to her freaking out so badly…. And he still hasn’t done it, of course.  As a matter of fact, he cowered — much like his father — when I walked to him and asked why he said such a thing.

     Conversation could help. 

     You all wanna keep lying to each other … You go right ahead.

     So why’d she have to call me up and tell me I was a grandfather back in October?  Or in January to tell me that she was coming home?  Or keep asking me to send her money?  She never would take it when I offered to bring it to her, though.
     You have to wonder why, huh?

     When you look in your own hearts and find a nasty, black mess… I’m pretty sure you know who made that.  And kids … It wasn’t me.  Nor her.
     You all just … let it happen.  Again.

     Because it was what you were used to.

     So how much truth do you want, kids?  Because in my book, you know quite too much on your own.  But for my part — Oh, the things I could show you. 
     You gotta remember, and wake up, that I wasn’t the blame for her problems.  She was already had them, and I tried to get her out the damn situation.  You all just needed a scapegoat, and I guess I seemed like a good one at the time.  Maybe J. and D. remember a lot of those problems from before — and I hope not so much.

     So, D, if you have any balls and any soul — you better raise that kid somewhere else.  I wanna see that grandkid grow up a lot better… And I wanna know it won’t grow up in that hellhole.
     You know what that means, D.   And you know it’s the dead-honest truth, too.

     Whether any of you like it or not, you very actively contributed to that state of things.  But I’d spare you — and condemn everyone around you — because you never had a sense of community.  All those people who kept saying they loved and cared never did a damn thing to stop what was going on, did they?
     I’m told I was the only one to ever try and make it stop.  I only wish I’d been stronger at the time.

     But I still love you.  I question why a lot, but I do.

     As for your mom…

     Goodbye, Baby.  I do love you, very much.  But I’m done.  I’ve had enough bullshit.  I didn’t give up in September… I just stopped fighting back for a change. 
     I look at the scar I got for that … every day … Oh, but you haven’t seen that yet, have you?  Funny thing … You missed all of that, and everything that preceeded it.

     Because, baby, if you’d loved me like you say when you call … you might’ve actually been here.

     It really is time you all started telling the truth for a change.

One of the worst feelings in the world is Loneliness. There are a billion reasons for every other negative emotion you might have, most every one of them having to do with changing your surroundings, or the people you’re around. But Loneliness is different. It’s the one that wants none of those but one thing…
…for things to stay the same.

And that… that can be a monster.

Especially when it’s been a year, or even more, later…

And you’re still stupid enough to care.

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nxa5qlkLqWI)

     Not like anything I ever did meant anything to her… and yet, somehow, the things I didn’t do are to blame for the damage she already carried… It amazes me how fragile a mind can be that it can be convinced of so many things that never happened… But I know it took convincing, perhaps someone “taking advantage of a drunk.”  But how could it be from me, when I’m not even in contact?
     There’s no absolution in a bottle.  Drinking is no excuse for your actions when you can’t even see that you’ve done anything wrong.  Sure, I drink.  But if I do something wrong, I take responsibility, make my apologies and do my penance.  And if I can’t even remember what happened — that’s when I know it’s time to back off.
     And no amount of drinking can kill a memory.  Especially the good ones… and I wonder why on earth anyone would ever try and erase those.

     This is a drunk blog.  Because I am drunk.  I have the spins so badly that I can only see the screen in off intervals.  But I can still type.  And my thoughts are remarkably coherent.
     Right now, I’m just reflecting a little about how everything is my fault.  You see, for whatever reason, everything is my fault.  There are different reasons for it being my fault, but usually revolves around the fact that I have a penis.
     This all started when I was a born.

     Being a rather healthy newborn didn’t help matters.  You see, it was my fault my mother had such a difficult labor.  It was my fault, too, that she ended up married to my father.  In fact, it was also my fault when she was tired, when she was sick, and even when it was just too damn gloomy outside.
     Now, you know for certain that this crap we’ve called weather for months in East Tennessee is all my fault.  Because I can control the weather.  Seriously, you know, I am a minor Weather diety.

     Apparently, when someone I don’t know calls me up screaming and yelling at me, it’s my fault.  A few years ago, Bellsouth hooked me up with this great telephone number, 865-544-5750.  The reason I post this is because, ya know, it’s published in about one hundred fourty-four thousand places as the number to the Knox County Public Library, no including every book that’s ever passed through their doors and the fact that the number changed ten years ago.
     You see, I was just screwing with people when I told them I wasn’t.  Yes, asshat, you owe $6958.42 in late charges for the book you didn’t return in 1963.  I know this because it’s my fault you dialed the number without checking in your telephone directory.  It’s my fault because I am the library.

     It’s my fault when some guy who wants to bone my girlfriend starts harrassing both of us to no end.  It’s my fault when he makes up an elaborate story about how I came to his house to beat the crap out of him and he’s afraid for his life.  It’s my fault.
     Apparently, when I’m sitting on a plane and half way across the country, I have the ability to make people do really stupid shit like make up stories.  And whenI land at DFW Airport for a layover, it’s my fault that he’s calling the police right then. 
     You see, I have this effect on people I’ve never met.  I can control people with my mind.

     It’s my fault, too, that someone finally decrypted a password on one of my old computers.  I didn’t have a chance to wipe it before they took it from me, and, well, you know.  I planned it all.  
     I planned, a year later, for them to start sending Yahoo messages to anyone who sent me a message, digging to see whether or not I was screwing them.  I also planned for them to use the Desktop SMS App and start sending text messages to random bloggers.  And I intentionally didn’t change my phone number just so this could happen.
     It’s my fault, because I’m a sociopath who can plan things down to the miniscule detail, just to screw with people for no apparent reason.

     It’s my fault, when two people who were trying their damndest to get me to do something I didn’t wanna do pop up a year later with phone calls and threats.  You see, by not having sex with these two — well, yeah, hot — women who threw themselves at me, because my heart and body belong to someone else, I’m a complete asshole.
     Because you know, I am God’s gift to women, and the biggest player ever.  Totally.  I just make women want me by not doing a damn thing and telling them to go away.  It’s all my fault that they don’t take their medication and fuck off like rational people.

     Tonight, I responded to an email to “Mr. Shit Head,” which was sent Monday night.  I responded to an accusation, with cut-and-paste proof, and said, basically, “I don’t play games because — I do care.”
     Because I’m just trying to confuse someone who thinks everything is my fault.  I’m trying to take advantage of her.  I’m trying to mess with her head and make her think she’s crazy.  I’m stalking her.  I threw a glass at her head.  I cussed her mother out.  I’m stalking her kids.  I’m a hit man for the mob.   I beat her on a daily basis.  I tried to run us both off a cliff.  I’m just the worst, biggest piece of shit in the world.  Why, once, I even killed her!  (I suppose her being alive now is just further proof of the extent of my Divinity.)  Nevermind that most of this was from 150 miles away, and thank to this bullshit, I have easily double the number of scars of Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon.
     It’s my fault…
     …that regardless of everything, I’ve still been here waiting… because I know most of this shit was not her fault.  And no matter what I do, I cannot give up on her… And can’t wait for the day she wakes up realizes — it’s not me doing this shit.

     And maybe then… she’ll try and come back… and I’ll look into her eyes and tell her…
     It’s my fault that when you look me in the eyes, you’ll know I’m telling you the truth, and that’s something you do not want to face because it just makes you feel like shit, doesn’t it?
     And maybe at that point … I’ll let go.

     Sometimes it hurts.  But it’s better than feeling nothing at all…

     Meanwhile, 378 people in the background are yelling, “Mark!  You need to get laid!”  And right now, I’m starting to agree.  That’s my fault.  Because I’m human.  And I have a penis.
     Amazingly, I know that if there were 100 women in the room who wanted to, I would end up with the one who’s more fucked up than a football bat…

     And that’s my fault, too… because when I see somebody who’s hurt, I give a damn…

     I’m sorry.  I just suck like that.  My fault…

     Just for that … I’m gonna make it rain again!  You’ll see, you bastards!

Seven days ago…

I miss you so much…