It seems like I’m the only person who still knows what happened a year ago.  Someone else made some rather half-hearted apologies about it, and claimed to have lied so much about the incident that it couldn’t be reversed.  Meanwhile, I’ve taken the brunt of those lies and accusations, and even had those lies used as further evidence for more things that never happened.
     It truly sucks to watch someone you care about devolve into paranoia and mania because of past trauma.  It’s even harder to watch them drink themselves into oblivion, effectively brainwashing themselves into believing their own bullshit because they’re too weak to stand up and say, “Hey, I have a problem, and I need some help.”  Sure, I’ve self-medicated the same way myself at times, but I’ve also known enough to realize when I needed help — and sought it out and taken it.

     So, suffice it to say, I’m more than a little down today.

     And my shoulder is killing me.

     Last week, I threw it out pretty bad.  I kept eating Ibuprofen, putting FlexAll on it to try and deal with it.  But by Friday, it was so bad that I had to go to the doctor.  I dreaded the Cortisone shot as much as I might dread a catheter, because they always hurt like Hell.
     This time was worse.  The shot was easy in and of itself, but filling an already inflamed joint with a thick paste adds tremendous pressure where you’re already feeling it.  That’s usually tolerable, except in this case, the entire bottom of my arm went cold and numb, and the fire shooting through my arm’s nerve tunnels had me pretty damn close to tears.
     “Keep your mind off it,” I kept thinking on the way to get my prescription filled.  I gave Mushy a random call, knowing he’d gone through a worse bout of it last year with his shoulder.  Didn’t work.  “Horror stories.  Fuck.”

     And then, of course, came time to deal with the idiot Pharmacy techs who can’t read, “ALLERGIC TO ACETAMINOPHEN” on a prescription.  Nor did they have the brains to figure out the milligrams for a one-size-fits-all drug.  Nor did they have the social skills to treat me like anything less than an addict, even going so far as to say, “This doesn’t look like a real prescription.”
     The third pharmacy, of course, was the charm — but not before going back to the doctor’s office to get them to fill out the prescription form properly and call in the medication to the pharmacy of their choice, who also missed, “ALLERGIC TO ACETAMINOPHEN,” as did the third after having that one called in by the second pharmacy.

     I finally got the drugs I needed.

     And I logged in here after an extended absence to find a rather overwhelming amount of spam.

     “Are tose numbers even close to right?“  I can’t even tell.  Since the spam filter only shows twenty per page, the page numbers I can click to are also in expoential notation … all thanks spambots, page scrapers, content theives, and Southeast Kentucky Rednecks, thanks to the bullshit in the first part of this post…

     Some days, I just shouldn’t bother.

“I don’t want to start any blasphemous rumors,
but I think that God’s got a sick sense of humor. 
And when I die I expect to find him laughing…”
— Blashphemous Rumours, Depeche Mode

marksteel: [12:13] Yes, I do think I’m better than you because, unlike you, I’m not a slave to bullshit. You are a fucking idiot who has no life other than to fuck with people over the Internet, or come to my house based upon the conjecture thereof. So please go fuck yourself. Drive through.

     Meh. Get a life, hardon.  Just because you have the hots for a hottie I used to know… and do still care about… and yeah, Love…. what the fuck?

     I kept wondering why my left ear kept hurting so bad.

     I put the four earrings back in my left ear, after a complete detox and trying to to get used to a lot of other herbal bullshit to try and get rid of the stress and CRAP that doctors keep feeding me.

     I finally realized that the ringing in my ears was caused by the last asswit — from last Friday — who showed up at my house to announce himelf. He wasn’t from Leslie County, actually, but Perry County, KY.

     Because, apparently, the well of Balls had run dry.  (Only 1250 of the,m and ONE of me.  I liked the odds).

     And yes, he got a lucky shot in after his stupid, inbred ass fell on me. This wouldn’t've happened if A) he’d had enough room, at my front door, to swing a baseball bat down, and B) I hadn’t hit him in the mouth midswing.

     So I blame me.

     And this earring bit … Yeah, the clasp twisted to underneath the skin. It “looked” right.

     Goddamn hoops.

     So, basically, to Leslie County, KY …

     Never send a boy to do a man’s job.

     I can take a hit.

     And finally, I got one.

     Back in January, I was looking for an Xbox 360 and scouring and scraping to get one.  I got screwed around with tremendously, and with a lot of false leads, ended up without one.  Finally, thanks to Lt. Cpl. James who was shipping out to Afghanistan, I managed to get one.  I didn’t have games — only Uno — and he said prior to shipping out, he’d send me a few from home.  True to his word, he did.
     And thus, I ended up with Call of Duty: World at War (he’d said Call of Duty: Modern Warfare, but hated World at War, and send me that instead).  And, of course, our friends decided to send me a lot of their old games, as well.  So I’ve ended up with quite a collection…
     Working in and around military for so long, I’ve met a lot of good people like that.  And getting back in touch with a lot of those guys has helped me get through some of the shit-in-my-head that’s been bugging me for so long.

     Last month, I came upon a weird opportunity, whereby I could basically “trade” my Xbox 360 Pro (the one with the 20-Gig hard drive) for an Xbox 360 Elite and not have to shell out any cash for the upgrade.  I jumped on that like white on rice.
     Unfortunately, even though it was new in the box, the damn thing red-ringed on me after two days.  Iit wasn’t a 2008 Holiday Bundle, but one built in July 2008, but still, yeah, yeah, my luck.  Fortunately, I called Microsoft, and they shipped me an empty box, which I dropped my Xbox in it and gave to the UPS guy.  They shipped it back in under a week!  The “bad” ones are so few and far between now that the repair center just rocks the party — especially given that they extended my Xbox Live account, to boot.

     Even though I enjoy playing a lot of different games on there, I still end up playing Uno.  This is especially true if I’ve been drinking so much that manual dexterity falters, something which happens quite a lot lately. It has the alternative positive effect of keeping me from blogging while smashed.

     Now, playing Uno should be pretty sedate, right?  It’s a relatively passive game, so you end up chatting a lot.  And if I turn on the Xbox Live Vision camera, then it’s always mildly amusing.
     “Dude, you’re that guy from Crank, aren’t you?  You the fuckin’ Transporter man?”
     “Ahh, no.  I’m just some old, psycho bald fucker.  At least that’s what someone I cared about told me in December.”
     “Ahh, man, you’re not old.  What are you, 25, 28?  Nah, whatever, man, you’re cool!”

     Some days, I admit it … I need that kind of validation, because I feel like a right-royal ass most of the time any more.  And I definitely feel old.  And I am bald.  And sometimes it’s nice to hear, “Nah, man, you’re alright.  That guy was an asshole,” because … sometimes, playing Uno, chatting becomes a bit of a chore.
     I mute, kick and block communications from an innordinate number of people… usually after I put up with their shit to critical mass and tell them exactly why they don’t deserve to have an Internet connection, and perhaps that they are the perfect argument as to why Abortions should stay legal.

     At around 5PM, the drunks start coming home from their UK pubs and acting like pricks.  At midnight, you start ending up with drunken Americans and Canadians.  By 3AM, the west coast of the US and Canada are purely lit, and they end up coming in with so much off-the-wall insanity that you end up having to jab a spork in your eyes and ears.
     When the asshats show up, it’s usually for one reason: To be disruptive pricks and attempt to garner some attention that they obviously didn’t get in whatever bar they were in.  I’m constantly amazed at how many otherwise introverted, perhaps even awkward, people go completely and totally insane over Xbox Live.  It is even *worse* than the way they act on the Internet alone.

     It seems Xbox Live also adds incontrovertible proof to John Gabriel’s Greater Internet Fuckwad Theory… And as the link says, “Be glad for the anonymity; it’s why you still have teeth.”

     Although, I sure many do not…

Tip: Her Royal Uprariousness, Fracas

     When I rarely use Twitter, it’s pretty much only to toss out a sarcasm bomb or draw some minor attention to something not entirely unlike this:

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PN2HAroA12w)

     …which is, of course, kinda like saying, “I own, and play, an Xbox 360.  But I’m too cool for Gamestop.”

     Which … I am …

     “Yes, I do, because it’s 3:39AM.”
     “Ain’t like you don’t sleep, fuckhe’d!”
     “Apparently, neither do you.  Now stop calling.”
     “Why sh’uld I, aft’r what you did?”
     “And what was I did this time, asswipe?”
     “You stalkin’ her, you pieceashit!”
     “Man, WTF are you talking about?  I live 150 miles….”
     “FUCK YOU, DAMMIT!  FUCK YOU, MARK STEEL!”
     “150 miles away.  How the Hell could I be stalking her?”
     “YOU GOT YOUR WAYS!”
     “What the fuck is your problem?”
     “I’ KEEYIL YOU!”
     “I’m waiting.”
     “…”
     “Bitch.”
     “FUCK YOU, DICKHEAD!”
     “No, fuck you … Now put down or shut down, fucker.  Because you know where I live.”
     “Fuck you!”
     “No, thanks.  I’m straight.  *click*”

     I love dealing with Leslie County fuckwits at nearly four AM.

     There are only maybe twelve out of a 1250 population who actually had the balls to show up.  And get their asses kicked.

     I say “maybe twelve,” because several times, there were more than one who showed up — AT MY HOME, NO LESS — at once… But past a couple times, none lasted past the first one.  Instead, the others got hit once and ran like little girls to tattle to their parents.

     “Oooh, they hit me on the playground!  Daddy, whoop their daddy’s ass!”

     That’s how they use Cops in Leslie County, Kentucky.

     Like again tonight.

     And they were so quiet for a while… until last night … And it started again with a phone call from a supposed “Rob Johnson.”  Who sounded a Hell of a lot like a someone I would’ve given a damn about once upon a time.

     Fuck Leslie County.

     All of it.

     Because, actually, only thirteen out of 1250 gave me an erection.

     And only one was for the right reason.

     And for anyone who thinks I’m a “violent asshole” for defending myself at *my* front door?  You can go fuck yourself.

Note 7:31AM EDT:  At least now I have that “reason” I asked for, right?  Miractulously, I’m stalking her? WTF? I’m stalking her from 150 miles away? You lousy pieces of shit … And … ya know, the usual….

     Apparently, Jesus-Misericordieux on Reunion Island is being flocked by people believing that a miracle has happened, in that the face of Jesus appeared on a Roman Catholic priest’s seat cushion.

     *cough*

     I would expect to find Jesus in the lowest of places…  In the ceiling tile of a seedy hostel, to remind someone of how things “could be.”  Perhaps in the sweat of a beer can, to give hope to the hopeless.

     But is it wrong of me to refuse to believe that he will magically appear under the ass of a hairy, sweaty priest at an aging church in a popular European tourist destination?

     And if the photo here is authentic, I believe that’s one of Johnny Hart’s characters from B.C….

Tip: Sam, the absentee blogitude.com writer