I am stressed, and I do not need this.
No more.
Not today, not tomorrow.
Not in the year 2011.
You can only beat an old dog for so long before it bites you.
Be warned.
Paul Simon: American Tune
(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AE3kKUEY5WU)
Jim Croce: Time in a Bottle
On April 11th, the Wildcat and I decided to move into a single-wide trailer out in the middle of nowhere. On the 12th, the landlord, Janna Napier gave us a sob story about how she’s lost her job, the bank had frozen her assetts, her vehicle had been repossessed, and the only thing she had was this trailer. She wanted us to take over the payments, and we agreed.
She said she’d be out by Monday the 14th. On Wednesday the 16th, she still didn’t have her things out. I went over, and helped her carry the rest of out. She left a ton of garbage, both in bags and in the floor.
The Wildcat was sick, so it took us a couple of extra days, and finally moved in on the 19th. It was filthy. There was water all over the kitchen and laundry room. Janna had said she spilled baby water over there, but even after cleaning it up, there it was. The fridge and appliances were covered in goo inside and out. The place had never been vaccumed or mopped. Toilets never cleaned.
“I’m sorry about the mess,” she said. “But I’ve been living with my boyfriend for the last year.”
On the 20th, the Wildcat was lying in bed while her daughter and I continued to try and clean and rearrange things. Here came our landlord, silent, not saying award, on the verge of tears. She just stood there in the middle of the place, looking like she was going break down.
“Are you okay?” I asked her.
She shook her head. A long, uncomfortable silence passed.
“I’m broke,” she said. “I can’t pay the electricity bill, and I haven’t paid the mortgage for April.”
I gave her $320. I took the $183 Electricity bill and paid it online later that weekend.
“But it’s due again on the 1st.”
“I can’t afford that until I get paid,” I told her.
She whimpered away.
When I caught her sister outside later, I asked, “Is Janna okay?”
“Yeah, she’s like that when she misses her meds. She’s just… well… just Janna!”
And so, on the 26th, I found her behind her sister’s house, and in sight of her sister, I paid for May.
On May 6th, the air conditioning went out. I called her cell phone repeatedly to ask her about it. She wouldn’t return my calls.
Eventually, I went to her mother, Connie Hubbard, who worked in the Administration office at the Hospital. I told her the situation. Janna had apparently called her and told her about it. Connie assured me that someone who be there to look at it.
“Here’s our numbers,” I said as I gave them to her. “I work all day and she’s working nights. We need to schedule it.”
Nothing happened. Weeks past.
I called Janna on May 17th. “Janna, it’s been almost two weeks. What’s going on?”
“What do you want me to do about it?” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She hung up on me.
I got another Electricity bill, in the meantime, up to April 20th, for $48. I paid it, too.
I was pissed. I vented about that situation to a few people, including some of her family.
“Withhold her rent,” they said. “I would! There’s no sense in that!”
I went home to find AC water all over the hallway. I spent hours cleaning it up, and found that the overflow had been completely blocked because in all the time Janna had supposedly lived there, she never changed a filter. It took hours cleaning up the AC condensors and unplugging the overflow drain. But it was all no avail … the blower motor control unit was damaged after years of her neglect of the furnace. The water had shorted it.
On May 23rd, Janna showed up and brought me the mortgage payment book … which was actually an 8.5×11 sheet of paper with four check-looking things on it.
“We need out air conditioning fixed, Janna.”
“Ok, he’ll be out here tonight or tomorrow.”
On May 26th, I called her and left her a message that I would not be paying rent until she fixed the AC. Plain and simple.
No one came.
No one called.
Now, as we’re moving out, Janna is trying to claim that we never paid her rent. That we are two months behind. That we’ve destroyed her home by smoking and having pets that she didn’t agree to. Horseshit.
Problem is, I paid full price for partial month in April at $320. I paid full price for May at $320. I paid $241 (or thereabouts - I’m trying to remember off the top of my head) for her past-due Electricity bill. I helped her carry her things out because she just couldn’t do it by herself (she whined). We spent five days cleaning up her filth to the tune of NINE garbage bags full of garbage she’d left about the place. I spent four hours making sure the AC didn’t leak all over the kitchen, utility and hall floors again. I attempted to fix the blower motor, but it appears that the relay is bad from having water dumped on it for all those years.
I called Janna and explained why I don’t owe her, and she hung up on me. I called back and detailed everything, twice, to her voicemail.
Next, her mother, Connie Hubbard, called me to rip me a new asshole. She was rude and demeaning, and called me a liar the entire conversation.
“Do you have receipts? Then you didn’t pay it!”
After repeatedly attempting to defend what I was saying, eventually, I gave up.
“I am sick to death of you people from that town calling down here to wind me up when I haven’t done anything and you can fuck yourself, you cunt!”
And she’s threatening to sue the Wildcat and I — claiming that we lived there four months, when reality and simple math show that we lived there two months, and it’s taking us a couple more days to move out. It’s hard to do in that kind of heat with no AC.
And Connie Hubbard called last week and said, “Don’t worry about the two holes. Janna’s letting that trailer go back anyway.” Yet, this week, everybody’s calling and cussing me out and degrading me and calling me a liar telling me I have to fix the holes.
Mr Alan Osborne, benefactor of Ms. Napier, is seriously bitching the holes in the wall — and telling me the place was pristine when we moved in. Clearly, he never saw it. He’s going to get an estimate and sue me for the damage when he could just as easily pick up a patch kit and Clayton for $30 and have it installed in about forty-five minutes — and even match the crappy wallpaper.
What they are doing is clearly against the Landlord/Tenant Act. And again, friend of a frend, I trust too damn much. I am allowed, by law, to withhold rent when they’re not fixing anything. I’m also allowed to say, “It cost this much to keep the water from dripping and ruining the floor worse.” Wonder what my four hours is worth?
For a woman who may have never lived in the house, she sure managed to mess it up. Instead, she lives with a guy who takes care of her and her daughter. Now she’s claiming that we’ve destroyed HER house (where she hasn’t lived in over a year), and that she can’t afford to feed her child. What?
There was some MINOR damage (two holes in a 1×1 foot hold in the dry wall in the living room), however, that’s a $60 repair any way you look at it. Caused by extreme frustration. You try living in a trailer for a month with no air conditioning, you’d prolly get frustrated, too.
But I am sick to death of these nonconfrontational assholes now turning tails and kicking the Wildcat when she’s down. That is beyond reprehensible. And I will not allow that situation to continue when we’ve done nothing wrong to any of those useless bastards!
And so, Janna E. Napier and Connie Hubband get the Asshat of the Day award.
Two women who seriously Can’t Understand Normal Thinking. Janna’s money problems are not my problem. The fact that she’s lost everthing she had? Not my problem. I didn’t sign up to be a benefactor for someone who’s obviously so bad with money that she can’t buy her own child food to eat.
I believe that’s what Welfare and Family are for, dear. Except that it’d be a lie considering you’ve been being supported by one Alan Osborne for a over a year, now, wouldn’t it?
So you want publicity, ladies, there it is. You wanna lie about my character, I’ll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about yours.
It’s kinda like this … Love the emotion, love the lyrics, and sometimes, it’s sorta pertinent.
(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_qtf-JeaNM8)
But I hate hate the makeup. It’s not the 60’s anymore, and you don’t have to turn tricks. It ain’t the 70’s anymore, and you don’t need a gimmick. It’s not the 80’s anymore, and you know how to kick Trent’s ass. The 90’s were just a bunch of “alternative” that all sounded the same.
Believe what you write, believe in what you do. That’s what’ll make me like you a little more.
I mean, Jesus, sorry you smacked your girlfriend when you were drunk. You poor bastard. Wonder how she feels?
Yeah, yeah… I know, you’d hate to see my enemies. Well, I usually just wait for Karma to kick them in the ass. I mean, if I didn’t plan out a way for something cool to work and have it turned into another thing to blow them up already, anyway.
That’s blood on my hands.
Got any songs for that?
Dude, you drank. You were an asshole.
Get over it.
Mind you, it’s a brilliant song. It’s where you meet someone in a lonely world and you want spend you entire life with them, yet….
(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ldq-efmOhfw)
You still might. Go figure. *shrug*
Keep it up, tho. And if you do, you’ll have more friends that Trent Reznor. That’s Life.
And Mikey will still like it….
Sometimes, I’ll hear something that sounds like someone transcribed the thoughts in my head. Blue October managed to do it a lot, especially on their albums History for Sale
(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i9ZvGCdZ6uU)
Sure, it’s a long way from Rascal Flatts… But I still Melt
Yesterday, Zacque and I went down to Knoxville Cigar Company to relax for a few minutes. No big surprise, I’ve been stressed, and needed a little time to sit down in an air-conditioned place with a big comfy leather chair. Rather, at least a place like that that wasn’t in the confines of a doctor’s office…
We decided to go across the street to DaVinci’s Pizza and grab a couple of slices first.
“Hey, fellas, whatcha need?” asked the rather large, oily man behind the counter.
“A slice of cheese, please.”
“Ahhh, man, I’ve got pepperoni coming out of the oven,” he added.
“No, I’d really like the cheese, thanks.” No emphasis added.
“Alright, Well!” he said annoyed. “II’m just trying to be helpful!” He seemed agitated.
Zacque ordered, “Two slices of cheese.”
“Ahhh, sorry,” I said. “I’ll take two, too.”
The fat man huffed.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Dave,” he replied dryly. “Want the special? It’s $1 more and you get a drink.”
“Sure,” Zacque replied.
“Six dollars,” the fat man said.
Zacque handed him six dollars. I handed him a ten and a one.
“Oh, man!” the guy started annoyed. “You are not taking my last five! This is stupid! I’ve only got one left! I can’t go the bank!”
“Ummm, sorry,” I said. “It’s all I’ve got.”
“Well, you can’t have it! I’ve only got one five! I told you, we don’t have anyone to go the bank!” he exclaimed.
Zacque helped. “Here,” and handed the guy two fives for a ten, leaving him one ten in the register. Apparently having only one ten wasn’t cause for alarm.
The fat man grasped for ones, shaking his head and mumbling the whole time. He now had three fives.
“So, can I get a five back now?” I asked.
“No! I told you there’s no one to go the bank!” he snapped.
“Jeez, dude,” I mumbled with a grin.
“Here!” he said sarcastically as he threw six ones in my hand.
“Mellow, man,” I replied. “Jeez…”
Zacque and I sat and ate our pizza silently.
At the end of the meal, I filled the plate with crushed red pepper and parmessan cheese. I drank half of my Dr. Pepper down and placed it carefully on the cash register where there was no chance of it spilling — leaned into gap where the receipts come out where it’d be nice and stable, and just a minor annoyance to move, and certainly wouldn’t cause any damage. I took the plate and placed it upside down on the counter.
It’s the least I could do given the guy was an asshole from the time we went in.
We walked out. A random passerby said, “Hey, did you guys enjoy your pizza today?”
“Not especially,” I said. “But that was mostly because of the asshole serving it.”
“Sorry!” he grinned as he walked on.
As we stepped into the road, the guy runs out screaming. ”What the fuck did you fuckin’ do that for you fuckin’ moron?”
“Sorry, man. I dropped it,” I replied dryly. I found it odd he should come out raising such hell for such a minor mess.
“Fuck you, you fucking retard! I’ll ring your skinny little neck!”
I turned around. “No, I really don’t think so,” I said calmly, smiling.
He stepped back.
I turned to cross the street, and fat bastard screamed, “You fuckin’ retard!” and shoved me.
I turned around again. “Dude, you really don’t wanna do that.”
As I turned and walk towards the cigar shop, Mr. Asshat decided to keep on screaming. One of the other local business owners came out to see what the commotion was. He crossed the street, and as I turned around, the guy’s pushing Zacque — someone who hasn’t done a damn thing. So here me and the aforementioned business owner go back across the street…
“You fuckin’ fucked up my register! Goddamn fuckin’ retard! Fucking threw shit all over my counter!”
“No, I didn’t! It’s in one spot, easy to clean!”
“What you did is wllful destruction of property!”
At that point, I got pissed. I stepped towards him, finger up. “And what you did is assault, motherfucker!”
He turned his attention to the other business owner. “Dude, come in here and look what he did!”
Zacque and I turned and crossed the street.
“That fuckin’ retard is never allowed back in here!” he screamed to my back.
I gave him a well-deserved one-fingered salute and walked into the cigar shop.
A few minutes later, the other business owner came into the shop.
“Dude, what did you do?” he asked.
“I put the plate of cheese right in the middle of his counter.”
“Why would you do that?” he asked, half laughing.
I shrugged. “I’m stressed, and the guy was an asshole from the time we walked in. I really don’t need that shit right now. He pissed me off, and that was the least destructive thing I could think to do.”
He laughed. “Did you also put the drink on his register?”
“Yeah, half full where there was no chance it would spill. Why he’s going on about me destroying anything is beyond me. That guy’s gonna have a coronary before the night’s over.”
“Yeah, especially if you guys go back over there!” he laughed. “He stepped back!”
After selecting the cigar of my choice, I sat down at the bar for a Guinness on tap. I felt so calm and peaceful. I started laughing.
“Mark, what are you laughing about over here?” asked the bartender.
“Ahh, Pizza Dave’s an asshole.”
“Yeah, that’s news?” he grinned.
“Apparently I ruined his day.”
Also apparent is the fact that I’m not the only person who has the opinion that Dave is an asshole. It’s just that most people seem to tolerate him a little better than I do.
Of course, there’s at least one other person on the Internet annoyed with him, too…
Actually, I’m worried about Dave.
Even though he’s an asshat, he’s still a human being. Well, in theory, anyway. And with an attitude like that where he thinks he can come out screaming abuse and shoving people when he could just as easily pick up a rag and wipe it off, it’s apparent that he’s got some rather serious health issues.
There’s plenty of evidence that physical problems can manifest in peoples’ behavior, and this guy, given his size and trouble breathing, seems to be a ticking time-bomb for coronary disease.
I would urge my fellow Knoxvillians to visit DaVinci’s Pizza in the Old City. If Dave’s working, I suggest that everyone turn their plates over on the table. This should give him some much needed aerobic excercise, as it would require him to do something besides scream and shove people, which is largely a stationary act.
In doing this, it would ensure that Dave actually has to come from behind the counter and move his arms in a circular motion a few times, thus giving him a bit better workout. This would probably cause him a little more shortness of breath given his slothful condition, but if it’s done multiple times a day, it may actually save the asshat’s life.
He should thank me.
I mean, I’m only looking out for his health.
*snicker*
As for my sense of calm from the incident, and why I didn’t turn around and kick the living shit out of the guy, there’s an easy explanation.
it was actually refreshing, given that during the last three months in that tiny little town where I was working for a Healthcare company, everyone is so non-confrontational that they’ll gossip and stab knives in each others’ backs, spreading the most insane and vicious slanders imaginable. There are never any questions, never any explanations, just filth and over-reaction.
It’s nice to be back in a place where people will actually attempt to do something about their problems rather than just bitch about them and make up vicious rumors in an attempt to discredit and ruin a person’s livelihood. It takes small minds and a lack of humanity to do what some of you people have done.
And so, for those who’ve partaken in recent events can share this Asshat of the Day Award. Myself, I can walk away with a clear conscience, knowing that I’m a better person, and certainly a better worker, than you people will ever be.
Talk’s cheap, people. I have a feeling that very soon, you’re all gonna learn some lessons the hard way. Karma can be a real bitch. 
[ 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.
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.
Ya know, I’ve gone through my life trying to be conscientous, going out of my way to do things for other people, and trying to do the right thing. Sure, like everyone else, I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and really screwed some things up — but I always tried to avoid doing things out of malice and anger. Sometimes it could not be helped, and I picked myself up and carried on, made amends where they were possible, and really made an effort when I couldn’t.
When an altercation happens, I try not embarrass or demean people who I care about — or cared about — further by talking a whole bunch of bullshit to everyone and their brother that I’ll have to go back and apologize for later. Feelings get hurt too easily, and you embarrass yourself in the process if you’ve misrepresented the situation and had to go back on it.
It is for that reason, and that reason alone, that I tend to keep a lot of the “specifics” of situations to myself. And sure, I’ve screwed that up a few times, but all in all, I live my life simply, and with a clear conscience.
And when it so happens that someone knows me pretty well, they’re able to manipulate that part of my character in order to make others believe that I’m some sort of Monster. It takes a truly sick mind to use that sort of thing to say, “Oh, look, he’s not denying it! I told you it was true!”
And it takes a special sort of stupid to believe it, to blindly follow a tale which makes absolutely no sense, and is such a departure from the truth that it wouldn’t even be believable in a made-for-Lifetime-TV movie.
I am not a Monster. I have never done anything but try and help certain people, and nearly every time, it has turned out badly. Other times, I have simply done nothing, which for some people is the absolutely worst thing I could have possibly done.
But when someone wants to bitch and argue and start a whole bunch of crap, I usually tend to retreat and wait for it to blow over. And, apparently, this a bad thing, too.
I am probably going to start blogging about this crap, because it’s been a pain in my ass my entire life, and I’ve absolutely had it with the whole lot.
And let there be no confusion from any self-victimized ‘tards with delusions of grandeur that I’m “screwing” with them all the time when I’m not: I’m not talking about any bloggers, wives, girlfriends, friends, employees or anyone else except except one very specific specific group. I don’t care about that drama, because as hard of some of that stuff was to go through at the time, it doesn’t matter, it’s not my drama and I have no emotional attachment to it. When it’s over, I walk away, done.
No … I’m talking about Family.
Two extremely large families, actually, with a literal cast of thousands.
The ones that I share DNA with. Or don’t, considering some of the stories. *rolls eyes*
It’s time to set the record straight once and for all.
What started this?
For the last three weeks, several of them have called me asking for my help. They need my help and advice, or my expertise. Nevermind that I’ve helped them my entire life, and been nothing but shit on for it in the absolute worst ways.
They re-use their vicious lies. Things that everyone knew was a lie twenty years ago suddenly come back into play as evidence of the new improved lie. As a nasty little mob, they absolutely villify the object of their hatred with the most vile and disgusting slanders imaginable, never asking my side of the story and having no absolutely no regard for the verifiable truth of the situation.
And now, after a full year of giving me the silent treatment and stabbing me in the back with their vicious lies, they call me for my help, advice and expertise? Without so much as an apology?
Yeah, I’m pissed, and when I calm down, I might change my mind about blogging anything more specific. But right now, I have five instances in Draft where they’ve done some heinous crap, and a sixth which ties all five together into the biggest, steaming pile of poo I can think of — the kind of absolute bullshit that can ruin a person’s life.
And I’m going to excercise the self-control they never had and keep it to myself until I calm down.
But at the same time … this stuff’s been eating away at me for far too long. They’ve tried to instill their spiteful, vengeful, righteous hatred into me my entire life, and I’ve resisted. It’s taken a serious toll on me, both physically and mentally.
I wear my heart on my sleeve. Everyone around me can see when I get stressed and preoccupied — “Mark, what’s wrong?” and I’ve replied with “Ahhh, nothing….” or blown some stupid pet peeve out of proportion — and I’m honestly beggining to think that I’m losing the battle.
Maybe it’s time to really set it straight once and for all …
…. with names, with witnesses …
With Verifiable Proof…
And what will they do when that God they claim to follow won’t help them? Why should He keep them out of the mess they’ve made?
Or am I supposed to sit here and do the right thing again and ignore it until the next time, when it will undoubtedly be worse?
Mmhmm … Decisions, decisions.
Maybe I should flip a coin…
Maybe twice …
Best two outta three …
Hrm …
Yeah, this might take a friggin’ book…
And the funny thing is — I’ll be calm in an hour.
