(no subject)
"Please don't ever think that life is boring or that you don't have value." Alex Jones
I had several good friends over the years, but no one who could wake me up. The closest was Chris. He saw some of this world for what it really is. And he tried to commit suicide in our Troy apartment twice, the flat above the pedophile rapist who waited for me in the doorway with bottles of Jack Daniel's. His button shirts and Vaseline sweat on the run from Oregon law. Days were spent oblivious to the blissful and priceless gift that is normal health. Not even good health, just a normal guy able to handle a six pack of beer, a handful of cigarettes, and full day's work. Driving home at night, 22 years old and no girl, from my part-time job delivering pizzas around Coxsackie with my moping face down at the dashboard because I wasn't a summer intern at Rolling Stone or even getting mentions in fiction contests at SUNY Albany.
"Good people tend to be blind to evil." Alex Jones
Why did I fall for the college industrial complex? Why didn't I see what a joke and a game all of this is? Why didn't I polish guns and learn how to change oil? Why ain't I makin' airplane parts in Coxsackie with Mike and Tommy? Why did I dream of New York City from my bedroom for years when I could have just gone and lived in a Chelsea studio as a typist? Why did I spend all my money? Why did I run coast to coast like a dog chasing his tail just because girls dumped me? Why didn't I see how handsome I was? Why did my temper and rage take up too much room for happy common sense? Car crash, car crash, car crash, Jobs quit & Jobs fired, Titanium plate in face, A month in the hospital, Assault on Police officer, University suspension, Inheritance squandered, Student loans, Heineken with anti-depressants... um, Life Skills? Why was I so unsatisfied with being unknown, a common laborer who jerks off? Why did I ever start drinking? What were those panic attacks about? Why didn't I just enjoy things, coming home from concerts, no loans or classes, just my own books and oak desk with calm, clean notebooks. Who is so unhappy with a loving family, good health, and a place to live? Why didn't I make use of all the FREE resources at my fingertips? They were all there. Given. Why didn't I learn to study history from free books in the library by the Hudson River? There are local open museums that make you think of muskets and blood spilled by men who fought to be free so you could think about cd-r spindles. I could have crawled up from nowhere, sharing beds and even blue jeans with my brother, to only needing an iPhone and the International Forecaster, walking barefoot on the beach back to my used 1993 Infiniti G20. Imperial Beach sand on the floor mats.
Why couldn't I see the murder that was planted in my backyard? Why couldn't I see that this world has been shaped, cultured, and settled in the dust of rape, theft, war, evil plagues this place. That real good men are shaped by the survival of this. That life is beautiful with majesty all around us--purple skies of the San Diego Coast broken by crucifixes of old Spanish chapels where homeless men and women are given a warm night to sleep simply by God's design of hemispheres--and I should have been simple, patient, hard-working, thankful for bread and coffee, a Smashing Pumpkins song on the radio, helping mom take in groceries from the driveway... but cognizant, aware of the evil constantly attacking you, the government always lying to you, and red-blooded with the fiery eyes of men like those in old western photographs because each day was a fight to stay alive.
"Nerds are among the most dangerous people on earth because they end up running things, but still hate everyone because they weren't the jocks in high school. So they use their minds to hurt people." Alex Jones
You mean like the ostrich, needle-dick substitute teacher with his penny loafers and pleated grey khakis, nasacort nose, and Latin teacher eye glasses who walked in on me as I sat on the toilet harmlessly reading my Spanish-English dictionary I bought for myself at the book fair so I could become a better English tutor to Hispanic students...
"Sorry man, my fault. Forgot to lock it. Be out in just a minute." I said to him, laughing calmly and unembarrassed to try and defuse the situation, because some people have gasping hysterical complexes when they walk in and see someone else on a toilet. Usually it's when women walk in on guys in a general restroom, like at a bar or on an airplane.
But this guy was clearly a bed wetter, abused as a child, raised by an insane grandmother who touched his private areas, violently and abnormally insecure.
he ran past the wide open, unused bathroom right next to this one and yelled at the women in the main office about "some guy!! i don't know, he's just in there ...uhhahhh...uuhhahhrr..on the.. on the toilet!! have you even checked these bathrooms? why don't you check these bathrooms? are people just coming in off the street now!? are we open to the public!?"
(i was wearing a buttoned dress shirt with black silk tie and had apologized to the asshole who walked in on me without knocking and without apologizing -- it was my sin and fault to use a toilet as a school employee when a substitute can't use the available one right next to it)
"i don't know what to tell you. these bathrooms are only for teachers and staff. there's another bathroom, sir. have you tried that one?"
"well, no, but there's someone in the other one...just sitting there like these are public bathrooms...uhhah"
and, of course, i get angry that these women are being yelled at by this faggot creep and that now everyone in the office is forced to think about me taking a shit so i just have to say something from behind the door (now locked) when he finally does use the other bathroom. "always a good idea to knock, asshole."
"hurrmmpphht! do you work here??"
"actually, yes i do. i work here more than you do. and you don't have to yell at those women about it. we can talk about it outside if you have a problem." felt immediately so stupid for saying that, so i washed my hands slowly until i heard him leave.
four months later, i am asked by my sweet Mrs. Jimenez to help cover for her teacher friend who has a sub covering her side of the after-school program that day. loved Mrs. Jimenez so i said no problem. and guess who the substitute is. mr. vagina gape who can't handle going to the bathroom like a normal person and certainly can't handle a classroom full of children cussing in Spanish. they were all out of their seats, running around, screaming. i shook his fucking hand and helped him gain control of the class simply because the kids liked me. "Kevin! Kevin!" i gave him suggestions, told him students' names, and he survived that afternoon with ease.
the next day i was kicked out of that elementary school, Martin Luther King in Salinas, California. no questions asked. no meetings had. guy probably exaggerated the situation, outright lied, and was scathingly vindictive for a problem he caused FOUR MONTHS AGO. why even remember it? why be so angry after the guy just helped you greatly? why react that way in the first place? he must have been in counseling, coping with the absolute horror of seeing another man sitting on the toilet, the bare knees and open book, because he just pushed the door open, but it doesn't matter. no my side of the story was asked to be given. third principal we had that year really handled it well. "Kevin!" was just gone. after 8 months of successfully tutoring students who were functionally illiterate in English. Mrs. Jimenez and other teachers wanted me to do a second school year, they liked me so much. i came 3,000 miles from New York to work from 8am to 6pm as part of a national service at what boiled down to $4 an hour with an $829 monthly stipend. and i LOVED that job.
I had several good friends over the years, but no one who could wake me up. The closest was Chris. He saw some of this world for what it really is. And he tried to commit suicide in our Troy apartment twice, the flat above the pedophile rapist who waited for me in the doorway with bottles of Jack Daniel's. His button shirts and Vaseline sweat on the run from Oregon law. Days were spent oblivious to the blissful and priceless gift that is normal health. Not even good health, just a normal guy able to handle a six pack of beer, a handful of cigarettes, and full day's work. Driving home at night, 22 years old and no girl, from my part-time job delivering pizzas around Coxsackie with my moping face down at the dashboard because I wasn't a summer intern at Rolling Stone or even getting mentions in fiction contests at SUNY Albany.
"Good people tend to be blind to evil." Alex Jones
Why did I fall for the college industrial complex? Why didn't I see what a joke and a game all of this is? Why didn't I polish guns and learn how to change oil? Why ain't I makin' airplane parts in Coxsackie with Mike and Tommy? Why did I dream of New York City from my bedroom for years when I could have just gone and lived in a Chelsea studio as a typist? Why did I spend all my money? Why did I run coast to coast like a dog chasing his tail just because girls dumped me? Why didn't I see how handsome I was? Why did my temper and rage take up too much room for happy common sense? Car crash, car crash, car crash, Jobs quit & Jobs fired, Titanium plate in face, A month in the hospital, Assault on Police officer, University suspension, Inheritance squandered, Student loans, Heineken with anti-depressants... um, Life Skills? Why was I so unsatisfied with being unknown, a common laborer who jerks off? Why did I ever start drinking? What were those panic attacks about? Why didn't I just enjoy things, coming home from concerts, no loans or classes, just my own books and oak desk with calm, clean notebooks. Who is so unhappy with a loving family, good health, and a place to live? Why didn't I make use of all the FREE resources at my fingertips? They were all there. Given. Why didn't I learn to study history from free books in the library by the Hudson River? There are local open museums that make you think of muskets and blood spilled by men who fought to be free so you could think about cd-r spindles. I could have crawled up from nowhere, sharing beds and even blue jeans with my brother, to only needing an iPhone and the International Forecaster, walking barefoot on the beach back to my used 1993 Infiniti G20. Imperial Beach sand on the floor mats.
Why couldn't I see the murder that was planted in my backyard? Why couldn't I see that this world has been shaped, cultured, and settled in the dust of rape, theft, war, evil plagues this place. That real good men are shaped by the survival of this. That life is beautiful with majesty all around us--purple skies of the San Diego Coast broken by crucifixes of old Spanish chapels where homeless men and women are given a warm night to sleep simply by God's design of hemispheres--and I should have been simple, patient, hard-working, thankful for bread and coffee, a Smashing Pumpkins song on the radio, helping mom take in groceries from the driveway... but cognizant, aware of the evil constantly attacking you, the government always lying to you, and red-blooded with the fiery eyes of men like those in old western photographs because each day was a fight to stay alive.
"Nerds are among the most dangerous people on earth because they end up running things, but still hate everyone because they weren't the jocks in high school. So they use their minds to hurt people." Alex Jones
You mean like the ostrich, needle-dick substitute teacher with his penny loafers and pleated grey khakis, nasacort nose, and Latin teacher eye glasses who walked in on me as I sat on the toilet harmlessly reading my Spanish-English dictionary I bought for myself at the book fair so I could become a better English tutor to Hispanic students...
"Sorry man, my fault. Forgot to lock it. Be out in just a minute." I said to him, laughing calmly and unembarrassed to try and defuse the situation, because some people have gasping hysterical complexes when they walk in and see someone else on a toilet. Usually it's when women walk in on guys in a general restroom, like at a bar or on an airplane.
But this guy was clearly a bed wetter, abused as a child, raised by an insane grandmother who touched his private areas, violently and abnormally insecure.
he ran past the wide open, unused bathroom right next to this one and yelled at the women in the main office about "some guy!! i don't know, he's just in there ...uhhahhh...uuhhahhrr..on the.. on the toilet!! have you even checked these bathrooms? why don't you check these bathrooms? are people just coming in off the street now!? are we open to the public!?"
(i was wearing a buttoned dress shirt with black silk tie and had apologized to the asshole who walked in on me without knocking and without apologizing -- it was my sin and fault to use a toilet as a school employee when a substitute can't use the available one right next to it)
"i don't know what to tell you. these bathrooms are only for teachers and staff. there's another bathroom, sir. have you tried that one?"
"well, no, but there's someone in the other one...just sitting there like these are public bathrooms...uhhah"
and, of course, i get angry that these women are being yelled at by this faggot creep and that now everyone in the office is forced to think about me taking a shit so i just have to say something from behind the door (now locked) when he finally does use the other bathroom. "always a good idea to knock, asshole."
"hurrmmpphht! do you work here??"
"actually, yes i do. i work here more than you do. and you don't have to yell at those women about it. we can talk about it outside if you have a problem." felt immediately so stupid for saying that, so i washed my hands slowly until i heard him leave.
four months later, i am asked by my sweet Mrs. Jimenez to help cover for her teacher friend who has a sub covering her side of the after-school program that day. loved Mrs. Jimenez so i said no problem. and guess who the substitute is. mr. vagina gape who can't handle going to the bathroom like a normal person and certainly can't handle a classroom full of children cussing in Spanish. they were all out of their seats, running around, screaming. i shook his fucking hand and helped him gain control of the class simply because the kids liked me. "Kevin! Kevin!" i gave him suggestions, told him students' names, and he survived that afternoon with ease.
the next day i was kicked out of that elementary school, Martin Luther King in Salinas, California. no questions asked. no meetings had. guy probably exaggerated the situation, outright lied, and was scathingly vindictive for a problem he caused FOUR MONTHS AGO. why even remember it? why be so angry after the guy just helped you greatly? why react that way in the first place? he must have been in counseling, coping with the absolute horror of seeing another man sitting on the toilet, the bare knees and open book, because he just pushed the door open, but it doesn't matter. no my side of the story was asked to be given. third principal we had that year really handled it well. "Kevin!" was just gone. after 8 months of successfully tutoring students who were functionally illiterate in English. Mrs. Jimenez and other teachers wanted me to do a second school year, they liked me so much. i came 3,000 miles from New York to work from 8am to 6pm as part of a national service at what boiled down to $4 an hour with an $829 monthly stipend. and i LOVED that job.