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4/1/2009
Changes
(Warning: The story Changes accidentally got turned into a Methologue)
This has been a revolution. Yes, its been fun and yes I did write. And I should feel grateful to have been given an unexpected gift from an old flame. He showed me that with the right type of person that I’m still able to respond romantically as a woman. I don’t know what in the world made him think of me out of the blue at that precise time that he did, but I guess I’m glad that he did. It was a lovely affair, the vacation, the last real lovemaking I had back in 2001. I’d been with 3 others after that, but you could barely even call them sex. Even Aimee agreed with me on that one because there was Scott, the funny, and sweet natured dealer I fell in love with, but he was surprisingly ignorant in bed, as if he really had practically no sexual experience. “He wouldn’t even kiss or play with my breasts or anything, without me having to take the initiative and put his hand there,” I said to Aimee. “I know. Scott was not very good in bed,” said Aimee. “And for a drug dealer to be so sexually ignorant, I don’t know, that was bizarre,” I said.
I’m glad it wasn’t just me. Other chicks he sold shit to, including the one he fell in love with, Vanessa all said the same thing pretty much. Then there was the terrific crystal dick each and every time without fail. He’d get horny and ask whoever he was with for sex, but every single time he’d start with a semi, then not be able to maintain even that. Actually, Scott hardly then qualifies as getting laid. Don’t get me wrong, he was awesome in other ways. He was good looking, very charming, a mechanic, a construction worker, and unselfishly volunteered his services to me and others free of charge. And, he was a good dope man. Late half the time like all of them, but always gave honest and decent deals. I really, really liked Scott, in fact fell for him hard, big time. I wanted to be his main chick, but although he was always sweet to me, he gave his heart to Vanessa. I look back in my old BL journals and can read the tears and heartache wondering how and why he loved her and not me. I was sexy thin, sexy clothes, like Vanessa, very pretty, worshipped the ground he walked on for him, not his dope, although of course I liked that a hell of a lot too.
He was the only dealer I ever had that gave hugs with his drugs. Even before I knew him well, I’d think “Aw darn,” if a 3rd party was going to deliver my goods because that met I didn’t get a bear hug. He gave bear hugs. I said to him more than once as I reached my arms out for my other fix---him---“Thank you, Scott. Hugs are drugs,”I’d say. “Aye, hoags aire drogs,” in his thick Scottish accent. Another trip down memory lane. I guess if I ever become the victim of Alzheimer’s disease like my Grandmother, I can have all these stories I spent hours writing that are meaningless to others, but would at least put back missing pieces of my memory. There are a lot of journals/stories over the years I’ve written, so I should write as much as I can down to have for later. I’m trying to imagine the thoughts that would go through my mind sitting there remembering nothing, but randomly picking up different time periods I’d written about. Would I think, “Now who in the world is that?” or might recognition register in my face at 78 or 80 years old of some in detailed described long lost love for a classy Dublin man I’d met on the internet,
Going on a whim across the Atlantic in the arms of a stranger whose bed I shared for a week?
What will my disease ridden mind recall or how will it react to all these tales of hard drugs and the fun and crazy, and sometimes, stupid stunts “our gang” was always pulling and/or up to? Brendan having long since been wheelchair bound, his playboy days and Romeo ways long past him. Bald, toothless, ancient blue eyes covered over with cataracts who perhaps gets a visit and listens as this old lady he’s never seen before reads some of the stories of how a handsome, seductive Romeo charms and flies this woman from halfway around the world for a one week affair, making love in the woods, barely escaping frost bite, holding hands walking down by the beautiful Twin Lakes, making love in the car, getting into the hotel room, asking if we can do it again? Perhaps a glimmer of recognition, good looks of his younger days gone, but a toothless, devilish grin perhaps at some point realizing the playboy Romeo that made love under the stars in the woods was him. “Yes you, naughty old man, I know it was you because I was there.” HAHUHAHUHAHU, giving an old man’s laugh after the realization sets in. We’ll probably never see each other as broken, old people, but an audio book with his hearing aide of the things he got up to when he was romantic, seductive, Playboy chasin tail. I’ve worked in plenty old folks homes and never assume just because someone is 80-100 yrs old, automatically means they have led nothing but pure and boring lives. These people, have stories. I loved teasing the harmless old farts sayin shit like, “Now Leo, I heard you partied down with grifters and dance hall girls in your day, so don’t even try to deny it.” Usually, a guilty, happy, toothless grin emerges or delayed laughter when I told a joke that only people their age would understand.
“OK SO THE COP ASKS THE GUY AT THE TRAIN STATION THAT HAD HIS SHOES STOLEN WHILE POINTING TO A CAPTURED LION, “PARDON ME ROY? IS THIS THE CAT WHO CHEWED YOUR NEW SHOES?” My coworkers give me a look like, “Huh? That’s not funny,” but after 15 or 20 seconds of silence, 1, then 2, then 3, then all these old people start making this “uh HUH HUH HA HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH!!! The ones that can are laughing, while the younger Filipino nurses are saying, they don’t get it. “Long before your time!,” I say walking away kind of grinning. I like hanging out with older farts sometimes because I know a lot of the 30’s, 40’s jokes, only those born in the year 1943 and before understand. It’s funny having our own private joke no one else knows what the fuck I’m talking about, but the old farts do.
You know what? This is totally NOT what I planned to write at all. In fact, I’ve bitched and complained about not being able to sit and pump out the scripts non stop w/o sister Crystal, but now that I think of it, the flip side to this Crystal is that sometimes I’ll start off intending to write about one thing, then wonder how the fuck did I get multi distracted on THIS? Well here’s the deal. Now I think the whole point of this story was supposed to be oh yeah, about how I’ve fucking changed and that I feel disappointed. My poetry didn’t/hasn’t come back yet, only weird meth stories. Yet, come to think of it, I guess there were times in the good old days that what started out as an interesting piece, turned into a very bizarre ass Methologue. So ok, no poetry this time, but have a Methalogue on me. For free.
Changes
(Warning: The story Changes accidentally got turned into a Methologue)
This has been a revolution. Yes, its been fun and yes I did write. And I should feel grateful to have been given an unexpected gift from an old flame. He showed me that with the right type of person that I’m still able to respond romantically as a woman. I don’t know what in the world made him think of me out of the blue at that precise time that he did, but I guess I’m glad that he did. It was a lovely affair, the vacation, the last real lovemaking I had back in 2001. I’d been with 3 others after that, but you could barely even call them sex. Even Aimee agreed with me on that one because there was Scott, the funny, and sweet natured dealer I fell in love with, but he was surprisingly ignorant in bed, as if he really had practically no sexual experience. “He wouldn’t even kiss or play with my breasts or anything, without me having to take the initiative and put his hand there,” I said to Aimee. “I know. Scott was not very good in bed,” said Aimee. “And for a drug dealer to be so sexually ignorant, I don’t know, that was bizarre,” I said.
I’m glad it wasn’t just me. Other chicks he sold shit to, including the one he fell in love with, Vanessa all said the same thing pretty much. Then there was the terrific crystal dick each and every time without fail. He’d get horny and ask whoever he was with for sex, but every single time he’d start with a semi, then not be able to maintain even that. Actually, Scott hardly then qualifies as getting laid. Don’t get me wrong, he was awesome in other ways. He was good looking, very charming, a mechanic, a construction worker, and unselfishly volunteered his services to me and others free of charge. And, he was a good dope man. Late half the time like all of them, but always gave honest and decent deals. I really, really liked Scott, in fact fell for him hard, big time. I wanted to be his main chick, but although he was always sweet to me, he gave his heart to Vanessa. I look back in my old BL journals and can read the tears and heartache wondering how and why he loved her and not me. I was sexy thin, sexy clothes, like Vanessa, very pretty, worshipped the ground he walked on for him, not his dope, although of course I liked that a hell of a lot too.
He was the only dealer I ever had that gave hugs with his drugs. Even before I knew him well, I’d think “Aw darn,” if a 3rd party was going to deliver my goods because that met I didn’t get a bear hug. He gave bear hugs. I said to him more than once as I reached my arms out for my other fix---him---“Thank you, Scott. Hugs are drugs,”I’d say. “Aye, hoags aire drogs,” in his thick Scottish accent. Another trip down memory lane. I guess if I ever become the victim of Alzheimer’s disease like my Grandmother, I can have all these stories I spent hours writing that are meaningless to others, but would at least put back missing pieces of my memory. There are a lot of journals/stories over the years I’ve written, so I should write as much as I can down to have for later. I’m trying to imagine the thoughts that would go through my mind sitting there remembering nothing, but randomly picking up different time periods I’d written about. Would I think, “Now who in the world is that?” or might recognition register in my face at 78 or 80 years old of some in detailed described long lost love for a classy Dublin man I’d met on the internet,
Going on a whim across the Atlantic in the arms of a stranger whose bed I shared for a week?
What will my disease ridden mind recall or how will it react to all these tales of hard drugs and the fun and crazy, and sometimes, stupid stunts “our gang” was always pulling and/or up to? Brendan having long since been wheelchair bound, his playboy days and Romeo ways long past him. Bald, toothless, ancient blue eyes covered over with cataracts who perhaps gets a visit and listens as this old lady he’s never seen before reads some of the stories of how a handsome, seductive Romeo charms and flies this woman from halfway around the world for a one week affair, making love in the woods, barely escaping frost bite, holding hands walking down by the beautiful Twin Lakes, making love in the car, getting into the hotel room, asking if we can do it again? Perhaps a glimmer of recognition, good looks of his younger days gone, but a toothless, devilish grin perhaps at some point realizing the playboy Romeo that made love under the stars in the woods was him. “Yes you, naughty old man, I know it was you because I was there.” HAHUHAHUHAHU, giving an old man’s laugh after the realization sets in. We’ll probably never see each other as broken, old people, but an audio book with his hearing aide of the things he got up to when he was romantic, seductive, Playboy chasin tail. I’ve worked in plenty old folks homes and never assume just because someone is 80-100 yrs old, automatically means they have led nothing but pure and boring lives. These people, have stories. I loved teasing the harmless old farts sayin shit like, “Now Leo, I heard you partied down with grifters and dance hall girls in your day, so don’t even try to deny it.” Usually, a guilty, happy, toothless grin emerges or delayed laughter when I told a joke that only people their age would understand.
“OK SO THE COP ASKS THE GUY AT THE TRAIN STATION THAT HAD HIS SHOES STOLEN WHILE POINTING TO A CAPTURED LION, “PARDON ME ROY? IS THIS THE CAT WHO CHEWED YOUR NEW SHOES?” My coworkers give me a look like, “Huh? That’s not funny,” but after 15 or 20 seconds of silence, 1, then 2, then 3, then all these old people start making this “uh HUH HUH HA HUH HUH HUH HUH HUH!!! The ones that can are laughing, while the younger Filipino nurses are saying, they don’t get it. “Long before your time!,” I say walking away kind of grinning. I like hanging out with older farts sometimes because I know a lot of the 30’s, 40’s jokes, only those born in the year 1943 and before understand. It’s funny having our own private joke no one else knows what the fuck I’m talking about, but the old farts do.
You know what? This is totally NOT what I planned to write at all. In fact, I’ve bitched and complained about not being able to sit and pump out the scripts non stop w/o sister Crystal, but now that I think of it, the flip side to this Crystal is that sometimes I’ll start off intending to write about one thing, then wonder how the fuck did I get multi distracted on THIS? Well here’s the deal. Now I think the whole point of this story was supposed to be oh yeah, about how I’ve fucking changed and that I feel disappointed. My poetry didn’t/hasn’t come back yet, only weird meth stories. Yet, come to think of it, I guess there were times in the good old days that what started out as an interesting piece, turned into a very bizarre ass Methologue. So ok, no poetry this time, but have a Methalogue on me. For free.
Supposed to have off tomorrow. Called in for 6 hours. Really don't want to go but need money. Strange shock courses over body from time to time. During brief second it last feels like falling out. Possible side effects from reduced Suboxone dosage and steroid regime. Got plans for after work I think. Body aches and chills run over body. Think I have cold, confusing though, cold symptoms for me usually mean dopesick. Not case this time. Still though, sick feelings trigger craving. Arm burns. Not sure what I will do tomorrow in response...
Not able to hang out with girlfreind tonight. She had to much to do around house and has work early tomorrow. Just as well. Do not like her seeing me in this condition. Miss her terribly. Will see her again though.
Not able to hang out with girlfreind tonight. She had to much to do around house and has work early tomorrow. Just as well. Do not like her seeing me in this condition. Miss her terribly. Will see her again though.
Like some other people, I really want to write the truth, not hold anything back. I got a little paranoid and changed my blog settings here to friends only. It is not my intention to have this come back to bite me or anyone else I know in the ass, but Pillthrill has me concerned. It amazes me that some people just like being mean, so hell I don't know. Just as well anyway because anyone seeing my ID will automatically assume what subject matter yours truly will be writing about in one form or another. This is hard too, because what I'm about to say here I can't say on my other, smaller, more intimate blog because Erik, a guy I've loved for many years and been very close to in spite of this lingering 4 yr distance, ah hell lets just say he really doesn't need to see what I have to say.
Guess I'll explain from the beginning. From the time I was very young, long before dope entered the scene the sex drive was every bit as relentless back then as the desire for dope is now. That wasn't a bad thing, but I also had a very sensitive, romantic side. The first bfs I had or guys I went out with trained me never to fall in love. Eventually, I'd end up getting hurt. So, over time, I trained myself to not expect or want romance or anything but platonic love. This got painful and confusing because I'd either fall for the wrong guy or a nice nice would want me, but I had trained myself to say no.
I grew up in the fast lane I guess, but the second I felt more of an attraction than a one night or two night stand, the guy would sense my desperation and be gone. I trained myself to believe that occasional good sex from a non committed guy would be the most I could ever expect. The more attractive I made myself, the more friendly, and the more I tried to please, the end result always ended with me getting my heart broken and until recently couldn't understand why. There have been 3 guys I've ever been with that were actually skilled at giving romance and sweetness, even if only for an affair.
After the disatrous break up of my first fiance, who had been the only man that wanted me past the point of desperation, love that turned into insatiable obsession, was the period in my life that I got seriously hooked into a hardcore, long term addiction to painkillers. Black outs were common and I physically did everything to completely remove any sex drive ever again for good. The opiates did their job. I took birth control pills continously as well, to help diminish libido, and soon was completely shut off from sexuality and romance, that energy being channeled into my addiction.
That was how I protected myself from a desire for romance and sex. As the years passed to where I was able to go back to my preferred drug meth, I stayed celibate for years on end by choice. The long term dope habit did that, but I also believe I'd been so practiced at shutting off my feelings, it was automatic. Therefore, my attitude and or my chems usually managed to protect me. I found out that dope or no dope, I was capable of loving someone romantically, usually by accident. Often it was another fiend who made me laugh, could use around, talk through the night, and spoon all night. Older hard core male dope fiends that have been doing it as long as or longer than I have, usually have exceptionally low libido like me, unless one or both of us falls in love.
It sometimes snuck up on me and once the feelings were there, then even if it was only every 8 wks or something, I'd WANT to be with them. The problem with one of the fiends was him having chronic tina dick so he couldn't. My other love, who I bore my heart and soul too, couldn't, although not because so much of the dope. He's gay, but doesn't want to be, so he can't love me that way. Sometimes that hurts, but when he talks about marriage and I ask "what if one day you fall in love with a guy?" He brushes it off, says, "shut up," in a playful way.
He loves me, but even though he doesn't want to talk about it, I can't marry someone who may one day want to leave. There. I finally said it. We feel like platonic soul mates because of our heavy history together. Being a hard core fiend means having to hide, and having another person that you know cares deeply about me and I him, someone to hold at night, not having to hide the pills, the needles, the love of the highs, both working in the adult business, who else could ever understand, ever? Even if alot of it is all in the past. So I had a partner for a while, we almost married, the drug addict lifestyle, one car between us, an eviction, no money to get him a work permit...one day he had to go.
It was morning, we couldn't see each other to say goodbye so he let me sleep, when I woke he'd gone. Neither of us wanting the tears, not knowing how long this time it would be "goodbye." Then I got clean, he still loved me from a distance. Still, in the back of our minds was the thought of how awkward it would be to live together. Romance for me has always been a long, complicated mess. Then, out of the blue the night I'd taken a step furthur and relapsed from tramadol to Ecstasy, a voice from the past was hitting me in cyber space.
I could not believe after all these years..it had been 8. Had I been just stone cold sober that night instead of being under the influence of my first and only time use with E, I would have greeted him, said how wonderful it was to hear he was doing so well, blah, blah. The E unleashed the romantic inside me and I found myself shamelessly writing sweet verses of poetry describing his face, his eyes, his sweetness. I met every word, but sober I would NEVER have done that. Surprisingly, he continued to keep in touch, him asking am i still as beautiful as he remembered me so long ago?
Ahhhh, ur quite the charmer, I told him. I'm 8 years older now, babe, like you. "I'm not a charmer," he said. "I tell it like it is. You are a very beautiful woman. Do you look the same now?" "Well sweety, I've grey at the temples and several sizes bigger, 30 lbs heavier than when you saw me, which I'm still trying to take off," I said. I was delighted when he replied, "Me too." "What age are you now?," he asked. "44." That would make him 53. "Can I have a pic of u then?" damn I knew I wasn't getting out of that one. "I'll have it 2 u by Mon. How bout one of ur sexy, gorgeous self?" I asked. So he sent me one, although the date on it said it was only 2 1/2 years after we met, not 8 years later, the present, lol.
As I opened the pic of him, I smiled. Before, he had always had this very lean build, real slim hips, but an impeccable dresser. The more recent pic showed thickening around the middle and the start of a receding hairline. That made me feel 10 times better. I told him age had treated him very well, I like him better now than I did then. That seemed to please him a lot. Mostly, though because since I'm most likely not going to see him, was hoping 2 always be this beautiful woman in his mind, not this heavier version, but hey I was honest. Just the emails, IMs and cyber brought back sexual romantic feelings I didn't know I was still capable of having. I told him that as far as I was concerned romance was a lost art today, and most people don't get the brain is the most important sex organ.
That's what got me turned on. I got rid of a bit of pent up sexual angst just from talking to him and him being sweet to me. He treats a lady like a lady, the wining, dining, 69ing, the whole 9 yards. A couple of jerks I guess that liked my profile pic sent me a very direct: "hey do you want to fuck?" I replied that boy were they smooth talkin Romeos, it's gonna kill me 2 pass. That's just about the kind of mentality more or less anymore. That does not turn my mind on, so celebacy is therefore my preferred method. I didn't expect to be having these dashing bits of cyber romance all over again. He finally said he really, really wanted to fly out soon. I said sure, but I'm not expecting anything to happen.
He sent me an email yesterday that knocked him for a loop because his company he'd worked for for 40 years was all of a sudden wanting to fire him or place him in a much lower job, how he didn't know what to do, how he felt numb. "Hey darlin, damn soo sorry that must have really thrown you for a loop. I no all about being numb. Don't worry, ul work out a solution, u didnt get this far in life having succeeded as well as u have as u have outstanding skills, a positive attitude, and always taking charge. I'm here if u want 2 talk. Heres my cell anytime. U will get through this. Hugs. I felt sorry for him. A cushy CEO job 6 digit income for all this time, about 2 be yanked away. The unemployment rate is as high there as it is in Cali. I didn't expect to hear back from him, but I did.
He was thanking me 4 being supportive of him. We talked about that a bit, then he got me all turned on again. "Did u really have 2 relieve urself the other night?" Blushing. "Uh yeah. I've always loved ur mind, babe. U say sweet things, then u get me wet." He was talking about the various types of lovemaking we got up to, how much he enjoyed himself, did I remember this or that? Did I enjoy him doing this or that as well? "Uh huh. I enjoyed everything about you, your hands, your eyes, your smile, your mind." So many years ago, I found myself blushing at some of the things he said he remembered. "Enough! Ur making me feel like I'm 15 again! I can't believe u remember all that." "Your skin was so soft, you are so special baby. I'll always remember like a precious nugget." You always say the sweetest things. Thankyou. Yes you're special too. Yes I want u 2. I love ur mind, that's what makes u desirable." "I want u." "U 2 darlin. Try 2 get some rest. Heres a hug. Night."
7 years ago he broke my heart. He didn't mean to I'm sure, but he met another woman much closer to where he lived. I took some painkillers that night, cried, wrote about it, then let it go, but never was mean 2 him. I didn't see the point. Still, that's why the night he caught me on line, I'd never had gotten all mushy and romantic on him, lol. It's all right though. It felt wonderful to be treated like someone special with a mind instead of that other smooth talker one line original, "hey like ur pic, wanna fuck?" or whatever he said. Men that are my age, better yet 50 something at least know how to talk. that was refreshing, and theraputic. He helped me get rid of some sexual tension I didn't know was there.
"An Apathetic Existance" - My Addiction With Opiates
(Originally Written April 27, 2007)
Anyone who knows me also knows my addiction. I've been an opiate addict for about 3 years now, and opiates have given me emotions ranging from blissful and euphoric, to emotions of complete and utter despair, even bringing me to the brink of death. I've always stressed to all my friends how much it means to me that I not see anyone else in my life fall victim to this drug. The only sense of hope or satisfaction I have in life is that maybe I have convinced someone not to start using opiates, or maybe I have prevented someone from going over the edge and finding themselves so deep in addiction that there are only two choices, remain an addict, or die........ Remain an addict, or die, it seems like a stretch, a few years ago I would have been the first to say that anyone has the power to stop using a drug anytime they want, it's all mental. But that was before I realized that opiates not only suck you in mentally, but physically. To a point where without them, you will be left on the brink of death, sweating, suicidal, shaking, with the most hopeless, agonizing feeling humanly possible.
I write this mostly for myself, to sort of see the big picture of what has happened to me over 3 years of addiction, and to give me a point of reference in the future, but also I write with the hope that maybe someone will actually listen. I've lied to the most important people in my life, stolen from my own mother and the friends who have been there for me since the beginning. There was a point where every word I spoke, every action I made was for one purpose - to get my fix. It didn't matter who I had to lie to, what I had to steal, who got hurt in the process, I had to feel that euphoria wash over my body, the beautiful feeling that I was flying through the clouds, wrapped in a warm, comfortable blanket. I had to get rid of the pounding, relentless headache, the feeling that I had to scream, but I couldn't move, I wanted to be able to live, but at the same time prayed for death. The only time I worried about who I hurt was once I was high, calm, relaxed, apathetic. And then my emotions were so masked by the drug that I still didn't really care, I just made myself believe I cared to help myself feel better about my addiction. All that mattered was the drug, and the person I lied to more than anyone else through this period of my addiction was myself. I had to maintain that everything I was doing was the right thing to do. I had to manipulate everything in my mind, until I was living in a different reality than everyone else, and I sounded completey absurd to anyone that I explained my actions to.
Eventually I went to rehab, but I knew that rehab wasnt the end of my addiction. Even in rehab I found myself digging in a trash can full of used syringes for half a lortab at the bottom, only stopping when I realized that the last thing I needed was HIV or some other illness from getting pricked with someone else's syringe. So finally I succumbed to the fact that I was not going to get away from this addiction. I tried Suboxone, an opiate based drug that is supposed to keep you from withdrawing but not get you high. It worked for awhile, but I found myself craving more, and with Suboxone, more didn't mean getting higher, it peaked at 6mg and that wasn't nearly enough to satisfy me. I finally went to a methadone clinic where I was accepted as one of the worst cases they had seen in a long time. I had needle marks all over my arms from shooting up Roxicodone pills to get an effect that felt as good as heroin. They started me off at 50mg instead of the normal 20mg. I felt amazing, and it lasted over 24 hours. I realized that I could use Methadone to live my life every day and be a happy, calm person. I could be anything I wanted to be, do anything I wanted to do without having to worry about where to get my next fix! Methadone seemed like the cure to all of my problems, and I was happier than I had been in years. My family started to talk to me again, my friends started coming back, people began to rebuild the trust I had broken. However it didn't take long for me to realize that it was all just an elaborate dream. I found myself in a place where all emotions were dulled. Nothing could impress me, nothing was shocking, I was completely apathetic. The quote "Religion is the opiate of the masses" began to make a lot more sense to me at this point, realizing that opiates could be used as a way to take the edge off anything negative you felt in your life. It was a way to give you an edge above everyone else, I had stability, and I knew that nobody else could be as calm and composed as me. However, with this also came the fact that I could not feel the emotions of others. I found myself trying to grasp the feelings my girlfriend would be describing when something bad happened in her life, but I could not relate. I had no reaction. Complete apathy. I could comfort her, give her advice, but I didn't REALLY understand why these things bothered her, or anyone else for that matter. All my emotions had been boxed up and hidden away. I used to love to write and make music. Since I have been on methadone, I believe this is the first blog post I have written. I rarely ever play my guitar, much less try to write songs. I find myself lying in bed, nodding off every day... engulfed in my own inner bliss, comepletely cut off from the rest of the world. But I like it..... maybe I could just keep going like this without any real consequences? I believed this up until recently. I've lost 3 jobs in the past 6 months. I don't understand why, but i'm beginning to think that maybe it's the fact that I cannot truly interact with anyone else and understand their emotions. I'm like a robot, programmed to be calm and collected all the time. Someone could be shot right in front of me and I wouldn't really give a shit. I mean yeah, I'd help, i'd call the police, i'd say all the right things to try and make them feel better till the ambulance got there, but there would be no true emotion. I would still be as calm and unchanged as ever. I believe that methadone has been a sort of "wolf in sheep's clothing," in that what seemed to be the answer to all of my problems has become just another chapter in my addiction. Now what to I do? I'm scared to find another job, because I know that I will not be able to connect with anyone around me, and I can only fake it for so long. My apathy will eventually get me fired. "You just don't seem like you're really happy to be here." "You don't seem like you care." "You seem like you'd rather be somewhere else, doing something else." These are quotes from my bosses that seem to be echoed with each new job I get. It's always a huge surprise to me too, especially with my last job, I was so happy when I got the call that I was hired. I worked as hard as I could, did everything right, and thoroughly enjoyed my job, yet somehow I gave the impression that I didn't care. Because my emotions are so masked by the drug that they almost aren't even real.
I don't know what to do.... I feel lost. I don't understand what i'm doing wrong. I try so hard, but I still fail. Is it really the drugs doing this to me? Or is it something different
I really don't know... and I can't look back and try to figure it out because the past is all just a groggy blur. Like i've been living life half asleep. If you use opiates, please think twice about what you are doing. There comes a point where in order to stop, you risk losing your life, and at that point the addiction may be with you forever. I absolutely HATE when I meet someone new and find out they are taking lortabs or percocets, asking everyone at work if they can get them some, not realizing the danger they are putting themselves in. A lot of people will never cross the line into addiction, but just the fact that it COULD happen should be reason enough not to even start. I have used every drug out there, and have managed not to become addicted to any of it. Cocaine, meth, benzodiazepines, etc. yet this one drug has completely turned my life upside down, and I have become a slave to it and I have no way out.
Anyways, sorry for the rant. I just wanted to have something to look back on in the future so I can remember where I was at, and what I was feeling. And hopefully one of my friends will read this and maybe it will atleast make you ask the question "Is it worth it?" That's all I can really hope for. And it's the only thing that truly gives me a feeling of satisfaction or worth anymore. Knowing that someone else will never have to be where I am.
(Originally Written April 27, 2007)
Anyone who knows me also knows my addiction. I've been an opiate addict for about 3 years now, and opiates have given me emotions ranging from blissful and euphoric, to emotions of complete and utter despair, even bringing me to the brink of death. I've always stressed to all my friends how much it means to me that I not see anyone else in my life fall victim to this drug. The only sense of hope or satisfaction I have in life is that maybe I have convinced someone not to start using opiates, or maybe I have prevented someone from going over the edge and finding themselves so deep in addiction that there are only two choices, remain an addict, or die........ Remain an addict, or die, it seems like a stretch, a few years ago I would have been the first to say that anyone has the power to stop using a drug anytime they want, it's all mental. But that was before I realized that opiates not only suck you in mentally, but physically. To a point where without them, you will be left on the brink of death, sweating, suicidal, shaking, with the most hopeless, agonizing feeling humanly possible.
I write this mostly for myself, to sort of see the big picture of what has happened to me over 3 years of addiction, and to give me a point of reference in the future, but also I write with the hope that maybe someone will actually listen. I've lied to the most important people in my life, stolen from my own mother and the friends who have been there for me since the beginning. There was a point where every word I spoke, every action I made was for one purpose - to get my fix. It didn't matter who I had to lie to, what I had to steal, who got hurt in the process, I had to feel that euphoria wash over my body, the beautiful feeling that I was flying through the clouds, wrapped in a warm, comfortable blanket. I had to get rid of the pounding, relentless headache, the feeling that I had to scream, but I couldn't move, I wanted to be able to live, but at the same time prayed for death. The only time I worried about who I hurt was once I was high, calm, relaxed, apathetic. And then my emotions were so masked by the drug that I still didn't really care, I just made myself believe I cared to help myself feel better about my addiction. All that mattered was the drug, and the person I lied to more than anyone else through this period of my addiction was myself. I had to maintain that everything I was doing was the right thing to do. I had to manipulate everything in my mind, until I was living in a different reality than everyone else, and I sounded completey absurd to anyone that I explained my actions to.
Eventually I went to rehab, but I knew that rehab wasnt the end of my addiction. Even in rehab I found myself digging in a trash can full of used syringes for half a lortab at the bottom, only stopping when I realized that the last thing I needed was HIV or some other illness from getting pricked with someone else's syringe. So finally I succumbed to the fact that I was not going to get away from this addiction. I tried Suboxone, an opiate based drug that is supposed to keep you from withdrawing but not get you high. It worked for awhile, but I found myself craving more, and with Suboxone, more didn't mean getting higher, it peaked at 6mg and that wasn't nearly enough to satisfy me. I finally went to a methadone clinic where I was accepted as one of the worst cases they had seen in a long time. I had needle marks all over my arms from shooting up Roxicodone pills to get an effect that felt as good as heroin. They started me off at 50mg instead of the normal 20mg. I felt amazing, and it lasted over 24 hours. I realized that I could use Methadone to live my life every day and be a happy, calm person. I could be anything I wanted to be, do anything I wanted to do without having to worry about where to get my next fix! Methadone seemed like the cure to all of my problems, and I was happier than I had been in years. My family started to talk to me again, my friends started coming back, people began to rebuild the trust I had broken. However it didn't take long for me to realize that it was all just an elaborate dream. I found myself in a place where all emotions were dulled. Nothing could impress me, nothing was shocking, I was completely apathetic. The quote "Religion is the opiate of the masses" began to make a lot more sense to me at this point, realizing that opiates could be used as a way to take the edge off anything negative you felt in your life. It was a way to give you an edge above everyone else, I had stability, and I knew that nobody else could be as calm and composed as me. However, with this also came the fact that I could not feel the emotions of others. I found myself trying to grasp the feelings my girlfriend would be describing when something bad happened in her life, but I could not relate. I had no reaction. Complete apathy. I could comfort her, give her advice, but I didn't REALLY understand why these things bothered her, or anyone else for that matter. All my emotions had been boxed up and hidden away. I used to love to write and make music. Since I have been on methadone, I believe this is the first blog post I have written. I rarely ever play my guitar, much less try to write songs. I find myself lying in bed, nodding off every day... engulfed in my own inner bliss, comepletely cut off from the rest of the world. But I like it..... maybe I could just keep going like this without any real consequences? I believed this up until recently. I've lost 3 jobs in the past 6 months. I don't understand why, but i'm beginning to think that maybe it's the fact that I cannot truly interact with anyone else and understand their emotions. I'm like a robot, programmed to be calm and collected all the time. Someone could be shot right in front of me and I wouldn't really give a shit. I mean yeah, I'd help, i'd call the police, i'd say all the right things to try and make them feel better till the ambulance got there, but there would be no true emotion. I would still be as calm and unchanged as ever. I believe that methadone has been a sort of "wolf in sheep's clothing," in that what seemed to be the answer to all of my problems has become just another chapter in my addiction. Now what to I do? I'm scared to find another job, because I know that I will not be able to connect with anyone around me, and I can only fake it for so long. My apathy will eventually get me fired. "You just don't seem like you're really happy to be here." "You don't seem like you care." "You seem like you'd rather be somewhere else, doing something else." These are quotes from my bosses that seem to be echoed with each new job I get. It's always a huge surprise to me too, especially with my last job, I was so happy when I got the call that I was hired. I worked as hard as I could, did everything right, and thoroughly enjoyed my job, yet somehow I gave the impression that I didn't care. Because my emotions are so masked by the drug that they almost aren't even real.
I don't know what to do.... I feel lost. I don't understand what i'm doing wrong. I try so hard, but I still fail. Is it really the drugs doing this to me? Or is it something different
I really don't know... and I can't look back and try to figure it out because the past is all just a groggy blur. Like i've been living life half asleep. If you use opiates, please think twice about what you are doing. There comes a point where in order to stop, you risk losing your life, and at that point the addiction may be with you forever. I absolutely HATE when I meet someone new and find out they are taking lortabs or percocets, asking everyone at work if they can get them some, not realizing the danger they are putting themselves in. A lot of people will never cross the line into addiction, but just the fact that it COULD happen should be reason enough not to even start. I have used every drug out there, and have managed not to become addicted to any of it. Cocaine, meth, benzodiazepines, etc. yet this one drug has completely turned my life upside down, and I have become a slave to it and I have no way out.Anyways, sorry for the rant. I just wanted to have something to look back on in the future so I can remember where I was at, and what I was feeling. And hopefully one of my friends will read this and maybe it will atleast make you ask the question "Is it worth it?" That's all I can really hope for. And it's the only thing that truly gives me a feeling of satisfaction or worth anymore. Knowing that someone else will never have to be where I am.
' My Shadow Will Dance `
~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~
This reflection, feverish with fear,
Shattered faith shown through a broken mirror,
Candles dance, casting shadows on the wall,
Silhouette of obscurity, lost without cause.
My shadow will dance, a faint whisper in the night,
Truth burns like a furnace, a glimmering light.
Smoke will rise, and tables will turn,
When everything's cleared the deed will be done.
Faith worn thin, the soul becomes weak,
Hope for the shadow begins to look bleak.
The flame glimmers faintly, as the candle decays,
Falling through the ashes of life's disarray.
The candle is dead; smoke rises to the stars,
The shadow once living, no longer resides
Within this hole, lies perpetual defeat,
All of life, a pathetic disease.
He hoped, and he dreamed, but he never perceived,
Not everything he believed would in time be achieved.
Our shadows will fall into darkness with time,
We lose ourselves in life's rhythm and rhyme.
"Put your faith in me, I'll guide you home."
He hears it throughout, a monotonous tone.
"Belief is a weakness, and faith a disease;"
"With one or them both the mind cannot see."
My shadow will dance, a faint whisper in the night,
Your faith will decay, into your mind peeks a light.
My shadow will dance, with yours in the sun,
All that I am, would not, could not be undone.
~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~
~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~
This reflection, feverish with fear,
Shattered faith shown through a broken mirror,
Candles dance, casting shadows on the wall,
Silhouette of obscurity, lost without cause.
My shadow will dance, a faint whisper in the night,
Truth burns like a furnace, a glimmering light.
Smoke will rise, and tables will turn,
When everything's cleared the deed will be done.
Faith worn thin, the soul becomes weak,
Hope for the shadow begins to look bleak.
The flame glimmers faintly, as the candle decays,
Falling through the ashes of life's disarray.
The candle is dead; smoke rises to the stars,
The shadow once living, no longer resides
Within this hole, lies perpetual defeat,
All of life, a pathetic disease.
He hoped, and he dreamed, but he never perceived,
Not everything he believed would in time be achieved.
Our shadows will fall into darkness with time,
We lose ourselves in life's rhythm and rhyme.
"Put your faith in me, I'll guide you home."
He hears it throughout, a monotonous tone.
"Belief is a weakness, and faith a disease;"
"With one or them both the mind cannot see."
My shadow will dance, a faint whisper in the night,
Your faith will decay, into your mind peeks a light.
My shadow will dance, with yours in the sun,
All that I am, would not, could not be undone.
~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~`~
i took a quarter of suboxone at 730a.m and its noe 12hrs later. Will i feel one bag of d by shooting it now?
So I've had a great time last night/today. I explained the events leading up to what happened. I know, Jim playing with fire. I'm having fun, but have been a bit paranoid off and on. Mom is fucking home all the time which sucks and gets up at odd hrs of the night. Is she curious trying to figure out if I'm still up or not? I'm off all day today and tomorrow until 11pm. So for real, back to concentrating on dumb ass bills, get more work on my teeth done. I haven't shirked my responsibilities, yet. I know this is only the 2nd time sister Crystal and I have hung out for 2 years. I could get into soooo goddamned much trouble. I almost said fuck it at Aimee's last night, because much as I love her, she and her family have always attracted drama. Even as a full time tweaker I was VERY anal about who was and was not allowed in my apartment.
The only reason I let that crazy dude rent from me is because it was my fault for letting myself get into a position of desperation, and I paid for it. His drama got me booted out, but as I said, that was my responsibility, so I don't even pretend that I was the victum. I was paralyzed by fear to look for work. I did not want to take any time interviewing roommates because getting loaded was way more important. Same rules apply today. Often, I've actually been able to accomplish the footwork required for getting whatever unpleasant bullshit I need to get done, at least the past 2 years. I said no way would I do drugs again because I'd all ready done them for 25 years. I meant what I said at the time. I also had strength that was not my own in many situations, but once the buzz got into my body via the tramadol, that was it.
I don't know what's going to happen. I like to think I'll be vigilant as hell and never let anything happen, but the fact is any time you're dealing with full time dope fiends at a known drug house, that's taking a huge risk. I know this. If I could walk into a Dr.'s office and ask her for an Rx and have the pharmacist fill it, I'd of course do that instead. The USA don't play that though. We have some of the most rigid drug laws compared to many countries, so if I want sister Crystal to come out and play, then this is the game I've got to play. The plan is to play much less frequently and in much smaller amounts. I'll just play by my rules, no driving, no leaving the house, no working like I did on my scheduled vacations, only these days, a teenager during a wk is way more than I can get away with. More like 1/4 gram 2 days a months or every other month is better.
I longed for and missed writing, I had to ask sister Crystal to come out. The poetry hasn't come yet, I think because I'm nervous, everything is so different now than before 2 years ago. Maybe it will come back, or maybe it never will. That's ok. The mere joy of writing is awesome! So no tripping, no pressure. Heard from Dave. His shroom guy got busted, lol, of course. No biggie. Had a feeling life was gonna fuck this up, but what's done is done. I had/have some serious questions I want answers too that the shrooms can allow me to hear...the way sister Crystal allows me to write so much better. She's the writer, not me. Psycilocybin is the shaman, I'm not, same thing kind of. All of these things I'm all ready capable of because drugs don't give you a talent or ability you don't all ready have, but merely facilitates the action.
The other thing I was gonna write/type is what I all ready hand wrote at work a few nights ago, pages and pages. The opiates were talking. The sadness was coming. The pages were filled, but have no way to type it on line at work, and by the time I get home, sister Crystal absent and all, I don't have the energy to write like she can,which sucks. That's the main reason I really wanted her to come out tonight. I've missed her. I've got to be extra fucking careful too.
The only reason I let that crazy dude rent from me is because it was my fault for letting myself get into a position of desperation, and I paid for it. His drama got me booted out, but as I said, that was my responsibility, so I don't even pretend that I was the victum. I was paralyzed by fear to look for work. I did not want to take any time interviewing roommates because getting loaded was way more important. Same rules apply today. Often, I've actually been able to accomplish the footwork required for getting whatever unpleasant bullshit I need to get done, at least the past 2 years. I said no way would I do drugs again because I'd all ready done them for 25 years. I meant what I said at the time. I also had strength that was not my own in many situations, but once the buzz got into my body via the tramadol, that was it.
I don't know what's going to happen. I like to think I'll be vigilant as hell and never let anything happen, but the fact is any time you're dealing with full time dope fiends at a known drug house, that's taking a huge risk. I know this. If I could walk into a Dr.'s office and ask her for an Rx and have the pharmacist fill it, I'd of course do that instead. The USA don't play that though. We have some of the most rigid drug laws compared to many countries, so if I want sister Crystal to come out and play, then this is the game I've got to play. The plan is to play much less frequently and in much smaller amounts. I'll just play by my rules, no driving, no leaving the house, no working like I did on my scheduled vacations, only these days, a teenager during a wk is way more than I can get away with. More like 1/4 gram 2 days a months or every other month is better.
I longed for and missed writing, I had to ask sister Crystal to come out. The poetry hasn't come yet, I think because I'm nervous, everything is so different now than before 2 years ago. Maybe it will come back, or maybe it never will. That's ok. The mere joy of writing is awesome! So no tripping, no pressure. Heard from Dave. His shroom guy got busted, lol, of course. No biggie. Had a feeling life was gonna fuck this up, but what's done is done. I had/have some serious questions I want answers too that the shrooms can allow me to hear...the way sister Crystal allows me to write so much better. She's the writer, not me. Psycilocybin is the shaman, I'm not, same thing kind of. All of these things I'm all ready capable of because drugs don't give you a talent or ability you don't all ready have, but merely facilitates the action.
The other thing I was gonna write/type is what I all ready hand wrote at work a few nights ago, pages and pages. The opiates were talking. The sadness was coming. The pages were filled, but have no way to type it on line at work, and by the time I get home, sister Crystal absent and all, I don't have the energy to write like she can,which sucks. That's the main reason I really wanted her to come out tonight. I've missed her. I've got to be extra fucking careful too.
I've been thinking about posting here in my blog for 2 days now. I don't know. I guess I'm hesitant of the reactions I would get. I know my thinking is often illogical, but it doesn't make it any less real to me. Plus I don't think it would help to write about it anyway.
In short, REALLY short.
I had a great weekend with my bf! No fighting at all. I've kinda learned that its not worth getting worked up about something rather small things and starting a fight. A whole weekend without a fight. It was great. Pick your battles huh?
But as much as I care about Sean and honestly I do...My ex is still on my mind. I really wish I could forget that some people exist. But I just can't. Him and his new "love", barf. Been together a WHOLE FREAKING MONTH. Guess he has to have someone for his fat ass to fuck while he is home. I take some very very small comfort that I'm prettier than she is...although being 98 pds doesn't help me.
Sean and I were talking about basic needs for food, sex and sleep. He said that perhaps if I like food more he would enjoy sex more.
Makes me a lil sad and frustrated. I feel so helpless to do anything.
In short, REALLY short.
I had a great weekend with my bf! No fighting at all. I've kinda learned that its not worth getting worked up about something rather small things and starting a fight. A whole weekend without a fight. It was great. Pick your battles huh?
But as much as I care about Sean and honestly I do...My ex is still on my mind. I really wish I could forget that some people exist. But I just can't. Him and his new "love", barf. Been together a WHOLE FREAKING MONTH. Guess he has to have someone for his fat ass to fuck while he is home. I take some very very small comfort that I'm prettier than she is...although being 98 pds doesn't help me.
Sean and I were talking about basic needs for food, sex and sleep. He said that perhaps if I like food more he would enjoy sex more.
Makes me a lil sad and frustrated. I feel so helpless to do anything.
4/1/2009
Dude I can NOT believe what is happening. Ok deep breaths, chill the fuck out home girl. From the beginning, what happened that lead up to the events of the present as I live and breathe this instant, and YOU dear reader sit there taking in the latest news of the life of someone you no doubt find curious. Well, I had a good day at work yesterday, although did feel a bit sad from the opiate w/ds. I think I’ve explained that intense sadness, depression, even thoughts of suicide that I’ve no intention of ever taking place are actually a welcome relief as to what I was experiencing with that blasted tramadol comedown!
Have you ever watched the movie The Wall with Pink Floyd? I saw that movie for the first time with my best friend and stoner buddy Tami. That movie was depressing, violent, and it’s theme was completely anti war and anti dictatorship. There was this scene in the movie where Pink, a rich and famous, but emotionally damaged rock star was in a room for God knew how long merely zoning out, having an expression of what I’ve felt: complete apathy. Can’t do or say anything, you’re beyond numb, but just forced into an existence, a state of being to where no one, nothing, can snap you out of this horrific living dead, but not numb feeling.
The guy was so damaged, that all he could do was zone out in a torturous existence. His girlfriend tried to get a response from him, yet all he did was zone cause he was emotionally apathetic and zoned out for days. She finally left him, understandably. The guy couldn’t work, couldn’t talk, couldn’t get any pleasure of any kind from anything. That’s how I felt tapering from tramadol. The management finally kicked his door in, saw the state he was in, couldn’t get anywhere with him and he had a concert. They gave him what was probably Hitler perfect methamphetamine, when the song said, “Ok ok ok, it’s just a little pinprick. There will be no more pain, but you will feel a little stick.” The guy starts screaming at the sudden gush of adrenaline, he’s beyond wasted, but finally gets his ass out to perform.
In my case, a whisper of a memory told me, “You didn’t feel this bad when you were kicking Rx PK’s practically cold turkey. Ditch the tramadol, try the opiates.” I successfully went down to 2 pills yesterday and today, with no horrific effects, other than the characteristic opiate sadness, which was a welcome relief from the apathetic zoning torture. That was a worse come down of any drug and just went on and on and fucking on. So, that was my story getting off work. I was grateful not to be kicking the other kick, yet thought, “It sure would be nice for a change to see sister Crystal because she is the only one that enables me to write and write and write….I shouldn’t of, but I did.
I was also scolding myself for forking out another $20 for Aimee and Don’s never ending story of no money and always dope sick. It’s like, Christ when I’m sick, fuckin no one bails my ass out. I have to pay for my own habit. Or kick. Now, for what it’s worth, I still had a choice. I know Aimee is always gonna try to hustle to survive, as she has no income other than taking $60 from Nana’s purse every week, plus what she makes scamming various stores, and selling their merchandise. Then, there is the money that Don gets from “spanging” every night, hangin on some street corner beggin for spare change. He can make up to $20-30 a day on a good night, although lately the economy sucks so bad that people tell him to fuck off.
Dude I can NOT believe what is happening. Ok deep breaths, chill the fuck out home girl. From the beginning, what happened that lead up to the events of the present as I live and breathe this instant, and YOU dear reader sit there taking in the latest news of the life of someone you no doubt find curious. Well, I had a good day at work yesterday, although did feel a bit sad from the opiate w/ds. I think I’ve explained that intense sadness, depression, even thoughts of suicide that I’ve no intention of ever taking place are actually a welcome relief as to what I was experiencing with that blasted tramadol comedown!
Have you ever watched the movie The Wall with Pink Floyd? I saw that movie for the first time with my best friend and stoner buddy Tami. That movie was depressing, violent, and it’s theme was completely anti war and anti dictatorship. There was this scene in the movie where Pink, a rich and famous, but emotionally damaged rock star was in a room for God knew how long merely zoning out, having an expression of what I’ve felt: complete apathy. Can’t do or say anything, you’re beyond numb, but just forced into an existence, a state of being to where no one, nothing, can snap you out of this horrific living dead, but not numb feeling.
The guy was so damaged, that all he could do was zone out in a torturous existence. His girlfriend tried to get a response from him, yet all he did was zone cause he was emotionally apathetic and zoned out for days. She finally left him, understandably. The guy couldn’t work, couldn’t talk, couldn’t get any pleasure of any kind from anything. That’s how I felt tapering from tramadol. The management finally kicked his door in, saw the state he was in, couldn’t get anywhere with him and he had a concert. They gave him what was probably Hitler perfect methamphetamine, when the song said, “Ok ok ok, it’s just a little pinprick. There will be no more pain, but you will feel a little stick.” The guy starts screaming at the sudden gush of adrenaline, he’s beyond wasted, but finally gets his ass out to perform.
In my case, a whisper of a memory told me, “You didn’t feel this bad when you were kicking Rx PK’s practically cold turkey. Ditch the tramadol, try the opiates.” I successfully went down to 2 pills yesterday and today, with no horrific effects, other than the characteristic opiate sadness, which was a welcome relief from the apathetic zoning torture. That was a worse come down of any drug and just went on and on and fucking on. So, that was my story getting off work. I was grateful not to be kicking the other kick, yet thought, “It sure would be nice for a change to see sister Crystal because she is the only one that enables me to write and write and write….I shouldn’t of, but I did.
I was also scolding myself for forking out another $20 for Aimee and Don’s never ending story of no money and always dope sick. It’s like, Christ when I’m sick, fuckin no one bails my ass out. I have to pay for my own habit. Or kick. Now, for what it’s worth, I still had a choice. I know Aimee is always gonna try to hustle to survive, as she has no income other than taking $60 from Nana’s purse every week, plus what she makes scamming various stores, and selling their merchandise. Then, there is the money that Don gets from “spanging” every night, hangin on some street corner beggin for spare change. He can make up to $20-30 a day on a good night, although lately the economy sucks so bad that people tell him to fuck off.
4/1/2009
He does well when he has Copper, the dog with him and cops aren’t in his face telling him to leave. So, sometimes, yours truly forks over $2, $5, $10, or a feckin $20 spot. I did research on line, and I guess a bunch of pigs came down hard and busted a shitload of heroin connects, which means their daily sure thing no longer in business. She was getting from the Mexican mafia, better shit than she realized until they managed to get weaker shit elsewhere, and complaining of being dope sick a lot. Still, I had told them, get me a bag of speed the night before. I stopped by to try my luck after work and Christ almighty, was there LOUD drama at the drug den.
I heard screaming from Linda, Aimee, Don, and Cody along with a generous onslaught of physical violence. The second I pulled my car in the driveway and heard the drama, I pulled right back out. The neighbors love to call the cops of them all the time and I knew they’d be there soon. “Fuck this,” I said. “GODDAMN YOU CODY, GET OFF ME!,” I heard Linda, then Aimee yell, followed by obvious hitting, pushing, and banging. Cody was screaming, sounding like he was kicking everyone’s asses, the 17 year old out of control kid, Aimee’s son, Linda’s grandson. I got my car out of there, parked it on the front of the street, away from the house, got out, and walked. I could hear physical fighting, yelling, and people being thrown into walls or gates.
More yelling. “Cody you are an impossible ass!,” yelled Linda. Then to Aimee, “You never took care of your son!” “I did too Mom, he’s an impossible little shit!,” retorted Aimee. “YOU DIDN’T TAKE CARE OF HIM!,” insisted Linda. She’s right. Aimee was doing dope into the 5th month of her pregnancy, but she got busted. Linda was glad she got arrested so that the baby would be clean for some of the pregnancy. Aimee gave birth in prison, Cody was sent to live with Linda and Nana, gramma and great gramma. He had no father that took responsibility and his Mother has been in and out of prison his entire life. As a friend, faults included, Aimee is a down right good fun time as a friend, but as a parent, fuck I’d have felt very emotionally unnurtured because Mom was either in prison or maintaining a hard core habit, namely emotionally unavailable.
A lot of people would hate Aimee and say what an evil person she is, and it’s true she did not take on her responsibilities as a mother, but still the junkie inside me understands that she’s not a monster, just damaged and only knows one way to fix it. I’m not saying she’s right or that she’s still a fucked up parent, but I see her as a sick person, not an evil one. I personally decided there was no way in hell I was gonna have kids because I knew that my addiction WAS my baby. I’m so glad my parents weren’t addicts. So, Cody has no real direction, he’s big and tall now, rebellious, probably very angry, hurt, and insecure. He never had anyone to help him with homework, so he got behind in school, quit going in High School.
He’s seen a life time of meth slammers, glass dick suckers, smack shooters in the garage, an endless entourage of dope fiends of every type, including me. I thought it was convenient that I didn’t have to always try and hide shooting up for fear of Cody walking in, because as Linda said, “He’s seen his Mother do that all his life.” His Grandma has all these tweekers suckin glass dick, snortin, or like me shooting. When I was homeless 4 yrs ago, that place was a free for all pad, and I was always trying 2 find a place 2 hide from other tweekers so they wouldn’t mooch off me. The bathroom was too obvious, so I went into Linda’s bedroom while the rest were busy tweaking. Cody liked me and thought I was one of the coolest friends his mother had, so he followed me sometimes, and one day I had Mr. Prick halfway out of my arm and he cold busted me.
“I’m sorry, Cody, sorry Linda, fuck I had to get away from the mooches,” I said. “Don’t worry, Tanya. Cody has seen his Mother way more fucked up than you all the time, so don’t worry about it.” It wasn’t anything new or shocking to him, but I felt bad about it. Still, at 13, he’d rather be in the garage with adult junkies and tweekers smoking pot and drinking while everyone else did harder drugs, than hang out with kids his own age. So, now that he’s almost legally an adult, no education, he does shit like last night and gets drunk and belligerent and sometimes physically violent. “Fuckin Don came at me with a blow torch!,” Cody exclaimed to me and Linda. “Is my hand broken?,” he asked. It looked red and swollen, maybe sprained, but not broken.
Linda yelled, “I’m done listening to you, Cody. Just stop it!” Don and Aimee walked out of the garage, Don’s head and hand bloody. He said Cody beat him up in the head. “Why?,” I asked. “He’s drunk and violent!,” yelled Aimee. “He pinned my arms down on the bed! He’s out of control!,” she yelled. “He’s out of control and disrespectful,” said Don. “He said you attacked him with a blow torch,” I said softly. “I was defending myself! He’s drunk and lost it!,” said Don. “Well you guys best leave or knock it off unless you want the pigs here,” I said. “I could hear you all the way down the block and the neighbors love nothing better than to bust you guys,” I warned. “For fuck’s sake leave or be quiet!,” I said. “Aimee and I are fucking sick,” said Don.
“Didn’t you guys score today?,” I asked. “No,” said Don. “The guy didn’t show up at the clinic?,” I asked Aimee. “Oh yes we did, thanks to you Tanya, or we’d be a lot sicker.” Apparently they were in a heap of trouble. They acquired a hefty smack habit to some good shit that isn’t around anymore. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do, I’m gonna get a lot sicker,” said Aimee. “Sorry man, I dunno what to tell you. I’m sick myself and wanted to see if you could do what we talked about yesterday, Don,” I said. “The guy has speed, he’s up the street, I just don’t have any money or any gas,” said Don. Of course he didn’t. No surprise there. “Will you call?,” I asked. “Sure,” he said. Surprisingly, the dude answered right away. Nana came into the garage, asked what was going on. “I’m giving Don a ride,” I said.
“Don needs a ride to the hospital. Cody beat him up,” said Aimee. “That kid is out of control,” said Nana. “Where’s Linda?,” she asked me. “Linda went inside the house,” I said. “Don, let’s get out of here,” I said. I wanted to be long gone before any cops showed up from all the yelling and fighting. He was on it right away, told me where to go. The guy kept calling making sure we were showing up. Don told the guy I wanted a 20 in Spanish. A ¼ gram is 2.5,” I said after Don informed me that it would be heavy weighing .3. It’s now $10 for .1, 10 a point. Inflation of dope, haha. Still, it was only a 20. “Don, how much are you expecting from this? I gave you and Aimee $20 yesterday,” I said making myself known I wasn’t rich. “Just a couple hits. I’m not unreasonable. You’ll be taken care of,” he said. “Good,” I said.
We got there, the guy was waiting. I told Don I’d drop him off at the house because I sure as shit avoid all drama at all costs. “I’ve been arrested too many times,” I told him. “Fuck, if it happened again, I could kiss my career and my fucking life goodbye.” “I know, sweetheart, I’ve been arrested too many times too.” He has, but unlike me, they make a living of scamming all the time. Me? I have to pay rent and scamming and hookin would not be enough 2 keep a roof over my head. I told Aimee, “Nana takes care of that for you. Be realistic. What the hell are you gonna do when she dies? She’ll leave you the house, but you’ll have to pay the utilities, the upkeep, how you gonna pay for food, gas, ulilities?,” I asked. “We’ll have to sell the house and move to Oregon,” she said. “Nana is worried that the way you’re going through money, that there won’t be any inheritance left for you,” I said softly. “You’ve got to do something or you’ll all be on the street,” I said.
“Oregon’s cheaper, a lot better place to live than Cali,” she said. “You should come with us.” “You need to get off this shit,” I said. “I know. I’ll take that Ibogaine and detox. I’d love to be done with this!,” she said. “Yes, but what will you do with your time? Have you thought about that?,” I asked. “I’ll think of something!,” she said. God help me if I had the blasted motherfucking money, I’d get every single one of them off, especially Don and Aimee. Detox and start fresh. Who knows how that story will end. I decided once I got home, to fuck asking Don to search around for a new rig and fuck looking for one here too. The 2 lines did the trick, plus a little in a glass of juice, drink it all up. Put the line in the coconut, call me in the morning, haha. So, Crystal Hyde allowed me the joy of my life, the enthusiasm to sit and write and write and write, just like the old days. You have no IDEA how much I love this or what it means to me.
I wrote sober, but couldn’t for the life of me get nearly as much enthusiasm and physical endurance to do it the way Crystal Hyde can. She is the writer. TJ is the responsible one. I’m amazed at how fuckin fast time flew by, all ready past 10am. I started last night at what 10pm or so. There’s more to write too, but this concludes this chapter.
He does well when he has Copper, the dog with him and cops aren’t in his face telling him to leave. So, sometimes, yours truly forks over $2, $5, $10, or a feckin $20 spot. I did research on line, and I guess a bunch of pigs came down hard and busted a shitload of heroin connects, which means their daily sure thing no longer in business. She was getting from the Mexican mafia, better shit than she realized until they managed to get weaker shit elsewhere, and complaining of being dope sick a lot. Still, I had told them, get me a bag of speed the night before. I stopped by to try my luck after work and Christ almighty, was there LOUD drama at the drug den.
I heard screaming from Linda, Aimee, Don, and Cody along with a generous onslaught of physical violence. The second I pulled my car in the driveway and heard the drama, I pulled right back out. The neighbors love to call the cops of them all the time and I knew they’d be there soon. “Fuck this,” I said. “GODDAMN YOU CODY, GET OFF ME!,” I heard Linda, then Aimee yell, followed by obvious hitting, pushing, and banging. Cody was screaming, sounding like he was kicking everyone’s asses, the 17 year old out of control kid, Aimee’s son, Linda’s grandson. I got my car out of there, parked it on the front of the street, away from the house, got out, and walked. I could hear physical fighting, yelling, and people being thrown into walls or gates.
More yelling. “Cody you are an impossible ass!,” yelled Linda. Then to Aimee, “You never took care of your son!” “I did too Mom, he’s an impossible little shit!,” retorted Aimee. “YOU DIDN’T TAKE CARE OF HIM!,” insisted Linda. She’s right. Aimee was doing dope into the 5th month of her pregnancy, but she got busted. Linda was glad she got arrested so that the baby would be clean for some of the pregnancy. Aimee gave birth in prison, Cody was sent to live with Linda and Nana, gramma and great gramma. He had no father that took responsibility and his Mother has been in and out of prison his entire life. As a friend, faults included, Aimee is a down right good fun time as a friend, but as a parent, fuck I’d have felt very emotionally unnurtured because Mom was either in prison or maintaining a hard core habit, namely emotionally unavailable.
A lot of people would hate Aimee and say what an evil person she is, and it’s true she did not take on her responsibilities as a mother, but still the junkie inside me understands that she’s not a monster, just damaged and only knows one way to fix it. I’m not saying she’s right or that she’s still a fucked up parent, but I see her as a sick person, not an evil one. I personally decided there was no way in hell I was gonna have kids because I knew that my addiction WAS my baby. I’m so glad my parents weren’t addicts. So, Cody has no real direction, he’s big and tall now, rebellious, probably very angry, hurt, and insecure. He never had anyone to help him with homework, so he got behind in school, quit going in High School.
He’s seen a life time of meth slammers, glass dick suckers, smack shooters in the garage, an endless entourage of dope fiends of every type, including me. I thought it was convenient that I didn’t have to always try and hide shooting up for fear of Cody walking in, because as Linda said, “He’s seen his Mother do that all his life.” His Grandma has all these tweekers suckin glass dick, snortin, or like me shooting. When I was homeless 4 yrs ago, that place was a free for all pad, and I was always trying 2 find a place 2 hide from other tweekers so they wouldn’t mooch off me. The bathroom was too obvious, so I went into Linda’s bedroom while the rest were busy tweaking. Cody liked me and thought I was one of the coolest friends his mother had, so he followed me sometimes, and one day I had Mr. Prick halfway out of my arm and he cold busted me.
“I’m sorry, Cody, sorry Linda, fuck I had to get away from the mooches,” I said. “Don’t worry, Tanya. Cody has seen his Mother way more fucked up than you all the time, so don’t worry about it.” It wasn’t anything new or shocking to him, but I felt bad about it. Still, at 13, he’d rather be in the garage with adult junkies and tweekers smoking pot and drinking while everyone else did harder drugs, than hang out with kids his own age. So, now that he’s almost legally an adult, no education, he does shit like last night and gets drunk and belligerent and sometimes physically violent. “Fuckin Don came at me with a blow torch!,” Cody exclaimed to me and Linda. “Is my hand broken?,” he asked. It looked red and swollen, maybe sprained, but not broken.
Linda yelled, “I’m done listening to you, Cody. Just stop it!” Don and Aimee walked out of the garage, Don’s head and hand bloody. He said Cody beat him up in the head. “Why?,” I asked. “He’s drunk and violent!,” yelled Aimee. “He pinned my arms down on the bed! He’s out of control!,” she yelled. “He’s out of control and disrespectful,” said Don. “He said you attacked him with a blow torch,” I said softly. “I was defending myself! He’s drunk and lost it!,” said Don. “Well you guys best leave or knock it off unless you want the pigs here,” I said. “I could hear you all the way down the block and the neighbors love nothing better than to bust you guys,” I warned. “For fuck’s sake leave or be quiet!,” I said. “Aimee and I are fucking sick,” said Don.
“Didn’t you guys score today?,” I asked. “No,” said Don. “The guy didn’t show up at the clinic?,” I asked Aimee. “Oh yes we did, thanks to you Tanya, or we’d be a lot sicker.” Apparently they were in a heap of trouble. They acquired a hefty smack habit to some good shit that isn’t around anymore. “I don’t know what we’re gonna do, I’m gonna get a lot sicker,” said Aimee. “Sorry man, I dunno what to tell you. I’m sick myself and wanted to see if you could do what we talked about yesterday, Don,” I said. “The guy has speed, he’s up the street, I just don’t have any money or any gas,” said Don. Of course he didn’t. No surprise there. “Will you call?,” I asked. “Sure,” he said. Surprisingly, the dude answered right away. Nana came into the garage, asked what was going on. “I’m giving Don a ride,” I said.
“Don needs a ride to the hospital. Cody beat him up,” said Aimee. “That kid is out of control,” said Nana. “Where’s Linda?,” she asked me. “Linda went inside the house,” I said. “Don, let’s get out of here,” I said. I wanted to be long gone before any cops showed up from all the yelling and fighting. He was on it right away, told me where to go. The guy kept calling making sure we were showing up. Don told the guy I wanted a 20 in Spanish. A ¼ gram is 2.5,” I said after Don informed me that it would be heavy weighing .3. It’s now $10 for .1, 10 a point. Inflation of dope, haha. Still, it was only a 20. “Don, how much are you expecting from this? I gave you and Aimee $20 yesterday,” I said making myself known I wasn’t rich. “Just a couple hits. I’m not unreasonable. You’ll be taken care of,” he said. “Good,” I said.
We got there, the guy was waiting. I told Don I’d drop him off at the house because I sure as shit avoid all drama at all costs. “I’ve been arrested too many times,” I told him. “Fuck, if it happened again, I could kiss my career and my fucking life goodbye.” “I know, sweetheart, I’ve been arrested too many times too.” He has, but unlike me, they make a living of scamming all the time. Me? I have to pay rent and scamming and hookin would not be enough 2 keep a roof over my head. I told Aimee, “Nana takes care of that for you. Be realistic. What the hell are you gonna do when she dies? She’ll leave you the house, but you’ll have to pay the utilities, the upkeep, how you gonna pay for food, gas, ulilities?,” I asked. “We’ll have to sell the house and move to Oregon,” she said. “Nana is worried that the way you’re going through money, that there won’t be any inheritance left for you,” I said softly. “You’ve got to do something or you’ll all be on the street,” I said.
“Oregon’s cheaper, a lot better place to live than Cali,” she said. “You should come with us.” “You need to get off this shit,” I said. “I know. I’ll take that Ibogaine and detox. I’d love to be done with this!,” she said. “Yes, but what will you do with your time? Have you thought about that?,” I asked. “I’ll think of something!,” she said. God help me if I had the blasted motherfucking money, I’d get every single one of them off, especially Don and Aimee. Detox and start fresh. Who knows how that story will end. I decided once I got home, to fuck asking Don to search around for a new rig and fuck looking for one here too. The 2 lines did the trick, plus a little in a glass of juice, drink it all up. Put the line in the coconut, call me in the morning, haha. So, Crystal Hyde allowed me the joy of my life, the enthusiasm to sit and write and write and write, just like the old days. You have no IDEA how much I love this or what it means to me.
I wrote sober, but couldn’t for the life of me get nearly as much enthusiasm and physical endurance to do it the way Crystal Hyde can. She is the writer. TJ is the responsible one. I’m amazed at how fuckin fast time flew by, all ready past 10am. I started last night at what 10pm or so. There’s more to write too, but this concludes this chapter.
Holy fuck I cannot believe this. Oh hell, wtf I guess I can. After all this is the life and times of Tanya Tarantino, the REAL pulp fiction writer who has lived a hell of a lot more than fiction. The funny and ironic thing is that I was looking at one of my famous brother's websites, who claims that he actually "detests drugs and violence," which makes me think he'd sure as hell detest ME, haha, just like the rest of the Tarantinos, (there loss even if I am a junkie) In spite of my flaws, I'm a damned special person with a heart of gold, though they'll never know. There was this fan of mine from my old Crystal Meth Slammers Group that lives in Spain. She was saying that yes, she agrees my stories are much better when I'm loaded, BUT as she also pointed out it takes sobriety to do the footwork of marketing. She thinks I should market in Europe because my brother is well known there and his work appreciated.
Aimee said, fuck it, market the fact I'm his sister, and send them exerpts of my stuff and the other lady in Spain agrees. Since Q doesn't even like or dislike me, merely an attitude of indifference, what would I have to lose? Certainly no love lost, besides, it's not about getting back at him, it's more about getting my ass known and published as a talented writer. Q has had to get his drug research and info from friends of friends of junkies and I on the other hand can tell all kinds of shit first hand that's fascinating, and not just the drugs, the doper lifestyle, the recovery, and now the relapse. I will admit to the fact that since I was shunned outright by all the blood relatives on Tony's side (except for my brother's mother) I thought to myself, "You know what? To have just one damn good peice of work of mine published and well known, I do have dark thoughts of that being the best, biggest, and most ironic "fuck you" to all of them without ever speaking an ill word publicly about any of them. Success, as far as I'm concerned is the best revenge.
I know it's pointless and useless to hold grudges against anybody, but the thought of making it anyway in spite of what they think of me makes me grin. I have lots of other stories too. The fact that my entire life the man that was 1/2 responsible for my existence was nothing but a young, handsome, mysterious, dark haired man in a photograph. Mom had met Tony as a beautiful, aspiring stage actress while attending The Pasadena Playhouse. Tony was this older stud that hung around the restaurante Tops, always having a ring of foxy babes around him. As he explained it to me when I finally met him at age 32, "Your Mom came in through the back door with her friends. I'd never been with a natural redhead before. She was top heavy, a natual D, so I invited her over to the table."
I guess he chased only Mom, he was so intent on having her. They dated, had gone out for about 6 months in the year 1963. He told her he was divorced and was free to marry her. Mom found out later he flat out lied because one day after he date raped her, she was a virgin, got pregnant with me so married him. He wouldn't work. She wanted to leave because he was a bad husband, his parents did a piss poor job of raising him. In the Tarantino clan, all a man had to do was fuck and fight. Women and wives went to work, raised children, and were doormats. Mom was NOT even remotely that kind of woman, so when she got a call from Tony's mom saying Tony's first wife called to say she had a son, Mom filed for annulment and got one. I saw the papers myself, that that marriage had been rendered null and void Feb 18, 1965 for bigomy. Their marriage wasn't legal, but she had to get proof from the state of Tennessee where he had married my brother's mom.
I was raised an only child, but growing up, knew I had somewhere a half brother that I was always curious about, but would most likely never find out who he was. I figured his mother would remarry just like my own Mom did and give her son his stepfather's name, just like Mom did me. I was right. Well, after that drama, some attorney from Arizona called my Grandparents looking for Tony. It was 1969, he was 28 and had gotten a 17 year old girl pregnant. Again, growing up, I wondered did I have another half brother? Or a sister? I had hoped her mom hadn't aborted her. It turns out that my sister's mom was sent to live with relatives in Arizona, where my sister was given up for adoption. Then around the year 1972 or so, my Grandparents and Mom got a call from the FBI wanting to know if she knew his whereabouts.
When she asked them what he'd done, they wouldn't say. That whole scene was a mystery to me, although looking through my Grandma's cedar chest once when I was 15, finding all sorts of legal documents about my birth father, I came across one that said he'd served at West Point Academy and had been discharged for "reasons other than honorable." I grinned at the time. Good old Pops, whoever he was, was a bad boy rebel. I guess that's where I got that trait from. When I asked Mom why Tony was kicked out of the military, she said it had been for screwing the captain's wife. WHOA! Son of a bitch, this guy can't keep his snake in his pants! I laughed, but again wondered more about this guy. Was he the reason I had these dark, rebellious attitudes and nature about me? I didn't look anything like Mom's side, perfect Anglo beauty and breeding.
In 1995 when I asked Tony about the FBI, he'd said he had been wanted for robbing armoured trucks. "Holy fuck! no shit?," I exclaimed. "I hope you don't think anything less of me. I didn't want to tell you, but..." "Ah hell Tony, don't worry about it. I'm glad you have a checkered past, otherwise I doubt you could understand mine," I said. I thought perhaps he'd be less likely to judge me when he asked difficult questions about choices I'd made in life, as I'd asked about his. His mom and sister got a good lawyer, the lawyer got him a good deal, that if he turned himself in to the Feds voluntarily, and because he'd married wife number 3 who had my other brother Ed while he was in prison, he'd only had to serve 2 years. That was the reason he'd married his 3rd wife. She was pregnant with a baby on the way, they were more lenient giving him less time. The 4th wife he married has been goin on about 15 years I guess.
They have no kids, but she cooks, cleans, supports him. He divorced my brother's mom, but my kid brother the one I did meet back in 95, was born 10 years and one day sooner to my B day. That was a trip. Tony had this tall, thin, blond boy, 10 yrs younger than me, introduced us and as I gapped, I whispered, "My brother?..." "Yeah, I guess so," he said shyly and gave each other a shy hug. I had been wanting to find them my entire life and it became a reality because of the fact that I'd told my friend Amy who was a chiropracter the whole story. She had been kept awake by her baby all night and was looking through Premiere Magazine, July of 1995. There was a picture of Sandra Bullock on the front. Amy called me at work saying, "I want you to sit down. There is a Tony Tarantino claiming in the magazine article to be "the genes behind the genius" of Quentin Tarantino. He talked about wanting to meet his son, saying he had another son and another daugheter from different moms.
I wasn't mentioned and I was a little hurt. "This means that you have 2 half brothers and a half sister honey," said Amy. "Fucking Quentin is my older brother? NO WAY!!!" I raced to the store and bought the magazine, looked at Tony's picture. It was him. I almost screamed. I showed Mom, yep that was Tony, son of a gun. A year earlier someone jokingly told me that Quentin was probably my brother because we shared the same last name and the same peculiar weirdnesses. I laughed. Fuck me a runnin the joke was on me now. I found out where a lot of my mystery traits came from, and it wasn't just me, all 4 of us had some weirdness. Ed and I did meet our sister, she flew us out to Arizona, but Quentin declined saying he was raised an only child and why should he be expected to feel anything for strangers?
I didn't care, I wanted to know who they, Tony, all siblings, blood relatives were even if they were mass murderers because I had a burning curiosity to know the other half of who I was my entire life. His wealth and fame, no doubt had a lot to do with his decision, but ironically I'd never had found Tony or my other 2 siblings had Q NOT been famous, so thankyou Q for not being an unknown like me, haha. There were a whole lot of other details and family history I learned, but my muscles are killing me. Have to stretch my back. I sure as hell hadn't planned to talk about this. I guess my point was the fact I got other interesting life stories besides the druggie one....end of story for now.
Aimee said, fuck it, market the fact I'm his sister, and send them exerpts of my stuff and the other lady in Spain agrees. Since Q doesn't even like or dislike me, merely an attitude of indifference, what would I have to lose? Certainly no love lost, besides, it's not about getting back at him, it's more about getting my ass known and published as a talented writer. Q has had to get his drug research and info from friends of friends of junkies and I on the other hand can tell all kinds of shit first hand that's fascinating, and not just the drugs, the doper lifestyle, the recovery, and now the relapse. I will admit to the fact that since I was shunned outright by all the blood relatives on Tony's side (except for my brother's mother) I thought to myself, "You know what? To have just one damn good peice of work of mine published and well known, I do have dark thoughts of that being the best, biggest, and most ironic "fuck you" to all of them without ever speaking an ill word publicly about any of them. Success, as far as I'm concerned is the best revenge.
I know it's pointless and useless to hold grudges against anybody, but the thought of making it anyway in spite of what they think of me makes me grin. I have lots of other stories too. The fact that my entire life the man that was 1/2 responsible for my existence was nothing but a young, handsome, mysterious, dark haired man in a photograph. Mom had met Tony as a beautiful, aspiring stage actress while attending The Pasadena Playhouse. Tony was this older stud that hung around the restaurante Tops, always having a ring of foxy babes around him. As he explained it to me when I finally met him at age 32, "Your Mom came in through the back door with her friends. I'd never been with a natural redhead before. She was top heavy, a natual D, so I invited her over to the table."
I guess he chased only Mom, he was so intent on having her. They dated, had gone out for about 6 months in the year 1963. He told her he was divorced and was free to marry her. Mom found out later he flat out lied because one day after he date raped her, she was a virgin, got pregnant with me so married him. He wouldn't work. She wanted to leave because he was a bad husband, his parents did a piss poor job of raising him. In the Tarantino clan, all a man had to do was fuck and fight. Women and wives went to work, raised children, and were doormats. Mom was NOT even remotely that kind of woman, so when she got a call from Tony's mom saying Tony's first wife called to say she had a son, Mom filed for annulment and got one. I saw the papers myself, that that marriage had been rendered null and void Feb 18, 1965 for bigomy. Their marriage wasn't legal, but she had to get proof from the state of Tennessee where he had married my brother's mom.
I was raised an only child, but growing up, knew I had somewhere a half brother that I was always curious about, but would most likely never find out who he was. I figured his mother would remarry just like my own Mom did and give her son his stepfather's name, just like Mom did me. I was right. Well, after that drama, some attorney from Arizona called my Grandparents looking for Tony. It was 1969, he was 28 and had gotten a 17 year old girl pregnant. Again, growing up, I wondered did I have another half brother? Or a sister? I had hoped her mom hadn't aborted her. It turns out that my sister's mom was sent to live with relatives in Arizona, where my sister was given up for adoption. Then around the year 1972 or so, my Grandparents and Mom got a call from the FBI wanting to know if she knew his whereabouts.
When she asked them what he'd done, they wouldn't say. That whole scene was a mystery to me, although looking through my Grandma's cedar chest once when I was 15, finding all sorts of legal documents about my birth father, I came across one that said he'd served at West Point Academy and had been discharged for "reasons other than honorable." I grinned at the time. Good old Pops, whoever he was, was a bad boy rebel. I guess that's where I got that trait from. When I asked Mom why Tony was kicked out of the military, she said it had been for screwing the captain's wife. WHOA! Son of a bitch, this guy can't keep his snake in his pants! I laughed, but again wondered more about this guy. Was he the reason I had these dark, rebellious attitudes and nature about me? I didn't look anything like Mom's side, perfect Anglo beauty and breeding.
In 1995 when I asked Tony about the FBI, he'd said he had been wanted for robbing armoured trucks. "Holy fuck! no shit?," I exclaimed. "I hope you don't think anything less of me. I didn't want to tell you, but..." "Ah hell Tony, don't worry about it. I'm glad you have a checkered past, otherwise I doubt you could understand mine," I said. I thought perhaps he'd be less likely to judge me when he asked difficult questions about choices I'd made in life, as I'd asked about his. His mom and sister got a good lawyer, the lawyer got him a good deal, that if he turned himself in to the Feds voluntarily, and because he'd married wife number 3 who had my other brother Ed while he was in prison, he'd only had to serve 2 years. That was the reason he'd married his 3rd wife. She was pregnant with a baby on the way, they were more lenient giving him less time. The 4th wife he married has been goin on about 15 years I guess.
They have no kids, but she cooks, cleans, supports him. He divorced my brother's mom, but my kid brother the one I did meet back in 95, was born 10 years and one day sooner to my B day. That was a trip. Tony had this tall, thin, blond boy, 10 yrs younger than me, introduced us and as I gapped, I whispered, "My brother?..." "Yeah, I guess so," he said shyly and gave each other a shy hug. I had been wanting to find them my entire life and it became a reality because of the fact that I'd told my friend Amy who was a chiropracter the whole story. She had been kept awake by her baby all night and was looking through Premiere Magazine, July of 1995. There was a picture of Sandra Bullock on the front. Amy called me at work saying, "I want you to sit down. There is a Tony Tarantino claiming in the magazine article to be "the genes behind the genius" of Quentin Tarantino. He talked about wanting to meet his son, saying he had another son and another daugheter from different moms.
I wasn't mentioned and I was a little hurt. "This means that you have 2 half brothers and a half sister honey," said Amy. "Fucking Quentin is my older brother? NO WAY!!!" I raced to the store and bought the magazine, looked at Tony's picture. It was him. I almost screamed. I showed Mom, yep that was Tony, son of a gun. A year earlier someone jokingly told me that Quentin was probably my brother because we shared the same last name and the same peculiar weirdnesses. I laughed. Fuck me a runnin the joke was on me now. I found out where a lot of my mystery traits came from, and it wasn't just me, all 4 of us had some weirdness. Ed and I did meet our sister, she flew us out to Arizona, but Quentin declined saying he was raised an only child and why should he be expected to feel anything for strangers?
I didn't care, I wanted to know who they, Tony, all siblings, blood relatives were even if they were mass murderers because I had a burning curiosity to know the other half of who I was my entire life. His wealth and fame, no doubt had a lot to do with his decision, but ironically I'd never had found Tony or my other 2 siblings had Q NOT been famous, so thankyou Q for not being an unknown like me, haha. There were a whole lot of other details and family history I learned, but my muscles are killing me. Have to stretch my back. I sure as hell hadn't planned to talk about this. I guess my point was the fact I got other interesting life stories besides the druggie one....end of story for now.
Well this is my first blog entry. As many of you know, I have been away from bl for quite sometime. My friend spork has been incredibly nice to me. As
many of you know, she is quite a special person. She has been quite generous with her time for me.
I have had a bit of bad luck since I had a pretty bad heart attack on December 29, 2007. I had a complete blockage in one of the main arteries that supply blood to my heart. I have no recollection of when it hit me. I only know what my doctors and family members have told me after the fact.
I was taken by ambulance to the hosp and the doctors worked on me for over 2.5 hours attempting to remove the blockage. They were unsuccessful because the clot was rock hard. They summized that I had actually had the attack more than 72 hours prior. I was told that a clot that is caught within 24 hours is of a soft consistency and easily removable
many of you know, she is quite a special person. She has been quite generous with her time for me.
I have had a bit of bad luck since I had a pretty bad heart attack on December 29, 2007. I had a complete blockage in one of the main arteries that supply blood to my heart. I have no recollection of when it hit me. I only know what my doctors and family members have told me after the fact.
I was taken by ambulance to the hosp and the doctors worked on me for over 2.5 hours attempting to remove the blockage. They were unsuccessful because the clot was rock hard. They summized that I had actually had the attack more than 72 hours prior. I was told that a clot that is caught within 24 hours is of a soft consistency and easily removable
Excerpt from my novel Turbo and Spice
"...Talking about every subject known and unknown to man, sitting on the bed together side by side, sharing each other enhancing their meth bliss, the subject of sexual attraction did come up. They were both the same age, she 37 and he almost 37. Sitting side by side indian style, they held hands. She loved the feel of heat radiating from his body from the meth. Turbo gently leaned over and affectionately kissed Bobby on the neck. Her kiss came straight from her heart, not out of lust, though she was genuinely attracted to him body and soul.
Both of them laid down on the bed, Turbo resting her head on Bobby's chest. Listening to the steady thump of his heart as he tenderly stroked her hair, shoulder, and putting his arm around her, for those precious few minutes, she felt safe and loved. In her heart she knew that as with all of these physical comforts, it was only for a little while. That was alright. It was something she accepted long ago. Friends, lovers, and acquaintances, even family members that were meth users as a general rule were transients.
Yet she took comfort and gave it in return. No matter who you are, most souls took comfort, however temporary, of knowing that they are not alone. "You're a beautiful woman, TJ with an equally beautiful heart. I'll bet you were really something to see when you were a dancer on stage." She had told him of her days as an exotic dancer 5 years ago as well as her massive collection of lingerie, shoes, garter belts, you name it. "You are very sensual. You loved the stage didn't you?," he asked. "Yes I did babe. On stage I got really into the sensual aspects of the lovely lace, and slowly doing dance moves, taking off and putting on frilly garments." She explained how she let her very long mane of dark hair flow at some point during the show, while looking into the eyes of the customers 6 feet away. Since she had seduced her mind by the slow art of strip tease, the light caresses she felt as each article of clothing came off, got her turned on. She would look at the customers with this come hither look in her eyes.
"I'd give anything to have been able to see you dance. Your're so lovely even now, but..." he trailed off. "Bobby you too are very physically and sexually attractive," said Turbo. And she meant it. "I wish I was more.." again he said trailing off. He sounded apologetic. "I love your mind, I love your heart. I love being here with you. Bobby I wouldn't want to change a thing about you," she said. "I'm a gay bottom," he said softly.
Feeling close to him as a friend, as well as thriving on the physical contact and cuddling she rarely got to enjoy, the way she felt at that moment was very intimate. For reasons that cannot be understood by most, in ways their non sexual, yet sensual holding, bonding, and sharing was more intimate than many times she'd shared her body sexually.
Leaning over him and caressing his blood stained arms where the needle had punctured them, she softly caressed the length of his arm with her fingertips very lightly. Nibbing his arm with gental kisses starting at his shoulder and working her way down, she stopped at the place where his violated veins had wept tears of blood, now dried. Tenderly kissing the punctured area, as if to kiss the wounds away, she gently licked away the blood then moved down the length of his forearm with her tongue. She then lightly blew up and down the length of his arm before repeating the same procedure on his other arm.
Getting a pillow and putting it under his arm, she softly asked him to sit up. Doing as she requested, she tied off his arm. Again she slowly licked the lovely buldging vein that would be her target and gently blew on the wet spot. He was shivering and getting goose bumps. Whispering softly to him that she loved him, she took the loaded rig and asked him to take a deep breath. When he exhaled, she quickly stuck her primed vein that looked like a rope. Once she registered blood, she undid his tie and shot him to paradise.
To her that was an act of love. Even if that love was temporary. She lived in the moment. A couple minutes after he got his fix, he proceeded to do the same act of eroticism she had done for him. Then he had given a shot to her. These are things she had never done before, but their mutual ritual was the act of lovemaking, sensuality, and sharing between those two. She had never experienced anything so intense, and so intimate on a different level as that. ..."
"...Talking about every subject known and unknown to man, sitting on the bed together side by side, sharing each other enhancing their meth bliss, the subject of sexual attraction did come up. They were both the same age, she 37 and he almost 37. Sitting side by side indian style, they held hands. She loved the feel of heat radiating from his body from the meth. Turbo gently leaned over and affectionately kissed Bobby on the neck. Her kiss came straight from her heart, not out of lust, though she was genuinely attracted to him body and soul.
Both of them laid down on the bed, Turbo resting her head on Bobby's chest. Listening to the steady thump of his heart as he tenderly stroked her hair, shoulder, and putting his arm around her, for those precious few minutes, she felt safe and loved. In her heart she knew that as with all of these physical comforts, it was only for a little while. That was alright. It was something she accepted long ago. Friends, lovers, and acquaintances, even family members that were meth users as a general rule were transients.
Yet she took comfort and gave it in return. No matter who you are, most souls took comfort, however temporary, of knowing that they are not alone. "You're a beautiful woman, TJ with an equally beautiful heart. I'll bet you were really something to see when you were a dancer on stage." She had told him of her days as an exotic dancer 5 years ago as well as her massive collection of lingerie, shoes, garter belts, you name it. "You are very sensual. You loved the stage didn't you?," he asked. "Yes I did babe. On stage I got really into the sensual aspects of the lovely lace, and slowly doing dance moves, taking off and putting on frilly garments." She explained how she let her very long mane of dark hair flow at some point during the show, while looking into the eyes of the customers 6 feet away. Since she had seduced her mind by the slow art of strip tease, the light caresses she felt as each article of clothing came off, got her turned on. She would look at the customers with this come hither look in her eyes.
"I'd give anything to have been able to see you dance. Your're so lovely even now, but..." he trailed off. "Bobby you too are very physically and sexually attractive," said Turbo. And she meant it. "I wish I was more.." again he said trailing off. He sounded apologetic. "I love your mind, I love your heart. I love being here with you. Bobby I wouldn't want to change a thing about you," she said. "I'm a gay bottom," he said softly.
Feeling close to him as a friend, as well as thriving on the physical contact and cuddling she rarely got to enjoy, the way she felt at that moment was very intimate. For reasons that cannot be understood by most, in ways their non sexual, yet sensual holding, bonding, and sharing was more intimate than many times she'd shared her body sexually.
Leaning over him and caressing his blood stained arms where the needle had punctured them, she softly caressed the length of his arm with her fingertips very lightly. Nibbing his arm with gental kisses starting at his shoulder and working her way down, she stopped at the place where his violated veins had wept tears of blood, now dried. Tenderly kissing the punctured area, as if to kiss the wounds away, she gently licked away the blood then moved down the length of his forearm with her tongue. She then lightly blew up and down the length of his arm before repeating the same procedure on his other arm.
Getting a pillow and putting it under his arm, she softly asked him to sit up. Doing as she requested, she tied off his arm. Again she slowly licked the lovely buldging vein that would be her target and gently blew on the wet spot. He was shivering and getting goose bumps. Whispering softly to him that she loved him, she took the loaded rig and asked him to take a deep breath. When he exhaled, she quickly stuck her primed vein that looked like a rope. Once she registered blood, she undid his tie and shot him to paradise.
To her that was an act of love. Even if that love was temporary. She lived in the moment. A couple minutes after he got his fix, he proceeded to do the same act of eroticism she had done for him. Then he had given a shot to her. These are things she had never done before, but their mutual ritual was the act of lovemaking, sensuality, and sharing between those two. She had never experienced anything so intense, and so intimate on a different level as that. ..."
Work tomorrow. Really don't want to go. Not feeling good. Cold, tired, sick of it all. Feeling alone and disillusioned. Almost done with Suboxone detox. Down to half a pill twice a day. Will be looking for new doctor afterwards, need long term maintenance. Dose I was on two weeks ago perfect. Had a taste of normalacy and stability. Loved it. Won't let it slip through fingers.
Sometimes you never really understand a phrase like that until you have a point of reference. And she really is haunting my dreams. A ghost from 16 years back who comes and goes and I'm left with the emotional ether still floating soft wisps inside me this morning. Tears evaporating under my skin. I can never really get hold of it and just yank it out like I would want to.
I have let her go so many times but still I cannot help but feel her when she is in my dreams. I cannot help but feel.
I have just learned to let it ebb out of me in the day. But it takes a lot, especially for me. Someone who processes everything down to the last detail possible. And then some.
I woke up in the middle of the night with her still in my head, I woke up this morning with her fresh from a new dream. Twice in one night. Once a month. It's getting a bit much now. I want to wake up feeling cocky and stupid again, hair bushing out fucked up on one side and proud of it. Not empty, and cold like I did today.
I will let you run sorely from my life this morning baby, but please not tonight. I need to live now. I need to let you go. Again.
![:\](https://bluelight.org/xf/BL_Images/Orig_Emoji/wrygrin.gif "wry grin :\")
I have let her go so many times but still I cannot help but feel her when she is in my dreams. I cannot help but feel.
I have just learned to let it ebb out of me in the day. But it takes a lot, especially for me. Someone who processes everything down to the last detail possible. And then some.
I woke up in the middle of the night with her still in my head, I woke up this morning with her fresh from a new dream. Twice in one night. Once a month. It's getting a bit much now. I want to wake up feeling cocky and stupid again, hair bushing out fucked up on one side and proud of it. Not empty, and cold like I did today.
I will let you run sorely from my life this morning baby, but please not tonight. I need to live now. I need to let you go. Again.
Went to the Ermergency Room last night....
I received 3 shots of Dilaudid, and 4 shots of Demorol/Morphine. and 6 Lorcet.
Didn't get eased off. Stomach is bleeding pretty bad, can't eat, can't drink too much. Need a MOTHERFUCKING CIGARETTE. No money to buy a cigarette, well no money for nothing.
and My cat died today, bled to death after a dog attacked him. R.I.P. 'Roofie'.
*ends whining.
I received 3 shots of Dilaudid, and 4 shots of Demorol/Morphine. and 6 Lorcet.
Didn't get eased off. Stomach is bleeding pretty bad, can't eat, can't drink too much. Need a MOTHERFUCKING CIGARETTE. No money to buy a cigarette, well no money for nothing.
and My cat died today, bled to death after a dog attacked him. R.I.P. 'Roofie'.
*ends whining.
Whoa. 6 days of cocaine and ecstasy. That's a lot. I was doing pretty good after rehab, but the constant anxiety and tension of my parents house is driving me nuts. Hopefully I get this job cooking. It looks like I will.
Ate too much laxatives, gotta go poop again! bye
Ate too much laxatives, gotta go poop again! bye
Did not have work today. Just woke up. Feeling rather shitty. Thought the feelings were from reduced Suboxone dose. Already hours without dose by accident. No withdrawal symptoms. Talked to girlfriend briefly this morning, feeling just as bad as me. Sometimes question if I myself suffer from chronic PMS. Ha. That was joke. Laugh.
Having cigarette and then going to doctors appointment. Sick and tired of people telling me to go to NA meetings. Bane to my existence. Take away from time I wish to spend with others and myself.
Just got back from the doctors. Had some acupuncture done. Feel alright now, not great, but not bad either. Not as tired, but still feeling stressed and melancholy, although not as severe. Put about ten needles into me. One on each foot. One on each hand. And three in each ear. Doctor was decent. Talked about the acupuncture in medical terms and then dropped comment about ki to see how I would react. Him and I started talking about meditation, The Fourteen Meridians, Buddhism.
Called girlfriend. She is feeling better. Going down to see her when she gets off work. Try to cheer her up. Makes me happy when she is happy.
Went to her job and managed to cheer her up. Don't know how I do it sometimes considering attitude towards life and the way I feel. Seeing her smile made me smile. Just texted me thanking me up and down for visiting and professing love. Nice how we bring each others mood up when down.
No work tomorrow thank Elysium. Very tired. Been pushing body to breaking point lately with workout regime and steroid cycle. Trying to undue physical damage done by irresponsible heroin use. Great success thus far.
Suboxone dose cut again. Does not matter. At this point not needed.
Saved up and put away enough money to have writing published. Instructions put away as well. Written journal, this journal, Myspace journal, and certain Bluelight posts of other persona to be published if anything ever happens to me. Want world to know story. Perhaps others can learn from mistakes, find hope, or improve life based on experiences of mine and code and morals I live by.
Tomorrow is April Fool's Day. Excited. Enjoy holiday. One day a year my strange behavior and humor considered normal and acceptable by society.
Having cigarette and then going to doctors appointment. Sick and tired of people telling me to go to NA meetings. Bane to my existence. Take away from time I wish to spend with others and myself.
Just got back from the doctors. Had some acupuncture done. Feel alright now, not great, but not bad either. Not as tired, but still feeling stressed and melancholy, although not as severe. Put about ten needles into me. One on each foot. One on each hand. And three in each ear. Doctor was decent. Talked about the acupuncture in medical terms and then dropped comment about ki to see how I would react. Him and I started talking about meditation, The Fourteen Meridians, Buddhism.
Called girlfriend. She is feeling better. Going down to see her when she gets off work. Try to cheer her up. Makes me happy when she is happy.
Went to her job and managed to cheer her up. Don't know how I do it sometimes considering attitude towards life and the way I feel. Seeing her smile made me smile. Just texted me thanking me up and down for visiting and professing love. Nice how we bring each others mood up when down.
No work tomorrow thank Elysium. Very tired. Been pushing body to breaking point lately with workout regime and steroid cycle. Trying to undue physical damage done by irresponsible heroin use. Great success thus far.
Suboxone dose cut again. Does not matter. At this point not needed.
Saved up and put away enough money to have writing published. Instructions put away as well. Written journal, this journal, Myspace journal, and certain Bluelight posts of other persona to be published if anything ever happens to me. Want world to know story. Perhaps others can learn from mistakes, find hope, or improve life based on experiences of mine and code and morals I live by.
Tomorrow is April Fool's Day. Excited. Enjoy holiday. One day a year my strange behavior and humor considered normal and acceptable by society.
my friend who i was letting live here till he got things sorted has decided to quit his job and move back to ohio. but his ticket is not for another 16 days and he has no plans on doing anything besides hanging out here and drinking. i can't fucking stand.
today i am home sick and all i want to do is lay down and rest. but he keeps coming into my room babbling about moving back to ohio. but i do not give a flying fuck.
initially, he was going to work up until he was flying back. but then he decided that he was too good to wash dishes and walked out of his job.
he was supposed to contribute to rent and bills, but blows all his money drinking. and then whines and eats everyone else's food cause he can't afford to feed himself.
and he is too stupid to take the bus to take himself anywhere. he is always asking and whining that i take him places. then acting all upset like i owe it to him to take him to the gas station and buy him beer. or gets annoyed because i do not want to go to a stupid punk show on a random night.
then he is busy telling everyone how much seattle sucks. and the people are so lame. even tho he is the one who walks around with a massive chip on his shoulder thinking he is better than everyone else. he won't talk to my one friend because all he has done is smoke pot, and that is not cool enough for him. so every time i hang out with this friend, he makes snide comments about how uncool he is.
today i am home sick and all i want to do is lay down and rest. but he keeps coming into my room babbling about moving back to ohio. but i do not give a flying fuck.
initially, he was going to work up until he was flying back. but then he decided that he was too good to wash dishes and walked out of his job.
he was supposed to contribute to rent and bills, but blows all his money drinking. and then whines and eats everyone else's food cause he can't afford to feed himself.
and he is too stupid to take the bus to take himself anywhere. he is always asking and whining that i take him places. then acting all upset like i owe it to him to take him to the gas station and buy him beer. or gets annoyed because i do not want to go to a stupid punk show on a random night.
then he is busy telling everyone how much seattle sucks. and the people are so lame. even tho he is the one who walks around with a massive chip on his shoulder thinking he is better than everyone else. he won't talk to my one friend because all he has done is smoke pot, and that is not cool enough for him. so every time i hang out with this friend, he makes snide comments about how uncool he is.
Fucking stressful day. Passed out when I got home from work. Woke up feeling disillusioned. E-Mail from roommate who had thrown me out of flat days ago. Made me feel bad. He is good person, I not so much. Girlfriend did not call despite her having day off. Perhaps I should of called? Her Myspace blog entries leave me with bad feeling. One titled "Frustrated" and private. Other had no subject but able to be seen by me:
I AM NOT HAPPY BY ALL MEANS RIGHT NOW. and all I have to say is this better be pms because I have not yet gotten my period and I was due 2 days ago..and usually Im early. never late. But Im really uncomfortable, irritable, thirsty, I feel like fuckin crying, and I feel fucking stuck.. I just want my liscense already, it sucks having a car and not being able to drive it. and why do I always have off on the shittiest days and the day after is fuckin wonderful weather? FUCK THE WIND. I couldve drove somewhere instead of being stuck at home and wasting the day away. Usually I end up walking in the shitty weather but I was not for that today. I might as well have went all out and smoked some weed, take fuckin advantage of nothing. I USUALLY DONT RANT LIKE THIS BUT I DONT FUCKIN CARE RIGHT NOW. god I hate being a woman, you know at least lesbians dont have to worry about being pregnant. now I feel like I never want to have sex again. FUCK EVERYTHINGGGGG IM GOING TO FUCKING BED
Obviously PMS with worrying and overwhelming emotions. Know for fact not pregnant. Used condom last time. Not worried about that to much, feel bad over rest of stuff. Wish I was in better financial situation, had own place and had car fixed, wish I could be that knight in shining armor for her. Wish I was not sick like I am mentally, emotionally, and physically. Would be able to be there more for her and show her world. Going to stop by her job tomorrow and try to cheer her up. Love her so much.
Strange though. Everytime she is sad or upset so am I. She feels like crying. I feel like crying right now.
Try to keep emotions like that hidden from her and my family. Always try to make people smile. Makes me happy. Sometimes wonder if they know that something is going on inside me. That I have come to conclusion there is no more time left for me to borrow. No use hoping for a miracle. Lately been asking who will be left standing when I’m gone. Have concluded there’ll be nothing left but a beautiful vision that echoes with my fleeting moments of joy that have become an eternity. Finally will have achieved that happiness that goes on forever.
But there is always something in the way... Got to knock on Elysium's gate, need to knock on heaven's door a little harder and break on through.
I AM NOT HAPPY BY ALL MEANS RIGHT NOW. and all I have to say is this better be pms because I have not yet gotten my period and I was due 2 days ago..and usually Im early. never late. But Im really uncomfortable, irritable, thirsty, I feel like fuckin crying, and I feel fucking stuck.. I just want my liscense already, it sucks having a car and not being able to drive it. and why do I always have off on the shittiest days and the day after is fuckin wonderful weather? FUCK THE WIND. I couldve drove somewhere instead of being stuck at home and wasting the day away. Usually I end up walking in the shitty weather but I was not for that today. I might as well have went all out and smoked some weed, take fuckin advantage of nothing. I USUALLY DONT RANT LIKE THIS BUT I DONT FUCKIN CARE RIGHT NOW. god I hate being a woman, you know at least lesbians dont have to worry about being pregnant. now I feel like I never want to have sex again. FUCK EVERYTHINGGGGG IM GOING TO FUCKING BED
Obviously PMS with worrying and overwhelming emotions. Know for fact not pregnant. Used condom last time. Not worried about that to much, feel bad over rest of stuff. Wish I was in better financial situation, had own place and had car fixed, wish I could be that knight in shining armor for her. Wish I was not sick like I am mentally, emotionally, and physically. Would be able to be there more for her and show her world. Going to stop by her job tomorrow and try to cheer her up. Love her so much.
Strange though. Everytime she is sad or upset so am I. She feels like crying. I feel like crying right now.
Try to keep emotions like that hidden from her and my family. Always try to make people smile. Makes me happy. Sometimes wonder if they know that something is going on inside me. That I have come to conclusion there is no more time left for me to borrow. No use hoping for a miracle. Lately been asking who will be left standing when I’m gone. Have concluded there’ll be nothing left but a beautiful vision that echoes with my fleeting moments of joy that have become an eternity. Finally will have achieved that happiness that goes on forever.
But there is always something in the way... Got to knock on Elysium's gate, need to knock on heaven's door a little harder and break on through.
Here there are old things.
Here across endless fields of dead flowers, ash incessantly rains. Here the walls hold just enough paint to show you they once weren't grey. Here the paint holds just enough colour to show you that it has faded. Here old things hold together enough to show you their anger.
Black sockets beneath cold mountains howl and bay at empty tracks, twisted tongues leading out of them. Leading into them. Here red sparks still jump under the ash, ugly imps picking at the twilight sky from beneath.
Here the ground fights in vain against smoking metal heaps. They kick and screech in her mouth. Pulling teeth to prevent being swallowed. They hiss and creak and spew black blood, thick drops flying up into the poisoned air.
Here there are old things, still sucking greedily at the dry marrow of the land. Burning with malice at their demise.
Here there are old things, here there are bad things, here there are things that just refuse to die.
Here across endless fields of dead flowers, ash incessantly rains. Here the walls hold just enough paint to show you they once weren't grey. Here the paint holds just enough colour to show you that it has faded. Here old things hold together enough to show you their anger.
Black sockets beneath cold mountains howl and bay at empty tracks, twisted tongues leading out of them. Leading into them. Here red sparks still jump under the ash, ugly imps picking at the twilight sky from beneath.
Here the ground fights in vain against smoking metal heaps. They kick and screech in her mouth. Pulling teeth to prevent being swallowed. They hiss and creak and spew black blood, thick drops flying up into the poisoned air.
Here there are old things, still sucking greedily at the dry marrow of the land. Burning with malice at their demise.
Here there are old things, here there are bad things, here there are things that just refuse to die.
i wrote the basics of how an MG is employed at the coy and smaller level. its written for the laymen and such, i know its missing fine points. its just a very rough overview for anyone intrested. if you want more detail, PM me or leave the ? as a comment.
its amphetamine induced writing i wanna save/edit for later use, so ima post it here, armchair corporals, enjoy.
speaking of machine guns. i feel like explaining current TRADOC on them. (training and doctrine, how they is used on the battle field)
the basic medium machine gun team has 3 people. a shooter. an ammo feeder, who links new belts in, and makes sure they dont get tangled, and commander/spotter, who also changes the barrel when it over heats. (wwI machineguns was watercooled barrels, hence firing for 100,000's in a row, modern air cooled over heats in about a 1000....but modern war is so fluid, water cooling is not feasable)...so the shooter just shoots, ammo feeder does his thing. the commander makes the team.
first of all, the commander calls targets out for the shooter. unless its overrun/WWI type of thing, then he calls free fire, nd the shooter takes his choice.
generally, the commander has 3 target types: point, area, vehicle. point is aimed at a single person. like a sniper or officer. area is for a group of soldiers, from a 4 man fire team,to a wall of men like WWI. vehicle is for a vehicle, and is to shoot at glass/tires/other soft spots.
generally, the commander has 3 target types: point, area, vehicle. point is aimed at a single person. like a sniper or officer. area is for a group of soldiers, from a 4 man fire.
next: he picks the fire purpose. the defualt one, and doesnt need to be spoken, is to kill the targets. other options include supress. (make them stay put behind cover, so allied forces can close on em and kill em) harass...thats usually done at far range and at big areaa tragets. the idea being that killing 20-30 of enemy battalion doesnt do a whole lot tactially, but it sure makes them move slow, hiding behind cover, ect, and reduces morale. no soldier wants to run at an MG posistion...it tends to lead to death. the third type is force maneouver/area denial. this is related to the fact no one wants to run at a machine gun head on, so it forces OPFOR to attemp flanking you...right into your waiting armoured cav company with pre-registered 155mm's and snipers.
the next part of a fire order is the fire style: aimed single shot, short burst, long burst, sustained. the first two tend to be for point fire, or close range area fire. that fire style intends most of the bullets to end up in human beings. long burst, however, is the most common used style. its good blend between ammo efficent, effect on target, and barrel heat. long burst is 20-50 rounds every 10 seconds or so, until everyone in that target is dead, or orders switch to new target. long burst can kill a single man in one burst, devistate a company sized unit in under 10 seconds and supress a company sized unit in under 30sec. sustained tends to be for a) zerg rush wwI style b) harrasing fire c) supression on "elite" troops, troops with good cover, or units larger then a company...see a)
there are 3 basic ways of giving the direction of fire. the most "proper' used by a set up MG crew, starts from a known "0" and goes in a circle to 360, 180 being facing right backwards.
next is calling degrees left/right...like if the MG was facing north, 90 right would be east, 90 left west.
the third, crudest, and most common, is in "o clock"....MG's "natural" aim is 12 oclock, 3 olock would be east.
then comes range of the target, either from optics/lazor or guestimation.
then comes their elevation, are they above or below or even altitude wise with you. shooting down a 100m hill "elevation -100m"
then comes any landmark mark or cover they are in. "by that burned out audi" or "behind that bush"
if possibly specificy the type of enemy. "heavy infantry!" "logistics troops" "mechanics" and vehicles/tanks/equipment they have, and a guess of how many "heavy mech infantry, half platoon (30ish) and a BTR-90 (a thingy between a tank and a truck, called an armoured personelle carrier)...if u see heavy armour,do radio up the chain!
so now we're ready to give you a fire order. *slaps tracy on back and points towards target* target to your front, 20 degrees, area target, range 700m, elevation +40m, dismounted infantry platoon, long burst, FIRE, GO ON!"
*machine gun fire*
*slap and point again* target to your front, 35 degree's, point target, range 400m, elevation +2, single officer, short bursts, FIRE, GO ON!"
see what i did, i switched you to kill the officer who was creeping closer, perhaps to call a jet fighter on us!
congrats. thats like week one of tactics at the MG course...and i skipped a few lot things.
now for a few more hours of week one, and a bit from riflemen's course:
what to do when an MG is shooting at you.
first thing. he may be low on ammo, drop down like your dead/hit. he may stop. but always keep your eye on him.
if he keeps shooting...your a) fucked b) have little to loose. shoot back, stay low and make for cover.
if he stops. wait until they tied up on another target, perferably one the other side of 0 that your on. now, move slow and low sideways away from and forwards towards the MG. you want to end up about 300m away, 150m of that on his flank (so off his zero) and 150m in front of...or...even better, behind them.
remember, a medium or heavy MG can only really swing 45-90 from its zero, and its a real bitch to pick them up and set em on a new zero...fucking tripods and belt feeds and spotting scopes, ect) so when ur like 120 from his zero, you've turned the MG into 3 riflemen....in a poor army, (former ussr, offical african army) they have very basic rifle skills, in a rebel group, they only know how to load and spray an AK...and may not even have one!.
now, that your of their sight. Take your time and aim your rifle shots in semi=auto mode. go prone, use a barrell support, use your optical sight....you are now the one with the element of surprise, use it!
take an aimed shot at the commander. a single shot. chances are good you will hit and kill/maim him. if u miss, dont panic. a) they may have not noticed. their MG post is loud. your rifle shot from 300m is probably unhearable if they where firing/its an active battle....if they did notice, a single shot is hard to use to locate someone. stay cammed/consealed, and re-aim and fire again...carry on until you kill them/can get a GRID and radio it back for arty/air, or they notice you.
now i said they might be poor riflemen, but dont bet your life on it. fight now like you would against riflemen. move towards them while firing semi-aimed shots. if you kill them before grenade range,good work. if not. get a god damned grenade off at em!...that grenade SHOULD of killed them. if not, god damnit, fix bayonette, keep at them and shoot or stab em to death...basic infantry work really.
its amphetamine induced writing i wanna save/edit for later use, so ima post it here, armchair corporals, enjoy.
speaking of machine guns. i feel like explaining current TRADOC on them. (training and doctrine, how they is used on the battle field)
the basic medium machine gun team has 3 people. a shooter. an ammo feeder, who links new belts in, and makes sure they dont get tangled, and commander/spotter, who also changes the barrel when it over heats. (wwI machineguns was watercooled barrels, hence firing for 100,000's in a row, modern air cooled over heats in about a 1000....but modern war is so fluid, water cooling is not feasable)...so the shooter just shoots, ammo feeder does his thing. the commander makes the team.
first of all, the commander calls targets out for the shooter. unless its overrun/WWI type of thing, then he calls free fire, nd the shooter takes his choice.
generally, the commander has 3 target types: point, area, vehicle. point is aimed at a single person. like a sniper or officer. area is for a group of soldiers, from a 4 man fire team,to a wall of men like WWI. vehicle is for a vehicle, and is to shoot at glass/tires/other soft spots.
generally, the commander has 3 target types: point, area, vehicle. point is aimed at a single person. like a sniper or officer. area is for a group of soldiers, from a 4 man fire.
next: he picks the fire purpose. the defualt one, and doesnt need to be spoken, is to kill the targets. other options include supress. (make them stay put behind cover, so allied forces can close on em and kill em) harass...thats usually done at far range and at big areaa tragets. the idea being that killing 20-30 of enemy battalion doesnt do a whole lot tactially, but it sure makes them move slow, hiding behind cover, ect, and reduces morale. no soldier wants to run at an MG posistion...it tends to lead to death. the third type is force maneouver/area denial. this is related to the fact no one wants to run at a machine gun head on, so it forces OPFOR to attemp flanking you...right into your waiting armoured cav company with pre-registered 155mm's and snipers.
the next part of a fire order is the fire style: aimed single shot, short burst, long burst, sustained. the first two tend to be for point fire, or close range area fire. that fire style intends most of the bullets to end up in human beings. long burst, however, is the most common used style. its good blend between ammo efficent, effect on target, and barrel heat. long burst is 20-50 rounds every 10 seconds or so, until everyone in that target is dead, or orders switch to new target. long burst can kill a single man in one burst, devistate a company sized unit in under 10 seconds and supress a company sized unit in under 30sec. sustained tends to be for a) zerg rush wwI style b) harrasing fire c) supression on "elite" troops, troops with good cover, or units larger then a company...see a)
there are 3 basic ways of giving the direction of fire. the most "proper' used by a set up MG crew, starts from a known "0" and goes in a circle to 360, 180 being facing right backwards.
next is calling degrees left/right...like if the MG was facing north, 90 right would be east, 90 left west.
the third, crudest, and most common, is in "o clock"....MG's "natural" aim is 12 oclock, 3 olock would be east.
then comes range of the target, either from optics/lazor or guestimation.
then comes their elevation, are they above or below or even altitude wise with you. shooting down a 100m hill "elevation -100m"
then comes any landmark mark or cover they are in. "by that burned out audi" or "behind that bush"
if possibly specificy the type of enemy. "heavy infantry!" "logistics troops" "mechanics" and vehicles/tanks/equipment they have, and a guess of how many "heavy mech infantry, half platoon (30ish) and a BTR-90 (a thingy between a tank and a truck, called an armoured personelle carrier)...if u see heavy armour,do radio up the chain!
so now we're ready to give you a fire order. *slaps tracy on back and points towards target* target to your front, 20 degrees, area target, range 700m, elevation +40m, dismounted infantry platoon, long burst, FIRE, GO ON!"
*machine gun fire*
*slap and point again* target to your front, 35 degree's, point target, range 400m, elevation +2, single officer, short bursts, FIRE, GO ON!"
see what i did, i switched you to kill the officer who was creeping closer, perhaps to call a jet fighter on us!
congrats. thats like week one of tactics at the MG course...and i skipped a few
now for a few more hours of week one, and a bit from riflemen's course:
what to do when an MG is shooting at you.
first thing. he may be low on ammo, drop down like your dead/hit. he may stop. but always keep your eye on him.
if he keeps shooting...your a) fucked b) have little to loose. shoot back, stay low and make for cover.
if he stops. wait until they tied up on another target, perferably one the other side of 0 that your on. now, move slow and low sideways away from and forwards towards the MG. you want to end up about 300m away, 150m of that on his flank (so off his zero) and 150m in front of...or...even better, behind them.
remember, a medium or heavy MG can only really swing 45-90 from its zero, and its a real bitch to pick them up and set em on a new zero...fucking tripods and belt feeds and spotting scopes, ect) so when ur like 120 from his zero, you've turned the MG into 3 riflemen....in a poor army, (former ussr, offical african army) they have very basic rifle skills, in a rebel group, they only know how to load and spray an AK...and may not even have one!.
now, that your of their sight. Take your time and aim your rifle shots in semi=auto mode. go prone, use a barrell support, use your optical sight....you are now the one with the element of surprise, use it!
take an aimed shot at the commander. a single shot. chances are good you will hit and kill/maim him. if u miss, dont panic. a) they may have not noticed. their MG post is loud. your rifle shot from 300m is probably unhearable if they where firing/its an active battle....if they did notice, a single shot is hard to use to locate someone. stay cammed/consealed, and re-aim and fire again...carry on until you kill them/can get a GRID and radio it back for arty/air, or they notice you.
now i said they might be poor riflemen, but dont bet your life on it. fight now like you would against riflemen. move towards them while firing semi-aimed shots. if you kill them before grenade range,good work. if not. get a god damned grenade off at em!...that grenade SHOULD of killed them. if not, god damnit, fix bayonette, keep at them and shoot or stab em to death...basic infantry work really.
I got a head cold and ton of snot. Seriously I know my head is empty but I didn't think it could hold this much mucus. If I could bottle and sell the stuff I'd be a millionaire by now.
*sniff*
*sniff*
Yahoo has been a giant pain in the ass lately with its "blog" issues. I put up a post and it comes up blank or with a pic and no writing. Doin the full time work gig, I don't have forever to be dickin around with this, plus I have a slow ass computer again. I took 3 fiorinal #3's today so I didn't feel high, but I didn't feel like shit. Tomorrow I'm going to see how well I do on 2 pills. I had a shitload I wrote out at work by hand, but hell I just don't have the time on a work night to write all this crap out. That's one reason why I love speed so much, although I was offered some pot and speed tonight at the local drug den, but I turned them down. It's like, "No thanks dudes, I have to be at work tomorrow afternoon. I don't want to be all sore and tired running around after an austistic kid."
Pot, especially the pot these days is just too damn much for me. It's 10 times stronger than back in the day when I was smokin, the 90's. Then as far as driving, forget about it, I get all paranoid. I hate driving under the influence, except for maybe a VERY mild one I get from a couple of PK's. I had gone over to give Cody his late Bday card, but Aimee came running out all in a panic, sad and whiny sick. "They busted the main connections in LA. There's no more heroin! I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do! Do you think we can borrow some money?" Sigh. Christ. These junkies are the nicest people in the world, but I swear to Christ, they'd have my whole income easily if I let them. I know I got conned, but I gave them a $20, so they offered to hook me up with this friend of theirs that smokes them out with speed.
"Uh uh," I said. "Tonight's not a good time. Get me a bag for later." "Sure," they said. "Come back tomorrow night," though I'm not holding my breath. I love Aimee and all and we actually did have a great time talking for a couple hours, but in order to survive I have to severely limit how often I go over there. Either that, or be sure to only have a couple bucks in my pocket. I know what it feels like to be broke and dope sick, but at the same time, I have to be Mrs. Mean Guy occasionally, or else that's exactly how I will end up. Fortunately for me, so far this is just a mild PK habit to kick that I did on purpose to ditch the tramadol some 10 days ago, because that stuff was 10 times worse the kick than this ever was. I got lots more news, about sex, drugs, and romance, but not tonight. I've got to go.
Aimee did say that yeah for sure she would take the Ibogaine if Erik ever sent it. Not mind you that I'd have money to pay for her detox. Hell I should come up with the money for my own. I need a couple grams, then have them ship it to Erik's place so he could ship to me. Maybe that won't even be necessary. I hope not. I was telling Aimee tonight that it's nice not to have to be a slave to as bad a habit as she's got, but at the same time, I so miss the writing and creativity that Mr. Prick lets me have, not to mention the figure. I'm staying away from speed for now though. This other guy online agreed with me that I don't write so well sober, not like I did loaded. He suggested that I try promoting my stuff to Europe telling them I'm Quentin's sister. I have the proof, but the main proof is in the writing. Like he said I should go over all the old stuff, there's a lot there. I'm off to bed.
Pot, especially the pot these days is just too damn much for me. It's 10 times stronger than back in the day when I was smokin, the 90's. Then as far as driving, forget about it, I get all paranoid. I hate driving under the influence, except for maybe a VERY mild one I get from a couple of PK's. I had gone over to give Cody his late Bday card, but Aimee came running out all in a panic, sad and whiny sick. "They busted the main connections in LA. There's no more heroin! I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do! Do you think we can borrow some money?" Sigh. Christ. These junkies are the nicest people in the world, but I swear to Christ, they'd have my whole income easily if I let them. I know I got conned, but I gave them a $20, so they offered to hook me up with this friend of theirs that smokes them out with speed.
"Uh uh," I said. "Tonight's not a good time. Get me a bag for later." "Sure," they said. "Come back tomorrow night," though I'm not holding my breath. I love Aimee and all and we actually did have a great time talking for a couple hours, but in order to survive I have to severely limit how often I go over there. Either that, or be sure to only have a couple bucks in my pocket. I know what it feels like to be broke and dope sick, but at the same time, I have to be Mrs. Mean Guy occasionally, or else that's exactly how I will end up. Fortunately for me, so far this is just a mild PK habit to kick that I did on purpose to ditch the tramadol some 10 days ago, because that stuff was 10 times worse the kick than this ever was. I got lots more news, about sex, drugs, and romance, but not tonight. I've got to go.
Aimee did say that yeah for sure she would take the Ibogaine if Erik ever sent it. Not mind you that I'd have money to pay for her detox. Hell I should come up with the money for my own. I need a couple grams, then have them ship it to Erik's place so he could ship to me. Maybe that won't even be necessary. I hope not. I was telling Aimee tonight that it's nice not to have to be a slave to as bad a habit as she's got, but at the same time, I so miss the writing and creativity that Mr. Prick lets me have, not to mention the figure. I'm staying away from speed for now though. This other guy online agreed with me that I don't write so well sober, not like I did loaded. He suggested that I try promoting my stuff to Europe telling them I'm Quentin's sister. I have the proof, but the main proof is in the writing. Like he said I should go over all the old stuff, there's a lot there. I'm off to bed.