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Ahh, what a relaxing day was today... well, it wasn't the most relaxing day of my life at all, but after being in withdrawal from Benzodiazepines for some days, finally yesterday I could I get a nice amount of Lorazepam, together with a tiny bit (and I mean, something like 10mg, very tiny) of Risperidone, helped me to get a good night of sleep. Something priceless for me. So yes, even at the morning of today when I had to wake up from bed because of my backpain, I didn't feel like killing myself like in previous mornings. That wasn't unpleasant.

I went to buy some groceries, and ended up eating 4 whole small chicken burgers by myself; after that, I even had some chocolate cookies. Geez, that happens when you haven't eaten for one or two days, you can't restrain yourself. Anyway, thanks to the big meal and some Lorazepam, I could get like 3.5 hours of sleep between 1am and 4am.

When I woke up I felt the load of the food still in my stomach, so I went to my favourite pharmacy, which is like 20 squares from where I live. As I walked under the grey skies, I was thinking if getting an upper or a downer. I'm more of a downer person, always been, in all sense, specially when it comes to drugs, but the best I could thought was Tramadol, and honestly, I didn't want to buy -again- it; iit was too late to enjoy it... also, I didn't have enough money to buy Pregabalin, my usual second option. So, given I had the option to choose, I didn't doubt anymore and choose SOMA, or Carisoprodol.
I have done Carisoprodol (SOMA is shorter) for quite a while, and I often get different experiences, I feel like writing and nostalgic (like I do now), sometimes the SOMA euphoria gets triggered, and very few times I get depressive because of how disphoric (is that a word?) it is.
There is something that should be obviously constant: any kind of backpain is gone. Even Pregabalin and Tramadol together often doesn't work for this.

So, as soon as I got home, I literally chugged 3 350mg SOMA pills, an Aspirin with grapejuice, and a tiny bit of Lorazepam. After calming down a bit, I made a big cup of delicious green tea (gotta love that L-Theanine). And then I proceeded to write this, while listen to a remix of Dido.

Before ending this post, and going to browse some other sites or watch some relaxing anime, I just want to throw here that even at this moment, when my life is filled with hundreds of important problems (like getting evicted), I still feel that if I were to kill myself, I would do it with SOMA while at the same time jumping from the roof of the building. Now that the effect of the 1gram I taken has half kicked in, I can tell.. I shouldn't feel sad the way I choose to "fix" my problems, and I shouldn't care if people thinks I'm being selfish.
Even so, I feel like enjoying this delicious "drunkness while philosophical" feeling while it lasts. Not to mention the lack of any headache (that's why I took the Aspirin before) and more importantly, lack of backpain while sitting straight for almost whole hour. May probably redose if I don't feel sleepy enough in hour... although I doubt it. Thanks for reading.

I took the plunge yesterday...I am now on methadone maintenance! I called last week inquiring about new patient intake appointments and was told to come in Monday morning at 5am. So come Monday morning I get up at 4am and begin getting ready to bike the 2/3 miles to the clinic closest to my apartment. I get there fairly early (4:45am) and sit down to drink my coffee and smoke. When the doors opened at 5am there was maybe 4-5 people ahead of me in line. I walk in, wait in line and when it's my turn to go up to the window I'm told that their new patient intakes were on Tuesday and Thursday and that I didn't have to come in until 7am... errrgg..I'm kinda upset by this, but since I smoked tar the previous night I wasn't sick or anything. I begrudgingly unlock my bike and start to ride back home, thoughts racing through my head.
Now, I've thought about MMT many times over the years, but always deciding against it due to the horribly loooooong w/d from it. I watched my boyfriend drop CT (he was taking anywhere between one 40mg wafer to three wafers and had been for years he told me) in 2006 and it was a living hell for both of us! I had never taken an opiate for recreational purposes before and I didn't know what methadone was at that point. It took him years....YEARS for his body and mind to come back to his original baseline, and to be honest, I'm not sure if they ever truly went back to normal. After experiencing that with him I tried to steer clear of methadone and obtaining a physical dependency, but that didn't work out after ten years of "chipping" But I digress...
Make it back home fairly early and decide to take some of my Kratom that I had decided to squirrel away for the day when I was ready to jump off methadone. To be honest, I loved Kratom! The whole reason I'm on MMT is because Kratom will be banned this Friday. I've been using Kratom for maintenance for three years and it held me just fine. Of course, whenever I could get my hands on pills (or, heroin these last few months) I would and I would thoroughly enjoy them! I'd always get some with the intentions of not taking high amounts, or saving some for the next day (or next week) but I could never do that. My mind would ALWAS be on opiates and without them I'd become a super birth

Well life is pretty good for me right now, i'm still on methadone (60mg/day currently), and still on my anti-depressants. I am totally off of all benzos and my anxiety has not been bad at all. I really haven't been using any drugs except marijuana and the occasional speed adventure. I'm blessed to have a place to live and people who love me. I love life

Hello, everybody!

This is my first blog post on Bluelight. I'm not sure what I'll be blogging about. I guess it'll all just be spur of the moment and I'll share updates with my life and everything.

I've been up since 8:00 AM yesterday. I spent the day with my fiancé, I was supposed to have an interview today but, the hiring manager wasn't even around. Hopefully I can find another job soon. I'm really getting tired, my fiancé and I smoked a little bit of crystal last night, and I did a shot of heroin at around 3 AM. Nothing else really going on. Kind of getting sick of being physically dependent on opiates again, I don't know if I'll go into a detox center, or if I'll just quit cold turkey soon, but I'd like to quit soon.

My mom is coming up to spend my birthday with my fiancé and I this weekend. I'm really hoping she doesn't find out I'm using again, I don't want her to know just yet. I need to kick the opiates soon.

Anyway, it's so lovely being aware of what's going on around me, and not freaking out anymore; I had a terrible experience this last weekend from too much meth. I'll post a trip report about it later in the day. I'm gonna try and get some sleep now, just thought I'd start my blog on here before sleeping! Hopefully I'll remember to post another blog later on in the day, or something. I would like to keep it up to date as much as possible.

Thank you, to any who read this! Hopefully you guys will stick around and will read my later posts. Take care everybody! Be safe!

BLAAAAAAAAAH!

I tried to robodose over delsym with a 4 oz an hour and a half in and ended up puking it all up. I'm... kinda buzzed.


Oh. Apparently there's a subscription option now. That's nifty.

So yeah. I am alive. And blah. I've been spending a lot of my time writing My Little Pony fanfiction. And getting high when possible. On Friday night I got blasted and experienced shame. Just, isolated shame apropos of nothing. It was really interesting to explore those feelings, I guess.

I suppose it's better than thinking you're going to die. That was a fun robotrip. Just this sense of the inevitable washed over me and something inside of me decided it was the end. So I waited it out and... died, I guess. The wick inside of me snuffed itself.

Overall, I'd say that was an interesting night.

No, but robotripping is really interesting in my situation because I've developed ritualistic movements to feign competence. Or I just pee in a bottle and don't leave my room.

But yeah, there's this sense of ritual around my robotrips and sometimes it feels like I plunge into the aether and do important shit when I'm high. Crazy, right?

I don't know where I'm going with this. Here's your blog, Mel. Oh yeah I also wanted to post a picture because it's just so hilariously serious in my pseudointoxicated state.

Hello, everybody!

This is my first blog post on Bluelight. I'm not sure what I'll be blogging about. I guess it'll all just be spur of the moment and I'll share updates with my life and everything.

I've been up since 8:00 AM yesterday. I spent the day with my fiancé, I was supposed to have an interview today but, the hiring manager wasn't even around. Hopefully I can find another job soon. I'm really getting tired, my fiancé and I smoked a little bit of crystal last night, and I did a shot of heroin at around 3 AM. Nothing else really going on. Kind of getting sick of being physically dependent on opiates again, I don't know if I'll go into a detox center, or if I'll just quit cold turkey soon, but I'd like to quit soon.

My mom is coming up to spend my birthday with my fiancé and I this weekend. I'm really hoping she doesn't find out I'm using again, I don't want her to know just yet. I need to kick the opiates soon.

Anyway, it's so lovely being aware of what's going on around me, and not freaking out anymore; I had a terrible experience this last weekend from too much meth. I'll post a trip report about it later in the day. I'm gonna try and get some sleep now, just thought I'd start my blog on here before sleeping! Hopefully I'll remember to post another blog later on in the day, or something. I would like to keep it up to date as much as possible.

Thank you, to any who read this! Hopefully you guys will stick around and will read my later posts. Take care everybody! Be safe!

Just...all of the pants.

Now I like poetry, and I like being clean now, and I wanted to share those dual loves in an interesting manner.

------
I'm done with this struggle between death and life
Nothing feels good, so why even fight?
There might be an out, if I look long and hard
The answer is a spiritual wild card
Now I walk the line between knowing me
And knowing the hell presented duly
It's me, I swear! These are my own deeds!
My destructively wrecked failed leads
That I'm telling you now - not just for show
But because someone besides me need know
What I want to do to fix my own failings
Instead of continuing with the wailing
It's not about me by a long shot
Not even my defects stirred in the pot
Look what I did to all whom I touch!
Fixing it all is never too much
Every amend is one step away
From using hatred to end me today
I still have to monitor every action I take
For I know the gravity of what's at stake
I ask for help in an impossible way
And wait for the answer every day
Now at this point I take it to you
The end is the start of healing anew

Comparatively, I am very new to the game but probably hold the world record in going from never having tried drugs to becoming a full-blown addict to Meth, Ketamine, Xanax and Metoclopramide.


I've been through a lot: serious sexual assault, violent attacks, had a hit put out on me, overdose hospitalisation, psychotic depression, delusional parasitosis, GAD, agoraphobia, depersonalisation disorder, serotonin syndrome and catatonia.


It's not all doom and gloom - I've recently had a breakthrough and have been making really positive steps in my life, reconnecting with friends, engaging in the world, building up my company and taking better care of my health. So, I hope this represents a new start and an escape from the past hellish year of my life.

AFRIENDOFTINA

So today I go out with my Mom and get shoes. They're nice shoes. Slip-ons because laces are the devil.

We go into town and find this Chinese restaurant. We take a booth and sit down, whereupon the server hands us the menu.

Where there are items like FROG CASSEROLE, BEEF THROAT, JELLYFISH APPETIZER, and PORK INTESTINES.

It was super authentic, to say the least. I get spicy beef.

It was so spicy I involuntarily teared up. It was amazing. I reached capsacin nirvana in that authentic chinese restaurant.

And then six hours later all of that spice says hi to my butt. Which was not fun.



Why would you betray mem like that, lunch?

Months after a rough breakup, the x girlfriend, Courtney, contacted me and said I was the father of her baby and that I needed to talk to her. Stupidly, I did. She showed me the baby, which she kept in a Tupperware container in the refrigerator. It looked like a decomposing pork chop. I told her I thought it was only a piece of meat. She went ape shit.

She had grabbed me by the hair and used leverage to pull me down to the floor. She was on my back and tearing my hair from my scalp and smashing my head against her ceramic tile floor. I was bleeding and probably had a concussion by now. She wouldn’t stop. It seemed like it had gone on for minutes, and I heard my nose crunch. Blood was in my mouth. She had twisted my hair around her hands, and I could not just walk out and “leave the situation,” as a cop might say it. I had two choices: let her murder me or defend myself.

Stop her from murdering me and end up with a Domestic Violence conviction which would make me as good as dead. When it is girl against boy, self defense is no excuse in a court of law. A man should just take it on the chin and apologize to her for whatever he did to make her mad enough to do to him what she felt she had to do. Most judges would find me guilty and tell me that I should have walked away even though I couldn’t.

Right after the butcher knife incident, I had read many examples of what happens when the police are called in a conflict between a man and woman. Domestic Violence laws are often abused by the legal system. Everyone from judges to lawyers to police seem to side automatically with the woman. Her word is never questioned, and in some places whenever the police are called, the man is carted off to jail and treated as guilty until proven innocent. He is at a disadvantage and will often be found guilty in court. Prison and the jailhouse rape that sometimes goes hand in hand with a prison sentence, followed by a life of homelessness flashed through my mind.

Stories of domestic violence form the man’s perspective are all over the internet. Even when the woman starts it and commits all the violence, even when the woman has beaten the man nearly to death because he is too gentle to hit a woman and she knows it, even when the woman attacks the man with a deadly weapon, even when the man did not raise a finger to defend himself for fear of hurting the woman or fear of the legal system, if she has so much as one cut on her fist from breaking out the man’s teeth, the man will go to jail. All she has to do is say she feared for her safety and she will be believed. Many judges will rule that she was within her rights to use preemptive violence and the man should just take the beating and say he’s sorry. The only time the man doesn’t go to jail is when the woman tells the truth and admits she is the aggressor.

I don’t know anything about their past, but Lorena Bobbitt is celebrated as an American Hero. Popular women’s tv talk shows have her appear as a guest. They hold her up as a modern feminist role model and praise her for having the courage to cut off her husband’s penis. Her husband was sleeping like a baby when she attacked and dismembered him. I think the case against her was dropped as self-defence.

I hadn’t been in a helpless position since my father used to beat me when I was a kid. Tonight, it was the legal system that was holding me down and beating me to death.

It was like deciding whether to die now or die months later in prison. If I had to choose between prison for domestic violence and suicide, I would choose suicide. At least I would go out on my own terms. A domestic violence conviction would ruin all of my plans for improving my life. It would keep me from getting into medical school, grad school, or getting a good job.

Meanwhile, she was still smashing my face into her kitchen floor while swearing and howling with rage. I tried to think of something that wouldn’t leave an obvious mark. I reached back and grabbed the first place I could hold, the quadricep muscle of upper thigh. She was wearing thin pants, and I gripped her leg through the fabric. I squeezed. She shrieked even louder now. It was no longer a self-satisfied shriek but this time had a note of pain. Her little one-liners stopped. I squeezed harder, and she screamed and cursed louder. Spittle hit the back of my neck. She was foaming at the mouth.

I mentioned that I had been taking boxing lessons and working out. I was strong enough to lift a car, and I was strong enough to snap her neck in a split second. One of my exercises was to rip a phone book in half with my bare hands. It took a few minutes, but I performed this feat once every week so for my training. I had strong hands.

I wasn’t even squeezing with half my strength yet. I squeezed her leg even harder. She let out the craziest, ululating shriek I have ever heard, but she would not let go of my hair.

It was time to get serious. If I didn’t, I would be unconscious soon. I stiffened my fingertips into claws and dug into her leg. My fingers gouged into in the space between the thigh bone and the muscle. Her soft flesh was starting to give way, and my fingers sunk into her leg. It felt like the muscle was tearing under the skin. I twisted, trying to rip her thigh muscle off the bone.

Suddenly, she was silent and let me go. I got up and moved away from her. As I stood, she fell off me and flipped over on her back. Herr limbs were stiff. Then her eyes rolled backwards into her head. I got a paper towel from the rack next to the sink and wiped some of the blood off my face. Next, she started to shake in violent jerks and foam at the mouth. She vomited. Her arms and legs were flailing. Her head was stupidly smashing itself against the tile floor. She made weird moaning sounds. She peed.

I didn’t know what was happening to her, but she had never mentioned anything about being epileptic. Maybe I had discovered the Vulcan Paralysis grip. I quietly left and went home. I frantically got rid of all the marijuana in the house and started dismantelling the table bong. At the time, one of my roommates loved archery and had a crossbow he kept hidden, and I knew how to use it. I borrowed it, went up into my room, and barricaded the door.

Jail meant death to me. I didn’t know if I would just suicide or shoot anybody who tried to lock me up. I wrote in my journal what happened.Hours passed, but nobody came to get me.

I saw her one more time after that two weeks later. It was my last night in the city, and I was at the bar where I used to work celebrating with friends. Then she arrived. She was on crutches.

The second she spotted me, she dramatically winced with pain and hobbled past my table with her crutches. She was wearing the shortest shorts I have ever seen her wear. They looked brand new, and I suspect she bought them just for the occasion. Her butt was almost hanging out. My handprint was painted onto the front of her thigh in a purple and yellow bruise. Healed abrasions marked my fingertips and thumb. Starting several inches below that, her whole leg was one huge purple bruise all the way down to her foot.

She sat at the table across from my table in my line of sight and directly facing me. Then her friends, the Foo Fighters clone band, arrived and sat with her. She never made eye contact with me, but they glared at me from time to time. I can imagine what she told them about me. I had qualms against hitting a girl, but these weren’t girls. I stared back and was ready to knock their heads together if they attacked me. In fact, I was looking forward to taking out my displaced aggression on all of them. They never tried anything. I changed tables so they were not in my line of sight.

I moved away the next day to take classes at another campus and start working on my PhD. I never saw her again, but friends said she shaved her head, put on black lipstick, and became a public item with a “goth” lesbian in that town.

Later, from time to time over the next three years, I got anonymous letters in her handwriting. They had San Bernardino, California postmarks. The first ones said I would soon read about her in the news. She had a Hollywood talent agent and would be in movies. In fact, she was lined up to play a role in something that would be filmed in Hawaii. She went on to brag that she was now a stripper (and I suspected prostitute from what I have heard about strip clubs). She was also fond of “brain candy,” her code word for methamphetamine, a drug PsychoTom and Billy introduced to her. Sometimes she proudly called it “Rose Chrystal Meth” on account of its pink hue and raved about how she liked to inject it. In the letters, she boasted that she had access to an unlimited supply, and the cook liked her. I never answered the letters. She sent dozens more, some to me, and three years later, she sent some to my new girlfriend. I lived in a different city by then, but she had found my address and the name of the new girl (Psycho Suzie, yet another distressed damsel I might write about later) I was living with. The last envelopes only contained newspaper clippings of advertisements for erectile dysfunction medications and penis enlargement surgery. I saved them all for my scrapbook. Once the new girlfriend sent an email to the address in the letter. The new girlfriend showed me what she sent: in it the new girl repeated a story about Courtney doing meth and sticking a wine bottle almost all the way inside herself.

It was now the year 2000, and I never heard from The Millennium Slut again, but a string of girls just like her would take her place. It took years until I learned to screen them.

Remembering and writing this made me so sick taht I could barely finish. I almost vomited near the ending. I spent the rest of the day in bed and made a couple of edits after I felt a little better.

Ahh here I am again. Many years later and unfortunately I don't have many positive things to say. I was scripted oxy almost five years ago for chronic pain in my left wrist, but the dose they gave me wasn't nearly enough to battle the pain...and let's be real, it's not like meds are really going to help that long, tolerance, dependency, ect ect ect. What a road to addiction I've traveled. It's been well over five years since I've had a day without ANY substance in my system and this month the DEA let it be known that they will be banning my beloved kratom at the end of September. What will I do without you, oh kratom? I've been maintaining on kratom now for three years. I use it when my script runs out (since I take 150mg-200mg of oxy a day when I have it) and it's helped tremendously! I've been very happy with kratom up until this month, when I learned of the ban. Throw in experimenting with heroin for the first time in my godforsaken life two months ago and my hope is all gone.

The thing with heroin is, unlike pills, it's always available. Always. Just one phone call away. And after being addicted to pain killers for ten years, the addiction to heroin comes quick and strong. Even just smoking it. After two solid weeks, my beloved kratom barely covers the physical w/d..forget about psychological symptoms. I'm still hooked, and it's even deeper now that it's ever been.

I've tried leaving my partner of ten years twice now, only to reconnect soon after. The first was in 2012 when I lived with my then 4yo daughter in Cali while he was drifting around the west coast, devastated and torn from the breakup. That year is the year I received my first diagnosis as a chronic pain patient (with horrible carpal tunnel in my wrist, along with arthritis from many many years as a waitress). I ended up moving to be with him in 2013 and not a year later we had our second daughter. I came off most of my pain pills the nine months I was pregnant (with the exception of 20 a month for emergency purposes) but as soon as she was born I was back at the dr trying to get in for surgery for my wrist. I was told my government insurance wouldn't cover surgery so I'm back on pain pills.

They cycle of addiction is hard for me to even write about honestly, here in an anonymous forum..shessh. Why can't I just be real? I'm a fucking addict. I thought I was doing great with just kratom...and had no plans on changing or coming off of it because without it I'm a lost soul. No drive. No desire. Nothing. At least with kratom I still had the ability to orgasm and poop...and now with kratom being banned I'm seriously thinking about MMT...I'm just so worried about that. That's a for life decision. Am I ready for that? Am I ready to never be able to orgasm ever again? Am I ready for the horrible constipation that comes with it? Will I get to the point where it's not working like my meds do and want to increase my dose? Will I ever be able to get off methadone? Is it possible for me to ever live a life without medication ever again?

I look at my daughters and I hate myself when I'm in w/d, or when my energy is so low that I can't bring myself to get out of the house. Or my anxiety, my depression, my lack of ability to connect with anyone for fear of judgement keeps me house bound. One of the reasons opiate were such a pull to me is that they gave me confidence. When high on opiates I don't feel the loneliness, the fear, the isolation. I just don't spend every minute that I'm out worrying about everything.

Is methadone right for me? Do I keep struggling every day? Do I keep beating myself up and relapsing week after week? Or do I bite the bullet and seek help?
My partner just recently jumped on the mmt wagon...this last Tuesday to be exact. And it was a difficult decision for him as well. He knows him self and he has a really hard time doing anything in life without being medicated. Yet his road to addiction started as early as 12...and by 15 he was banging dope. I've seen him get clean numerous times, only to lose all motivation and be a zombie for months, years at a time. After being with him, and seeing him medicated vs sober and knowing that he just can't live a life of sobriety, he (or we) made the decision for him to get on mmt. We figured it was for the best that he did so. With him not having cravings or physical symptoms he's mch more pleasant to be around, doesn't seem as depressed and has more overall motivation and he's not talking me into copping with him. It's so bad when both of us are sick...

Do I wait for a while...see how life treats me without kratom...waiting to get back into the pitfall of copping and spending all my extra money on drugs? Or do I just bite the bullet and start maintenance...

She lays down on her bed and wonders again where it is she has found herself. The last thing she can remember is the space between walking life and dreaming. But instead of waking up under the stars Mary finds her surrounds to be alien and cold. Four hard surfaces called walls were around her with only a small opening for fresh air and light. She was very confused. There was something in the center of the space with images appearing at an alarming rate, flashing in front of her eyes. Mary started to become scared. "Where am I?" she thought. "Why do I feel so closed in?" Suddenly she heard a loud noise. She sat very still, not knowing what to do. The noise repeated itself and finally Mary realized that whatever was making that sound was on the otherside of the wall. Not fully comprehending what a door was, she opened it nonetheless and on the otherside she found something quite odd. It was a creature that looked very similar to herself but was different in many ways. This creature had odd clothing on, restricting the flow of energy that Mary was always taught should be light and airy. And on the creatures feet was something covering them. How is that creature able to draw the energy from Gia with the covers on his feet, Mary thought to herself. Before she could say any thing the creature spoke "Are you Mary?"
"Yes" says Mary
"It's time for your work day to start"
"Work day? What is a work day?" she asks.
The creature looks at her confused himself. "You've been recruited by HIM to help sustain our way of living. They didn't tell you?"
"Who didn't tell me? I don't know what is going on here. Where are the trees? What happened to the sky? Where are the animals and flowers and bungalows where my family is?" Mary asks. By this time Mary is almost in a state of panic. She feels restricted and cutoff from the life force normally flowing through her, giving her love and strength to live by. This force guides all creatures from the place Mary is from but it's natrually occuring. In this new horrifying world Mary has found herself in people are not propelled by this loving energy that communes with their own, but are sucked dry by the machine. Not that it's actually a machine you see. It's not something that can easily be explained.

At some point in our history things got split in two. The world, universe, existance, whatever you'd like to call life existed harmoniously without fear. To this day no one really knows where this fear came from. It slowly creeped in and started taking over people's minds. Instead of living communally on the land with the land .

I was lost before I met her and even before that,

Had not a shred of self-worth, not even a scrap.



It was taken from me, before I even knew,

I was made to believe that somehow I needed you.



Tried so hard to fit in, to obey all of the rules,

To alter myself so I'd be liked by you fools.



I eroded away at the person I could've been.

By tempering myself down, so what's real was unseen.



All of my focus, time, energy were spent,
Playing the role you wanted and the 'real' part just went.



When I finally stopped caring about your version of me,

There was nothing else left there, no person to be.



So I died long ago, certainly anything worth saving.

That person isn't real, don't you? The one that you’re craving.



It was all a smart act, a ruse, a charade.

I played the part well, t'was unwittingly hard.



The impersonation laid on, worked more than it should,

Since it made all you like me more than I ever could.



How dare you remark callously on my final act?!

You have said quite enough haven't you, as a matter of fact.



The blame must be pointed at one of us, three.

One must be the culprit but is it You, I or She?






I know who I'd bet on, let's not dwell on that,


Firing guilt at each other, won't take it all back.



Tina's portion of blame is a catalyst's share,
Can't find her guilty if I kick away the chair.



It's funny that now's the time that I find,

The root of the problem was not me or my mind.



No solution to be gleaned, can't go back to the past.

Only the future left ahead and I’m not sure I’ll last.



Not giving up yet, I won’t just accept such a fate,

With some luck and some willing, it won't be too late...

I have broken this series of entries into several parts because of bluelight’s character limit in blog entries. I originally wrote it in a notebook soon after it happened. The entire episode is around 8000 words. I post no more than once per day because I don’t want to flood the blogs any more than I already have.

This story titled Millennium Slut is another part of my rant titled Tales of Misogyny. It‘s about dating American women and about misogyny in general. I had been dating Courtney (who used to call herself the Millennium Girl) and she was an ex at the time of this section. She is a typical American girl. Her behavior is surprisingly common among American Women younger than the age of 40 that I have encountered and heard about. I don’t have experience with older women, so I have no idea about them. Not every American woman acts like her, and I don’t know the stats on how many do.

I found that dating American women is like crossing a minefield. It goes ok for a while, and you think you are safe, but eventually she will go KABOOM! Living overseas and dating dozens of foreign women here has given me a broader perspective on American Women and women in general.




I wondered if there is a national trend on dysfunctional relationships. I didn’t find anything, but I did find that the rate of marriage is at a historic low and continues to drop in the US.

I left off with Courtney, the Love of my Life as of that time, hiding in my house with a butcher knife. She chased me outside, and I left her curled up and sobbing in the fetal position in the street late in the night. Not long after that, I left town to work in an internship. Months later, soon after I returned, she emailed me. This is really how she writes:

“I know you’re back. You were so selfish not be here in my time of great and urgent need and anguish. But I forgive you for you are my Chosen One, and I am your Millennium Girl. You have torn my heart into a million tiny little pieces. It hurts more than anything you can ever know. I’m just a girl but our love remains eternal. I had our baby while you were gone, and it is yours, proof that God wants us to be together forever and ever. You need to talk to me right now. I am waiting.“

When I met her, I mistook a distressed damsel for a damsel in distress. She said she was sexually abused and had a bad childhood. Maybe we could understand each other because I was sexually abused and had a bad childhood too. Her behavior was bizarre, but compared to my own mother, she seemed sane and only a little dramatic.

My mother never wanted kids, and she made sure I knew it. Unfortunately, she didn’t know she didn’t want kids until the day I was born. I had ruined her life that day. My mother hated men, and she made sure I knew that men are evil, were responsible for everything that is wrong with the world, had ruined her life, designed the uncomfortable and ill-fitting bras they forced her to buy and wear, squeezed money out of her every month by forcing her to wear tampons men designed in uncomfortable shapes for the sole purpose of making women feel miserable and oppressed. I was complicit because I was a boy. “I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of this world whenever I want,” was one of her favorite things to say to me during childhood.

My mother followed a kind of militant and misandrist feminism of the 1960s. It was popular among her middle class, privileged white female friends. It is far from the egalitarian feminism that was generally good and tried to make laws, business practices, and hiring fair for women.

During my childhood, she rarely said anything to me beyond monosyllables and grunts, but she was always listening to and reading some bizarre things. Militant feminist rants and manifestos were among them. This is a typical thing she would give me to read.

“Men are inherently dangerous. Women are called the fairer sex for a reason, the only time a woman will ever feel the need to hurt another human is when she feels antagonised by males. Unlike males women don't feel good for beating each other up. Men literally live for hurting each other. Women are a lot weaker than men, Men should just take it on the chin and apologise for whatever they did.”

I didn’t believe I had caused my ex to have a baby. The timing was impossible. Still, I decided to see her. It was getting dark. I rode my bike down the GreenWay, a bike path that runs along the West bank of the Mississippi River through miles of forested parks. There are only a few interruptions for cars, and as you ride through the woods and along the bluffs overlooking the river, you can almost forget that you are in the middle of the big city. The cold wind had ripped the wet leaves off the trees, and the late sunset was in spectacular purples and golds.

She let me in her house. She was skinny and looked sick. She opened the refrigerator and took a Tupperware food container from the fridge. She ate a few bites from it. She got a second tupperware food container and set it on the table in front of me. She told me it’s mine. It looked like a slab of pork sitting in congealed blood. It reeked.

“I think it’s spoiled. What is it?”

“It’s our baby,” she said.

“What?” I said.

“It was born three weeks ago. You weren’t there for me when i needed
you.”

“You know I was in New Orleans for my internship.”

“Curt held me in his arms. … they were all there for me,” she said, “which is more than you ever did for me. Curt, Kim, Terry, Tim (the members of the local Foo Fighters clone band) were here for me while I had our baby. Tom was with me too. Everybody took care of me.”

She would later tell me they were all doing meth together and she had been sleeping with each one of them including the married girl while I was gone. This was the same married girl that she got mad at me for talking to. PsychoTom and Billy supplied the meth.

“It doesn’t look like a baby. It just looks like a pork chop,” I said.

“That’s because it died you piece of sh=t, and Curt’s going to med school next year, and he said it was a baby,” she said.

“If Curt says so,” I said.

“What. Everrrrr,” she said. Her face shriveled with rage. For a moment, she looked like a white raison or an angry baby. She went “zero to psycho in 2.7 seconds,” PsychoTom was fond of saying.

“I have to go, I said.”

I got up to leave and turned toward the door. Suddenly, she jumped on my back and grabbed me by the hair. Not again. Never turn your back on your enemy. It’s kind of hard to think of your lover as an enemy.

(I shaved my head after that.) She had my hair in both hands and was twisting. When somebody grabs you by the hair from behind with both hands, they have almost total control of your body, no matter how small they are. She was pulling as hard as she could. It was extremely painful, and I could feel bits of hair and skin being ripped out. I was bleeding at the scalp. Then she used her leverage, pulled me to the kitchen floor, and beat my head against the ceramic tiles. I saw stars. I simply could not wriggle away. I failed to pry her fingers off me.

Now I was on the floor and she was on top of me tearing my hair from my scalp and smashing my head against her ceramic tile floor. I was sure I was bleeding and probably had a concussion by now. She wouldn’t stop. She was smashing my head against the floor for what seemed like minutes, and I heard my nose crunch. Blood was in my mouth. She had me by the hair, and I could not “leave the situation,” as a cop might say it. I had two choices: let her murder me or defend myself.

Some people who work in the legal system either hate men, or they cannot believe that a woman is capable of being the violent one. “Women are delicate flowers, and men are inherently violent,” my mother might have said. “The man just needs to take it on the chin and apologise for making her feel threatened enough that she felt she had no choice but to attack and try to kill him. He deserved whatever he made her do to him.”

To be continued.

I would often ask myself, "What makes a man?" Also - "Am I a man?"

It wasn't until I met my second girlfriend, the love of my life, that I realised what being a man means to me.

It's not about making money, or being the bread winner. It's not about getting blowjobs all the time and drinking fine whiskey. (All though these things are nice.)

Late one night we were cuddling in bed. With her head buried under my neck, the warmth of her slowly rising chest pressing against my own, I ran my fingers through her hair. She looked up at me and whispered.

"You make me feel so safe."

Nothing anyone had ever said to me before or since has made me feel so masculine, so affirmed in my manhood. She wasn't saying that I was big and tough and could defend her against a gang of Bikers with my bare fists; she was saying she trusted me, both in my actions and my judgements. She trusted me not to hurt her and to be loyal. Trusted me to make the right decisions for myself and both of us. Her trust was in my love for her, which I felt (and still feel) with all of my heart.

There's something unmistakably primal in the way that many women instinctually crave a feeling of security and protection from the men in their lives. I don't particularly care if it seems like I'm denying her (or any woman's) agency by saying so; she's an autonomous, strong, moral, and critically thinking human being in her own right.

The test of my manhood, I've realised, is how I take the fragility and potency of her trust and handle it. I aim to do so with grace and care.

Mysterious phone call
Courtney was a girlfriend I had 15 years ago for a few months. She was middle income, working class, and ordinary in every way. Things ended on a bad note with Courtney, and I had not seen or spoken to her for a week. Life was starting to look good again. The fear that the police were going to arrest me on Domestic Violence charges had waned. My extreme acid reflux, which I became afflicted by soon after I started dating Courtney, spontaneously cured itself. I was spending time with my old friends again.

One night, I was working late in the biochemistry lab at the university. It was nearly midnight. The lab phone rang, and I answered it. There was a long silence. I heard somebody breathing on the other end.

“Hello ……. hello?,” I said.

Nobody spoke. There was only breathing. Then they hung up.

I rode home. It was raining but not cold. My house had been left unlocked, but nobody was home. We usually left the door unlocked because somebody was almost always home. I lived with four roommates, and random people often slept on the sofas. Our house was a hangout for students and some townies to smoke hashish and marijuana, eat LSD, do shrooms, and drink beer. Nobody did harder drugs there. We had a table-bong in the living room. It was a massive water pipe built into the coffee table. It had four hoses, each with its own mouthpiece.

I have a sensitive nose. I can often tell who is home and where they have been by the way the air smells. Sometimes, I can sense where women are in their menstruel cycle.

I went upstairs. Halfway down the hall toward my room, I sensed taht something was wrong. It was Courtney’s perfume and sweat, and she was still here. After what she did the last time I saw her, I was going to be careful. I held my bookbag in front of me like a shield. I carefully opened my door and looked in. I hoped she did not hear my footsteps pause slightly when I detected her. She was not in my room. I picked up the heavy blanket on my bed and wrapped it loosely around my left arm. I held the loose end in my right hand. It would make a good shield if she throws something. I could use it to catch her arms if she hits. I took off my boots so i could move quietly.

I crept back down the hall. At the other end of the hall, my roommate’s door was open. He usually closes it when he leaves. The lights were off, but the street light outside his window was bright enough to see. I have good night vision, so I didn’t bother turning on the hallway light when I came home.

I listened outside his door, then rushed into his room, shielding myself with the heavy blanket. Courtney was standing in a pool of light in the corner pointing a butcher’s knife at me. The glare from the streetlight reflected in its blade. She was holding it over handed in a slasher movie grip. The whites of her eyes showed all the way around the iris. She was crying and her black eye makeup was running down her chalk white face.

I switched on the light. She wore a sleeveless black velvet dress and was soaked from the rain. She had long bleeding cuts running down her pale arms.

“Oh Robin …….” she breathed. “ Robin.” She cried silently for a moment. “…. I love you my Chosen One.”

“Get out,” I said.

“Oh boooh hooh it’s me, your Millennium Girl. You are my chosen One. We are meant to be together. Take me back,” she said. She really talks like that and made up those names.

“What happened to your arms?” I said. She had lowered the knife. There was blood on the blade.

“I’m pregnant. It’s yours. I’m the Faerie Queen,” she said. Her pupils were as big as saucers.

Almost every time we had sex, the condom broke, and last month was another pregnancy scare. I was worried. She talked about it every day but refused to get tested. I finally bought her the test, and she was not pregnant. She had her period a week later.

The first day of her period last month, she went with me to the computer lab at the library. We did class work all afternoon. We got up to leave. Her light grey seat cushion was red. Blood had soaked into the fabric. Her bottom was bloody. She wrapped her jacket around her butt, and we left.

Three weeks later, she was still having her period. This happened every month: the condom broke or she forgot to take birth control pill, her period was late, she said she was pregnant, and I tried to convince her to get tested. She eventually went to student health services. She was not pregnant and had no STD. She was treated and given medication.

I asked her what drugs she was on, and she replied that she had been at PsychoTom’s house (aka Meltdown House) and they gave her “Brain Candy.” Then she went home, got the knife, and ran all the way to my house, about two miles, in the rain. She said she needed the knife because she was afraid somebody was going to rape her.

I told her to leave. She refused. I could not call the police because of the table-sized bong in the living room. I went outside. She followed. I told her it’s over. I went outside and walked toward the bar where I worked. She ran after me. She grabbed my leg and wouldn’t let go. I walked with her clinging to my leg, dragging in the street. She was crying hysterically.

She finally fell off my leg. She curled up in fetal position on the asphalt, still wailing “take me back oh robin take me back waaahhhhhhh.” I didn’t look back. I was about to start an internship 1000 miles away and didn’t expect to see her again.

[video]http://www.bluelight.org/vb/blog_post.php?do=newblog[/video]

The second post of a three part rant. This happened more than 15 years ago, but I’m still screwed me up about it. It’s offensive, gross, and misogynistic.

100 times as many people view posts with the word “rant” in the title than posts without that word. I’m not going to put the word “rant” in the title any more. The rants are unstructured rough drafts edited only for the worst of the speliling and grammatical errors. They are about bad things that happened and are nothing more than an effort to examine them and examine some bad ways of thinking.

Courtney was my first “real” girlfriend. She was a working class American girl majoring in biochemistry and premed. I was finishing college and had met her in one of my classes. She had invited me to spend the night at her apartment. She lived in the student quarter around the University on the West bank of the Mississippi River. It was a modern brick apartment building that looked like a two story ranch house.

She put the Foo Fighters “Fingernail song”, her favorite song from her favorite band, on infinite replay in her CD player. Foo Fighters is to grunge as the Dave Matthews Band is to alternative rock. It has no soul, and I had a bad feeling about the evening.

Reaching nariai
She begged me to do it. I was twenty one years old and had never done this thing before. I had seen it done in the movie Caligula, the only pornographic movie I have ever seen. I thought I knew how to do it.

The Fingernail Song was on its fourth repetition by now. “Fingernails are pretty, fingernails are good, blah blah blah fingernails.” The singer was angry. Harsh sounds from his guitar split the air. Maybe it would be quieter under the sheets so I gave in and descended. I closed my eyes to ward off my claustrophobia.

The scene from Bukowski played in my mind: “Blood and pee come out of there. Think about it. Blood and pee.“ I held my breath, but immediately I knew something was wrong. Something sticky clung to my nose. I went up for air.

“Why are you stopping? Don’t stop,” she said.

I took a deep breath went down again. Something slimy slipped into my mouth. I took it out and held it to the light. It looked like a piece of yellow cheese and was big as the tip of my pinky. I squeezed it. It was firm but had a gooey layer on the outside. It stank bad. I set it down on her stomach. A wave of nausea hit.

“Keep going.” Her eyes were open but blank as they stared upwards. They were like a cat’s when it dozes open-eyed. She had gone somewhere else and was probably with Dave Grohl or PsychoTom in her mind.

The stultifying sound of the Foo Fighters intruded into my thoughts: “Fingernails are pretty. Fingernails are good blah blah blah fingernails are pretty nah nah nah.”

“Keep going,” she said.

“I can’t,” I said.

Her eyes came back for a moment. She said, “please i’ll do you next.”

I tried again. I have a sensitive nose. The longer I went, the worse it stank. It smelled like all the nasty clichés you can think of.

“Keep going,” she said.

“i need a break,” I said. My stomach was churning and gurgling.

“Blood and pee come out of there. Think about it,” Bukowski wrote.

I thought about it. She had been wearing a G-string. G-strings are the E. coli expressway from the anus to the vagina. E. coli are the bacterial flora found in the intestines. When ingested, they can cause diarrhea, meningites, or sepsis.

“Keep going!” she said.

“Fingernails nah nha nah”

I held my breath and went under the sheets again. My stomach heaved for a moment but I suppressed it.

“More!” she said.

My stomach pumped hard. I kept my lips closed tight. Vomit filled my mouth. I tried to hold it, but the pressure increased. I barfed in her and on her.

“Whaaaaa! Whats happening?” she said.

I vomited more. I covered my mouth with my hands, and puke sprayed on her body and bed. I rolled onto the floor and continued to puke. I could no longer taste the rotten fish flavor. She was crying. By now, my stomach was empty, and I was only dry heaving. I was crying too.

“I’m sorry dear,” I said.

“You think I’m gross!” she said.

“No,” I said.

“I disgust you do I? My body disgusts you? How dare you!,” she said, raising her voice. “My body is beautiful and I like the way I taste. You know what your problem is?” she said.

“No,” I said.

“You can’t handle a strong women. I’m a strong woman and you’re a faggot with an AIDS-addled brain,” she said.

“Sorry. It must have been something I ate,” I said.

“You ate me you misogynist pig! You need to leave right now!” she said.

“I meant for lunch,” I said.

“Get out!! And you can kiss my ass on your way! ” she threw an empty wine bottle at me. It hit the wall and broke against the tile floor.

“Calm down I’m leaving.”

I was moving toward the door. She threw her bedside lamp. It crashed against the wall.

“Faggot! Get out! Go fuck your AIDS Faggot boyfriends!” she cackled hysterically when she said that.

She jumped out of bed and hit me dozens of times while I pulled on my pants and grabbed my shirt and boots. I blocked most of it, but a few punches hit me in the body and head. My eyes stung, and I was sure she gave me a bloody nose. She grabbed a handful of my hair and started pulling. When an attacker grabs your hair, they have nearly full control of your body.I couldn’t get away.

By now, Courtney was grinning in her self-righteous rage. She was 5’6” and only weighed 120 pounds. I weighed 200, benched 400, and was taking boxing lessons. I had enough training to know that one solid punch to the face could crush her cheekbone, break the orbital bone around her eye, collapse her sinus cavity, break her jaw, and fracture her skull, leaving her unconscious, brain damaged, or dead. “So this is how domestic violence starts,” I mumbled.

With the enforcement of domestic violence laws often heavily favoring the woman, I feared that if she had so much as one bruise on her body or a scrape on her knuckles from where she hit me, I could go to jail. It’s happened to other people. I was facing her. I gently grabbed her wrist with both hands and pulled it toward my head. I stepped backward toward the door, pulling her with me. She suddenly let go and fell. I jumped back toward the door.

“Get out faggot waaaahhhh waaaahhh WAAHHHHH!” she said. She crying again and was actually wailing now. Her voice was shrill and made my ears ring.

“What’s the matter with you?”

“BWahhhhh! Ayeeeee Ayyeeeeee!” She was shrieking like a tortured cat. She was on the floor hold her bare foot. It was bleeding. She had stepped on a piece of glass.

“Fingernails are pretty...”

On my way to the door, I pushed her CD player off her dresser and it smashed apart on the floor. Silence. I went outside. There was a series of loud crashes and the sound of breaking glass coming from inside. Inside, she alternated between cursing and shrieking hysterically.

It was a duplex. Her next door neighbor Tiffany was in the yard trying to
look in her window. She said she just called the police. I left.


To be continued.

It occured to me today that most of the drugs I have used this year on a regular basis have been drugs that I grew, in my backyard. And legally too! I got my cannabis cultivation license, and I grew some wonderful OG Kush that has been a hit with everyone who has smoked it. I also have quite a few cacti (san pedro, peruvian torch, and until recently, a peyote which unfortunately died in my failed attempt to graft it to a san pedro), and earlier this year I grew a few poppies and harvested the latex. To top it off, the highs I've been getting have been some of the best I've had. For example, the weed I've been growing has a high that is so balanced, i never feel anxious or couchlocked, but instead i have a perfect, relaxing stone. And the San Pedro I've grown have produced some of the most blissful psychedelic experiences I've ever had! It's kinda like how no restaurant food compares to a hot homecooked meal, it's so much more authentic! Plus, putting the time and effort into raising the plants has removed the anxiety and guilt that i get from doing drugs I get off the street because i had the patience to grow it from seed, and didnt fiend over it snd fork over a weeks pay for a few days worth of drugs, which are typically not pure, are unsanitary, and can be taken in many ROAs that are very harmful.

I have a fantasy where I grow everything I use: In my fantasy garden there are tons of vegetables, fruits, medicinal herbs of all sorts, coca plants everywhere, tons of poppies and cannabis, all of the mescaline contaning cacti, amanitas, salvia, datura, tea, kratom trees, coffee plants, tobacco, ayahuasca vines, syrian rue and a few DMT containing plants, and of course a wide variety of psilocybe mushrooms inside. It would be wonderful because I could use all of these plants for a variety of uses that may not necessarily be to get high, for example, making opium essential oil, for aromatherapy, which i'm sure is an amazing medicine, but nobody thought to make it!

This is just my opinion, but i think that the drugs found in nature are the best ones for the reason that they are the most balanced highs IMO, and when you grow it yourself, theres nothing really quite like it. It's like you develop a friendship with the plant, and when you consume it, it gives you back the love you gave it, just like and fruits or vegetables you might grow. i reccomend anyone who legally can grow their oen drugs of any kind do it! you wont regret it if you do the job well start to finish, it will change the way you think about the drugs you take on a regular basis. I use cannabis for all kinds of stuff now that i grow it: i've made bracelets with the fibers, i've used the sugarleaves as a spice (goes well with indian food), I've flavored alcoholic drinks with the water leaves, and ive made massage oils with it, and i'm still coming up with more uses! I look forward to growing more plants and discovering more uses and preparations!

anyway yeah im rlly stoned right now and i had to express this somehow!

This is a rant about something that happened 15 years ago. It’s offensive and misogynistic. The memory is still vivid. I’ve asked myself why do I attract this kind of woman. At the time, I thought they were normal. Her type is what surrounded me growing up. It’s representative of my experiences with American Women but not of women in general. In contrast, my experiences with foreign (not Americanized) women in the US and abroad have been positive overall.

In his autobiographical novel “Women”, author Charles Bukowski paraphrased Hemingway: “Write what you know,” he advised. Hemingway wrote honestly about his life experiences to create fiction stories. Bukowski took the advice further than what seems to have been intended and ran around Los Angeles having dysfunctional relationships full of psychotic episodes with countless women and then wrote stories about them.

Door
Grace Jones was playing on the bar’s sound system. The lighting was dim and the ceiling was low. The interior was the same as it was 100 years ago when it was built. It had white plaster walls and lot of dark, plain woodwork. Wooden bench seats were built against the walls. 19th century photos of Minneapolis decorated the white walls. Twenty tables filled the floor.

I was the dungeon master. I worked odd jobs to help pay for college, and this was one of them. I worked the door at a basement gaybar. It was getting crowded. The usual gay leather dudes were there drinking vodka tonics.

Pitcher Pete, a stout old man, had been sitting alone all evening with his famous pitcher in his usual spot in a dark corner. He was already drunk. You could tell because his bald head swells on account of the steel plate in his skull. Years ago, a flower pot fell from a third story window and landed on his head. He has never formed a cogent sentence and has spoken in “word salad” ever since then. One time, he said goodbye with the phrase “Hold onto your lettuce and don’t drop the salad.”

Psycho Tom and his tweaker roommate Billy with the long blond braids and gold plated front teeth sat at the table across from the door. Billy was twenty something and had already been in prison long enough that he spoke a harsh sounding prison slang.

I was excited because my new girlfriend of one week was arriving. She had just turned 21 and could finally come in. Under 21 were not allowed to enter. (Despite the increasingly high rate of violent crime in the city, local law enforcement spent a lot of its limited resources enforcing underage drinking laws.) Even though I controlled the door, the manager knew her from the LGBT support group on campus and knew how old she was. She wasn’t truly gay but I suspected she was “bi-curious” and had been going through her college girl lesbian phase that was the cliché of the 1990s.

Some frat boys lined up outside the door to come in. I don’t have anything against fraternity members when they behave, but when they’re drunk, I can’t stand them. While they waited, they sang lines from a TV commercial jingle that advertised pickup trucks. “Like a rock,” the group of boneheads chanted in unison. From five feet away, their cologne burned my eyes. This was the only gay bar within an hour’s drive. The bar, and by extension me since I was the doorman, has the right to refuse service to anyone for any reason. Some townies had recently beaten and raped a gay student. The house policy is to be gay-friendly and make sure gays, theater majors, and artfags have a comfortable place to hang out. There were 9 bars dedicated to YUPPIES within two city blocks. YUPPIES, when they come in, order $1 cups of Natural Light beer, yell, sing commercial jingles, don’t tip the bartender, stink up the place with their cheap cologne and perfume, and take up valuable real estate. I looked at their IDs. They looked OK, but I said they looked fake and asked them all for a second form of ID. They whined and left.

My new girlfriend Courtney arrived. We kissed on the cheek. She was pale and her blond hair was almost white. It was cut straight across her eyes and, again, cut square across her shoulders. She was wearing a summer dress. She looked slightly rockabilly but mainstream.

She sat at the table beside the door next to PsychoTom’s table. A number of people came in and many smiled and greeted me by name. My friends Chris and Rick from the band AIDS Faggot arrived. AIDS Faggot was a local “homocore” metal band that was popular then. They were wearing matching biker jackets, biker hats, biker boots, and extremely short Daisy Duke jean shorts.

Each time somebody knew me, Courtney got quiet and stared at me with cold eyes and tight lips. I didn’t know yet what this look meant. I took a break and got us drinks.

Courtney: So Mr. Robin, you’re not seeing other girls are you?

Me: No of course not

Courtney: Are you sure?

Me: of course

Courtney: Don’t ever lie to me. I do not tolerate lying. If I ever catch you lying, you will be sorry. Don’t keep any secrets from me.

Me: ok

Courtney smiled with her lips but not with her eyes. She leaned over and kissed me. Then her face shriveled, wrinkley and puckered. She looked like an angry baby.

Courtney: Who was that girl you were talking to in front of the bookstore?

Me: What bookstore? I wasn’t talking to anybody.

Courtney: Don’t lie to me. I saw you today in front of the Magus bookstore.

Me: Her? Nobody. I just passed a friend on my way to school and said “hello.”

Courtney: I saw the way she was looking at you. Who was she?

me: just somebody who comes to the bar.

Courtney: Mmmmmmm hmmmmm. Courtney knows. You’re lying, but I’ll let you off the hook this time because it was your first time, but only if you tell me who she is.

me: sorry

courtney: Now who is she?

me: it was just Kim. she’s in that Foo Fighters cover band you like.

Courtney: mmmmmm hmmmmmm

Me: Don’t worry about her. she’s happily married. And besides, I don’t like the Foo Fighters.

Courtney: I don’t want you talking to her any more.

Psycho Tom and Billy had been silent and started talking quietly again after we stopped talking. Courtney went to the toilet. Billy leaned over and whispered with a smirk, “I’d fsck her too, but it sucks to be you.”

Diving accident
She had invited me to spend the night at her apartment. She put the Foo Fighters “Fingernail song”, her favorite song from her favorite band, on infinite replay on her CD player. The whole time I knew her, she believed she had superior taste in music and never let anybody else choose what to listen to.

Foo Fighters is the Muzak of grunge. It became popular when the grunge band Nirvana, the mass media’s favorite band of the year, fell apart at Kurt Cobaine’s suicide. Its frontman, David Grohl, had played for Nirvana. With the media needing someone to step into the spotlight and keep it entertained, Grohl eagerly jumped in to fill the void and formed the band Foo Fighters.

His music is a mashup of grunge sounds altered just enough to fool undiscerning consumers of music into thinking Foo Fighters was something special. Like most heavily commercialized acts, the sound is generic and bland. He methodically copied and watered down the style and sounds of successful grunge bands like Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Alice in Chains. It is the nasal whine of Smashing Pumpkins singing to the gratuitously angry guitar playing of a garage full of over-privileged teenagers. Grohl’s act totally avoided being innovative, experimental, complex, challenging, perceptive, or creative. Grohl created something so banal and so mediocre that it appealed to everyone from middle class “alternative”/emo kids to frat boys to jocks to schoolgirls looking for the next boy band to the corporate makers of TV deodorant commercials.

Foo Fighters is to grunge as the Dave Matthews band is to alternative rock. It has no soul, and I had a bad feeling.

It’s good to be in Paris in the summer. The season has been mild, and my flat, despite being under the roof, was not hot this afternoon. My building is a tall, irregular structure built in the 18th century. It lacks environmental shielding and has no air conditioning. I had worked in my room all day and was ready to go out. I looked out my window across the rooftops of Paris toward the Eiffel Tower to the west.

The thing I like most about the summer here is that most Parisiens leave the city and take extended vacations. The city is relatively empty and quiet. Despite the fact that I prefer to be a hermit in the quiet desert, sometimes I like to go to parties. There haven’t been many parties during the summer, so I was happy that my friend Maiz, with whom I have become very close, had invited me to a party this evening at her flat.

She lives in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, one of the most chic and somewhat bobo quarters of Paris. It is located on the Quai de Conti and faces the Louvre on the opposite bank of the Seine. I had to dress up so I put on a shirt and jacket that fit. I wanted to wear sandals, but since Maiz has been threatening to take me shopping for new clothes, I worried that she would carry out the threat if I showed up in sandals. I don’t like shopping, not even if it is for myself and somebody else pays for it. I wore motorcycle boots since I don’t have shoes.



Photo of mouffetard

I usually ride my bike, but some days, I like to walk and take in the scenery. I don’t take the Metro because I don’t know why anybody would when they have a choice. it is crowded and full of germs.

I walked along that wonderful narrow market street, rue Mouffetard, up the big hill in the Latin Quarter. At Place Contrescarpe, a warm breeze gently rustled the leaves of the plain trees. A fountain splashed in the center of the square. Nearby, a street musician played an accordion. Rue Cardinal Lemoine, where the writer Ernest Hemingway onced lived leads down the hill, then across a non-descript flat area, and ends at the river. I needed to walk, and once I got to the river, I continued to walk downriver on the quais to Maiz’s flat. I was overheated and had been carrying my jacket since I passed Notre Dame Cathedral.

Her building is on the quai de Conti. Maiz greeted me at the door. Some 50 guests mingled. It was nothing like an American keg party. A bartender made drinks. Somebody else handled finger foods. There was a four piece orchestra playing in the front of the salon.

Maiz gave me a tour. The flat was huge and occupied the top two floors of an ancient but modernized building. There was a big fireplace. It was decorated with Empire period furniture and art including a Van Gogh and a Matisse painting. She shares it with her husband, a high-ranking diplomat with the Albanian (I changed the name of the country.) Embassy.

A friend of Maiz, Fatima with whom I had eaten dinner several times when I was out with Maiz was there. We talked for a while.

Fatima teaches French Literature at one of the Universities. I asked her if this was the Prince de Guermantes’ house from Proust. Proust’s novel le Côté de Guermantes was set in a similar dwelling at the same location. It’s been ten years since I read it, but maybe the Prince owned the entire building whereas Maiz only rented the top floors. Maiz was from only a minor but old noble family. Like Maiz’s husband, the Prince’s wife, Madame Verdurin, was Nouveau Riche/ Bourgeoisie (rednecks with money - a class of rich people famous for their poor taste, ignorance of culture, impulsiveness, and overall stupidity). Anyway, the similarities were striking. Prince Guermantes and his wife Madame Verdurin kept a salon where they entertained guests and surrounded themselves with artists, writers, musicians, and posers. Tonight there were some real artists and published authors mingling among the guests. I felt like one of the poseurs Proust was mocking. When I met Maiz, I was carrying around a sketchbook at the Proust Salon, a special tea room at the Ritz.

Maiz and I mingled with other people separately for an hour, but the whole time, Maiz kept looking at me and going out of her way to talk to me.

“What do you think of Fatima?” Maiz asked me.”I think she likes you. Maybe I can get you two together.”

“She’s beautiful,” I said. I didn’t believe what she said was possible.

Fatima is descended from a French family who settled in Algeria and mixed with the local population when it was a colony.

The hostess Maiz had made some of the food herself. Her helper was handing out things made from chickpeas, couscous, meat, fish, and some vegetables and an array of French cheeses.

Maiz’s husband Ras Kabir, the diplomat, greeted me. He was cheerful and courtly. His clothing and watch were flashy and obviously cost a lot of money. We talked for a few minutes. His public image is vastly different from the things Maiz says about him. Maiz had revealed to me weeks ago that her marriage was over. He beats her. He is openly having affairs with girls and boys. He makes frequent trips to central Asia where she is convinced that he is indulging a fetish for Bacha Bazi (boy play). Bacha Bazi are also known as Dancing Boys of Afghanistan. Bacha Bazi is a form of pederasty commonly but discreetly practiced in Afghanistan and the Peshawar region of Pakistan. It consists of sexual abuse and human trafficking of prepubescent boys. Young boys are sold by their own parents to wealthy or powerful men for entertainment or sexual activities. And I thought my own parents would do anything for some fast and easy money.

Her husband has encouraged her to take a lover. He is not interested in her anymore and wants her to have somebody else to occupy her time. She has his blessing as long as she is discreet. Her husband seemed to like me.

Maiz whispered to meet her outside on the bridge Pont Neuf in 10 minutes. I found my coat and got ready to leave.

Fatima saw me getting my coat and ran up to me. "When will I see you again?” she said.

I wasn’t sure if I heard her. At North American parties, the women usually say, “Don’t come back @sshole.”

I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was single. Anyway, when we kissed goodbye, her hair smelled like cigarette smoke. Most people would have a problem dating a heroin addict. I enjoy opiates, but I don’t take them every day. I spent my childhood sick from the second hand smoke of my chain_smoking father. (I missed more school days than the kid who died of cystic fibrosis).

I said, "We’ll see each other in parties… "

“It was nice talking to you.” As she said this, she had “the look of love.” I was almost in disbelief owing to the “look of loathing” that America Women wear when they find themselves trapped speaking to me.

I went out to meet Maiz at the bridge. In front of me was the long tip of the island with the park (Square du Vert Galant) on it. Across the river was the Louvre. I gazed upstream at notre Dame. I waited. It has been thirty minutes, and I started to wonder if she meant the other bridge, Pont des Arts. A police patrol boat sped under the bridge. She arrived.

We talked. Her face caught the light of a street light. Now she had The Look, and I felt the same for her. We spontaneously kissed, both of us moving forward into each other at the same time. We whispered and embraced for a half hour on the bridge. She had to got back to the party. I was to wait another 10 minutes and return so nobody would figure out what happened.

She had never been with anyone besides her husband, and she had been nothing more than an item for display at events at the embassy for the last 6 years. Maiz is from an Islamic country. Women are to serve the husband. She has been raised to suppress her own needs and put the needs and even whims of the husband before her own happiness. Marriages are arranged to give political and financial advantages to the parents. Hers was an arranged marriage. The divorce rate in the middle east is very low, but I suspect that does not mean all couples are in happy marriages.

I couldn’t believe my luck. I had become very close to Maiz over the past few months. I was starting to have feelings for her but didn’t know what to do about it. She’s the only person I’ve trusted enough to tell many of my deepest darkest secrets like the things I put in my blog. We’ve talked about our childhood. I told her the worst of what I’ve been through, and she’s done the same about her marriage.

Gold Diggers are whores who make a business transaction in which they exchange their beauty for money in the form of marriage. They read instructional books and websites about how to attract and keep rich men. They choreograph their daily activities and dress according to instructions designed to put themselves in contact with rich men and catch their eye. The intent is to give the impression of class and refinement and make people believe there is more to these women than their appearance. The goal is to fool a rich man long to get him to marry her. I mentioned that Maiz is from an old, noble family and she has a title in her country but I cannot give details.

I can’t complain about old girlfriends to people I know in real life, especially not to current girlfriends. That’s what crazy people do who can’t let go of the past. One has to let go or else they won’t be able to work on their current relationships. It is better to enjoy the present and look forward to the future. I use this series of blog entries as a platform for complaining that won't bother anybody.

Now that I was planning to go to Euro Disney with Heidi, I asked Aelyssa via email if I can get her or her nephew Colton any special Disney Paris souvenirs. They love Disney but have never been to the parc in Paris.

A few days passed until I received an answer: “you never went to Disney with me and my family. You acted like you were too good to go with us…. “

“And BTW, in case you don’t know yet, your cat Mister Bradley is dead. He was hit by a car. And BTW all of your stuff you left in my apartment is gone.”

Perky Pat and Baby Colton
Aelyssa’s sister Patty is pretty and nice. Patty graduated from a prestigious “almost” Ivy League university. Patty is a YUPPIE. She is an accountant for a top Wall Street firm in the San Francisco financial district. She works hard and has done well in her job.She pulls her own weight (with the exception that her father paid for her education at an expensive Almost Ivy).

I mentioned before that a degree from an Ivy League college won’t impress American Women unless the man is from an upper caste family. Similarly, it doesn’t impress American men when an underclass women has such a degree. Patty’s father is a plumber who built up a million dollar contracting business, and Patty smells like pipe-joining compound. Despite her degree, looks, and money, no upper caste man takes her seriously.

Patty’s life is centered around money. Like most accountants, she spends her days counting the money of rich men. In the evening, she watches TV shows about money. When I first met her, she was watching a documentary about the Kardassians, a family of extravagant consumers whose head is the lawyer who got rich defending OJ Simpson.

She is a social climber and has tried to marry into the upper caste. To meet suitable men, she joined expensive social and business clubs. Her clubs require the payment of membership fees but do not require the upper class social connections and pedigree of Eastern clubs. The closest she got was heart-breaking. At the age of 27, an upper caste man abandoned her at the wedding altar. The tickets were already bought, and she went on the honeymoon alone.

Not having read one book in your entire life tells tells a lot about the personality. Patty graduated college without reading a single book. Aelyssa wrote Patty’s university English term papers for her. She is not dyslexic. She think too much about the world. She will never have a conversation about an intellectual or academic topic. She ridicules people who do. Like Aelyssa, she watches too much TV. I could not connect and bond with her despite trying for four years.

Patty takes her toddler son Colton to Disneyland during her vacation days. They don’t mind the 8+ hour drive to Los Angeles several times each year. Like Aelyssa, Colton loves it. He spends so much time there that he even thinks of it as his second home.

Cousin Clinton gets a stomach staple
A stomach staple or Gastric Bypass Surgery is prescribed to treat morbid obesity. In the procedure, the stomach is surgically divided into a smaller upper pouch and a larger lower pouch. The small intestine is then re-routed to connect to both compartments. Patients typically lose 65% to 80% of their body weight. It’s intended to be a last resort when dieting and exercise are not successful. In 2015, gastric bypass surgery cost, on average, 25,574$ in the US.

Clinton or Clint is a half-brother to Aelyssa by the same father and a different mother. He is also half-brother to the Bubbas, also by the same father but a third mother. Clnt, his wife, and children attend the yearly Disneyland family vacation.

There isn’t much to say about Clint except for one thing. After Aelyssa moved in with me, she lost her health insurance. She had a serious health condition and needed treatment. Her father refused to pay for it. I couldn’t afford to pay for it.

I asked her what it was but she said she didn’t know. She had some test results that indicated that it was serious, and she needed to be treated soon. She refused to go to a charity hospital. She nagged me to buy her health insurance so it could be treated. Then she nagged me to marry her because my job would partially pay for a spouse’s health insurance.

I have been warned to meet the mother before you decide to marry. The daughter almost always looks like and acts like the mother when she gets older. Soon after I met Aelyssa, she invited me to meet her family. It was a Sunday afternoon feast held at Patty’s house in San Francisco. Her parents invite themselves over from Fresno ever few weeks for this meal and make all the food decisions. They were both in their early 60s but were decrepit beyond their years. Her father was tall and stooped. His voice was wheezy. Her mother was as tall as she was wide and could not walk without a cane.

We all sat at a long table to eat. Supper was a pork dish, and I was concerned. Aelyssa is a vegetarian, and her parents know she is a vegetarian. They did not serve a second, alternative vegetarian dish. I too have several food allergies, and pork is one of the few foods that can make me violently sick. I had warned Aelyssa about my condition weeks before the dinner.

Her father sat at the head of the table. His knife and fork screeched on his ceramic plate each time he cut off a piece of his pork. The sound was making me wince, and I glanced at him. He stuffed a fat wad of pork into his mouth with his fork. He grunted and smacked his lips as chewed. Gravy dripped down his stubbly chin.

While he hacked away at his dinner, her mom reached across Clint’s plate to get a bowl of gravy. As she reached, she bumped into me. I noticed the wattles of fat dangling from her wrist. They were several inches long and hung like two heavy tea bags. She breathed as they dragged through Clint’s mashed potatoes making a deep double trough.

Her mother had a cold and could not breath through her nose. Her stuffy nose required her to chew with her mouth open so she could breath through her mouth. The whole meal, she sniffled and wiped her nose every 30 seconds. She periodically had coughing fits and messily blew her nose.

By the end of the meal, Clinton and Aelyssa’s parents had eaten 3 servings each of pork and mashed potatoes. By the time they finished desert, they had eaten roughly 3000 calories apiece in that single meal. (I learned to count calories by sight in my own effort to lose weight). Aelyssa and I only ate potatoes, a little of some other side dish, and salad. Patty did not eat much either.

I don’t think my own family sat down together for a family meal more than ten times during my entire life, but after that dinner, I didn’t want to have any more family meals.

I talked to Clint and got to know him a little. I learned that like everybody else in the family, Clint believed that if you had a choice between walking 100 yards and driving a car 100 yards, you should take the car. Exercise makes you sick and old.

Clint was 40 but looked 60. He weighed around 500 pounds. The father asked about his health. He was having a lot of comorbid health problems due to his obesity: type II diabetes, arthritis, high blood pressure, smelled like sour cheese. It was Clint’s 40th birthday soon, and Aelyssa’s father announced taht he would buy Clint a gastric bypass surgery. I knew him for years after the surgery and he only grew fatter. I can think of other ways to spend $25,000.

Email
Aelyssa lives in the Dogpatch neighborhood near Potrero Hill in San Francisco. Many of the old factories and warehouses of the Dogpatch still stand, but they are either vacant or have been converted to loft space for YUPPIES during the plague of gentrification that began in the 1990s. This area lies east of the fog belt and is therefore the sunniest part of San Francisco.

Aelyssa offered to care for my two cats before I left San Francisco. They were both strays who originally found me while I was sitting in the back yard reading. Except for childhood, I never had a pet cat. It was her choice to adopt them. I had been planning to travel and couldn’t take care of them. She was always praising her own cats and talking about how much she loves cats. I assumed she would treat them as her own.

Her flat is on a hill that overlooks the bay and the city skyline. In the day, cars endlessly speed down her street, and in the night, cars drag race and do burn-outs on the same street while pushers, hookers, and other street people quarrel and shoot guns. She put my cats outside in the street every morning. When she could find them, she let them in at night. She didn’t always find them, and Mister Bradley was scared of her. He spent the last year of his life abandoned and practically homeless. She kept her own cat in the apartment all the time and never let her out. I should have known that it wouldn’t go well for Mister Bradley.

I don’t know what made her to turn. I was polite to her family and didn’t complani about them often. I kept my criticism to my journal. Months ago, she said she had a new boyfriend. His name is Travis. He is a fireman or something and sounded like a good match. We stayed in contact, and a couple of times I even asked her for dating advice. I assumed she would have been happy I had moved on as well.

Just in the last week we have lost a number of highly respected bluelighters to overdoses. While I dontnwantnto speculate on there deaths I know in my own life feint dope has left a number of dead friends. This is getting out of hand. If someone high up in the supply chain reads this then I beg you please start putting normal heroin back out onto the streets. It will still be bought even if it's a little weaker. Killing your customers is not a good long term business strategy

Why stay with aelyssa?

One of the reasons I felt that Aelyssa and I complemented each other is because we came from family backgrounds of physical and intellectual poverty. When I met her, she was trying to improve herself and get away from bad influences. She had moved away and gotten an education. She was exercising, watching her weight, working on her hobbies, reading, and working. I had done and was doing the same with my life. I thought I understood her.

After she moved in with me, she changed. The changes were gradual. She did not try to get a job. She did not help me pay the rent on the house we lived in which she had agreed to do. Almost immediately, she used her father’s allowance to buy a television and spent most of the day sitting in front of that television. I had never owned one and had not watched it since I moved out of my parents’ house. The way she spent her time was alarming. She stopped exercising, reading, and learning new subjects. I did not like to tell her about my work day because I do not like to talk about work and my research when I am not in the lab. I prefer to think about other things at home. If not, I would have married another research scientist. We ran out of things to talk about. She complained and started a fight whenever I listened to my stereo. She has extremely good hearing, yet hates listening to any kind of music other than pop.

She had two cats and overfed both of them. She drank. The cats got fat. She got fat. She stopped bathing daily, and I could not stand her body odor and spunk. She was always mad at me. She concluded the reason I didn’t want to have sex with her was because I was a closet gay.

She had no obligations and nobody was forcing her to do anything during the four years we lived together. She did nothing for four years. A four year vacation in the prime of your life is a luxury. I can only dream about what I would have accomplished during four years had I not been in the lab 80 hours a week. Instead of trying to improve herself, start her own business, learn new subjects, write a novel, learn an art or craft, etc ete c etcd etc etc, she was turning into my parents.

Disney
Every year, she does with her family to spend a week at the Disneyland park. They stay at one of the hotels in the park. I’ve never seen the hotels at the park in California, but the hotels at Disney in Paris are modeled after them. They are resort hotels with swimming pools, bars, restaurants, ball rooms, boutiques and concierge services. They are expensive, and huge, having more than 1000 rooms. Her father made a lot of money with a contracting business and pays for everybody else to go on the trip.

Meltdown
Despite the generosity and the comfortable surroundings, meltdowns from the scale of an argument all the way to a Jerry Spring brawl happen several times a day. Some of them are jealous of each other and quarrel about who receives the biggest welfare or disability payment. Those who have access gossip about it on Facebook. There are also toddler outbursts and constant behavior problems from the older children. Sometimes there are injuries. Most of them are minor like sunburns, dehydration, heat exhaustion, and vomiting from the roller coasters.
Over the day, her father gradually becomes surly and eventually shouts ENOUGH GODDAMMIT! He walks away from the gathering and hides in his room.

Afterwards, she comes back with bags of Disney souveniers: Mickey mouse ears, Goofy hats, mugs, tee shirts, invisible dog leashes, stickers, bags of Disney-branded coffee, Disney branded chocolates.

Every year it was some variant of this. I cannot psychologically handle such family gatherings. Her family is especially hard for me to tolerate, maybe because I understand them too well - my own family was intolerable. They were similar in some ways, and I went to college to get escape. I would never subject somebody I cared about to them. These are just the highlights that I remember. To me, these family outings are a form of birth control.

It is because of families like this that I am convinced the movie Idiocracy is prophetic. I read somewhere that the movie is a documentary made by time travellers from the future to warn us. I’ve done my part and gotten a vasectomy.

I met her family for the first time at a similar large gathering. The day after, I called a clinic and made an appointment for the surgery. The timing of the vasectomy seemed to upset Aelyssa. The night I met her, I told her that I was not going to have children, and I asked her if she understood that I meant it. So I didn’t understand why she was upset. She promised that not all of her family is like this and said I have only met the bad ones. Some on her mother’s side have college degrees. One owns a successful rice mill in Mississippi. Besides Uncle Bob and Aunt Nidia, I’ve only met her father’s relatives. She tried to talk me out of the operation, but I went through with it.

Disney is okay for children. I visited when I was 7 years old and loved it. When you need to budget your time, it’s not a priority. Neither is spending time with family members I do not like. My work year in the US was 60-80 hours a week with 10 vacation days each year. I would get fired if I used more than five. The trip she wants takes two weeks including travel and preparation. She wants to ride the Splash Mountain ride. I liked Splash mountain when I was a little kid. Nowadays, I prefer whitewater rafting down rapids in a river in the wilderness. She likes Space Mountain. I prefer to modify the engine of my motorcycle and ride it 200 mph on a bumpy road. She likes hte Pirates of the Caribe. I prefer to travel to a former remote pirate island or coastline and camp on the beach. Why see a disney musical hen you can go to see an opera?

Aelyssa has told me many times “love me love my family” meaning that I need to spend my vacation time with her doing what she has decided we will do during my five to ten days off per year. Of all the things to do and places to go, she always chose to spend my five days of vacation with her family, Uncle Bob, the Bubbas, and everybody else.