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I feel so utterly snubbed that one of the most 'developed' countries in Europe wants to put me in jail just because of curiosity, interest, addiction to knowledge and thinking differently than the mainstream. I've never hurt anyone. I've never sold or given drugs or harmful substances to other people. There was an accident with a cut / adulterated RC opioid that let me fear of an OD. Some silly guy called the police when I was in emergency care (with unbelievably ignorant doctors, I don't wish such an experience to anyone besides these politicians responsible for all the war...) and now I'm awaiting the lawsuit. They will force me through senseless drug 'detox' and 'therapy' and when I don't knuckle under there, they'll probably kick me into jail.... I still have hope (something I wouldn't have without the aid of drugs, I have been suicidally depressive before) but chances are that I'll have to kill myself to save me from the hell of prison and psychiatric ward (I'm emotionally over sensible..).
Just want to live. Learn. Study. Contribute to science. Being excited about the sheer possibilities of the 21st century. But they don't let me.
Sad world.
Just want to live. Learn. Study. Contribute to science. Being excited about the sheer possibilities of the 21st century. But they don't let me.
Sad world.
The wheel of the year is turning as it always had and always will and the arbitrary division that we have named May is once again shimmering on the horizon. My relationship with this month is so intense and that intensity does not fade with the passing of years.
February and May, the months that brought me my sons.
Pregnancy is such an amazing time. All the senses are heightened. You cry easily, laugh easily. Wonder fills you and you feel connected to something much greater than yourself; less ego as you begin the shift from thinking always about yourself to thinking always about someone else first.. And then there is birth--such a primal human experience. Right from the first contraction you are slapped with the biggest hit of existential alone-ness you have ever experienced. No one can do this but you. No one will feel this pain but you. Surrounded by nurses or midwives or family or out by yourself in a field this is on some level all yours and for now, no one else exists. So you enter into this separation from the oneness of carrying your baby to the reality that your baby is no longer a part of you but is about to take his first breath as his own self. It is all a bloody, animal, physical experience on the one hand and a transformational, miraculous and spiritual experience at the same time.
So for me the months that held my sons' births are sacred months. I've always been a gardener and I have an intimate relationship with my garden; a relationship built like all good relationships over time, with observation and knowledge that builds and deepens with the years. I know when bulbs are swelling underground, when seeds should be sprouting from last year's scattering, what the gophers have decimated and what the birds have dropped. February, Tyler's month, holds tiny violets and tall elegant calla lilies, camellias and paper white narcissus. Most of the garden is asleep still even though these winters are mild. But Caleb's month, May, is a riot of blooming plants, new green on the tips of everything from the oaks to the honeysuckle. It is lush and alive and overwhelmingly beautiful. There is not a place in the garden that is not alive with bees and hummingbirds and flowers unfurling.
Here comes May again. Glorious month that was glorious before your conception or my conception, glorious before this garden and any other garden, glorious whether or not either of us ever lived or died in it. I've always thought that your birthday contributed in some way to your death--that turning twenty scared you because of where you were in life--and how harshly you judged yourself for it. It's a big year in a young person's mind. It was for me and I assume it was for you. I was just starting to come out of my own cave at twenty; you were going in further. I did not want you to die in that cave. All of May was still happening right outside the entrance. All of who you were when you and I entered into the birth dance as partners, was still evident, still intact, still there for you to use: your courage, your determination, your thirst to be born and get your show on the road.
I try not to dread May, not to dread the arrival of your birthday and all the flood of grief that brings, not to dread the day of your death just three weeks later and all the horror that wells up inevitably. The garden is a savior. There are vines to cut back, weeds to pull, roses and alstomeria to deadhead, beds to clear, seedlings to squeeze in. It's not the garden it was when you were alive. It's overgrown and messy and half wild. The Tibetan prayer flags are only tatters on a string. They make no noise in the wind anymore. Neighbors still ask when I will take them down and I shrug. Probably never, I think. I moved into this house and started this garden one month before you were born. I was heavy with you when I planted the first bulbs, the little saplings, the roses and ferns. They will outlive both of us then. There is a strange comfort in that, one that you used to talk to me about. You said so many things that stay with me. You said we don't matter at all. True. You also said not to miss the chance to love while it was right in front of you. Truer, I think.
So, I do love May. Still. But it is not an innocent and happy love as it once was. It is the kind of love that is so deep that there is room for those huge hideous creatures that swim around in the shadows far from the penetration of the sun's rays. Still, on the surface, sun dancing crazily, shimmering geometry of color and light. Remember how we loved to touch the bottom of the river? Down through the layers of green light to the dark and back up again. My favorite part was the middle--just enough light to make a milky sage color--the knowledge of darkness under you and warm peridot sunlight above.
Think about that river. The river that I dipped you into as an infant, your little legs kicking and wild joy in your face; the river that you splashed in as a toddler in your little blow-up water wings, the river that you flew into from the arc of the rope swing, the river that you kissed your girlfriend in, floating downstream in the little boat, the river that I put some of your ashes into. For now, I am that river. Here before you, here beyond you. Holding onto nothing but carrying everything.
February and May, the months that brought me my sons.
Pregnancy is such an amazing time. All the senses are heightened. You cry easily, laugh easily. Wonder fills you and you feel connected to something much greater than yourself; less ego as you begin the shift from thinking always about yourself to thinking always about someone else first.. And then there is birth--such a primal human experience. Right from the first contraction you are slapped with the biggest hit of existential alone-ness you have ever experienced. No one can do this but you. No one will feel this pain but you. Surrounded by nurses or midwives or family or out by yourself in a field this is on some level all yours and for now, no one else exists. So you enter into this separation from the oneness of carrying your baby to the reality that your baby is no longer a part of you but is about to take his first breath as his own self. It is all a bloody, animal, physical experience on the one hand and a transformational, miraculous and spiritual experience at the same time.
So for me the months that held my sons' births are sacred months. I've always been a gardener and I have an intimate relationship with my garden; a relationship built like all good relationships over time, with observation and knowledge that builds and deepens with the years. I know when bulbs are swelling underground, when seeds should be sprouting from last year's scattering, what the gophers have decimated and what the birds have dropped. February, Tyler's month, holds tiny violets and tall elegant calla lilies, camellias and paper white narcissus. Most of the garden is asleep still even though these winters are mild. But Caleb's month, May, is a riot of blooming plants, new green on the tips of everything from the oaks to the honeysuckle. It is lush and alive and overwhelmingly beautiful. There is not a place in the garden that is not alive with bees and hummingbirds and flowers unfurling.
Here comes May again. Glorious month that was glorious before your conception or my conception, glorious before this garden and any other garden, glorious whether or not either of us ever lived or died in it. I've always thought that your birthday contributed in some way to your death--that turning twenty scared you because of where you were in life--and how harshly you judged yourself for it. It's a big year in a young person's mind. It was for me and I assume it was for you. I was just starting to come out of my own cave at twenty; you were going in further. I did not want you to die in that cave. All of May was still happening right outside the entrance. All of who you were when you and I entered into the birth dance as partners, was still evident, still intact, still there for you to use: your courage, your determination, your thirst to be born and get your show on the road.
I try not to dread May, not to dread the arrival of your birthday and all the flood of grief that brings, not to dread the day of your death just three weeks later and all the horror that wells up inevitably. The garden is a savior. There are vines to cut back, weeds to pull, roses and alstomeria to deadhead, beds to clear, seedlings to squeeze in. It's not the garden it was when you were alive. It's overgrown and messy and half wild. The Tibetan prayer flags are only tatters on a string. They make no noise in the wind anymore. Neighbors still ask when I will take them down and I shrug. Probably never, I think. I moved into this house and started this garden one month before you were born. I was heavy with you when I planted the first bulbs, the little saplings, the roses and ferns. They will outlive both of us then. There is a strange comfort in that, one that you used to talk to me about. You said so many things that stay with me. You said we don't matter at all. True. You also said not to miss the chance to love while it was right in front of you. Truer, I think.
So, I do love May. Still. But it is not an innocent and happy love as it once was. It is the kind of love that is so deep that there is room for those huge hideous creatures that swim around in the shadows far from the penetration of the sun's rays. Still, on the surface, sun dancing crazily, shimmering geometry of color and light. Remember how we loved to touch the bottom of the river? Down through the layers of green light to the dark and back up again. My favorite part was the middle--just enough light to make a milky sage color--the knowledge of darkness under you and warm peridot sunlight above.
Think about that river. The river that I dipped you into as an infant, your little legs kicking and wild joy in your face; the river that you splashed in as a toddler in your little blow-up water wings, the river that you flew into from the arc of the rope swing, the river that you kissed your girlfriend in, floating downstream in the little boat, the river that I put some of your ashes into. For now, I am that river. Here before you, here beyond you. Holding onto nothing but carrying everything.
Dear cigarette smokers.
Undoubtedly there is an aspect to your habit which involves a realization (however faint or acute) that you are shortening your life span by smoking. That's fine, but don't you know there are much more interesting drugs to slowly kill yourself with? Sure, not all of them are legal, but that's part of the fun! Don't swallow the "it's legal, so it's better" tripe - there's a big wide pharmacological world out there for you to explore and innumerable substances for you to potentially get addicted to and reduce your life span with. As I always say - don't delay, quit smoking and swap addictions today!
Undoubtedly there is an aspect to your habit which involves a realization (however faint or acute) that you are shortening your life span by smoking. That's fine, but don't you know there are much more interesting drugs to slowly kill yourself with? Sure, not all of them are legal, but that's part of the fun! Don't swallow the "it's legal, so it's better" tripe - there's a big wide pharmacological world out there for you to explore and innumerable substances for you to potentially get addicted to and reduce your life span with. As I always say - don't delay, quit smoking and swap addictions today!
its been 2-3 months and I've been what some call "clean". yes, I use suboxone and gabapentin daily because I am scripted for a number of reasons, but I am no longer putting a needle in my arm and no longer spending every dollar I have on dope! it makes me sick to even think that I put that type of money on something that has ruined my life in so many ways; I feel I have moved on and I am ready for the next thing in life.
I am 32yrs old and have fucked up way too many times; I am finally starting to come clean, be clean, and stay clean, and feel I have a wonderful road infront of me. this is not something I have thought in the past when trying to get clean but I have moved on in so many ways; I recently moved into a new apartment; its actually my grandmothers house who passed away and left it to her son, my father, who is putting my name on it and will be leaving the house to me. he and I have working side by side for the past 3 months and he sees the change; I was working Software Sales for years and it drove me nuts; I shot dope in the bathrooms and would be miserable 8-5. since getting clean I left the job and started working w/ my father which is actual labor work and through the company he runs, so its a lot different but I feel alive and I am NOT MISERABLE DAILY!
I changed jobs, as i just mentioned. I changed locations. I changed my outlook on life. I have found a girl who I truly believe is amazing, and seems to be a lot like me, which is another thing I like. yes, she was a past user herself but has been clean (on maintenance) and doing great herself. all these things now put a smile on my face; this is an actual smile and not just me faking which has been happening for many years.
seriously, I am finally happy. I got my license back - imagine!? I have a breathalyzer in the car - I DONT CARE! I was never a drinker anyway, even w/ 2 DUI's. so bye-bye alcohol - no worries there. I am just confident with my life for the first time in a long time and I actually have people, family, other looking at my differently; looking at me as a NORMAL HUMAN BEING and someone who can get stuff done w/ life.
I have no been this happy in a long ass fucking time!
heroin has fucking ruined my life for many years and its finally time I say GOODBYE! for good!
I am 32yrs old and have fucked up way too many times; I am finally starting to come clean, be clean, and stay clean, and feel I have a wonderful road infront of me. this is not something I have thought in the past when trying to get clean but I have moved on in so many ways; I recently moved into a new apartment; its actually my grandmothers house who passed away and left it to her son, my father, who is putting my name on it and will be leaving the house to me. he and I have working side by side for the past 3 months and he sees the change; I was working Software Sales for years and it drove me nuts; I shot dope in the bathrooms and would be miserable 8-5. since getting clean I left the job and started working w/ my father which is actual labor work and through the company he runs, so its a lot different but I feel alive and I am NOT MISERABLE DAILY!
I changed jobs, as i just mentioned. I changed locations. I changed my outlook on life. I have found a girl who I truly believe is amazing, and seems to be a lot like me, which is another thing I like. yes, she was a past user herself but has been clean (on maintenance) and doing great herself. all these things now put a smile on my face; this is an actual smile and not just me faking which has been happening for many years.
seriously, I am finally happy. I got my license back - imagine!? I have a breathalyzer in the car - I DONT CARE! I was never a drinker anyway, even w/ 2 DUI's. so bye-bye alcohol - no worries there. I am just confident with my life for the first time in a long time and I actually have people, family, other looking at my differently; looking at me as a NORMAL HUMAN BEING and someone who can get stuff done w/ life.
I have no been this happy in a long ass fucking time!
heroin has fucking ruined my life for many years and its finally time I say GOODBYE! for good!
I'm working on an autobiographical short story tentatively called "a White Trash X-Mas." I changed a few details, but mostly it is from my childhood as I remember it. Here is a little bit of it.
Hello. My name is Robin G. I was very sick when I was a little boy. Somethuing was wrong with my leg. The doctor said i would never be able to run.
My mother used to lower me into a bath. It was some kind of tub that was on the kitchen table. One time the phone rang. my mother went to answer it. i sank. It felt peaceful. I remembver looking up thourhg th e water. Everything was bright and distorted. The ceiling lamp above the water was dazzling. That is all I remember of that day. Soon, probably a few days later, somethign was wrong with my left arm. It hurt badly and I couldn't use it. I was left-handed. WAS left-handed. The tub had fallen while I was unattended and my arm had been broken. My parents did not take me to a hospital.
In the early 1900s in Appalachia, George Went Hensley, a Pentecostal minister, popularized snake handling as a demonstration of ones faith or devotion to Jesus. In the ritual, the faithfull rolls up her sleeves and reaches into a box and picks up a rattlesnake bare handed. The snake is encouraged to wrap around her body, arms, drape itself over her shoulders. All the while, the faithful are carrying on. They are hollering, jumping, dancing, singing, stomping around, and chanting in nonsensical babbling sylables they call "Speaking in Tongues." As is often the case with Christian Snake Handlers who demonstrate their belief this way, Hensley himself died from a snake bite in 1955.
Even today, some species of Fundamentalist Christians handle poisonous snakes as a demonstration of their "faith." The whole operation is based on, I believe, a single quote from the New Testament:
"And these signs shall follow them that believe: In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. (Mark 16:17-18 )"
One Sunday morning, my mother (my father wasn't around much during this part of my life) took me to a Church. I had been there before and would be taken there many more times. An itinerant preacher would be there that day. He could heal the sick by praying by "laying on hands." He was a faith healer and could heal "lameness, blindness, gout, dropsy, cancer" anything, as my mother explained. All I had to do was believe, to have Faith, and I would be healed. It didn't even have to be much faith. It was enough even if it was small as a mustard seed (A mustard seed is the size of a speck of dust). Like any young child, I was a Believer. I believed whatever my parents, Sunday school teacher, and other adults told me.
The car ride there was full of anticipation. We lived in the country and it was a long ride over some mountains and into another valley. I remember praying and "believing" and trying to build up my Faith nearly the whole way. My mom had told there might be snakes too. Wow! They had snakes. Like many curious little boys, I looked forward to seeing snakes, no holding snakes, especially poisonous ones the kind they had at this church in I forgot the name of the town somewhere in Oregon. Was it near Eugene? Or was it Rosedale?
By the time we arrived, I was believing pretty hard. We went in, me hobbling behind my mother, and despite my pain, I was all excited. Anyway, at the lobby entrance was a registration desk where people were paying or making "donations" to get in. I remember this because on the way home, she would remind me that she had spent a lot of money and that it had been a financial sacrifice because of me. My mother began filling out a card with my name, ailment, and I don't know what.
It was crowded. People kept coming in. They looked so strange. The women wore head coverings and pioneer dresses. They were gingham or denim and reminded me of Little House on the Prairie, a TV serial on around that time. For some reason, all the women seemed burly. Maybe it was because the dresses accentuated the thickness of their waists. Many also had white nurse tennis shoes. Even at a preschool age, those white tennis shoes bothered me. They did not go with the dresses. Some of their socks might have been black too or is that only old men in Bermuda shorts who do that? Their hair was gathered above their heads in buns with some sort of bonnet.
My mother said something on the lines of even if the pastor dosen't pick my card, if I believe and pray, I will be healed merely by being in the same room with him. We went into the main chamber. It was much like an arena or auditorium. It was crowded and very hot and stuffy. The stage was beyond the crowd on the other end of the room. Being a small child, I couldn't see through the crowd, and it was impossible to tell what was going on. I left my mother behind and tried to squeeze through to the front. Every now and then somebody with a microphone would call a name, but it was never mine. The very front towards the stage was blocked. I could make out glimpses of the preacher with a microphone under flood lights on a stage.
Time passed, but I didn't see any snakes....
Hello. My name is Robin G. I was very sick when I was a little boy. Somethuing was wrong with my leg. The doctor said i would never be able to run.
My mother used to lower me into a bath. It was some kind of tub that was on the kitchen table. One time the phone rang. my mother went to answer it. i sank. It felt peaceful. I remembver looking up thourhg th e water. Everything was bright and distorted. The ceiling lamp above the water was dazzling. That is all I remember of that day. Soon, probably a few days later, somethign was wrong with my left arm. It hurt badly and I couldn't use it. I was left-handed. WAS left-handed. The tub had fallen while I was unattended and my arm had been broken. My parents did not take me to a hospital.
In the early 1900s in Appalachia, George Went Hensley, a Pentecostal minister, popularized snake handling as a demonstration of ones faith or devotion to Jesus. In the ritual, the faithfull rolls up her sleeves and reaches into a box and picks up a rattlesnake bare handed. The snake is encouraged to wrap around her body, arms, drape itself over her shoulders. All the while, the faithful are carrying on. They are hollering, jumping, dancing, singing, stomping around, and chanting in nonsensical babbling sylables they call "Speaking in Tongues." As is often the case with Christian Snake Handlers who demonstrate their belief this way, Hensley himself died from a snake bite in 1955.
Even today, some species of Fundamentalist Christians handle poisonous snakes as a demonstration of their "faith." The whole operation is based on, I believe, a single quote from the New Testament:
"And these signs shall follow them that believe: In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. (Mark 16:17-18 )"
One Sunday morning, my mother (my father wasn't around much during this part of my life) took me to a Church. I had been there before and would be taken there many more times. An itinerant preacher would be there that day. He could heal the sick by praying by "laying on hands." He was a faith healer and could heal "lameness, blindness, gout, dropsy, cancer" anything, as my mother explained. All I had to do was believe, to have Faith, and I would be healed. It didn't even have to be much faith. It was enough even if it was small as a mustard seed (A mustard seed is the size of a speck of dust). Like any young child, I was a Believer. I believed whatever my parents, Sunday school teacher, and other adults told me.
The car ride there was full of anticipation. We lived in the country and it was a long ride over some mountains and into another valley. I remember praying and "believing" and trying to build up my Faith nearly the whole way. My mom had told there might be snakes too. Wow! They had snakes. Like many curious little boys, I looked forward to seeing snakes, no holding snakes, especially poisonous ones the kind they had at this church in I forgot the name of the town somewhere in Oregon. Was it near Eugene? Or was it Rosedale?
By the time we arrived, I was believing pretty hard. We went in, me hobbling behind my mother, and despite my pain, I was all excited. Anyway, at the lobby entrance was a registration desk where people were paying or making "donations" to get in. I remember this because on the way home, she would remind me that she had spent a lot of money and that it had been a financial sacrifice because of me. My mother began filling out a card with my name, ailment, and I don't know what.
It was crowded. People kept coming in. They looked so strange. The women wore head coverings and pioneer dresses. They were gingham or denim and reminded me of Little House on the Prairie, a TV serial on around that time. For some reason, all the women seemed burly. Maybe it was because the dresses accentuated the thickness of their waists. Many also had white nurse tennis shoes. Even at a preschool age, those white tennis shoes bothered me. They did not go with the dresses. Some of their socks might have been black too or is that only old men in Bermuda shorts who do that? Their hair was gathered above their heads in buns with some sort of bonnet.
My mother said something on the lines of even if the pastor dosen't pick my card, if I believe and pray, I will be healed merely by being in the same room with him. We went into the main chamber. It was much like an arena or auditorium. It was crowded and very hot and stuffy. The stage was beyond the crowd on the other end of the room. Being a small child, I couldn't see through the crowd, and it was impossible to tell what was going on. I left my mother behind and tried to squeeze through to the front. Every now and then somebody with a microphone would call a name, but it was never mine. The very front towards the stage was blocked. I could make out glimpses of the preacher with a microphone under flood lights on a stage.
Time passed, but I didn't see any snakes....
The New Message From God: This is the new Bible, follow the rules if you want to save yourselves, we can't do it alone! Much love 
Oh where to begin? I've never blogged in my life, so this may suck, but I must get some things off my chest. First off, I am a 26 year old male living in the U.S. Ive been using drugs off and on(almost entirely on) since 15 years old when I first tried alcohol and cannabis. Even before then, I was obsessed with psychoactive drugs. I don't really know what started this obsession. I was diagnosed with ADD in the second grade, and prescribed Methylphenidate in the form of Ritalin.I remember being with my parents and the psychiatrist after he said my diagnosis, and my dad cried. That made me feel like something was wrong with me, like I was broken or something. I also felt anger towards him, like why the fuck are you sad at least you know what it is. By the way I do not beleive A.D.D. being actually one disorder, I think kids are hyperactive and inattentive because of a host of different things, including but not limited to psychological/mental disorder.It was ir, so one in the morning,one at lunch. I'm not sure the dosage, but I'm sure it was low as at the time I weighed probably 50 pounds. I absolutely hated this drug. It helped me concentrate on school, but it also turned me into a zombie incapable of socializing. So I wouldn't take it. I mean to say I would in the morning because for some reason I was convinced my parents would catch me cheeking it(actually under the tongue I did but that's the only term I know for it), but I wasn't worried about the school nurse who liked me and wasn't very suspecting. They would give it to me right before lunch, so I would keep it under my toungue until I got to the luch room, then dispose of it in the trash can. Well one day, after having done this for quite a while, one of the kids in kine asked me what I had take out of my mouth and thrown away. I wanted to show off so I told them it was my meds. This student, not knowing what kind of meds it was, alerted the faculty, and from then on the nurse had me open my mouth and lift my tongue so she could thouroughly check for the pill. So I had to take both doses every school day. I was vey angry at the student who told on me, but later realized she was only concerned for my health. I hated how they made me feel during the day, and this hatred was only surpassed by the absolute horror the crash every night would have me. It was so depressing I couldnt enjoy anything, I could only dwell on how much I did not want to have to do the shit all over again the next day. In middle school, I got a new nurse, so yayyy I can start cheeking them again. Then, in sixth grade, I told my parents flat out I would not take it anymore, and I meant it. They responded by saying that they would let me go off and see how it went, but as I said, my mind was already made up. Completely off that stuff, I found I could socialize alot better, however I was now drawn to the outcast/rebel types. I was always quite smart, so I could still keel my grades well enough to pass, while not really giving a shit about schoolwork. The exception was social studies, as I was always quite intersted in history. This was also the start of my obsession with psychoactive chemicals. I would sit in the school library and read the short little books they had on marijuana and other drugs, which were basically just anti-drug propaganda. Somehow I already knew the downsides were being exaggerated in attempt to steer the young away from use. This is also where I guess you could say I read my first experience reports, which were not very long and once again aimed more at showing the negative sides. I was still too scared to try anything, or possibly more that I just had no sources. Haha. I was completely obsessed with the ability to change mood and perception with the simple act of cosumption of a chemical. I guess I was just longing for escape already, which I now find sad as most kids my age were too busy with the joys of childhood to be worried about escaping from their everyday reality. I should state here that both my parents were functional alcoholics, which I didnt fully realize yet at this juncture. My family was pretty dysfunctional, but my parents did love me and never neglected or abused me, yet it was far from the ideal home life. To Be Continued.........
So, with my wife parting ways with me at the Ben Gurion airport, heading back to Moscow, I pressed 5 thousand rubles in her hand and she stood in line to wait to go on her flight.
I walked out, heavy heart, but since we had made up before she left, i felt much better than i normally would. i jumped in the taxi i had called and he drove me to the central bus station. we discussed immigration to europe and how europe is committing suicide, how the mass immigration waves will destroy europe for good, and the driver agreed. "they are insane, insane people, this is why we should thank god we have israel, that will never happen here." as he said that, the lewinsky street scene appeared, and i felt on edge. africans were all over, crossing back and forth. "but we do have these filthy africans here, but soon they will be deported, they are all criminals, filth, liars." i nodded, not one to egg on violent xenophobia, even if i disprove of suicidal immigration policy. we all have limits.
the cab pulled up, and the driver turned to me. "god bless you, welcome home to OUR land, be careful my son, be careful" i nodded, paid him, and walked away.
the first thing you do with no connects, no numbers, no leads is, you research "crime areas" "known drug areas" and if you are lucky you will read police reports, news articles and more. my research i had done up before this point led me to rough area near the "two central stations", and i figured i would try my luck, seeing as how i was marooned in tel aviv for another 48 hours due to rosh hashana, and i had 800 shekels to drop. my research led me to believe that i could be overcharged, and i compiled a list of terms i could use to get my point across.
almost all the time junkies are standoffish. in the usa, you get asked if you are "a cop" many times, not because they believe you will tell them if you are, but to judge your reaction. if you sweat it or do anything but laugh or smile, they know, and ditch you.
in Israel - this is not the case for some reason. i dont know why, but no one suspected a thing. within 3 minutes i found an obvious junkie sitting on the ground wearing a cast on his food begging for change. i put it to him bluntly "hey bruv, you speak english?" he smiled and nodded. "yeah", and i said "wanna make some cash bruv?" he nodded. i used slang i had picked up, ad then for good measure said "heroin" to him. he stood right the fuck up and said "ok i will take you to dealer".
we ended up walking down to a dope spot, and all the time, i wondered if he was taking me to get robbed at gun point, or if cops would stop us. he was drooling out of his mouth, laughing wildly, shouting, basically all te shit you DO NOT do when trying to cop hard drugs.
well, we walk along slowly, as he is hobbling. everyone is staring at us, and it is obvious why i am with him. i felt the cops coming down on me, but kept goin despite it.
ten minutes later, under the bridge of a well known train station, the junkie led me to some benches, told me to sit, and took my money to score a gram of heroin.
we went to an area nearby and dumped out some powder and sniffed it, while little african children ran around us. it was akward. i parted ways with the junkie who wanted to meet up asap and took off with the rest of my shit.
i called a friend and walked through south tel aviv high as hell, stopping to take bumps. i got to a hostel, booked a room and spent the time snorting my gram, and then when i was plesently high, i strolled out and bumped into a gorgeous polish girl, and began spitting game immediately. she ate it up. but when i pushed to escalate, and offered food, she kept refusing, not a good sign, so left her and went to go eat, came back, went to bed, and the next day left the hostel early.
i walked back to the dope spot, and saw a man sitting there who was there from before, i handed him money and he went and got it, handed it to me, and i thanked him and walked away. he kept speaking russian to me, telling me he was happy another russian had come.
from this point on, i always came to the same place to score. no matter what time of the day or night, there is someone standing outside, ready to sell as much as you want. my routine goes as follows.
by the dope, and if it isnt hot, sit and chill and do my stuff under the bridge. if it is hot, walk into the bus station, go down deep into the lower levels where i have a spot i go to, dump out my gram and snort it all. then as the dope hits, i walk slowly upstairs through the deserted complex and buy some pizza, eat it, and then go catch my bus home where i talk all night to friends.
I walked out, heavy heart, but since we had made up before she left, i felt much better than i normally would. i jumped in the taxi i had called and he drove me to the central bus station. we discussed immigration to europe and how europe is committing suicide, how the mass immigration waves will destroy europe for good, and the driver agreed. "they are insane, insane people, this is why we should thank god we have israel, that will never happen here." as he said that, the lewinsky street scene appeared, and i felt on edge. africans were all over, crossing back and forth. "but we do have these filthy africans here, but soon they will be deported, they are all criminals, filth, liars." i nodded, not one to egg on violent xenophobia, even if i disprove of suicidal immigration policy. we all have limits.
the cab pulled up, and the driver turned to me. "god bless you, welcome home to OUR land, be careful my son, be careful" i nodded, paid him, and walked away.
the first thing you do with no connects, no numbers, no leads is, you research "crime areas" "known drug areas" and if you are lucky you will read police reports, news articles and more. my research i had done up before this point led me to rough area near the "two central stations", and i figured i would try my luck, seeing as how i was marooned in tel aviv for another 48 hours due to rosh hashana, and i had 800 shekels to drop. my research led me to believe that i could be overcharged, and i compiled a list of terms i could use to get my point across.
almost all the time junkies are standoffish. in the usa, you get asked if you are "a cop" many times, not because they believe you will tell them if you are, but to judge your reaction. if you sweat it or do anything but laugh or smile, they know, and ditch you.
in Israel - this is not the case for some reason. i dont know why, but no one suspected a thing. within 3 minutes i found an obvious junkie sitting on the ground wearing a cast on his food begging for change. i put it to him bluntly "hey bruv, you speak english?" he smiled and nodded. "yeah", and i said "wanna make some cash bruv?" he nodded. i used slang i had picked up, ad then for good measure said "heroin" to him. he stood right the fuck up and said "ok i will take you to dealer".
we ended up walking down to a dope spot, and all the time, i wondered if he was taking me to get robbed at gun point, or if cops would stop us. he was drooling out of his mouth, laughing wildly, shouting, basically all te shit you DO NOT do when trying to cop hard drugs.
well, we walk along slowly, as he is hobbling. everyone is staring at us, and it is obvious why i am with him. i felt the cops coming down on me, but kept goin despite it.
ten minutes later, under the bridge of a well known train station, the junkie led me to some benches, told me to sit, and took my money to score a gram of heroin.
we went to an area nearby and dumped out some powder and sniffed it, while little african children ran around us. it was akward. i parted ways with the junkie who wanted to meet up asap and took off with the rest of my shit.
i called a friend and walked through south tel aviv high as hell, stopping to take bumps. i got to a hostel, booked a room and spent the time snorting my gram, and then when i was plesently high, i strolled out and bumped into a gorgeous polish girl, and began spitting game immediately. she ate it up. but when i pushed to escalate, and offered food, she kept refusing, not a good sign, so left her and went to go eat, came back, went to bed, and the next day left the hostel early.
i walked back to the dope spot, and saw a man sitting there who was there from before, i handed him money and he went and got it, handed it to me, and i thanked him and walked away. he kept speaking russian to me, telling me he was happy another russian had come.
from this point on, i always came to the same place to score. no matter what time of the day or night, there is someone standing outside, ready to sell as much as you want. my routine goes as follows.
by the dope, and if it isnt hot, sit and chill and do my stuff under the bridge. if it is hot, walk into the bus station, go down deep into the lower levels where i have a spot i go to, dump out my gram and snort it all. then as the dope hits, i walk slowly upstairs through the deserted complex and buy some pizza, eat it, and then go catch my bus home where i talk all night to friends.
I usually write this shit just to keep myself updated so here we go - I got the license back! the RMV fucked up and skipped the permit/parking phase of what SHOULD have happened and gave me the license the day I went just to register the car I had to buy!
spending $350/mo on insurance and $100/mo on the breathalyzer - imagine? thats $450/mo for a 2003 Acura TL sport. it has 80k miles and I paid 6k for it. car runs great and all has been good so far, so lets hope all keeps up. it feels fucking great to be back on the road; almost as if I never left, so its been over a year - a year and 3 months to be exact but I am back!
this is good, cuz I just graduated my DUI classes and finished the program, so I am going to TRY and get off probation early and see what happens; it really should run till June but last time I was able to get off early and this time around I will do the same!
thats all, just an update.. been doing great w/ not using dope, great w/ the girl, and great w/ life and finally moving out of this house where I almost killed myself 10+ times.
bye-bye!
spending $350/mo on insurance and $100/mo on the breathalyzer - imagine? thats $450/mo for a 2003 Acura TL sport. it has 80k miles and I paid 6k for it. car runs great and all has been good so far, so lets hope all keeps up. it feels fucking great to be back on the road; almost as if I never left, so its been over a year - a year and 3 months to be exact but I am back!
this is good, cuz I just graduated my DUI classes and finished the program, so I am going to TRY and get off probation early and see what happens; it really should run till June but last time I was able to get off early and this time around I will do the same!
thats all, just an update.. been doing great w/ not using dope, great w/ the girl, and great w/ life and finally moving out of this house where I almost killed myself 10+ times.
bye-bye!
Aboard Philippine Airlines I ended up behind a couple despite Business Class being almost empty. Go figure. She was a somewhat attractive Filipina and he appeared to be Burmese. I would have been interested to learn how they met but meet they did and were clearly deeply into each other. It isnt a long flight but still came with a meal. On most airlines Business Class comes with a superior meal. Not so with most SE Asian carriers.
In Manila at just after 5PM I made my way next door to Philippine Airlines domestic terminal. Usually in the Philippines you must travel to a separate airport for domestic flights. Not so with Philipines Airlines. The terminal, next door, is threadbare with the only eatery being a horrid "Jollibee," the quinesential Filipino fastfood joint, located outside inbetween the two terminals. I plugged in my iPhone to a socket behind the closed ticket counter and surfed the internet.
The next morning I passed through Security and made my way to a charging kiosk to once again surf the internet before boarding my next flight. It was then that once again I found that my American passport was missing! I was sitting in between a young man on my left and a well dressed woman on my right-both Filpinos- and my initial thought was that it had been stolen. I made my way to Security, it wasnt there. I then went back out to the ticket counter to ascertain whether I had left it there. You would think that with as much travelling as I do that I would not fall prey to such confusion but this trip is a tad bit different than most for reasons I will eventually get to.
Failing to find my passport I worriedly made my way back through Security and bought myself some nondescript juice. As I sat drinking it a Security officer came and told me that in fact my passport had turned up after all. A pair of middle aged Filipinas had found it not far from the Security station. Despite their insistence to the contrary I gave them a fistfull of Thai Baht, maybe $70.00 US worth, and much relieved boarded my flight to Cebu.
In Manila at just after 5PM I made my way next door to Philippine Airlines domestic terminal. Usually in the Philippines you must travel to a separate airport for domestic flights. Not so with Philipines Airlines. The terminal, next door, is threadbare with the only eatery being a horrid "Jollibee," the quinesential Filipino fastfood joint, located outside inbetween the two terminals. I plugged in my iPhone to a socket behind the closed ticket counter and surfed the internet.
The next morning I passed through Security and made my way to a charging kiosk to once again surf the internet before boarding my next flight. It was then that once again I found that my American passport was missing! I was sitting in between a young man on my left and a well dressed woman on my right-both Filpinos- and my initial thought was that it had been stolen. I made my way to Security, it wasnt there. I then went back out to the ticket counter to ascertain whether I had left it there. You would think that with as much travelling as I do that I would not fall prey to such confusion but this trip is a tad bit different than most for reasons I will eventually get to.
Failing to find my passport I worriedly made my way back through Security and bought myself some nondescript juice. As I sat drinking it a Security officer came and told me that in fact my passport had turned up after all. A pair of middle aged Filipinas had found it not far from the Security station. Despite their insistence to the contrary I gave them a fistfull of Thai Baht, maybe $70.00 US worth, and much relieved boarded my flight to Cebu.
All night I kept waking every hour or so afraid to miss my flight to Manila. An intelligent person would rely upon a wake up call but then I have never taken the easy route. Finally, at just before 11AM I jumped out of bed fearful of missing my 130PM flight. I had the hotel call a courtesy van and climbed in amidst Aussie twAts who had spent their parents money to take in Full Moon and Half Moon PArties. After listening to their bullshite for a few minutes I turned nasty and asked them why they had even botheted coming to Thailand. I explained that those fake-arse parties are used to fund the rape and murder of hundreds of civikaibs each month in the Pattani Sultanate.
Thailand does a magnificient job at obscuring the mayhem and murder that it inflicts while marketing itself as a tourist's dream. The OFFICIAL body count is close to 400 civilains each month (read: more or less 1,200 in reality). Pattani is an ancient Sultanate of ethnic Malayans, Muslims, who have been under Thai Occupation since independence). The shite taking place there, on both sides, would without a doubt make most of you lose your lunch. The corny parties that were fully commercialised 2 decades ago are used to fund paramilitary violence.
Meanwhile, up north, in Mae Sot for example, Karini Tribesmen are slaughtered on a daily basis by Myanmar. The Thai keep tens of thousands of Karini penned in like cattle in unofficial refugee camps where they are denied the most basic of services. Yet here were these 20-something dickheads bragging about parties. I should not be so hard on them but it taxes my patience listening to that drivel and well, you get the point...
Thailand does a magnificient job at obscuring the mayhem and murder that it inflicts while marketing itself as a tourist's dream. The OFFICIAL body count is close to 400 civilains each month (read: more or less 1,200 in reality). Pattani is an ancient Sultanate of ethnic Malayans, Muslims, who have been under Thai Occupation since independence). The shite taking place there, on both sides, would without a doubt make most of you lose your lunch. The corny parties that were fully commercialised 2 decades ago are used to fund paramilitary violence.
Meanwhile, up north, in Mae Sot for example, Karini Tribesmen are slaughtered on a daily basis by Myanmar. The Thai keep tens of thousands of Karini penned in like cattle in unofficial refugee camps where they are denied the most basic of services. Yet here were these 20-something dickheads bragging about parties. I should not be so hard on them but it taxes my patience listening to that drivel and well, you get the point...
While sitting at a couple of cafés, I came up with a list of Pet Peeves. I made the first part of the list in the US. I did it partially as therapy.
In general, bad manners and rudeness, but where to start?
1) the old classic, spitting on the side walk. If you need to hawk a wad of phlegm, at least make sure that ball of green goo goes in the street or the bushes where nobody will see it or step in it.
2) broken glass on the road or sidewalk
Next are some pet peeves involving annoying sounds. I never have been able to tune out distracting sounds and sights. I can't ignore little noises most people seem to tune out. For me, they get louder and more irritating each time the sound is repeated.
3) Loud eating noises:
LIP SMACKING -- Gross! Is that an Asian custom? I see Asian immigrants doing it more than natives.
Slurping Again, mostly Asian tourists on a bottom tier budget vacation package and new Asian immigrants of lower social caste do it, and it is usually with soup, ramen noodles, or coffee. Somebody said it was to cool their food,
but my food is hot too, and I don't subject others to that noise.
Sucking sounds. I went to a coffee shop the other day, and an old lady sat 2 tables away and immediately started attacking a cookie. She would peel the plastic wrapper bit by bit and alternate between nibbling the cookie and doing something that sounded like sloppy fellatio to the inside of the wrapper. It took her nearly an hour to finish and she was busy working at it the whole time. It was a frosted cookie, and the wrapper had frosting and crumbs stuck to the inside of it. The fact that I had headphones saved my sanity and her life that day.
tapping and scraping eating utensils against the vessel, especially in public: plate, dish, bowl, cup
If you are so poor that you need the sustenance form the last morsels of food that are stuck to the inside of your bowl at a restaurant, you should probably be saving your money by eating home-cooked food at home, preferably in private so you don't annoy your housemates.
saying "AHHHH!" after every sip
Eating potato chips in public with open mouth. This happens most at sandwich shops and is done by college age or younger people who still have a lot of irritating little idiosyncrasies and lack social skills. I don't eat at sandwich shops. The most obnoxious way to eat potato chips is to rattle the bag, stick you hand in it, rattle it some more, get exactly one potato chip, crash it in your mouth with you lips open so it makes that irritating crunching sound, and finally smack your open hands against your jeans or shirt and wipe noisily. Repeat that sequence of irritating sounds around 1000 times. Rattle, smack, rattle again, and wipe -- for each potato chip in the bag.
4) Loud nose blowing in public. If you really need to take care of a runny nose, wipe it quietly. If that doesn't work, excuse yourself to the toilet and do it where nobody will hear you. If you really can't avoid doing it around other people, GET IT OVER WITH! Don't sit there blowing noisily for 5 minutes. Cold season is here already.
5) cell phones and video teleconferences (Skype) at cafes or enclosed public space.
6) talking too loudly in public (indoors)
7) Proposing a toast and clinking glasses before every sip of a single alcoholic beverage. "Cheers!" Clink! Sip!"Cheers!" Clink! Sip!"Cheers!" Clink! Sip!"Cheers!" Clink! Sip!"Cheers!" Clink! When it's a pint of beer, that's a lot of toasts. It's excruciating and I'll never drink with you again. I hate you Andrew.
8 ) When you're at a restaurant and your date reaches across the table and helps herself to a bite of your food. Worse, when she does it over and over, as if she didn't notice your glare the first time she did it. If you want to sample my food, ask me and I'll set some aside on a dish or on your own plate. If that's not enough, order your own. But never touch my food. I didn't have enough to eat growing up, and when I did have food, people were always stealing it. It still bothers me.
9 ) Writing "loose" or "looser" when you mean "lose" or "loser." Why does everybody do that?
10 ) Smileys when I'm trying to make a numbered list 18)
11 ) driving a car when a bicycle or even walking is faster. Bad driving habits such as nuisance driving, cruising, and idling. All this does is make a bad situation worse. America has some severe traffic congestion problems, and San Fran is one of the most congested. And that's without getting into the ethics of wasting petroleum products obtained from war-torn regions of the world or AGW.
12) Nuisance barking. If you can't keep your dog reasonably quiet (multiple sessions of more than 15 minutes of non-stop yapping per day), you shouldn't have one.
I'm half deaf. If these things bother me, they must bother people with good hearing even more. It can't be "just me," right?
Fashion pet peeves of the day:
Here are some sartorial mistakes that hurt my eyes as I sat here and typed:
13 ) Acid washed blue jeans (including the high waistband that goes halfway up the chest) from the 1980s and cut off shirts from the 80s. A 20-something year old female German tourist wearing this get-up just walked by. These outfits were on display a few weeks ago in the window of the clothing store "Forever 21."
14 ) Sleeveless shirts with flabby arms. A decrepit Baby Boomer just walked by sporting a sleeveless vest over a sleeveless shirt. He doesn't have the arms to pull off the look. The effect was of reverse biceps that look like turkey waddle.
15 ) Drumming on the table.
16 ) Extreme extroverts who can't go without talking in between breaths. Being in the presence of someone with this diarrhea of the mouth is exhausting, especially when you can't leave. Silence is a good thing. Why does it make some people uncomfortable?
I noticed all of the above within the past week (summer 2014 San Francisco), and it's impossible not to encounter some of it when going out. I ignore it all as much as I can, but some of it just too hard to tune out.
17) Hats with animal ears. These things just will not go away. Unless the person wearing it is younger than 10 months old, she looks like a like a mentally disabled person. The other day day, a 60 something year old woman was wearing one of those things, and she and her non-mentally handicapped 'helper' sat at a table near me.
I have no idea what the appeal is. They think the hat says fun-loving and care-free, still-young-at-age-60, but all anybody else sees is Ree-Tee.
18 ) Subwoofers in apartments. In college, I was in a dorm and it seemed like half the students had subwoofers. They played them all day every day. It was Hell. I've avoided living in apartments all my life because of that - until now. Thankfully nobody in my building has them.
19) Creaky Girl. It's also known as "Vocal Fry." New names for an epidemic vocal affectation that plagues American college aged females. It"s the "Valley Girl" sound of the 2010s. To my disgust, it has spread to Europe and to some males. It fills me with rage whenever I hear it. At work down the hall from me, there is a male who does this, in French, and I want to murder him every time he talks.
I heard it again!!!!! Some twit tourist was doing it!!! Google 'vocal fry' and listen to some recordings if you don't know what it is.
Just like those animal hats with cat ears, you might think it's vaguely cutesy for the first 1/2 second you hear it, but then you realize that it is only appropriate for 1 year olds and adults with Down's Syndrome.
What makes me even madder is that you can't even criticize it without being called 'sexist.' Fans of this annoying speech pattern jump on anybody who complains and say they hate women and can't stand the fact that women are allowed to express themselves in modern society. Where were these defenders of teenaged voice patterns in the late 1990s when "Burned Out Stoner Voice" was popular among college aged males?
Whether it's a boy or a girl doing it, it grates across my nerves and causes me physical pain. It makes me want to kill. It sounds both childish (like an 11 year old trying to sound like an adult) and extremely irritating. Apparently Britney Spears or the Kardassian scum of Reality TV started this obnoxious fad.
Some morons at a bottom tier university wrote articles in a non-peer un-reviewed psychology journal about it claiming that 11 year old girls started it. They further claim that common suburban 11 year old girls are linguistic visionaries and trend setters and that in 1/2 a generation, we all will be speaking in 'Vocal Fry.'
Valley Girl Speak started in the 1970s and has never stopped sounding stupid. Teenie-bopper injection of the word 'like' every other word hasn't stopped sounding stupid. Vocal Fry/Creaky Gril Voice will always sound stupid too. I wish these people could hear how they sound and could experience the pain they inflict on anybody who hears them.
19) Neem body lotion. Very popular among women in the US. Over the years, I've blown off dozens of women who were only being friendly or flirting because I thougth they had a hygiene problem. This popular scentf smells very strong on hot summer days. For years, I thought it was crotch rot. The smell is very similar. Why so girls where this stuff? It's an insect repellent and fungicide. It's also a people repellent.
Now for some French ones.
20) "Ahh Buhhhhhh ouaui." This French phrase is like finger nails on a chalk board. For the most part, uneducated people here do it. It sounds closest to somebody doing an imation of someone with a mental disability in English. Lenny from Mice and Men I think made similar idiotic vocalizations.
21) Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. French sidewalks tend to be elbow-to-elbow crowded. People just stop and block the flow of traffic.
In general, bad manners and rudeness, but where to start?
1) the old classic, spitting on the side walk. If you need to hawk a wad of phlegm, at least make sure that ball of green goo goes in the street or the bushes where nobody will see it or step in it.
2) broken glass on the road or sidewalk
Next are some pet peeves involving annoying sounds. I never have been able to tune out distracting sounds and sights. I can't ignore little noises most people seem to tune out. For me, they get louder and more irritating each time the sound is repeated.
3) Loud eating noises:
LIP SMACKING -- Gross! Is that an Asian custom? I see Asian immigrants doing it more than natives.
Slurping Again, mostly Asian tourists on a bottom tier budget vacation package and new Asian immigrants of lower social caste do it, and it is usually with soup, ramen noodles, or coffee. Somebody said it was to cool their food,
but my food is hot too, and I don't subject others to that noise.
Sucking sounds. I went to a coffee shop the other day, and an old lady sat 2 tables away and immediately started attacking a cookie. She would peel the plastic wrapper bit by bit and alternate between nibbling the cookie and doing something that sounded like sloppy fellatio to the inside of the wrapper. It took her nearly an hour to finish and she was busy working at it the whole time. It was a frosted cookie, and the wrapper had frosting and crumbs stuck to the inside of it. The fact that I had headphones saved my sanity and her life that day.
tapping and scraping eating utensils against the vessel, especially in public: plate, dish, bowl, cup
If you are so poor that you need the sustenance form the last morsels of food that are stuck to the inside of your bowl at a restaurant, you should probably be saving your money by eating home-cooked food at home, preferably in private so you don't annoy your housemates.
saying "AHHHH!" after every sip
Eating potato chips in public with open mouth. This happens most at sandwich shops and is done by college age or younger people who still have a lot of irritating little idiosyncrasies and lack social skills. I don't eat at sandwich shops. The most obnoxious way to eat potato chips is to rattle the bag, stick you hand in it, rattle it some more, get exactly one potato chip, crash it in your mouth with you lips open so it makes that irritating crunching sound, and finally smack your open hands against your jeans or shirt and wipe noisily. Repeat that sequence of irritating sounds around 1000 times. Rattle, smack, rattle again, and wipe -- for each potato chip in the bag.
4) Loud nose blowing in public. If you really need to take care of a runny nose, wipe it quietly. If that doesn't work, excuse yourself to the toilet and do it where nobody will hear you. If you really can't avoid doing it around other people, GET IT OVER WITH! Don't sit there blowing noisily for 5 minutes. Cold season is here already.
5) cell phones and video teleconferences (Skype) at cafes or enclosed public space.
6) talking too loudly in public (indoors)
7) Proposing a toast and clinking glasses before every sip of a single alcoholic beverage. "Cheers!" Clink! Sip!"Cheers!" Clink! Sip!"Cheers!" Clink! Sip!"Cheers!" Clink! Sip!"Cheers!" Clink! When it's a pint of beer, that's a lot of toasts. It's excruciating and I'll never drink with you again. I hate you Andrew.
8 ) When you're at a restaurant and your date reaches across the table and helps herself to a bite of your food. Worse, when she does it over and over, as if she didn't notice your glare the first time she did it. If you want to sample my food, ask me and I'll set some aside on a dish or on your own plate. If that's not enough, order your own. But never touch my food. I didn't have enough to eat growing up, and when I did have food, people were always stealing it. It still bothers me.
9 ) Writing "loose" or "looser" when you mean "lose" or "loser." Why does everybody do that?
10 ) Smileys when I'm trying to make a numbered list 18)
11 ) driving a car when a bicycle or even walking is faster. Bad driving habits such as nuisance driving, cruising, and idling. All this does is make a bad situation worse. America has some severe traffic congestion problems, and San Fran is one of the most congested. And that's without getting into the ethics of wasting petroleum products obtained from war-torn regions of the world or AGW.
12) Nuisance barking. If you can't keep your dog reasonably quiet (multiple sessions of more than 15 minutes of non-stop yapping per day), you shouldn't have one.
I'm half deaf. If these things bother me, they must bother people with good hearing even more. It can't be "just me," right?
Fashion pet peeves of the day:
Here are some sartorial mistakes that hurt my eyes as I sat here and typed:
13 ) Acid washed blue jeans (including the high waistband that goes halfway up the chest) from the 1980s and cut off shirts from the 80s. A 20-something year old female German tourist wearing this get-up just walked by. These outfits were on display a few weeks ago in the window of the clothing store "Forever 21."
14 ) Sleeveless shirts with flabby arms. A decrepit Baby Boomer just walked by sporting a sleeveless vest over a sleeveless shirt. He doesn't have the arms to pull off the look. The effect was of reverse biceps that look like turkey waddle.
15 ) Drumming on the table.
16 ) Extreme extroverts who can't go without talking in between breaths. Being in the presence of someone with this diarrhea of the mouth is exhausting, especially when you can't leave. Silence is a good thing. Why does it make some people uncomfortable?
I noticed all of the above within the past week (summer 2014 San Francisco), and it's impossible not to encounter some of it when going out. I ignore it all as much as I can, but some of it just too hard to tune out.
17) Hats with animal ears. These things just will not go away. Unless the person wearing it is younger than 10 months old, she looks like a like a mentally disabled person. The other day day, a 60 something year old woman was wearing one of those things, and she and her non-mentally handicapped 'helper' sat at a table near me.
I have no idea what the appeal is. They think the hat says fun-loving and care-free, still-young-at-age-60, but all anybody else sees is Ree-Tee.
18 ) Subwoofers in apartments. In college, I was in a dorm and it seemed like half the students had subwoofers. They played them all day every day. It was Hell. I've avoided living in apartments all my life because of that - until now. Thankfully nobody in my building has them.
19) Creaky Girl. It's also known as "Vocal Fry." New names for an epidemic vocal affectation that plagues American college aged females. It"s the "Valley Girl" sound of the 2010s. To my disgust, it has spread to Europe and to some males. It fills me with rage whenever I hear it. At work down the hall from me, there is a male who does this, in French, and I want to murder him every time he talks.
I heard it again!!!!! Some twit tourist was doing it!!! Google 'vocal fry' and listen to some recordings if you don't know what it is.
Just like those animal hats with cat ears, you might think it's vaguely cutesy for the first 1/2 second you hear it, but then you realize that it is only appropriate for 1 year olds and adults with Down's Syndrome.
What makes me even madder is that you can't even criticize it without being called 'sexist.' Fans of this annoying speech pattern jump on anybody who complains and say they hate women and can't stand the fact that women are allowed to express themselves in modern society. Where were these defenders of teenaged voice patterns in the late 1990s when "Burned Out Stoner Voice" was popular among college aged males?
Whether it's a boy or a girl doing it, it grates across my nerves and causes me physical pain. It makes me want to kill. It sounds both childish (like an 11 year old trying to sound like an adult) and extremely irritating. Apparently Britney Spears or the Kardassian scum of Reality TV started this obnoxious fad.
Some morons at a bottom tier university wrote articles in a non-peer un-reviewed psychology journal about it claiming that 11 year old girls started it. They further claim that common suburban 11 year old girls are linguistic visionaries and trend setters and that in 1/2 a generation, we all will be speaking in 'Vocal Fry.'
Valley Girl Speak started in the 1970s and has never stopped sounding stupid. Teenie-bopper injection of the word 'like' every other word hasn't stopped sounding stupid. Vocal Fry/Creaky Gril Voice will always sound stupid too. I wish these people could hear how they sound and could experience the pain they inflict on anybody who hears them.
19) Neem body lotion. Very popular among women in the US. Over the years, I've blown off dozens of women who were only being friendly or flirting because I thougth they had a hygiene problem. This popular scentf smells very strong on hot summer days. For years, I thought it was crotch rot. The smell is very similar. Why so girls where this stuff? It's an insect repellent and fungicide. It's also a people repellent.
Now for some French ones.
20) "Ahh Buhhhhhh ouaui." This French phrase is like finger nails on a chalk board. For the most part, uneducated people here do it. It sounds closest to somebody doing an imation of someone with a mental disability in English. Lenny from Mice and Men I think made similar idiotic vocalizations.
21) Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. French sidewalks tend to be elbow-to-elbow crowded. People just stop and block the flow of traffic.
yes, it's been talked about 5 million and 1/2 times by now, but it still bothers the fuck out of me.
yes, I am a raging heroin addict w/ multiple overdoses and 2 DUI's and a million other things, but I have finally come around and have found a reason to live, do well, and go forward w/ life. I am in the final stages of getting my license back, saved up close to 10k to buy a car out right and then put all the money toward insurance and getting it on the road.
but what do I still get!? I get.. "your voice sounds different". "you've been acting different the last 2 weeks". "I really doubt you would pass a drug test right now". and a million more other things to the point where I threw a punch threw my fathers van and he blames "drug use" as to why I would be mad and punch.
yes, wrong thing to do, but he and I been battling for years.. years and years before drugs even started.
that was weeks ago, but today I got it more and more.. seriously, how do you handle this? yes, its my fault because I was the fucking super junkie for the past 12yrs w/ jail time, multiple programs and detoxes, multiple DUI's and totaled cars, etc. yes, I fucked up BIG TIME! but when do I get a fucking chance to show I am making a come back?
I am on suboxone; so to my mother and father, I am far from sober, and when certain things come out of my mouth, its the "suboxone talking".
I shot 1-2G's of heroin a day; the 12MG of bupe I take daily barely does a thing.
sometime I just cant talk it; which is why this rant is here.
if I even had the money or connection to get dope right now, it would be in my arm in about 20 minutes. luckily, things have changed and I cant even.
yes, I am a raging heroin addict w/ multiple overdoses and 2 DUI's and a million other things, but I have finally come around and have found a reason to live, do well, and go forward w/ life. I am in the final stages of getting my license back, saved up close to 10k to buy a car out right and then put all the money toward insurance and getting it on the road.
but what do I still get!? I get.. "your voice sounds different". "you've been acting different the last 2 weeks". "I really doubt you would pass a drug test right now". and a million more other things to the point where I threw a punch threw my fathers van and he blames "drug use" as to why I would be mad and punch.
yes, wrong thing to do, but he and I been battling for years.. years and years before drugs even started.
that was weeks ago, but today I got it more and more.. seriously, how do you handle this? yes, its my fault because I was the fucking super junkie for the past 12yrs w/ jail time, multiple programs and detoxes, multiple DUI's and totaled cars, etc. yes, I fucked up BIG TIME! but when do I get a fucking chance to show I am making a come back?
I am on suboxone; so to my mother and father, I am far from sober, and when certain things come out of my mouth, its the "suboxone talking".
I shot 1-2G's of heroin a day; the 12MG of bupe I take daily barely does a thing.
sometime I just cant talk it; which is why this rant is here.
if I even had the money or connection to get dope right now, it would be in my arm in about 20 minutes. luckily, things have changed and I cant even.
On the Thai side another bus company employee scooped me up as I departed the Thai Dangerous Drugs Inspection point and tried to make small talk as he walked me to the minivan which like the bus in Poi Pet was a great distance away from the crossing point. Of course his goal was to separate me from a bit of my money. It is funny how brushing by what could have easily been one's execution can place one in a great mood. Technically I did nothing illegal. I was not carrying illicit drugs but Cambodia has no prescription system. That coupled with the fact that the drugs I was carrying were Class As could have resulted in all kinds of nasty scenarios in Thailand.
Happy as can be I offered the buss company employee a tip. Boy was he happy...and then I gave him a fist full of Riel! Cambodian Riel officially exchange at 4,200 per US Dollar so that he got about 80 Cents all told. He made a cheeky half smile and muttered something that I imagine wasnt exactly friendly, abd then we were at the minivan.
I sat in the rear. Next to me was a Cambodian yuppie- so much as one exists, abd beside him was a college-aged German of Chilean descent. Offered the kid an Oxy as I gobbled 14 capsules but he had no idea what Oxycontin was, bless his heart, though more than likely was scared shiteless and decided to simply play dumb. The "yuppie" is a Quality Control bloke for Toys-R-Us and its subsidiaries in 3 regional nations. Always up and about he is tasked with accessing the quality and consistency of regional suppliers. He also has bog dreams at home, already owning a clothing outlet and engaged in land speculation as he hopes to bud a Western-style mall in an outlying mall.
Mall dreams aside he and I did get along well as we were in complete agreement about the state of things under Cambodian Dictator Hun Sen.
The German kid on the other hand had tried to enter Cambodia and had been rebuffed since he has less than 6 months left on his passport. I laughed and told him $20 US would have handled that. He seemed shocked at such bolden corruption but too late for that. We spent a somewhat pleasant 5 hours driving into Bangkok. Arriving in a city that seems more alien to me everytime I experience it the German lad and I then set about trying to make our way to Khan Sao Road for bargain basement accomodations.
7 klicks later aboard a tuk tuk we arrived. He went his way, and I mine, and agreed to possibly meet up later for supper. As it was I decided to sleep in. I went by Chabad House Khan Sao, one of five Jewish facilities in the city run by a Jewish organisation based in NYC. Some bouncer-type Israeli pretending to be security stood outside the entrance and surly asked me what I wanted. I answered that I would like to speak to the rabbi. He asked why and it became one of those mind numbing exchanges where each syllable is teased out a constanant at a time. I lost my patience fairly quickly and asked him if people usually give him a difficult time because I wasnt and just like him I am a Jew. Of course he kept telling me to piss off and keep walking yadda and yadda, yadda.
I then beat him in the head with a Jewish principle that 3-year olds learn by heart: Ahavat Yisrael (Love of Jews, idiomatically speaking). I am his brother and in this case his much elder brother and he needed to learn that real fast. He made a stupid face so an hpur later I got him fired. Chabad scoops up these losers who wash up in forlorn corners of the world whose only selling point is having been born from a Jewish mum. It then tries to help them, as in this case with a "make work" job.
Next I walked around the corner and checked into a dive called "Panee" something or other. Chinese-owned the a/c really did a job on my sinuses. After checking in I phoned the aforementioned rabbi and then met him for supper at his home. Later I slowly walked around Khan Sao and to my disgust it really has become a 42nd Street-type Disney World. I even had an icecream banana split at "Swensens!"
Happy as can be I offered the buss company employee a tip. Boy was he happy...and then I gave him a fist full of Riel! Cambodian Riel officially exchange at 4,200 per US Dollar so that he got about 80 Cents all told. He made a cheeky half smile and muttered something that I imagine wasnt exactly friendly, abd then we were at the minivan.
I sat in the rear. Next to me was a Cambodian yuppie- so much as one exists, abd beside him was a college-aged German of Chilean descent. Offered the kid an Oxy as I gobbled 14 capsules but he had no idea what Oxycontin was, bless his heart, though more than likely was scared shiteless and decided to simply play dumb. The "yuppie" is a Quality Control bloke for Toys-R-Us and its subsidiaries in 3 regional nations. Always up and about he is tasked with accessing the quality and consistency of regional suppliers. He also has bog dreams at home, already owning a clothing outlet and engaged in land speculation as he hopes to bud a Western-style mall in an outlying mall.
Mall dreams aside he and I did get along well as we were in complete agreement about the state of things under Cambodian Dictator Hun Sen.
The German kid on the other hand had tried to enter Cambodia and had been rebuffed since he has less than 6 months left on his passport. I laughed and told him $20 US would have handled that. He seemed shocked at such bolden corruption but too late for that. We spent a somewhat pleasant 5 hours driving into Bangkok. Arriving in a city that seems more alien to me everytime I experience it the German lad and I then set about trying to make our way to Khan Sao Road for bargain basement accomodations.
7 klicks later aboard a tuk tuk we arrived. He went his way, and I mine, and agreed to possibly meet up later for supper. As it was I decided to sleep in. I went by Chabad House Khan Sao, one of five Jewish facilities in the city run by a Jewish organisation based in NYC. Some bouncer-type Israeli pretending to be security stood outside the entrance and surly asked me what I wanted. I answered that I would like to speak to the rabbi. He asked why and it became one of those mind numbing exchanges where each syllable is teased out a constanant at a time. I lost my patience fairly quickly and asked him if people usually give him a difficult time because I wasnt and just like him I am a Jew. Of course he kept telling me to piss off and keep walking yadda and yadda, yadda.
I then beat him in the head with a Jewish principle that 3-year olds learn by heart: Ahavat Yisrael (Love of Jews, idiomatically speaking). I am his brother and in this case his much elder brother and he needed to learn that real fast. He made a stupid face so an hpur later I got him fired. Chabad scoops up these losers who wash up in forlorn corners of the world whose only selling point is having been born from a Jewish mum. It then tries to help them, as in this case with a "make work" job.
Next I walked around the corner and checked into a dive called "Panee" something or other. Chinese-owned the a/c really did a job on my sinuses. After checking in I phoned the aforementioned rabbi and then met him for supper at his home. Later I slowly walked around Khan Sao and to my disgust it really has become a 42nd Street-type Disney World. I even had an icecream banana split at "Swensens!"
The whole mt thing has finally finished and i feel like i can breathe again. Hopefully no more 16 hour days, constant anxiety and having to hold everyone and everything together. Despite what some people think, i am not superwoman but just a human being with feelings n shit and no i can't handle being pulled in all directions no matter how much you pay me.
I had a life, did things, had hobbies. Now this is all I do practically. And drink. And take benzos. All in the hope of escaping to a quiet place and feeling something real, even if artificially induced.
I miss intimacy. Having someone to hug, wake up to, say i love you to, kiss goodnight. Sometimes i think im just destined to be a high powered lonely banker with noone to come home to. Maybe its time to get a cat? Lol
I had a life, did things, had hobbies. Now this is all I do practically. And drink. And take benzos. All in the hope of escaping to a quiet place and feeling something real, even if artificially induced.
I miss intimacy. Having someone to hug, wake up to, say i love you to, kiss goodnight. Sometimes i think im just destined to be a high powered lonely banker with noone to come home to. Maybe its time to get a cat? Lol
I was suprised to see that the Thai building now had two floors, the top being the one used for crossing. There is still a "Foreigner" line but now Cambodians are considered "Foreigners." In border areas all over SE Asia locals from both sides of the border zone are given a different status and not subjected to the same controls as foreigners per se. This had been the case at Aran (the Thai side of Poi Pet). Now there were hundreds on cue.
I was happy to stamp out, especially with all the DHC, Oxy and Diazepam I was carrying. I walked down the stairs, up a concrete pathway and then I saw 5 Thai Borderpolicemen all staring at me just before I saw the Xray conveyor and the sign saying "Illegal Drugs Detection Station." Aaaah, "THAT was new" I thought.
I smiled and didnt break my stride at all but as I came abreast of their Xray I moved my arms as if to place my kitbag down for inspection while asking if they wanted to search it. Smiling surrealy they said "Nah" and then turned away to talk amongst themselves. I played it to the hilt asking how to get to the carpark. One officer directed me and that was that, I was in Thailand.
I was happy to stamp out, especially with all the DHC, Oxy and Diazepam I was carrying. I walked down the stairs, up a concrete pathway and then I saw 5 Thai Borderpolicemen all staring at me just before I saw the Xray conveyor and the sign saying "Illegal Drugs Detection Station." Aaaah, "THAT was new" I thought.
I smiled and didnt break my stride at all but as I came abreast of their Xray I moved my arms as if to place my kitbag down for inspection while asking if they wanted to search it. Smiling surrealy they said "Nah" and then turned away to talk amongst themselves. I played it to the hilt asking how to get to the carpark. One officer directed me and that was that, I was in Thailand.
At Poi Pet I was totally fucked up from that nightmarish busride. They stop about a half a klick short of the infamous roundabout which serves as the approximate border for all the hucksters and shills. From the roundabout to the actual crossing you are besieged by conartists of every type. Taking those types of busses however sort of saves you from being harrangued as a bus attendant- after guving you a laminated badge around your neck- leads you to the bus company office just short of Cambodian Immigration.
Inside the office you hand a bus employee your passport and departure forms, he checks that they are in order, makes a notation that speeds you through Immigration as well as contacting the minivan on the Thai side that will take you to Bangkok. As I said, I was majorly fucked up as in disarray. When the employee in the office asked for my ticket I realised that the driver had never given it back to me after I boarded in Phnom Pemh. The employee tried to be a dick about it:
Hom: "What was your seat number?"
Now, if readers will recall I had boarded the bus at about 9PM just before it departed from a bustling market in Phnom Penh. There is no way I was going to know the number but offered a reasonable guess:
Me: 13B I believe.
Him: I will check...(5 minutes later, long after all others had left)...No, they say that there was noone in 13B.
Me: Look, I was the only foreigner on the bus for its entire trip. If you cannot verify my passage by the manifest then you can simply ask the company headquarters (I then proceded to show him the logo of the travel agency that booked it).
He finally tired of the game and asked for my passport and departure documents. It was then that I realised that my US Passport was missing- the passport I was/am travelling on. I desperately tossed my kitbag with a gaggle of Cambodians staring at me as if I were an insect in a petrie dish, studying me oh so intently. Minutes later I found it and quickly made my way to Immigration. Stamped out I made my way to Customs, received the same and onto Thailand...
Inside the office you hand a bus employee your passport and departure forms, he checks that they are in order, makes a notation that speeds you through Immigration as well as contacting the minivan on the Thai side that will take you to Bangkok. As I said, I was majorly fucked up as in disarray. When the employee in the office asked for my ticket I realised that the driver had never given it back to me after I boarded in Phnom Pemh. The employee tried to be a dick about it:
Hom: "What was your seat number?"
Now, if readers will recall I had boarded the bus at about 9PM just before it departed from a bustling market in Phnom Penh. There is no way I was going to know the number but offered a reasonable guess:
Me: 13B I believe.
Him: I will check...(5 minutes later, long after all others had left)...No, they say that there was noone in 13B.
Me: Look, I was the only foreigner on the bus for its entire trip. If you cannot verify my passage by the manifest then you can simply ask the company headquarters (I then proceded to show him the logo of the travel agency that booked it).
He finally tired of the game and asked for my passport and departure documents. It was then that I realised that my US Passport was missing- the passport I was/am travelling on. I desperately tossed my kitbag with a gaggle of Cambodians staring at me as if I were an insect in a petrie dish, studying me oh so intently. Minutes later I found it and quickly made my way to Immigration. Stamped out I made my way to Customs, received the same and onto Thailand...
Having stayed at "Sundance Guesthouse" on Street #172 I can inly say good words about it. Fantastic digs for $20 US per night, definitely best bang for the buck. Sitting streetside as Black Sabbath, watching a Fench 20-something tourist trying to pull a very pretty French girl as I wait for my bus to Bangkok.
The border crossing at Poi Pet is only open 730AM to 5PM so that when i wake at 730AM I will have been sleeping on the bus all night. As described in earlier entries it is a "Hotel Bus," own double bed, flat screen TV, fridge, but only a curtain around my "room." It has 2 drivers and an attendant and is just what I needed cause I hate that fucken drive. I loved it before Cambodia shut down passenger trains in 2007. At that point I could take a train from the far shore of the Lake and get off in Poi Pet, cross, take a tuk tuk 4 klicks to the Thai station in Ayan and ride all the way to Bangkok.
Now, after crossing, I have to walk to a Thai van that picks us all up for the mimd numbing ride to G-d's armpit in SE Asia, Khao San Road. What a scumbag Disney-type amusement park it has turned into. It amazes me that kids still buy drugs on that terrible street. Only 80 meters long. All ”manner of Thai citizens try to sell all manner of illicit drugs. If someone is foolish enough to buy or really even examines the offered drugs, then BOOM, a cop on a scooter zooms up literally seconds later and makes an arrest. A gramme of Ice ends up costing a few thousand US dollars.
The border crossing at Poi Pet is only open 730AM to 5PM so that when i wake at 730AM I will have been sleeping on the bus all night. As described in earlier entries it is a "Hotel Bus," own double bed, flat screen TV, fridge, but only a curtain around my "room." It has 2 drivers and an attendant and is just what I needed cause I hate that fucken drive. I loved it before Cambodia shut down passenger trains in 2007. At that point I could take a train from the far shore of the Lake and get off in Poi Pet, cross, take a tuk tuk 4 klicks to the Thai station in Ayan and ride all the way to Bangkok.
Now, after crossing, I have to walk to a Thai van that picks us all up for the mimd numbing ride to G-d's armpit in SE Asia, Khao San Road. What a scumbag Disney-type amusement park it has turned into. It amazes me that kids still buy drugs on that terrible street. Only 80 meters long. All ”manner of Thai citizens try to sell all manner of illicit drugs. If someone is foolish enough to buy or really even examines the offered drugs, then BOOM, a cop on a scooter zooms up literally seconds later and makes an arrest. A gramme of Ice ends up costing a few thousand US dollars.
I've never blogged before. So this is a first. Bear with me then.
I have a mind that wanders and wonders about things at breakneck speed. I'm unsure whether this has anything to do with my bipolar status or no. Currently off meds if anyone is interested. If you've read any of my posts you'll know I switch from lighthearted to why am I not dead/is this all there is? type posts.
I'm finding myself wondering at this moment if bipolar influenced my choice to become an opiate user.
I have a mind that wanders and wonders about things at breakneck speed. I'm unsure whether this has anything to do with my bipolar status or no. Currently off meds if anyone is interested. If you've read any of my posts you'll know I switch from lighthearted to why am I not dead/is this all there is? type posts.
I'm finding myself wondering at this moment if bipolar influenced my choice to become an opiate user.
So yesterday as I noted I bought 14 of those street bags of #4. Today I bought 90 of them, my last heroin for a while because although I havent yet booked passage, Im heading down to the Philippines in a couple of days. I have some business stuff to handle in Mindanao, and then will visit with two Filipinas that I briefly mentioned. Sadly, the one in Lapu Lapu might cause me to see Rizza whom I havent seen in almost half a decade.
I still am partiallly in business with Mario, her dad, still have my house in his compound and we are still as close as we always were. It took almost 3 years but her parents calmed down. For a while I expected them to literally kill her for the shame she caused them and had my relationship with her parents been weaker it might have hit them hard financially. In the Philippines you can have an adulterous wife and her lover tossed into prison for 14 years. To avoid that extra shame I could have pressed them for a couple of hundred thousand US but I was friends with them long before I ever considered their daughter.
She has remained with her man all these years, to her credit. One thing I never understood about her is why she always wanted to work. This is a girl who used to summer at Lake Como in Italy and hit Gstaad in Switzerland in the winter, top tenth of top 1 percent in her nation, money and society wise, but weirdly she obssessed about becoming a Home Health Attendant in the West. Just so strange. After the meltdown I became convinced that she has Aspbergers and her parents agreed with me.
If I saw her she would be terrified probably but she shouldnt be. I never loved her so other than the shame she caused her poor family I never worked myself up over the abandonment of our marriage. Well let me clarify. The stress of it is probably what cause my Hep-C regimen of Interferon and Ribavarin to fail. Seeing as how I was closing in on Stage 5 and would be on my last legs now if not for the new treatment, that failure peeved me to say the least. All in all it worked out for the best in the end so alls well that ends well as thet say...which can also be said about my experiment as well but that will be posted soon.
I still am partiallly in business with Mario, her dad, still have my house in his compound and we are still as close as we always were. It took almost 3 years but her parents calmed down. For a while I expected them to literally kill her for the shame she caused them and had my relationship with her parents been weaker it might have hit them hard financially. In the Philippines you can have an adulterous wife and her lover tossed into prison for 14 years. To avoid that extra shame I could have pressed them for a couple of hundred thousand US but I was friends with them long before I ever considered their daughter.
She has remained with her man all these years, to her credit. One thing I never understood about her is why she always wanted to work. This is a girl who used to summer at Lake Como in Italy and hit Gstaad in Switzerland in the winter, top tenth of top 1 percent in her nation, money and society wise, but weirdly she obssessed about becoming a Home Health Attendant in the West. Just so strange. After the meltdown I became convinced that she has Aspbergers and her parents agreed with me.
If I saw her she would be terrified probably but she shouldnt be. I never loved her so other than the shame she caused her poor family I never worked myself up over the abandonment of our marriage. Well let me clarify. The stress of it is probably what cause my Hep-C regimen of Interferon and Ribavarin to fail. Seeing as how I was closing in on Stage 5 and would be on my last legs now if not for the new treatment, that failure peeved me to say the least. All in all it worked out for the best in the end so alls well that ends well as thet say...which can also be said about my experiment as well but that will be posted soon.
Upon leaving Khmer-Russian Friendship Hospital we made our way towards the River, the Mekong and its parallel branch, Tonle Sap, which diverges north of Phnom Penh. He took me to a street I will not mention for the safety of any intrepid traveller who may follow in my steps. That said I fully documented my time there in my Flickr Photo Stream.
I have been in shady places most of my life but have to admit that I had never came close to such an overpowering odor of human urine. It was four floors- though I earlier mistakenly inagined it had 6 floors. Roughly dated to the mid-1960s the structure is cement, a block long, a walk up with huge apts. all manner of junkie was keeping home in the hallways. The floors were catwalks on the lengthway. In the huge blocklong courtyard squatters had built a small village, homes atop homes with now a third level dangerously going up. Again, in my photos I illustrated much of it.
Heroin, smoked and IVd comes in little golden foils- gold as in 24kt orange gold. I earlier estimated that each foil- a single dosage- amounts to about 300mgs. Now I woukd say it doesnt even surpass 100mgs. Still, reputedly unadulterated even 40 to 100mgs at $2.50 US per is a hell of a deal.
In 1992 if I recall correctly, I was living in Tampa, Florida and at that point the city was scorched dry. A tonne of crack at shi**y prices, dirt Mexican weed but again, no opiates/opioids. I remember some Puerto Rican from Brooklyn had his brains splattered during a DEA investigation into his distribution of coke and dope (heroin) but it being a small world the girl I was with then, her brother knew him back up north. That was as close as I got to heroin back then...and then the girl I was with dragged me to a family gathering in Brooklyn.
I hopped a subway up to East Harlem, aka "Spanish Harlem." I had a son with her, still an infant. We got off on E.116th Street. I left her window shopping on Second Avenue and I casually made my way slowly up to E.125th Street. At 122nd I saw a Puerto Rican dealing put of a doorway to a white prostitute. I tried to buy 8 bags but he refused me, thinking I was a cop or whatever. Frustrated I walked back down to my girl and my son. I wasnt thinking of that guy but as we walked past his spot he eagerly called me over saying he didnt know I was OK. I shrugged my shoulders and got my bags.
I have always had a very high opiate/opioid threashhold so I quickly insufflated one and then half of the other. I was happy to feel the warmth back in my body and my mind. We hopped on a downtown train and like within a minute I had waves of naseau come over me and right there began heaving. We got off at 34th Street and had to spend our travel budget on a Four Star Hotel ($840 for a double per night). I was on the floor of the loo vomiting my brains out. I had only gotten down 1.5 bags (~150mgs Beige, "Happyland," a green stamp). The name referred to a Punta disco. "Punta" was and remains the pop music of the Garifuna. The Garifuna were African slaves en route to Brasil whose ship ran aground off of St. Lucia in the Caribbean. The Africans made their way ashore somehow, one presumes they were unshackled after water began rushing through the hold where most would have been chained.
Once on St Lucia they ran for the hills and like so many escaped slaves in the Caribbean became fierce warriors collectively known as "Maroons." After nearly 2 centuries free in the mountains they finally made peace with the English who then shipped them to the Mosquito Coast in what is now Honduras. There some assimilated into the Miskito Native American Tribe. Their descendants became known as "Garifuna." Coal black they speak a unique form of Spanish, their own African-based language known AS "Garifuna," as well as Caribbean English ("Yeah mon").
The Garifuna began migrating to NYC in the 1990s where they tended to settle in the South Bronx. This particular club, "Happyland," was on Southern Blvd near E.180th Street. A woman working the coatcheque room broke up with her Cuban boyfriend after discovering that he was a crack addict just after Xmas of 1989. He continued obsessing about the woman and on March 25th, 1990, convinced she was involved with a coworker the ex set a fire that murdered 87 people!
The bag was VERY pure. Overdosing via insufflation isnt difficult at all if using pure or close to pure heroin. Since those 2 days of incessant puking I have almost always played it safe even when insufflating. These Cambodian foils are deceptively innocent looking. I could easily see a Western addict just doing 4 or 5 as if they are nothing...of course that Westerner almost immediately would start dying.
I have been in shady places most of my life but have to admit that I had never came close to such an overpowering odor of human urine. It was four floors- though I earlier mistakenly inagined it had 6 floors. Roughly dated to the mid-1960s the structure is cement, a block long, a walk up with huge apts. all manner of junkie was keeping home in the hallways. The floors were catwalks on the lengthway. In the huge blocklong courtyard squatters had built a small village, homes atop homes with now a third level dangerously going up. Again, in my photos I illustrated much of it.
Heroin, smoked and IVd comes in little golden foils- gold as in 24kt orange gold. I earlier estimated that each foil- a single dosage- amounts to about 300mgs. Now I woukd say it doesnt even surpass 100mgs. Still, reputedly unadulterated even 40 to 100mgs at $2.50 US per is a hell of a deal.
In 1992 if I recall correctly, I was living in Tampa, Florida and at that point the city was scorched dry. A tonne of crack at shi**y prices, dirt Mexican weed but again, no opiates/opioids. I remember some Puerto Rican from Brooklyn had his brains splattered during a DEA investigation into his distribution of coke and dope (heroin) but it being a small world the girl I was with then, her brother knew him back up north. That was as close as I got to heroin back then...and then the girl I was with dragged me to a family gathering in Brooklyn.
I hopped a subway up to East Harlem, aka "Spanish Harlem." I had a son with her, still an infant. We got off on E.116th Street. I left her window shopping on Second Avenue and I casually made my way slowly up to E.125th Street. At 122nd I saw a Puerto Rican dealing put of a doorway to a white prostitute. I tried to buy 8 bags but he refused me, thinking I was a cop or whatever. Frustrated I walked back down to my girl and my son. I wasnt thinking of that guy but as we walked past his spot he eagerly called me over saying he didnt know I was OK. I shrugged my shoulders and got my bags.
I have always had a very high opiate/opioid threashhold so I quickly insufflated one and then half of the other. I was happy to feel the warmth back in my body and my mind. We hopped on a downtown train and like within a minute I had waves of naseau come over me and right there began heaving. We got off at 34th Street and had to spend our travel budget on a Four Star Hotel ($840 for a double per night). I was on the floor of the loo vomiting my brains out. I had only gotten down 1.5 bags (~150mgs Beige, "Happyland," a green stamp). The name referred to a Punta disco. "Punta" was and remains the pop music of the Garifuna. The Garifuna were African slaves en route to Brasil whose ship ran aground off of St. Lucia in the Caribbean. The Africans made their way ashore somehow, one presumes they were unshackled after water began rushing through the hold where most would have been chained.
Once on St Lucia they ran for the hills and like so many escaped slaves in the Caribbean became fierce warriors collectively known as "Maroons." After nearly 2 centuries free in the mountains they finally made peace with the English who then shipped them to the Mosquito Coast in what is now Honduras. There some assimilated into the Miskito Native American Tribe. Their descendants became known as "Garifuna." Coal black they speak a unique form of Spanish, their own African-based language known AS "Garifuna," as well as Caribbean English ("Yeah mon").
The Garifuna began migrating to NYC in the 1990s where they tended to settle in the South Bronx. This particular club, "Happyland," was on Southern Blvd near E.180th Street. A woman working the coatcheque room broke up with her Cuban boyfriend after discovering that he was a crack addict just after Xmas of 1989. He continued obsessing about the woman and on March 25th, 1990, convinced she was involved with a coworker the ex set a fire that murdered 87 people!
The bag was VERY pure. Overdosing via insufflation isnt difficult at all if using pure or close to pure heroin. Since those 2 days of incessant puking I have almost always played it safe even when insufflating. These Cambodian foils are deceptively innocent looking. I could easily see a Western addict just doing 4 or 5 as if they are nothing...of course that Westerner almost immediately would start dying.
she was so opposed to it that she insulted me, called me a liar, said i was a piece of shit junkie. As I had said before, Russians do not understand moderation, only all or nothing. After we walked out with my scripts in hand, my wife told me she was going to east Jerusalem to buy meds she needed that are not controlled substances here. she speaks Arabic, and so she enjoys the Muslim community here as do I, despite not knowing Arabic.
I walked out into the white-grey-yellow sky and watched the sand and dust blow and my breathing becoming harder and harder. I have poor lungs from smoking and from having asthma as a child; i still get seasonal bronchitis that is harsh for me.The dust storm or sandstorm was harsher than any i experienced in my native Texas.
My wife had angrily left me alone and said she was sick of seeing me high and I should go fuck myself. I wandered the streets of Jerusalem in the storm to a pharmacy and filled my Tramadol and Percocet; taking 400 miligrammes Tramadol and 50 miligrams oxycodone with 275mg of naproxen and 100 miligrammes diphenhydramine for potentiation. I swallowed the handful with a water chaser and drifted along the side of the train tracks to get back to my location. For whatever reason, i always get motion sickness on opiates and last time i was nauseated on the train I vomited in front of the whole passenger car, so this time I decided to walk home.
I was drifting as the hit came on and got me nodding hard as I walked. I prayed to God and asked him to help me please, watching the blotted out sky and thinking of nuclear holocaust as my lungs labored to merely breathe in the thick, dusty air.
I had a gut feeling bad things were coming.
When I got home, I walked in to see my wife walk out. I sent her facebook messages and said i would go to look for her. I did, and she told me when i found her that that if i do not quit; she will quit me. I didn't know what to do. aside from 4 days of heroin use in march, I had gone for nearly 3 months without opioid drugs in Rossiya, and was depressed and in pain from my kidney, but she did not care. She hated seeing me depressed when i was sober, and then hated me being drunk or high every night. I told her that I guess she will have to leave me because I cannot quit. I have tried for over a decade to no luck, and the main thing is that simply stated i love Opioids and hate depression and pain. For her, this was weakness.
She followed me back home insulting me, and was chatting to some guy on FB. A girl who looks like her will always have constant bullshit to deal with, so naturally she can go pick someone else if she so desires. She claimed it was a friend, but i saw her delete all her history for internet and delete all FB messages she had. Several times when she was angry at me for using, she would got to other people like her ex. The conversations were sexual. She deleted it or took the phone out of my hand and then did it. The last time I saw this I dumped her quicker than your first dope shit while kicking. She begged me to stay with her crying, offering anything to make me stay. I relented and said if she stopped we could make it work. It was after this in July that we started to take pills together and she accepted my use.
That all changed last week and i think it is due to her speaking to her ex again, a militant teetotaler who hates all drugs and alcohol and bad food. for an atheist, he is fairly devout to rules and regulations.
After she said she was leaving and not coming back, I got a call from my Dr. and he informed me that my kidney is blocked again and I needed seriously invasive surgery. I felt sick when he said i would need surgery again.... with my kidney condition re-lapsing and re-blocking (not due to anything I have done like drinking though)... my urologist says the last surgeries were failures and now I can choose to re-do the surgery or do a more invasive surgery. Once again, I feel sick just thinking about it. Catheters, uretal stent implants.... penis, ureter, bladder and kidney pain so excruciating it can barely be described... pissing chunks of blood... a sensation like razor wire being pulled through your urethra... it's what I imagine hell is like. And I have to do it again... thankfully my doctors are treating me properly and adequately... but I'm still profoundly apprehensive. I have a good doctor who speaks english very well and who is intelligent and insightful which is good as most Russian doctors are shitheads, but Dimitry has his head on his shoulders. I have to go due a CT scan and I will have contrast dye injected into my arm to create a 3d image of my kidney. Take it from me... renal colic is a nightmare... this whole condition... terrifying... pray you never need to get surgery for this....
In the wake of my wife leaving me I find out I need shit again... again.... after the call I sat staring outside into the yellow abyss and nodded in and out, a lump of snus (Swedish oral tobacco similar to American "dip"), feeling profoundly depressed.
then my wife came back and yelled at me and insulted me saying I was a pussy. I tell her that the Dr. told me that I have a serious issue and my surgery had been botched in the USA. Now I have to prepare for this again....this horrible, horrifying surgery where I pissed chunks of blood and 20-30 norcos barely cut the pain. And my wife's selfishness in regards to drugs with her morally puritanical back ground drove me into even further despair.
The sun had gradually set and I walked out at dusk, praying in Hebrew, hoping for strength to fight the good fight. I wandered around in the yellow abyss, my soul drifting from my body, my mind drifting from my head, profoundly awash in despair and desolation, the abyssic sandstorm seeping into my opiate drenched soul, my black hole of inner self drifting alone, lost, sickly, an utterly black void sucking in all light and never returning, steeped in misery and pain of mind, soul, body. I cannot blame her for leaving me, but things are as they are and I have to accept them, even as I wander around in this nightmarish world wondering what God's plan is for me....
I walked out into the white-grey-yellow sky and watched the sand and dust blow and my breathing becoming harder and harder. I have poor lungs from smoking and from having asthma as a child; i still get seasonal bronchitis that is harsh for me.The dust storm or sandstorm was harsher than any i experienced in my native Texas.
My wife had angrily left me alone and said she was sick of seeing me high and I should go fuck myself. I wandered the streets of Jerusalem in the storm to a pharmacy and filled my Tramadol and Percocet; taking 400 miligrammes Tramadol and 50 miligrams oxycodone with 275mg of naproxen and 100 miligrammes diphenhydramine for potentiation. I swallowed the handful with a water chaser and drifted along the side of the train tracks to get back to my location. For whatever reason, i always get motion sickness on opiates and last time i was nauseated on the train I vomited in front of the whole passenger car, so this time I decided to walk home.
I was drifting as the hit came on and got me nodding hard as I walked. I prayed to God and asked him to help me please, watching the blotted out sky and thinking of nuclear holocaust as my lungs labored to merely breathe in the thick, dusty air.
I had a gut feeling bad things were coming.
When I got home, I walked in to see my wife walk out. I sent her facebook messages and said i would go to look for her. I did, and she told me when i found her that that if i do not quit; she will quit me. I didn't know what to do. aside from 4 days of heroin use in march, I had gone for nearly 3 months without opioid drugs in Rossiya, and was depressed and in pain from my kidney, but she did not care. She hated seeing me depressed when i was sober, and then hated me being drunk or high every night. I told her that I guess she will have to leave me because I cannot quit. I have tried for over a decade to no luck, and the main thing is that simply stated i love Opioids and hate depression and pain. For her, this was weakness.
She followed me back home insulting me, and was chatting to some guy on FB. A girl who looks like her will always have constant bullshit to deal with, so naturally she can go pick someone else if she so desires. She claimed it was a friend, but i saw her delete all her history for internet and delete all FB messages she had. Several times when she was angry at me for using, she would got to other people like her ex. The conversations were sexual. She deleted it or took the phone out of my hand and then did it. The last time I saw this I dumped her quicker than your first dope shit while kicking. She begged me to stay with her crying, offering anything to make me stay. I relented and said if she stopped we could make it work. It was after this in July that we started to take pills together and she accepted my use.
That all changed last week and i think it is due to her speaking to her ex again, a militant teetotaler who hates all drugs and alcohol and bad food. for an atheist, he is fairly devout to rules and regulations.
After she said she was leaving and not coming back, I got a call from my Dr. and he informed me that my kidney is blocked again and I needed seriously invasive surgery. I felt sick when he said i would need surgery again.... with my kidney condition re-lapsing and re-blocking (not due to anything I have done like drinking though)... my urologist says the last surgeries were failures and now I can choose to re-do the surgery or do a more invasive surgery. Once again, I feel sick just thinking about it. Catheters, uretal stent implants.... penis, ureter, bladder and kidney pain so excruciating it can barely be described... pissing chunks of blood... a sensation like razor wire being pulled through your urethra... it's what I imagine hell is like. And I have to do it again... thankfully my doctors are treating me properly and adequately... but I'm still profoundly apprehensive. I have a good doctor who speaks english very well and who is intelligent and insightful which is good as most Russian doctors are shitheads, but Dimitry has his head on his shoulders. I have to go due a CT scan and I will have contrast dye injected into my arm to create a 3d image of my kidney. Take it from me... renal colic is a nightmare... this whole condition... terrifying... pray you never need to get surgery for this....
In the wake of my wife leaving me I find out I need shit again... again.... after the call I sat staring outside into the yellow abyss and nodded in and out, a lump of snus (Swedish oral tobacco similar to American "dip"), feeling profoundly depressed.
then my wife came back and yelled at me and insulted me saying I was a pussy. I tell her that the Dr. told me that I have a serious issue and my surgery had been botched in the USA. Now I have to prepare for this again....this horrible, horrifying surgery where I pissed chunks of blood and 20-30 norcos barely cut the pain. And my wife's selfishness in regards to drugs with her morally puritanical back ground drove me into even further despair.
The sun had gradually set and I walked out at dusk, praying in Hebrew, hoping for strength to fight the good fight. I wandered around in the yellow abyss, my soul drifting from my body, my mind drifting from my head, profoundly awash in despair and desolation, the abyssic sandstorm seeping into my opiate drenched soul, my black hole of inner self drifting alone, lost, sickly, an utterly black void sucking in all light and never returning, steeped in misery and pain of mind, soul, body. I cannot blame her for leaving me, but things are as they are and I have to accept them, even as I wander around in this nightmarish world wondering what God's plan is for me....
The test piece actually was very high quality but at a $150 a gramme he can kiss my arse simply put. He hasnt stopped calling since then and after finding out abput the Cambodian Addiction scene this morning and the astronomical profit made from a $20 to $30 US a gramme being sold to Western tourists at up to $150 per I dont blame him for trying.
This morning I skipped my daily trip to Bayon to be able to appraise the indigenous scene. Yesterday I had a very good meeting with the main Harm Reduction outfit here, Khana, as discussed in an earlier entry. I was saddened to discover that Khana no longer works with IDUs. However it funnels foreign aid to two smaller NGOs and so cadged a referral from Khana's Director, of whom I will discuss more about later.
This morning I took a tuk tuk to the smaller NGO, Khosan. In 2004 American junkie Holly Bradford- an amazing woman now in California- was aghast at the American Returnee scene. After serving prison sentences Cambodian Americans- most refugees from the Khmer Rouge Era- who had never bothered to gain citizenship in the States, were dragged onto planes and summarily dropped off of commercial flights at Phnom Penh's airport.
Cambodia tossed them into gaol without charges unless they could find a local sponsor. Most had no idea where family members lived if they even had survived the Khmer Rouge, an auto-genocide where Communists murdered roughly a third of their countrymen in a decade. Those that did find a sponsor quickly ended up in the street when their sponsors discovered to their dismay that not all Americans were wealthy. Being homeless in a nation where you are despised and treated as a foreigner, let alone being an excon in a society that finds such things abhorrent is beyond terrible. Then, being ripped from your only family in the US and usually being an addict to boot (pun intended), well you can see my point I think.
Holly, extremely intelligent and resillient, founded Khosan. From 2004 onward she dealt with the Returnees and then segued into indigenous addiction services including Needle Exchange. She and her organisation- formerly "hers"- deserve one or two entries of their own and I will get to those. Sufficient for now, I arrived after the tuk tuk driver terrified the NGO by calling for directions twice and saying that an "American" was en route for unknown reasons. Arriving I was ushered into a small office and interviewed the Financial Officer and the Administrator, both ex-addicts., claiming that I was a journalist focusing on Harm Reduction and Drug Geopolitics, both things that are actually partially true though npt as sole pursuits. I then asked for a Ride Along to get an idea of the indigenous scene.
At that point a Returnee arrived, about my age, and mistook me for an Aussie because of my accent. Israelis of my generation were instructed in BBC English (now it is American English), when studying that language. Finding out I was last in NYC we immediately clicked. I will write more about him as well.
He and I went out on a moped, our first stop being Khmer-Russuan Friendship Hospital, site of the nation's only methadone programme. He shocked me when he said that a couple of Westerners were enrolled! I then confessed that I have spent much of the last 25 years on Methadone Maintenance. He asked me how I was sufficing being without it and I explained that I still had 5 bottles of 220mgs each that I was saving while substituting OTC Oxy and DHC. He urged me to enroll! I explained that they wouldnt have my 220.
We took a quick tour where I discovered that for $8 US I can enroll and dose at 220 daily for $1 US per day! I explained that I would soon be travelling a bit but that I had a long term multi-entry visa and am almost certain that I would enroll if and when I returned.
The Returnee then introduced me to a couple of Cambodian enrollees who were lying around on the large veranda of the huge outpatient building which sits to the left of the main carpark. After that it was back aboard the NGO's moped as we went into the inner city not far from my room. I was shocked to be taken into a block long building, 6 floor walkup, with a huge courtyard where an entire neighbourhood had sprung up- with a drug scene that was reminiscent of "New Jack City" but I will get into that in my next entry.
This morning I skipped my daily trip to Bayon to be able to appraise the indigenous scene. Yesterday I had a very good meeting with the main Harm Reduction outfit here, Khana, as discussed in an earlier entry. I was saddened to discover that Khana no longer works with IDUs. However it funnels foreign aid to two smaller NGOs and so cadged a referral from Khana's Director, of whom I will discuss more about later.
This morning I took a tuk tuk to the smaller NGO, Khosan. In 2004 American junkie Holly Bradford- an amazing woman now in California- was aghast at the American Returnee scene. After serving prison sentences Cambodian Americans- most refugees from the Khmer Rouge Era- who had never bothered to gain citizenship in the States, were dragged onto planes and summarily dropped off of commercial flights at Phnom Penh's airport.
Cambodia tossed them into gaol without charges unless they could find a local sponsor. Most had no idea where family members lived if they even had survived the Khmer Rouge, an auto-genocide where Communists murdered roughly a third of their countrymen in a decade. Those that did find a sponsor quickly ended up in the street when their sponsors discovered to their dismay that not all Americans were wealthy. Being homeless in a nation where you are despised and treated as a foreigner, let alone being an excon in a society that finds such things abhorrent is beyond terrible. Then, being ripped from your only family in the US and usually being an addict to boot (pun intended), well you can see my point I think.
Holly, extremely intelligent and resillient, founded Khosan. From 2004 onward she dealt with the Returnees and then segued into indigenous addiction services including Needle Exchange. She and her organisation- formerly "hers"- deserve one or two entries of their own and I will get to those. Sufficient for now, I arrived after the tuk tuk driver terrified the NGO by calling for directions twice and saying that an "American" was en route for unknown reasons. Arriving I was ushered into a small office and interviewed the Financial Officer and the Administrator, both ex-addicts., claiming that I was a journalist focusing on Harm Reduction and Drug Geopolitics, both things that are actually partially true though npt as sole pursuits. I then asked for a Ride Along to get an idea of the indigenous scene.
At that point a Returnee arrived, about my age, and mistook me for an Aussie because of my accent. Israelis of my generation were instructed in BBC English (now it is American English), when studying that language. Finding out I was last in NYC we immediately clicked. I will write more about him as well.
He and I went out on a moped, our first stop being Khmer-Russuan Friendship Hospital, site of the nation's only methadone programme. He shocked me when he said that a couple of Westerners were enrolled! I then confessed that I have spent much of the last 25 years on Methadone Maintenance. He asked me how I was sufficing being without it and I explained that I still had 5 bottles of 220mgs each that I was saving while substituting OTC Oxy and DHC. He urged me to enroll! I explained that they wouldnt have my 220.
We took a quick tour where I discovered that for $8 US I can enroll and dose at 220 daily for $1 US per day! I explained that I would soon be travelling a bit but that I had a long term multi-entry visa and am almost certain that I would enroll if and when I returned.
The Returnee then introduced me to a couple of Cambodian enrollees who were lying around on the large veranda of the huge outpatient building which sits to the left of the main carpark. After that it was back aboard the NGO's moped as we went into the inner city not far from my room. I was shocked to be taken into a block long building, 6 floor walkup, with a huge courtyard where an entire neighbourhood had sprung up- with a drug scene that was reminiscent of "New Jack City" but I will get into that in my next entry.
It was only a matter of time before it happens. Any woman worthwhile to try to be with eventually will leave me due to drug or alcohol use. I don't blame them, because no one wants to be with a junkie.
I woke up from my hangover today feeling something bad was going to happen in the pit of my gut. There is a massive sandstorm that hit Jerusalem this morning and it looks like a post-apocalyptic wasteland here. It was a white-yellow sky and dust was everywhere coating cars. It was so humid in addition one found it exceedingly difficult to breathe. Everyone was coughing outside; myself included.
I trudged into my doctor- my urologist and he asked me about why I left the hospital against the advice of the doctor handling my hospitalization. I had gone to the hospital a month ago because my pain meds were not working; unlike in America where they are loathe to hospitalize people due to lack of health insurance, in Israel they have no issues forcing you to stay in the hospital because hea;lth insurance is universal here, and new immigrant Jews get a full package for one year.
After dozens of pethidine - phenergan injectoins and some cocktails with Tramadol and Morphine administered to me, I spent most of my time sleeping in between vaing an ultrasound on my kidney and a Renal scan where they inject radioactive dye into your blood stream to ceck for renal issues. I had suffered from severe pain for many years without knowing th4e causs and only one year ago I was properly diagnosed in the USA with a congenital obstruction in my ureter; simply put it blocks the kidney from being able to drain properly and leaves the kidney swollen due to excess urine. It is not malignant, just painful renal colic. I had pulled out my IV in the hospital and walked out because i hate pethidine and phenergan. it made me feel dizzy and sick and i slept a lot. if it had been morphine i would have stayed.
anyway, i survived on opiate use carried on from long term addiction, and in march I had 3 surgeries to repair the congenital obstruction. It was a horrifying experience. my toleranc4e was so high that I took 300 milgirammes hydrocodone after my first surgery and my second i stayed in the hospital where they injected me with hydromorphone, morphine and toradol, and they gave me opium suppositories and pills of 10mg hydrocodone for breakthrough pain.
after a couple weeks the pain all but dissapeared. I left the USA and moved to Russia to be with my future wife and start a new life in the Rodina; but as you can see from my last entries it didn't go so well there. my girl is the daughter of a powerful federal judge and due to her family hating me because I was not Muslim (her father is a Sunni Chechen, mother is a Russian), and my wife is a Sunni muslim as well. anyway, her mother told my boss to fire me or else. I even had the immigration service try to intimidate me and get me to leave but i just ignored them and signed their voluntary but unofficial per-deportation notice. it was not stamped however, so I knew it was fake. my whole life was turned upside down.
regardless, after several months there, I left to move to Israel with my wife. we ended up having visions of a an amazing future, but it quickly went downhill. My wife, being from a culture that utterly, utterly hates drugs, my purchases of OTC codeine annoyed her greatly. We began to fight more and more; culminating in eventually agreeing to let me use minor or weak opiates if i agreed to never inject and never use hard and strong opiates like heroin or morphine, so as long as I took moderate or weak opiates orally, the wife allowed this to prevent my use of heroin. It has been difficult, and many times I wanted to just go score heroin and get done with it.
The problem was that I was getting high and the days i did not, i drank at night. She hated this, and despite breaking up with me and then wanting me back several times, she could never get used to it, but one day she did and for weeks we enjoyed it and had fun and she even took some Tramadol with me.
Today however, I went into my doctor and he scripted me my percocet and my tramadol and then said he would review my hospital tests to see if they had confirmed My pain had come back and was increasing; but my wife did NOT believe it was genuine pain but a ploy to score pills. After I saw my urologist, he said he would call me after looking at my records and then decide if i needed a CT scan if my renal scan indicated issues. Regardless of my pain, my wife somehow flipped and began to hate my use again.
(continued in part 2)
I woke up from my hangover today feeling something bad was going to happen in the pit of my gut. There is a massive sandstorm that hit Jerusalem this morning and it looks like a post-apocalyptic wasteland here. It was a white-yellow sky and dust was everywhere coating cars. It was so humid in addition one found it exceedingly difficult to breathe. Everyone was coughing outside; myself included.
I trudged into my doctor- my urologist and he asked me about why I left the hospital against the advice of the doctor handling my hospitalization. I had gone to the hospital a month ago because my pain meds were not working; unlike in America where they are loathe to hospitalize people due to lack of health insurance, in Israel they have no issues forcing you to stay in the hospital because hea;lth insurance is universal here, and new immigrant Jews get a full package for one year.
After dozens of pethidine - phenergan injectoins and some cocktails with Tramadol and Morphine administered to me, I spent most of my time sleeping in between vaing an ultrasound on my kidney and a Renal scan where they inject radioactive dye into your blood stream to ceck for renal issues. I had suffered from severe pain for many years without knowing th4e causs and only one year ago I was properly diagnosed in the USA with a congenital obstruction in my ureter; simply put it blocks the kidney from being able to drain properly and leaves the kidney swollen due to excess urine. It is not malignant, just painful renal colic. I had pulled out my IV in the hospital and walked out because i hate pethidine and phenergan. it made me feel dizzy and sick and i slept a lot. if it had been morphine i would have stayed.
anyway, i survived on opiate use carried on from long term addiction, and in march I had 3 surgeries to repair the congenital obstruction. It was a horrifying experience. my toleranc4e was so high that I took 300 milgirammes hydrocodone after my first surgery and my second i stayed in the hospital where they injected me with hydromorphone, morphine and toradol, and they gave me opium suppositories and pills of 10mg hydrocodone for breakthrough pain.
after a couple weeks the pain all but dissapeared. I left the USA and moved to Russia to be with my future wife and start a new life in the Rodina; but as you can see from my last entries it didn't go so well there. my girl is the daughter of a powerful federal judge and due to her family hating me because I was not Muslim (her father is a Sunni Chechen, mother is a Russian), and my wife is a Sunni muslim as well. anyway, her mother told my boss to fire me or else. I even had the immigration service try to intimidate me and get me to leave but i just ignored them and signed their voluntary but unofficial per-deportation notice. it was not stamped however, so I knew it was fake. my whole life was turned upside down.
regardless, after several months there, I left to move to Israel with my wife. we ended up having visions of a an amazing future, but it quickly went downhill. My wife, being from a culture that utterly, utterly hates drugs, my purchases of OTC codeine annoyed her greatly. We began to fight more and more; culminating in eventually agreeing to let me use minor or weak opiates if i agreed to never inject and never use hard and strong opiates like heroin or morphine, so as long as I took moderate or weak opiates orally, the wife allowed this to prevent my use of heroin. It has been difficult, and many times I wanted to just go score heroin and get done with it.
The problem was that I was getting high and the days i did not, i drank at night. She hated this, and despite breaking up with me and then wanting me back several times, she could never get used to it, but one day she did and for weeks we enjoyed it and had fun and she even took some Tramadol with me.
Today however, I went into my doctor and he scripted me my percocet and my tramadol and then said he would review my hospital tests to see if they had confirmed My pain had come back and was increasing; but my wife did NOT believe it was genuine pain but a ploy to score pills. After I saw my urologist, he said he would call me after looking at my records and then decide if i needed a CT scan if my renal scan indicated issues. Regardless of my pain, my wife somehow flipped and began to hate my use again.
(continued in part 2)