Say Aah

I've been listening to this song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z__FHAG1Jk8

It's by Trey Songz. How cool that's his last name is Songz and he's a singer! I think parents should change their children's last names to Doctorz, Investmentz, Presidentz, or Somethingtohelptheworldz. In the video he's pensive, somewhat reflective, yet able to make sure that his pretty mouth pouts and gapes slightly to accentuate his lips and nice white teeth. He's a good looking guy. However, not to get carried away, I do remember that he has intestines and fecal matter in there.
The song promotes alcoholism. Drink drink drink vodka, champagne, and rose wine (no class). I know what happens at these young peoples' parties, you can't fool me. Those young men get those young ladies drunk and fuck them! He keeps chanting, "you're thirsty," yet alcohol dehydrates. Get that girl some water for her birthday!
The rap portion is done by Fabolous (and that name is not considered gay?) who, at least now in 2010, looks like he has gone through puberty. I remember seeing him in the "Get Right" video with Jennifer Lopez and he looked about 12-years-old. Is that supposed to be sexy? Seriously? It makes me think of a lunch lady I worked with years ago talking about her pubescent sons. "Yeah, I'ma go wif her. I'ma get her," they would say about various girls and women. Their mother, pragmatically, replied, "please, you got dookie stains in your underwear. You can't even wipe your ass right, and you think you gone get some girl? Learn to wipe your ass first." I think about this at times when I hear the boys in school talking about going with a girl; I want to give them eight sticks of deodorant and tell them to shut up and listen to their teachers.

Cats and Brooms

Here are the cats, especially the orange one, when I take out the broom for sweeping:



Honestly, it's as if I beat them on a regular basis with sticks. Perhaps they were wounded in the womb (<-- for fun, pronounce the B on the end). Perhaps their mothers worked in broom sweatshops and their only meals were the mice and cockroaches they could wrestle from the straw of cruel, fat, sweaty sweatshop owners' brooms when they were being chased away but GODDAMN it they were going to feed the kittens they were carrying inside their bellies. They were determined to MAKE it.
taking a bow <-------------------

Etiqutte, Advertisement and Suicide

This is my new best friend. She is delicious.


When one is having company that will sleep over, and they will sleep in the same bed with one, should one wash the comforter that has cum stains on it, even if one is very tired? Is it tacky not to do so?

When I was younger, there were a series of March of Dimes advertisements that ran on television. A little girl stood decrepitly on crutches, longingly stared into the camera and softly uttered, "lucky lucky you." This was hilarious to me in elementary school. It was a time for great hilarity when the other kids and I would lament to each other in thick-tongued voices, "lucky lucky you." The merriment grew exponentially with each repetition of the slogan.
One day the teacher caught me repeating it and, without warning, punished me. She made me write Lucky lucky you on the chalkboard thousands of times during recess that week.

In 2006, one of the closest friends of my entire life committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. He was a friend I had known more than 13 years, had vacationed in Europe with, and had spent multiple Christmases with, had visited me while I lived in other cities. He knew me. I loved him. To this day, I can say it was the biggest shock of my life.
I was living with him at the time. It happened on a Wednesday and his family was coming to the house in the ghetto that he owned that Friday. It was time for me to clean up the large patch of blood-soaked rug that morning. The human brain is a fascinating thing sometimes.
Get to work!
Time for business!
That is what I did.
I might as well have been washing the dishes.
I put on gloves and smelled the gaminess of polyester fibers soaked with the evidence of my friend's self-massacre. I absorbed the heaviest wettest part of the patch with towels that would be used no more. These were deposited into large green trash bags. Then a box cutter was used to slice the rug. Under this was a foam lining; under that was old cheap tile. This had puddles of viscous pomegranate-flushed liquid that had to be mopped up with more towels that had to be thrown out. After that, I used a roll of paper towels, sponges, buckets of water, and liquid cleanser to clean up the mess and stink.
Then I put an area rug on top.
There was a slight indention where the original rug had been cut out. It reminded me of trap doors from old Looney Toons cartoons. Whoops! Crash!
I had already been dabbling with pills at that point; this was in March. Before the year was up, I would swallow, chew, smoke, and/or snort:
- Oxycontin (my favorite ever) and Roxicet
- Cocaine
- Valium, Klonopin, Halcion, Restoril, Xanax
- Vicodin and Percocet
- Morphine sulfate
- Heroin
- Marijuana
- Methadone
- Suboxone
- Alcohol
This was not because of my friend's death. His death propelled me forward in the reblossoming of addiction. I had shut my heart down the previous December when a man who I loved decided he did not want to be with me anymore. Now, I understand why he chose to leave. I was a crazy person before becoming a full-blown drug addict. My energy was stifling. I could be a bully. Love was repelled. It was a sad thing.
It is that way no more and I would rather spend my life alone than ever hurt myself or someone like that again.

Superiority Complex The Reflex Flex flex flex flex flex

I floss after every meal.




SO WHAT!? YOU'RE NOT BETTER THAN ME! YOU STILL LOOK LIKE DEBBIE DOWNER, BROW FURROWED, CHEAP DRESSES, STRINGY HAIR, ABNORMALLY LARGE CALVES THE SIZE OF REAL BABY COWS.

Teary smeary not so cheery

I've always hated poetry.
Have to say it.
Poetry is lame.

Feel desperate this week.
Teary smeary not so cheery.
Mind obsesses
and obsesses
and
obsesses.
Want to create something of beauty.
Want to be something of beauty.
Want to be beholden by someone of beauty.
I know why I did drugs the way I did when I am like this.
It shut off the thoughts.
Kind of.
It slowed them down.
It shut doors that swung open dramatically, swinging on hinges, banging walls, they were opened so violently. That's how my mind moves. That's how my thoughts move.

In addition, I liked snorting things.

I liked smoking things.

I liked mixing things.

A little of this, a little of that.

I liked drama.
I liked excitement.
Heart racing.
Where's the money coming from next?
Where's the next fix?
Liked swallowing.
Chewing.
Inhaling.
Buffered reality.
Protector.
Walls of safety.
Kidding myself.
Liked it.
Liked being a slave.
Liked being a victim.
Thorns in my bones.
Chewed and spit up marrow and
tissue and
pulp.
Liked being a pinball.
Full tilt.
Liked hating myself.
Liked talking about my problems.
Liked disasters.
Liked cancer.
Gutter sweat.
Aching.
Soothing.
Tick-tocking.

It's just not so fun anymore. Not when I'm sober. Not when reality slaps me - why can't it kiss me? - in the face.

The Great Black Hope

Yesterday on CNN.com a clip showed Pat Robertson saying, in so many words, that the earthquake in Haiti is a result of the Haitians making a pact with the devil in the 1700s. My favorite part of the clip was him adding, nonchalantly, "true story." That part made me giggle.
I forwarded this clip to people because I wanted them to hate him and his stupidity and Christian right-wing bullshit as much as I hate it.
The response I get from a former employer is:

How dare these Black people revolt against their "slave masters". Must have made a pact with the devil to out smart white folks.

Okay.
Okay.
And then I wonder, why does everything - fucking EVERYTHING - always have to be about the White man keeping the Black man down?
Other examples:
I once sent a great article written by John McWhorter, a linguist who also writes books about Blacks in America. In fact, he published a post during CNN's Black in America 2:

http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/07/20/mcwhorter.jobs/index.html?iref=hpmostpop

So THAT was an article that I had forwarded to people, including my ex-boss. His response:

Yeah I like this guy but I don't think he would sit and have a beer with the brothers.

I assume this means the guy is not Black enough. My response:

perhaps he'd have a pinot grigio.

In addition, he assumes, though my actions and words point to the contrary, that I like George Bush, Rush Limbaugh, and anything white because it's white, including snow, cocaine, sugar, polar bears, t-shirts, the White House, doves, the moon, quartz, coconut flesh, albumin, a white Christmas, toilet paper, white collar jobs, the White pages, mashed potatoes, milk, cumulus clouds (I will admit that I like them), and Altoids.
I'm not discounting my ex-boss's experiences as a Black man in America, particularly one who is in his 50s and from the South; I'm really not. And I am completely aware of White Privilege and its effects and impact in this culture, including the benefits I have reaped from it. But sometimes, like John McWhorter, I would like my ex-boss to look as the positives that exist today. I think if we focus on strengths and what is positive, that is what will continue to increase.
No other people in the history of civilization has made such huge strides as African Americans have in this country in such a short period of time - that is what should be focused on.
And now I'm taking a bow.

Cold sore

So I'm getting ready for work and the cold sore scab splits. How much blood can really come out of such a little spot? A lot. It reminds me of the most horrible cold sore that I had several years back when I had kicked dope for the 15th or so time. That cold sore looked like I had tried to insert a plate in my lip, like a tribesperson from South American, and the experiment had gone wrong. (Jesus Christ, just looked in the mirror and it's a huge glop of crimson.) It was like a pus-filled duckbill. It was horrible.
And I had just started at a new job. Of course, I had to acknowledge it to everyone I encountered. "Hi, I know I have this vile growth on my face. I know it's disgusting. Pleased to meet you, what did you say your name was?" My new coworkers looked slightly baffled during these encounters. Thing was, I had to make sure that they knew that I knew about the growth on my face. I knew I was a monster.
The students have been asking me throughout the day, pointing to their lips, "what is that?!" They pretend to be concerned and curious, but I swear they're just making fun of me. I see those kindergarten children smirk. They've asked about pimples, too.

Food and Breaths

As I laid (or is it "layed," or does that just refer to what the oviparous do to eggs?) around convalescing after surgery the week of Xmas and New Year's, I ate a lot. Especially cookies. Mom's world-famous snickerdoodles, the peanut butter cookies with the Hershey's Kiss in the middle, the peanut butter cookies with the strawberry dollop in the middle, the M&M cookies. Yum. And then I put on 6 pounds. In one fucking week, from not moving and just eating. That's almost an average of a pound a day. If Robert DeNiro or Christian Bale or some morphy morpher actor needs help gaining weight, I've got the plan for them.
So tonight's dinner was a spinach salad with pomegranate and mixed nuts.
Speaking of food, I was administering a reading assessment today. One of the passages was about the food groups (my favorite food group is tobacco). I ask students "concept questions" to determine their familiarity with a topic. However familiar one is with a topic will, of course, impact their comprehension. I know that I would have difficulty reading a science textbook or financial information because I have little background information about those topics. Anyway, the responses I get to questions are astounding. For instance, when asked what are foods in the meat group, one 5th grade girl, who has repeated 5th grade so many times she is nearing voting age, stated, "...um, moose?" And...um, horse? Buffalo! ...and ham." I would like to add that she looked like deer in a headlight (though that was not mentioned as part of the meat group) when asked any question. A 3rd grade boy, when asked what are types of dairy products, responded, "cavities." Sure that I must have asked the wrong question, or he must have misunderstood, I asked it again. This time, the dairy products, the foods made from milk, he said, were, "Grapes. Apples. Oranges. Strawberries. That's all."
Unfortunately, these kinds of responses are not an uncommon occurrence. One child told me that one of the foods from the meat group was dog food; am I not appreciating cultural differences? After reading the passage, one child informed me that bread was made from little things that look like bread. How edifying!
But I do love my students and I love my job and I love when they get things and they are engaged in a book. It's magical and I feel joy.

On another note, I've noticed lately that my shoulders are perpetually tense. Literally lifted more than half the time. All these years I've wondered why my shoulders are so tight. I'll be siting here eating, or just reading, or driving, and I realize that my shoulders are hunched. It's a sad and desperate thing. I have to remember to breathe.

Ice and Ashtrays

Why is it that every year some dumb kids fall through ice and die? This is without fucking fail! Like yearly clockwork! It's astounding. If I were the reporters writing these stories, I would have to add an editorial comment about the stupidity of the icefallers. Are they living in a goddamn vacuum and have never heard not to step on the ice? Christ!
Anyway, to be safe, I warned my students about these stupid children and told them: Never walk out onto ice on a pond or anything like that because some stupid child dies every year doing this.
Meanwhile, I was thinking about this guy who once told me that kissing me - a smoker - was like kissing an ashtray. I told him that I found it disgusting that he would kiss ashtrays and I no longer wanted to see him. The look on his face was great - the smug replaced by the startled - and I walked away. Thought it was funny. Fuck these anti-smoking fascists.
The surgery pain is still there so I've had to take some painkillers again. My body is vacillating between withdrawal (explosive diarrhea and teary eyes) and body pain since I've reduced the dosages dramatically. It's all a pain, for sure.
Saw frozen dog dookie whilst walking outside. Reminds me that I've to add a few things to my turn-offs list.

Be Creative!

Have thought of starting a blog because my mind moves and moves and there are always - always! - things that I want to say because I think that I'm so goddamned entertaining.
Had a surgery a few weeks ago and have been in chronic pain. Have had to take painkillers, things that I liked too much in the past. Worried about coming off them. The spiritual advisor tells me:
1. Suck on lollipops.
2. Color in coloring books and get colored (is that racist?) pencils. "You have to be creative, Anonymister."
3. Help other people.
Response:
1. I don't like lollipops.
2. I don't like coloring books or pencils. That is just corny. Retarded in a bad way. Sorry, spiritual advisor!
3. Okay, I can do that. Will call others today who are having a hard time. Or just call anyone and ask about them and do my best to focus on their issues and not mine.
So I begin the blog. That's creativity, no? That's a way to get my mind off the nausea and creepy feeling of fatigue. Fortunately there isn't a real craving. There are, however, THOUGHTS!
Like: I miss having the pain that I have hated for several weeks because it was a free way to taking narcotics. It was a legit reason to get high. Except I didn't get high; that is what happens when one takes prescription medication the way they are prescribed, I suppose. How the hell was I supposed to know? I always took shit by the handful. I felt an annoying gnat of desire to do more, but didn't want to get fucked up because my life has gotten better and better from being a sober Mister. The days of dramatic brokenness, damaged goods-state-of-being were exhausting.
Meanwhile, to add to stress is the doubling-bubbling-troubling don't-need-the-hubbling-to-see cold sore that POPPED and POOPED out yesterday.

Ah, fantasies. Maybe I can make a million from this blog. My brilliance can shine. And my humility.

..........