It's quiet, here, in the chapel of graceful degradation where George and Pauline keep Patrick. It's only us here. In a few short hours other people will come to say goodbye to Patrick. He lays in a generic casket, wearing his favorite band's shirt and clothes that I knew he would have worn if he were living. I was tasked with shopping and deciding his "viewing" clothes. My younger brother as well as George and Pauline's son and Jackie's near twin lay, too good for his surroundings. His eyes glued shut. The gray enveloping his should be fair completion and pigment. He is very cold. Stiff. Silent. His hands rest on his belly in a well known fashion. His head propped by a small pillow. I notice that the clothes were cut along the sides. The person responsible for putting his clothes on has learned a trick to this staging process. An illusion we never wanted to know.
How contrary the weather is, it eludes tragedy. I can hear the birds outside singing and the sway of the trees as they dance with the breeze. I can hardly remember anything routine from the last few days concerning hygiene or driving or sleeping, yet somehow Jackie and myself are sitting in the front pews, as George and Pauline hold each other standing over Patrick, quietly sobbing. Jackie is catatonic. Her stare, piercing and focused. Her eyes need not blink due to the constant tears.
This funeral home is understandably fake and smells like an old library. It's a mock chapel. No religious fixtures anywhere so as to accommodate the dead and their mourners with ambiguity. The lights are dim and the ambiance is calming. Immediately after the "viewing" Patrick is to be put in a van and taken to a crematorium. These employees of the funeral home or vultures of human emotion, keep using words and phrases that annoy me. On the surface, compassion, but hanging over us, just above our heads, they pluck for the $2000 urn, because "Patrick deserves the best." These fucking animals. There are cards all around, on the pews, at the podium, with a prayer and Patrick's full name. Fucking vultures. Funeral keepsakes? People are going to show up soon and ruin the quietness. Whispering nonsense, trying not to stare, keeping time, looking at their cell phone, planning dinner, thinking about work. My anger and rage make me hate them for nothing.
I'm so angry. Today is the day we say goodbye to his body. I'm so sad. His smile and spirit will never fade but torment me until I lose my mind. I really hate this. Patrick was never much on social graces. He loved who he loved and dismissed everything else. Violent and beautiful swam through his blood constantly battling to the surface. He dealt in absolutes. There is no in-between with Patrick. An intelligent, good looking, 22 year old boy lay and will never wake up again. He is no saint by any means. He is no villain to those he loved. Just a person with all the flaws to be considered human. He suffered from mental afflictions from boyhood. As kids we found his medical chart in Pauline's records and read his many diagnosis's. That was not a good time. He cried. The records revealed the words "Abnormal", "homosexual" and "depressive", "bipolar". He questioned the world. The 80's were less understanding than now and so were we considering we were children. He started to really spiral out of control in his teens with self mutilation. Cutting himself to "take the pain away". I still don't understand that concept. He would sow himself up and would wait until he was sober to start. He never said why he did any of it. He would just shrug and smile to himself as you asked him 10's of thousands of times to stop. Ten's of thousands of times why, 10's of thousands of times saying that's not helping and to get help, stop hurting yourself, things will get better, I love you, you're hurting mom.
He was institutionalized for drug use. I remember that day. He had been up for days. He was scared to go to sleep. Something was tormenting him. A drug he had taken 3 days before fried his brain. He was just a child. Pauline, Jackie and myself were watching TV and he stood at the doorway. He said, "Mom I need to go to the hospital." He said it so calmly and as a matter of fact. Before Pauline had a chance to ask why, he yelled it again and began to cry but not before raising a blade to his wrist and slicing the flesh. He began to wipe the blood on the walls and scream, "Now! Now!"
Those times were not out weighed by the good times. His smile. His sense of humor. Our provocative conversations about God and sex. His laugh. His ability to make a point and have it hit even if you didn't agree with him. He would make you loathe the fact that his point of view was undeniable. The jokes, the stories, the scariest times were all floating in the air. They were so tangent that you could grab one and hold it until reality stripped it from you and pointed to the casket.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Oct 20 Something Part 1
Some time has passed....
I'm not too sure what day it is or the time but the sun is out. I'm not sure what to feel. Like a washing machine of rage, sadness, anger, guilt, relief, trying to get clean, while spinning and cycling, swooshing and smashing, and drowning. News of Patrick relayed through tears from Pauline and George. He was sent to a morgue downtown somewhere. Suicide is always first treated like a homicide. He's alone. His body is being examined. They tried to take his corneas despite the fact he is not a donor. Word came back that they could not use them because we , as a family, were over seas for a time while mad cows were terrorizing America. The 90's were a great time. Patrick has no sight.
Some time between crying and fits of screaming in the fallout of chaos, Jackie has managed to tell me what happen in the moments before insanity. Patrick stayed with her from time to time because of routine fights with his boyfriend. He was awake that morning and smiling and they talked briefly before she left for work as they did almost everyday. George is suppose to pick up Patrick that day, so he can drop off job applications.
Jackie came home for lunch Oct. 18th. The front door was unlocked and she explained she never leaves her apartment unlocked. She calls Patrick. Nothing but silence. She goes to her bedroom and something, she says, tells her to check closet. She opens the closet door and among the clutter of clothes and shoes, Patrick is hanging by his neck from the closet hanger bar. She describes Patrick in a way that a child would. Jackie sees Patrick folded on himself because the bar was only four feet from the ground. His legs bent and his knees hanging just above the carpet floor of the closet. His eyes closed and his tongue is poking out of his mouth. The rope is cutting into his flesh around his neck. Her first instinct is to help him stand, so she tries to pick up Patrick with her 5' 2", 125 lb frame. It is no help. She runs to the kitchen to grab a knife and runs back to Patrick. She cuts the rope and Patrick falls. She says he falls with no pain, no noise except the sound his body makes from folding on the floor. In a panic Jackie calls George. George did not pick up Patrick.
George did not pick up Patrick. He over slept. He is to be at Jackie's apartment at 9 am but he does not show. George arrives at Jackie's apartment during Jackie's lunch Oct. 18th. Jackie is screaming. She can't stop screaming. Don't let him die! George checks Patrick's pulse. No pulse. He calls 911. He starts CPR on Patrick. George describes Patrick's breath as a terrible odor coming from Patrick's stomach. Such a terrible taste, the taste of death. The rope left a deep ring around his neck. He hates this rope and later finds it came from the dumpster near the back of the apartment. George is still doing CPR. Patrick is making soft grunts but only as reaction to George. Patrick has no pulse. No breath. No life. Patrick is dead.
I'm not too sure what day it is or the time but the sun is out. I'm not sure what to feel. Like a washing machine of rage, sadness, anger, guilt, relief, trying to get clean, while spinning and cycling, swooshing and smashing, and drowning. News of Patrick relayed through tears from Pauline and George. He was sent to a morgue downtown somewhere. Suicide is always first treated like a homicide. He's alone. His body is being examined. They tried to take his corneas despite the fact he is not a donor. Word came back that they could not use them because we , as a family, were over seas for a time while mad cows were terrorizing America. The 90's were a great time. Patrick has no sight.
Some time between crying and fits of screaming in the fallout of chaos, Jackie has managed to tell me what happen in the moments before insanity. Patrick stayed with her from time to time because of routine fights with his boyfriend. He was awake that morning and smiling and they talked briefly before she left for work as they did almost everyday. George is suppose to pick up Patrick that day, so he can drop off job applications.
Jackie came home for lunch Oct. 18th. The front door was unlocked and she explained she never leaves her apartment unlocked. She calls Patrick. Nothing but silence. She goes to her bedroom and something, she says, tells her to check closet. She opens the closet door and among the clutter of clothes and shoes, Patrick is hanging by his neck from the closet hanger bar. She describes Patrick in a way that a child would. Jackie sees Patrick folded on himself because the bar was only four feet from the ground. His legs bent and his knees hanging just above the carpet floor of the closet. His eyes closed and his tongue is poking out of his mouth. The rope is cutting into his flesh around his neck. Her first instinct is to help him stand, so she tries to pick up Patrick with her 5' 2", 125 lb frame. It is no help. She runs to the kitchen to grab a knife and runs back to Patrick. She cuts the rope and Patrick falls. She says he falls with no pain, no noise except the sound his body makes from folding on the floor. In a panic Jackie calls George. George did not pick up Patrick.
George did not pick up Patrick. He over slept. He is to be at Jackie's apartment at 9 am but he does not show. George arrives at Jackie's apartment during Jackie's lunch Oct. 18th. Jackie is screaming. She can't stop screaming. Don't let him die! George checks Patrick's pulse. No pulse. He calls 911. He starts CPR on Patrick. George describes Patrick's breath as a terrible odor coming from Patrick's stomach. Such a terrible taste, the taste of death. The rope left a deep ring around his neck. He hates this rope and later finds it came from the dumpster near the back of the apartment. George is still doing CPR. Patrick is making soft grunts but only as reaction to George. Patrick has no pulse. No breath. No life. Patrick is dead.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Oct. 18 Part 2
Pulling up to the apartment complex....
The sun is shinning. The clouds are all but tiny streaks across the sky. It is such a rich blue tattered canopy. The air is thin and cool yet somehow still. Jackie is sitting at the foot of the steps with eyes heavy and confused. Her poorly dyed hair, wild as always. Her work uniform a mess. Hands in a knot in her lap as the ground rises up making it too short so her legs have to bend. Tears have stained her face. The distance her fixed gaze seems infinite. I brush pass her as I take the two flights of stairs. In four large steps I take the faulty stair case exposed to the elements. The cracked cement steps and hand rails with chipped paint shake as I reach the rest of my life.
906 stood at the top as I embrace the door way. I had not noticed the ambulance outside, but two uniformed men and George stood over Patrick, with heads hung low in failure. George slightly raised his head as my shadow interrupted his stare. His large arms are folded. The weight of agony overwhelming his large stature. There is no comfort in his face. There's a yellow tarp or sheet or picnic table covering over Patrick, over his torso and face. His long arms and legs were exposed due to the size of broad shoulders of a 6' 1" frame. I float to his side. Tragedy is all around me and invading my chest making it hard to breathe. I kneel down and tug on the yellow covering revealing his face. His eyes slightly open and lost. No life or breath in his lips. A gray blue tint consuming his fading pigment. This was not Patrick but a shell left behind. A vacancy. Blue and dark at the corners of his mouth. His jaw open and pushed back as he lay. A stillness like no other. His large hands and fingers relaxed on the dingy carpet.
As I examined Patrick, George started to cross the threshold from where he and the two paramedics were standing. As a group they yelled, "Get away from him!" The shock I fell under took over and "Fuck you, he's my brother!" came out. I repeated the word "No!" every time my brain dealt with reality until it lost meaning. George's arms held my arms down and pushed me to the door. Patrick is dead. This is forever. This is not real. This hurts unlike any other pain. I am outside of 906 and Patrick lay on a dingy carpet. I walk down the stairs sit next to Jackie. Our silence is not peaceful. The muted sorrow is only disturbed by a car that pulls into a parking space facing the apartment.
A strange, fat woman opens and exits the driver side. Walks to same side passenger door and opens it. Pauline emerges from the strange woman's car. Her disposition emanates from the moment her foot steps out of the car like a mist of despair. Carrying her satchel of a purse, she slowly makes her way towards Jackie and myself. The fat strange woman turns off her car and proceeds to follow Pauline. Pauline makes a timid yet determined walk to the stairs and marches past two almost lifeless fixtures half blocking the steps. She makes a gesture to the woman beside her and the woman stays behind. A slow deliberate pace up the stairs as she makes her way. Pauline enters the apartment and closes the door behind her.
Silence is ruled by Jackie and I as the stranger's nervous energy has no affect on us. Time is irrelevant as the apartment door opens once again. George and Pauline come out into the day. As they make their way down the stairs a large van pulls into the parking lot and blocks the cars in as it stops suddenly. A fat short man and a short thin partner retrieve a stretcher from the back of the van. On the stretcher is a large, dark, dirty blue, heavy blanket. They make a glance at the family of lost hope with a stranger looming. The men make no sound except the banging of the stretcher's wheels as they slide over diffuse pavement broken by time. Up the weathered stairs to commence a job the men were to answer. It took no time to wrap up Patrick in the blanket and strap him down to the stretcher. They almost rushed past George, Pauline, Jackie and myself with a destination too far to waste time.
Just then, Pauline stops these men and says, "Wait," with a soft surrendering voice. The two men looked at eachother and haulted. Only Patrick's face is exposed to the sky. Emotions swelled beyond capacity in all of us except the three strangers. Tears and half broken tender words trickled as we all laid hands and lips to Patrick's face and covered body. One by one we say a few sweet meaningless words and with the end, the two men continue to carry out their mission.
The sun is shinning. The clouds are all but tiny streaks across the sky. It is such a rich blue tattered canopy. The air is thin and cool yet somehow still. Jackie is sitting at the foot of the steps with eyes heavy and confused. Her poorly dyed hair, wild as always. Her work uniform a mess. Hands in a knot in her lap as the ground rises up making it too short so her legs have to bend. Tears have stained her face. The distance her fixed gaze seems infinite. I brush pass her as I take the two flights of stairs. In four large steps I take the faulty stair case exposed to the elements. The cracked cement steps and hand rails with chipped paint shake as I reach the rest of my life.
906 stood at the top as I embrace the door way. I had not noticed the ambulance outside, but two uniformed men and George stood over Patrick, with heads hung low in failure. George slightly raised his head as my shadow interrupted his stare. His large arms are folded. The weight of agony overwhelming his large stature. There is no comfort in his face. There's a yellow tarp or sheet or picnic table covering over Patrick, over his torso and face. His long arms and legs were exposed due to the size of broad shoulders of a 6' 1" frame. I float to his side. Tragedy is all around me and invading my chest making it hard to breathe. I kneel down and tug on the yellow covering revealing his face. His eyes slightly open and lost. No life or breath in his lips. A gray blue tint consuming his fading pigment. This was not Patrick but a shell left behind. A vacancy. Blue and dark at the corners of his mouth. His jaw open and pushed back as he lay. A stillness like no other. His large hands and fingers relaxed on the dingy carpet.
As I examined Patrick, George started to cross the threshold from where he and the two paramedics were standing. As a group they yelled, "Get away from him!" The shock I fell under took over and "Fuck you, he's my brother!" came out. I repeated the word "No!" every time my brain dealt with reality until it lost meaning. George's arms held my arms down and pushed me to the door. Patrick is dead. This is forever. This is not real. This hurts unlike any other pain. I am outside of 906 and Patrick lay on a dingy carpet. I walk down the stairs sit next to Jackie. Our silence is not peaceful. The muted sorrow is only disturbed by a car that pulls into a parking space facing the apartment.
A strange, fat woman opens and exits the driver side. Walks to same side passenger door and opens it. Pauline emerges from the strange woman's car. Her disposition emanates from the moment her foot steps out of the car like a mist of despair. Carrying her satchel of a purse, she slowly makes her way towards Jackie and myself. The fat strange woman turns off her car and proceeds to follow Pauline. Pauline makes a timid yet determined walk to the stairs and marches past two almost lifeless fixtures half blocking the steps. She makes a gesture to the woman beside her and the woman stays behind. A slow deliberate pace up the stairs as she makes her way. Pauline enters the apartment and closes the door behind her.
Silence is ruled by Jackie and I as the stranger's nervous energy has no affect on us. Time is irrelevant as the apartment door opens once again. George and Pauline come out into the day. As they make their way down the stairs a large van pulls into the parking lot and blocks the cars in as it stops suddenly. A fat short man and a short thin partner retrieve a stretcher from the back of the van. On the stretcher is a large, dark, dirty blue, heavy blanket. They make a glance at the family of lost hope with a stranger looming. The men make no sound except the banging of the stretcher's wheels as they slide over diffuse pavement broken by time. Up the weathered stairs to commence a job the men were to answer. It took no time to wrap up Patrick in the blanket and strap him down to the stretcher. They almost rushed past George, Pauline, Jackie and myself with a destination too far to waste time.
Just then, Pauline stops these men and says, "Wait," with a soft surrendering voice. The two men looked at eachother and haulted. Only Patrick's face is exposed to the sky. Emotions swelled beyond capacity in all of us except the three strangers. Tears and half broken tender words trickled as we all laid hands and lips to Patrick's face and covered body. One by one we say a few sweet meaningless words and with the end, the two men continue to carry out their mission.
Friday, August 7, 2015
Oct 18th Part 1
Oct 17 texts
_____________
Patrick
I can't take it anymore brother. I'll see you on the other side
George:
You can't be a pussy your whole life. Everybody has problems. Shut up with that shit
Patrick:
Fuck you, you fucking faggot. I'm going to do something with my life and be better than you.
______________________________________________________________________
Waking up before the sun has always seemed over zealous but I have to be at work today by 7 am. I wake up dragging ass like I have most of my life. I look at my cell phone and it's 6:15am. I look over at Carolyn. My 220lbs shifts the entire bed and she doesn't even move because she's lost in peaceful sleep. I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my wrinkled scrubs. I will eventually wake up at work.
The morning drive to the hospital is always as quiet as possible. No music, no sound, except the cool October air rushing against my window. My eyes are still heavy with sleep and the thought of quitting dances across my mind in a worn path. I've never been a morning human.
I arrive at work. Looking tired but not from the night, I pass co-workers and say, "Good Morning", in my best voice. The morning comes and goes, and with time the burden of sleep on my eyes eases. My body is awake and my mind is focus to get through another day in the life of George. I have my cell phone in my back pocket occasionally pulling it out in secret to text Carolyn, like an ordinary day.
Walking through the QC area my phone vibrates. I rush to the back reading area where privacy is warranted. The screen shows DAD. I hesitate to answer as he will probably just want to chat and because of policy number 5 section 2, that could be a problem with my supervisor. I answer it anyway.
George: "What up Pop."
George: "Georgie"
George: "Yeah dad, what's up. I'm at work"
George: "Georgie.....Patrick....Patrick committed suicide"
George: "What? What are you saying? Is he hurt? Where is he? What?
George: "Georgie, Patrick committed suicide. He's dead mijo."
George: "Ok! Where are you? Are you doing cpr? I'm on my way?!"
George: "I'm here at Jackie's apartment."
George: "I'm on my way, keep doing cpr, Dad!"
Blood is rushing. Blood is rushing to my face, hands, legs. Blood is rushing in my ears as if I can hear it. Blood is rushing away from logic. I push the exit door to the back. The thought of telling a co-worker before I leave floods an irrational surge to my brain. I run, not walk or fast walk or jog, I fucking run to the front of the department. I pass by my supervisor and the front desk clerk. I pause for only a moment to utter the words, " I have to leave, my brother died." Saying those words made my eyes pour and my voice squeek. The reality of those words were still fresh as I was only repeating my father.
The drive towards forever seemed like a blurr. I was driving well over the speed limit, weaving in and out of caution. No matter how much I pushed safety, it still felt slow. These emotions were waves crashing against doubt and disbelief. My dad's intelligence questioned. Patrick wasn't dead. What if he was? How can he be dead? What the fuck is going on?
_____________
Patrick
I can't take it anymore brother. I'll see you on the other side
George:
You can't be a pussy your whole life. Everybody has problems. Shut up with that shit
Patrick:
Fuck you, you fucking faggot. I'm going to do something with my life and be better than you.
______________________________________________________________________
Waking up before the sun has always seemed over zealous but I have to be at work today by 7 am. I wake up dragging ass like I have most of my life. I look at my cell phone and it's 6:15am. I look over at Carolyn. My 220lbs shifts the entire bed and she doesn't even move because she's lost in peaceful sleep. I make my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth and put on my wrinkled scrubs. I will eventually wake up at work.
The morning drive to the hospital is always as quiet as possible. No music, no sound, except the cool October air rushing against my window. My eyes are still heavy with sleep and the thought of quitting dances across my mind in a worn path. I've never been a morning human.
I arrive at work. Looking tired but not from the night, I pass co-workers and say, "Good Morning", in my best voice. The morning comes and goes, and with time the burden of sleep on my eyes eases. My body is awake and my mind is focus to get through another day in the life of George. I have my cell phone in my back pocket occasionally pulling it out in secret to text Carolyn, like an ordinary day.
Walking through the QC area my phone vibrates. I rush to the back reading area where privacy is warranted. The screen shows DAD. I hesitate to answer as he will probably just want to chat and because of policy number 5 section 2, that could be a problem with my supervisor. I answer it anyway.
George: "What up Pop."
George: "Georgie"
George: "Yeah dad, what's up. I'm at work"
George: "Georgie.....Patrick....Patrick committed suicide"
George: "What? What are you saying? Is he hurt? Where is he? What?
George: "Georgie, Patrick committed suicide. He's dead mijo."
George: "Ok! Where are you? Are you doing cpr? I'm on my way?!"
George: "I'm here at Jackie's apartment."
George: "I'm on my way, keep doing cpr, Dad!"
Blood is rushing. Blood is rushing to my face, hands, legs. Blood is rushing in my ears as if I can hear it. Blood is rushing away from logic. I push the exit door to the back. The thought of telling a co-worker before I leave floods an irrational surge to my brain. I run, not walk or fast walk or jog, I fucking run to the front of the department. I pass by my supervisor and the front desk clerk. I pause for only a moment to utter the words, " I have to leave, my brother died." Saying those words made my eyes pour and my voice squeek. The reality of those words were still fresh as I was only repeating my father.
The drive towards forever seemed like a blurr. I was driving well over the speed limit, weaving in and out of caution. No matter how much I pushed safety, it still felt slow. These emotions were waves crashing against doubt and disbelief. My dad's intelligence questioned. Patrick wasn't dead. What if he was? How can he be dead? What the fuck is going on?
Thursday, November 6, 2014
42 Ways You Know You're an Asshole
This new tired, stupid list shit I see on the Internet. People can't help but click and find out shit they already know. From boring facts nobody cares about to when you're going to die. There's a list for if your mate is right for you and there's a list for if your dog is right for you. There are some that you write the list yourself and it tells you which goonie you're most alike. When did this become a thing. The steady slope of stupidity that America is, is as steep as the caveman's forehead. Only cavemen had a progression and in this world of "idiot information" there's a degression of culture and context.
But I'm no different so here it goes,
1. Fight Club is the best movie ever made.
2. Watch any reality T.V.
3. You watch U.F.C. and think if you had time to train.
4. Think ISIS has a point.
5. Give to United Way instead of volunteering yourself, they have a millionaire CEO!
6. Think Obama cured racism.
7. Believe in global warming.
8. Don't believe in global warming.
9. Grown man and Taylor Swift is your shit behind close doors.
10. Have a tennis fantasy league.
11. Wear skinny jeans and you're over 30.
12. Think the electoral college works.
13. Have a sticker on your back car window of 13.2 mi.
14. Have a sticker on your back car window of 26.2 mi.
15. Have a sticker on your back car window of 100 mi.
16. Have a sticker on your back car window of any mileage but it was already on the car when you bought it.
17. Think Game of Thrones was based on a true story.
18. Watch Walking Dead and think it's better than Breaking Bad.
19. Only watched the last episode of Breaking Bad and then had to watch the whole series.
20. Never heard a studio audience.
21. Vegans.
22. Eat fast food for every meal.
23. Think terroist are anybody with a beard and dark skin.
24. Use all the toilet paper and don't replace roll.
25. Ever watched CNN and totally agreed with everything.
26. Ever watched Fox News and totally agreed with everything.
27. Hate Jesus.
28. Hate Jews.
29. Hate kids.
30. Think you don't want kids because watching your nephew is the same.
31. Talk about things you've only read about like you've experienced them in life.
32. Think the government is out to get you.
33. Yell at people with your windows rolled up in shitty traffic.
34. Gave middle finger to someone in traffic and noticed they had a child in back seat.
35. Driven your friends to a gig with hopes of a guest spot.
36. Leave the light on to scare roaches away.
37. Taken advantage of a homeless person because they needed a place to stay.
38. Touch kids.
39. Realize life is empty.
40. Eat pizza for breakfast.
41. Laughed at Steve Harvey's comedy.
42. Read this blog. (obviously)
The hard part about this form of shit is stopping.
But I'm no different so here it goes,
1. Fight Club is the best movie ever made.
2. Watch any reality T.V.
3. You watch U.F.C. and think if you had time to train.
4. Think ISIS has a point.
5. Give to United Way instead of volunteering yourself, they have a millionaire CEO!
6. Think Obama cured racism.
7. Believe in global warming.
8. Don't believe in global warming.
9. Grown man and Taylor Swift is your shit behind close doors.
10. Have a tennis fantasy league.
11. Wear skinny jeans and you're over 30.
12. Think the electoral college works.
13. Have a sticker on your back car window of 13.2 mi.
14. Have a sticker on your back car window of 26.2 mi.
15. Have a sticker on your back car window of 100 mi.
16. Have a sticker on your back car window of any mileage but it was already on the car when you bought it.
17. Think Game of Thrones was based on a true story.
18. Watch Walking Dead and think it's better than Breaking Bad.
19. Only watched the last episode of Breaking Bad and then had to watch the whole series.
20. Never heard a studio audience.
21. Vegans.
22. Eat fast food for every meal.
23. Think terroist are anybody with a beard and dark skin.
24. Use all the toilet paper and don't replace roll.
25. Ever watched CNN and totally agreed with everything.
26. Ever watched Fox News and totally agreed with everything.
27. Hate Jesus.
28. Hate Jews.
29. Hate kids.
30. Think you don't want kids because watching your nephew is the same.
31. Talk about things you've only read about like you've experienced them in life.
32. Think the government is out to get you.
33. Yell at people with your windows rolled up in shitty traffic.
34. Gave middle finger to someone in traffic and noticed they had a child in back seat.
35. Driven your friends to a gig with hopes of a guest spot.
36. Leave the light on to scare roaches away.
37. Taken advantage of a homeless person because they needed a place to stay.
38. Touch kids.
39. Realize life is empty.
40. Eat pizza for breakfast.
41. Laughed at Steve Harvey's comedy.
42. Read this blog. (obviously)
The hard part about this form of shit is stopping.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
I Got Robbed
Call her Bella. A green eyed, black kitten that we found at a grocery store parking lot a few years ago. My wife (at the time) decided to keep this rodent till, fast forward, moving into a new place and a pet deposit is out of the question. So she gives Bella to my in-laws. Needless to say Bella died within 6 months. Before Bella died she had kittens, so her legacy will live on, yada yada, sad but purposful life or whatever.
The next part of this story is second hand considering I was working or being "selfish" telling jokes at the time of the incident.
-Fast forward a couple of weeks after Bella dies. My four year old daughter visiting with her grandparents with her Momma on a Sunday, starts asking "Where's Bella?" My stupid brother-in-law opens his big mouth and starts in with, "Bella died and went to heaven." Of course that's not the end of it. Apparently from what my innocent baby girl recalled when I picked her from school the next day, "Bella is in heaven with the love of Jesus and God and she lives in a big mansion." And when she (my innocent baby girl) dies, "she's going to heaven to see Bella's mansion."-
The words choked me up when I heard this from my bright eyed littled girl. That idiot brother in-law robbed me of a moment with my little girl. Word of advice if a kid asks you a question about a subject that might change the way they see the world forever and you didnt help make them directly, tell them to ask their parents instead of taking it upon yourself to plant seeds of "wisdom" on your own. Of course that wasn't the end of it....
"Daddy what's Jesus?" "What's God?" "What's love?" These questions were pouring out of her face faster than the time she caught a stomach virus from school. She needed these questions answered as we made our way to happy hour (Sonic, relax.) I told her to lets get a drink first and I would tell her the answers to her questions. I figured I'd buy some time and maybe her attention span would help me out and she'd forget the whole subject.
We pulled into Sonic and ordered, "I'll take a strawberry banana shake and the lady will have a small banana cream shake, extra cherries please." My baby girl said, "While we wait daddy, can you tell me what God is?"
-DAMMIT ! (on the inside)
Listen, I'm not a believer or non-believer, I just don't know.
I lead in by saying, "God is different for everybody and not everybody believes in the same god or even that there is a god, which is ok. Daddy believes in God, but not how uncle Roland believes in God. To Daddy, God is a feeling you get when you connect to other people. When you talk to them or play with them on the swings. God is a feeling that you have when you are doing something you love or around people you love." She said, "What's love?"
"Love is a feeling you get when you're doing something that makes you happy or around people you care about and enjoy. There are different levels of love. Like, you love Spiderman but you love Mommy more right?" She said, "Yea, I love Mommy and I love Spiderman." I continued, "But if Spiderman was having a birthday party and Mommy was having a birthday party, which one would you go to?" Her little finger tapped her chin and she said, "Mommy and Spiderman have the same birthday?" After a long sigh I said, "Yes, now which one would you go to?"
"We should go to both, we could have one big party and Spiderman could come to Mommy's house and we could go to Chuck E. Cheese."
-DAMMIT! (out loud)
The next part of this story is second hand considering I was working or being "selfish" telling jokes at the time of the incident.
-Fast forward a couple of weeks after Bella dies. My four year old daughter visiting with her grandparents with her Momma on a Sunday, starts asking "Where's Bella?" My stupid brother-in-law opens his big mouth and starts in with, "Bella died and went to heaven." Of course that's not the end of it. Apparently from what my innocent baby girl recalled when I picked her from school the next day, "Bella is in heaven with the love of Jesus and God and she lives in a big mansion." And when she (my innocent baby girl) dies, "she's going to heaven to see Bella's mansion."-
The words choked me up when I heard this from my bright eyed littled girl. That idiot brother in-law robbed me of a moment with my little girl. Word of advice if a kid asks you a question about a subject that might change the way they see the world forever and you didnt help make them directly, tell them to ask their parents instead of taking it upon yourself to plant seeds of "wisdom" on your own. Of course that wasn't the end of it....
"Daddy what's Jesus?" "What's God?" "What's love?" These questions were pouring out of her face faster than the time she caught a stomach virus from school. She needed these questions answered as we made our way to happy hour (Sonic, relax.) I told her to lets get a drink first and I would tell her the answers to her questions. I figured I'd buy some time and maybe her attention span would help me out and she'd forget the whole subject.
We pulled into Sonic and ordered, "I'll take a strawberry banana shake and the lady will have a small banana cream shake, extra cherries please." My baby girl said, "While we wait daddy, can you tell me what God is?"
-DAMMIT ! (on the inside)
Listen, I'm not a believer or non-believer, I just don't know.
I lead in by saying, "God is different for everybody and not everybody believes in the same god or even that there is a god, which is ok. Daddy believes in God, but not how uncle Roland believes in God. To Daddy, God is a feeling you get when you connect to other people. When you talk to them or play with them on the swings. God is a feeling that you have when you are doing something you love or around people you love." She said, "What's love?"
"Love is a feeling you get when you're doing something that makes you happy or around people you care about and enjoy. There are different levels of love. Like, you love Spiderman but you love Mommy more right?" She said, "Yea, I love Mommy and I love Spiderman." I continued, "But if Spiderman was having a birthday party and Mommy was having a birthday party, which one would you go to?" Her little finger tapped her chin and she said, "Mommy and Spiderman have the same birthday?" After a long sigh I said, "Yes, now which one would you go to?"
"We should go to both, we could have one big party and Spiderman could come to Mommy's house and we could go to Chuck E. Cheese."
-DAMMIT! (out loud)
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