Sins of the Father is an autobiography I started writing after a traumatic time in my life where I toyed with the idea of becoming a professional writer. I still think about it- but since, my voice has changed on the page. In fact- it’s still developing. And one thing for sure is, It’s not the idealistic overly dramatic voice I wrote these pages in. I have to rewrite it all- but it serves as an outline to what I wanted to say. As much as I can read this as an outside observer- I can say its got some creatively written parts. But again, for the most part- I know its garbage.

If anything- informative. Enjoy, for what it’s worth. Any critique is always appreciated.

a chapter by chapter version can be found on my personal blog

Sins of the Father

AKA: on the side of life

Ground Zero 


October 25th 2000

Coming to Terms

                Write. Write. Write. It’s all a man can do. That’s all there is to do between the moments in time your hands are tied and when you can actually accomplish something. In that time, that gray area, what else can one do?

                Oh, one can sulk, of course.

                I can feel sorry for myself, or fall deeper into this depression that already surrounds me like a warm sea of black velvet, or satin, or ink.



                Pool, of ink.

                This is all I can see right now.

                Ink is thinner than water. I feel like I’m surrounded by it. It would be nice. Still, the denial. 

                It is nice. It envelops me, it feels slick, cool, tranquil. Something like death I suppose. The feeling of death. The feeling of one being dead. You, what you are, or were, being killed off little by little until all that you are, or were, is without life anymore.  Or rather, me. What I was. If ever anything.

                Am I giving up? No. Not necessarily. Does it sound like it? What this is, is a loss of life accepted by he whose light dwindles under the pressures of what’s been weighing him down. Me, down.

                That feeling, or lack there of, is all that’s left within me.

                That’s where I am. Not a place like any other. I mean, I could be standing right in front of you and you wont know I’m dead inside. If you cared. You wouldn’t have a clue of the abyss inside me now. This place is me. This, where I am, is infinite now. It is where I am, it is who I am, it is the world I live in.

                How did I get here? Moot question. I know every step of it. Some were willing, others were forced, but all, in concert were what led me here. No, its not so important how I got here, although I am going to tell you all of it, don’t worry. But more importantly… for some reason, I cant seem to care anymore. And that, somehow deepens the issue.

                I can languish here. With no concern whatsoever as to the depth of my descent, or to the length of my eventual ascent, to the surface again. Which seems inconceivable of course, but I can lay here in peace with no concern as to whether there is, an again.

                I can do that.

                I can let the world have me.

                Have its way with me.

                Do me.

                Flip me, fuck me.

                Use me.

                This way I don’t have to fight anymore. I can find a place in my mind like others have found. Others I’ve seen huddled up on street corners. A place in my mind, like a rape victim’s. During the rape that is. Like this is a life long, against my will, gang bang, and for the purpose of self preservation I can retract to my own little place in the abyss.

                I can, I really can and the temptation to do so is so great, I can feel the doorknob to that place in the pitch black darkness of where I am. And I’m pressing down on it, about to turn it, about to go in.

                What good would that do me though? Then again what good is anything right now? I’m obviously falling into it anyway. Trying to assess blame like grasping at the walls of the well as I fall deeper and deeper. But I suppose assessing blame isn’t anything I want to do right now either. I would have to take some of that shit and smear it on myself if I want to smear some on others, wouldn’t I? Then we’d all stink things up, no? There we’d be, staring at each other, shit on our faces, what good would that do? And who can I blame for my low self esteem now anyway? Who do I really want to blame for adding to it? Names come to mind like a blacklist, a revenge list, but what for? That’s just going to open a whole other can of leeches.




                I don’t know what’s right or wrong in this moment. Up or down, in or out? Who knows? Who am I to judge anything? The question of whether things are right or wrong because they cause you suffering is the worst one to wrestle with. Because you wonder if you deserve all this shit?

When you find yourself, a 29 yr. old man, having lived life on your own since the age of 16. Not by choice, but because of being abandoned by your parents, surviving since, but suddenly been made homeless by an illegal eviction. Having everything you ever owned, money you saved, all of it, stolen from you, between the time you left for work that morning and the time you came home that night… by your landlords no less. The people you paid rent to. What are you going to think?

When you have your life taken from you in an instant like that, you have to wonder if the gods are exacting revenge on you for the shit you’ve done in that little insignificant life you had, just moments ago?

                What do you do?

                Aside from follow the obvious tide that sweeps you away like a flash fuckin’ flood. Into the legal system that once entrenched in, you only wish was like a flash flood instead of the flash-flush, of the shit clogged toilet it really is.

                What do you do? How do you handle this?

                Everything is gone.

                One word rings out of course, always. You know this word. It’s like an involuntary response by now. Having reasoned and rationalized your life by this one word for 12 years, it’s like a chain around your neck. A leash, a choke collar being yanked back again to remind you who’s boss. To let your ass know who you have to bow down to in this life of yours. Let you know who’s your master. Reminding your ass, it’s been there all along. Never left your side… your only companion really.

                No matter how free of it you’d like to delude yourself of being. You’re still its prisoner baby, don’t you know?


                The only motivation.

                Suffer this indignity, this demoralization and “Survive”.

                Take it like a man, right? But is it really like a man?

                I question whether it is at times like these.

                Because it feels more like being an animal. A beaten dog. Smacked over and over again, but always returning to the dish where the food will be placed by the one who smacks you. This is what you have to do. This is my life people. Or so it seems. This is the only choice you have, or so you think.

                On the side of life that is.

                There is the other side. The darker side, the side that says, I’ve played my hand, after being forced into this game in the first place, I’ve done my best, I lost, and its time to go home.

                Cash in the chips.

                Get on the bus.

                Lay back.

                Stretch out.

                Say goodnight.

                You’ll be home soon.

                That sounds really good right now… I can do that.

                Believe me, right now, I am so close to doing that.

                And you’ll say no, that’s stupid, stop talking like that. But I will sit you down, because I can do that. And I will tell you my story. Because that, I can do. My life story, every detail. And my reasoning for the option of an exit being so viable. And I will explain it all to you, I will bring you to it, I will bring it to you, and you will see the truth in my eyes. The tears. You will see its all true and you will feel the edge of what I feel on the subject.

                And you will understand.

                I can do that.

                I have done it.

                And you will agree.

                And you will hand me the gun or the knife or the pills and I will have no argument from you, as I will have convinced you. That if you were in my shoes, you would have had enough too.

                You would be tired too.

                And you would want out, too.

                Or you’ll be like my friend John, god bless him, but he has this way of remaining detached no matter how much you can bring him into what you feel. He always languishes in that weird sort of detachment enough to say “no”. He wouldn’t take that way out.

                Optimistic, yes. Blindly so. And at times I’ve employed such thinking because I have had no other choice, or I was a glutton for punishment, or I was sadistically curious to see how much God had, for me to take. I’ve imagined myself laughing as I cried, falling to my knees. Mind gone long ago, as the lashes stripped my back of the last sign of flesh and bore into the bloody under covering that was now exposed.

                This kept me going, believe it or not.

                This is the inspiration one is left to when all the cliché’s have run out.

                Or vengeance. Like that dog again, beaten endlessly, looking up at its abuser with those eyes. Waiting for just the right moment to jump up and take that one sweet spot out of their neck. Ending it all with the least effort possible. Making them realize the fragility of their mortality, the error of their ways, and who is the more evil son of a bitch now? All in that split second space in time where they grasp that part of their neck, now missing, and feel the absolute and unforgiving heat of the blood spewing out. Immediately lapsing into unconsciousness due to the speed of blood loss. A gash in the jugular does that y’know?

                And of course as you can tell by that little analogy, there’s always been the rage of injustice to keep me going.

                Must see that justice now, just have to see that justice. Fuck justice. Justice isn’t for me, what is justice? Something bought and sold like the terms of my demise by the landlords I trusted with my belongings.

                But wait… despite it all, those hateful thoughts never lasted long enough to make me some sort of arch evil nemesis bent on the destruction of my enemies. Sadly enough this life hasn’t got any heroes or anti-heroes to be bent against or towards. My nature was a calmer more sedate one, unlike my imagination. And I languished many times in tears at the seeming reality that ending it all was the best option.

                I could do that, I said. Like I just said.

                I really could do it. It made sense, and I should do it.

                Or, I can delve deeper.

                Maybe there are answers there?

                Maybe it’s more of the same thing?

                Maybe it’s a more sadistic prolongation of the inevitable? Reason stands though, that if something’s inevitable, it will not be avoided. So why not?

                At this point ladies and gentlemen, what have I got to lose? Nothing.

                Nothing at all.

                If I’m going to inevitably kill myself, I might as well keep myself occupied till then anyway. Right?

                So there it is, deeper.


Ground Rules



                Ever think about that word?

                Think of it, we’ve all thought of words at times, like when we think of bones.

                Bones breaking.

                We think of things like that but only vaguely. Vaguely removed from the reality. The reality… like that of an actual broken bone.

                They’re just words.

                Words with obvious meaning but without substance, tangibility or actuality.

                Just words.

                Including these, the words you’ve just read. Tangible, actual and substance.

                What is substance?

                What is the substance of substance? The depth of it. The depth of depth. And so on.

                As social beings we speak so much, so often, we fall into thinking the same thoughts over and over again, like some hideous routine. You may think, “not me, no way, not me, my words mean things” but shut up. You know you’re full of shit too. This practice… reminiscent to that of a mortician I imagine, a morbid practice. This routine, a deceptive maze that runs us around in circles. But because the walls around our circle reflect an appealing image, one where we grasp the attention of others with our typically practiced to perfection, rehearsed to death wit, we dance in those social circles like the lost little mice we sometimes hypocritically complain of being.

                Occasionally though, when grabbed by those evasive, lurid moments of clarity, when we’re not able to escape drowning in what we can’t face, when unable to hide behind whatever particular form of denial we may practice, we think about the words. Unless you find yourself in one of these uncomfortable circumstances, and you manage not to shy away, words tend to fade. Like the colors of nature in autumn, their true meaning dilutes against the every day tapestry.

The words you use on a daily basis wear out. Like anything else, like patience, like life, like love. You say so many things every day, do you stop to think about the meaning of the words? Do you ever consider that what your saying has become meaningless to those you’re speaking to? Have you considered, that being the case, that you’re not really speaking to anyone at all?

                Are you?

                Think of it.


                Like broken bones.

                Some of the hardest cells in the body, bonded together to form a substance that carries the entirety of your weight.

                Think of it.

                You don’t need to know the complexities of biology. You don’t need to know what bones are composed of, just give it some thought.

                Boom. Boom. Boom. Smashing over and over again, for an infinite amount of times against whatever it is you subject them to. Walking. Running. Jumping. Think of the cells.

                On their level.

                All smooth and solid like marble compared to the other substances surrounding them.

                On their level, like you took a trip through the microscope, you look around for what seems to be miles everything is solid under your feet. Everything else is mush. But the surface you stand on is smooth.



                Now they’re more real to you I suppose. Now that you’ve considered them, they actually may even exist behind the flesh.

                But who knows this? You do. But only you do.

                And still, …do you?

                Give you a minute to look around, blink a couple times, and what was I talking about? you’ll say.


                Spoken over and over a word with obvious meaning, as they all have meaning attached, loses it’s intensity. The boy, crying wolf, so to speak.  A flower, wilted as the breath that carried it to your ear grows cold, callous, repetitive. The message, delivered blindly, with no true recipient in mind. You do not truly receive it, do you? Like Autumn, like nature, we mean no malice with our transgression, that’s just the way it is.

                The 9 to 5, the every day grind. Every day we have to Deal. In the elevators, on the subways, on the freakin’ farm, we Deal. We wake, we seek, and we find ways to do it. Dealing with it. Sometimes by engaging in meaningless conversation. If you even care enough to call it that.

                The culprit.


                We set out, beating our path a little deeper every day, we slaves by the masses in our unilateral direction.  Ever watch the morning rush? Like ants we scurry up the hill. Our ritual, we covet. We covet everything. We go over and over in our heads the things we must do. The things, we think, we must do. Flowing towards the quarry, with our fellow slaves trudging along, we fall into our numbness. Our mental trenches. Our self induced defense mechanism of blind banter. The sounds of gunfire over our heads, we duck and cover. We smile at each other across the pools of mud and blood that we obviously don’t care enough to see. That mud, that blood, is pain. But you don’t care to show your pain, do you? So what makes you think you see anyone else’s? You hide your pain so well you can’t find it yourself when you look in the mirror anymore, and you fool yourself into thinking everything’s alright… right? We sip our coffee, our tea, read the paper that’s telling us all about it, your pain, my pain, our brothers and sisters pain, yet still, blind, but all so civilized.

                “Good morning” to the bus driver, “Hey, how ya doin’?” to the conductor, “how’ve ya been?” to the person at your side, “how are you?”, we let it all slip off our lips like drool onto a baby’s bib. Engines grinding away, the hum, like that same baby’s mother, pacifying us in the womb as our ship of fools eagerly steams towards Babylon. The hum pacifies and conceals. It covers the scratching sound of us clawing our way to quitting time, to the weekend, to the vacation, to retirement, to death for that dopening feeling of relief.

                Then, if you ever slip out of the groove and give an answer to the rhetorical, thinking for a moment you’re in a real world of people who care, people who asked because of concern rather than just to satisfy their own need to have something to say, you find out quickly, by the glazed look of your would be companion and the snip of the conversation-before it started-ender, “oh, look it’s my stop,” “hmm, that’s nice,” or my favorite: “O.K., I’ll see you later,” you find out that in all honesty, words are now and have been for some time…  cheap.

                Like broken bones. “Thank you”

                Like deeper. “Have a nice day”

                Until they mean something to you, no one knows.

                Not even you know, … truly know, …what the words mean anymore.

                Think of it though.

                By thinking, you will get closer. You will understand it a little better. Yet shamefully, by no fault of your own, unless you’ve been there, you still won’t know.

                Take those bones for instance, again, a solid cellular surface last time you visited. Like pavement. Like granite, on their level. The cells that is. Nothing but mush surrounds them, remember? Nothing comparable. Picture yourself there, on that plain of white slate again. All of a sudden the ground roars, and where once there was a surface, now there is a chasm. A revene so deep, so wide it spans to the horizon.

Suddenly separated from each other, these cells, the marble floor, would you ever had thought it possible?

                Do you know?

                Think deep now. Down… to a depth. You may think of a well, you may think of water, you may think of space. Now deeper… darker, the pressure, the absence of air, of light, think of those surroundings.

                Think of it.

                Close your eyes, let your mind slow, let your head draw back, relax…


                Now beyond that.

                A broken leg must hurt like hell, don’t you think? If you’ve never had one, like myself, you still know it must. We’ve all seen the depictions, the pain stricken faces twisted in agony, expressing the unthinkable. The absolute surprise, that’s one that always gets me. They didn’t know till that very moment, till that very split second, that it would hurt like hell to have a broken bone.

                Go on and say it, you know you have, use your own, worn out, withered words to say it.

                “Wow, that must hurt like hell” but what the hell do you really know? Until it’s your bone that’s… BAM!, broken. “OH my god!” you might exclaim. Exclaim? Know how to do that at all?

                Think of it.

                Have you ever exclaimed anything? You, who this applies to.

                Snapped like a twig. This solid thing that held you up for quite some time, you never thought of it till now perhaps. Boy, what a way to realize its there. Oh, sure you must have bumped into this and that several times in life but damn, had you ever realized it would hurt this much to have this hard object protruding from your flesh now?

                You might have thought you knew, but all that means nothing. You can apply research and study, you won’t know what it feels like till its yours, the bone.

                The words.

                The life.

                Blows your mind doesn’t it?

                As much thinking as you had done, it did not prepare you for this. These new heights of sensation you could have never imagined. Or lows.

                As much talking as you could do, with your worn out words, as much listening, those words did this experience no justice whatsoever, because now… you Know. Now you’re on the inside, and welcome to the show, its so nice to see you here. Have a seat. Strap your stupid ass in.

                The stricken, shocked face, is now your own.

                Your mind may have flashed with all those depictions, videos, books, stories, you may even see yourself somehow simultaneously fusing yourself and the experience together. Now, you just don’t say you understand or that you empathize. You see how empty those attempts were, now you truly do, Know.

                All words, all meanings are now…


                Thank you for indulging me. Now I can tell you.

                I can sit here and write, I can go through it all in my head, resisting the urge, the natural instinct to bury it all and let myself fall deeper, to a place where if I made my point, none of you would understand anyway, so what for? To work it out, as they say? FFFuck that cliché. With what’s going on with me right now, with what life is dishing me out, working things out means nothing to me. Shit, as it were, works itself out. But maybe, so people can wake up. On the off chance I “reach” someone. How cliché is that?

                So I can stir a few of my fellow slaves out of their zombie sleep maybe. So I can save someone the trouble of what I’ve been through? Right now, as I write this, what I’m still going through. Maybe.

                To let people know perhaps, that what I so very well know is, that this shit is slowly killing me. My life. And maybe to help you people go deeper.

                Maybe just to know, that maybe I tried, to let people know. Maybe just so I can live another day and it has nothing to do with you leeches reading this? Because I can’t imagine for the life of me, why someone would want to read about my sorry life? But maybe that’s the point?

                Maybe so someone can somehow respect what I am going through, so if someone else finds themselves or someone they care about even close to emulating what I am experiencing they won’t let them feel so alone.

                Which is another little something like bones. Unless you know… you don’t know my good friend Alone. He’s a pisser. If you happen to make his acquaintance… take my word for it, dont go to that party with him.

                To maybe help you all do more than just say you understand and move on, like you do every day and you don’t even know you’re doing it. Sure, I’ll go deeper. Maybe just so I can get to a point where I don’t want to kill each and every spoiled brat that’s had everything handed to them in life when I see them acting like they understand what life is all about… or acting like they don’t care, I’ll go deeper.

                So your words can once again mean something when you speak.

                For that… I’ll go.

                Because I wouldn’t wish my life on anyone, I’ll go deeper.

                Come on.


Casting the Mold


                Sometime in the late 60’s two people in different parts of the world both got the idea that relocating to New York would somehow improve their respective situations. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

                Lima Peru, a young woman, a girl really, who had lost her mother to heart conditions, untreatable in her time, in her region, was left to a life with a less than understanding father and two older brothers, all of which were artists, and probably quite arrogant then, as artists will be in their time. Now burdened with the household responsibilities, as was commonplace in those times for the young women, she struggled with her desires for freedom and the longing for a mother she was cheated from having. She did the best she could for as long as she could, but made the decision to go far away from all that she knew as soon as she came of age and the opportunity arose.

                At around the same time a transplanted Puerto Rican cab driver with a 3rd grade education and a Hack license was scraping his living off the streets of New York. He had made his decision to leave the island of enchantment as they call it, at the age of 19, and he wasn’t that much older now. Back home he was a carpenter under his fathers thumb. His father was a carpenter, a builder of things, and a superhero of abuse. There wasn’t much love there amongst the humble people of the island, at least not in their home. He found a way and he left after an unsuccessful marriage yielded two children and an equal amount of mouths to feed. He never turned his back on his responsibilities, even if his wallet might have faced the other direction more than once or twice. In this way he was who he was and purely lived his life the way any man with a third grade education, coming from poverty on a Caribbean island would. He had as much self awareness as he had intellect. He made no apologies.

                Most of us born here in the United States couldn’t comprehend if we tried, the determination and guts it takes to transplant your entire life to another world. We are too far removed from the immigration that occurred through Ellis Island to truly recognize what it takes for a person to do such a thing. We are too far from that generation, separated by time and comfort, to fully comprehend the courage it takes. And if you do have a grasp of that sentiment, it’s a lesser percentage of those people who will take that sentiment and willingly apply it to the second or third, or fourth generation of immigrants to undergo that trial. Why? There are many reasons. Too many to even begin to touch on, but suffice is to say that my parents deserve the same, if not more respect due to the unique problems associated with the times they were forced to deal with. The respect that’s given to those people in the black and white photographs we’ve often seen staring up at the statue of liberty off the deck of the ships coming in to New York from Italy, from Ireland, from Europe in general. When my parents got here and even until recently, we were all categorized as Puerto Ricans by those already here. And that’s no better than any other form of prejudice stereotypicalization. Despite the paralyzing fear of the unknown, they lunged forward and faced something so many of us will never have any idea about. No matter what the differences in time and space, I recognize that at least and I ask that you do too. For one of my parents, that courage was born of sheer will, for the other, it came of the bliss associated with ignorance. But that fact makes it no less an achievement for either one.

                Early 1970.

Romance blooms.

A cab driver meets a waitress in Brooklyn.

                My mother was hot! She was a babe. I see where I get my weakness for indian straight hair, tanned skinned, youthful featured beauties. Yeah-yeah, it’s the whole psychological mother thing that we’re not going to get into now. My mom was the Salma Hayek of her time. Undiscovered of course. I’ve seen old black and white photos of her when she just came to New York, and I don’t see how she didn’t get snatched up by someone who could offer her more. But that’s part of what this is all about. I believe we all travel in channels meant for us. There is no diverting from these paths. You can test the parameters, but always you’ll be nudged back on course. She was meant to meet this gruff, uneducated but handsome man with an abusive past and an undeniably good heart. I guess, a man repentant of his mistakes is an attractive thing. Because although my father couldn’t help himself most times, his hindsight seemed to be as good as a less damaged man’s foresight. After the fact, he would know he did wrong. But I suspect he never knew why. He never could put it all together in order to prevent from making the same mistakes again I think. At least once or twice more before knowing it was a no-no. Now my mother on the other hand, was a well educated woman by contrast. She wasn’t a college graduate, but compared to my father, she might as well had been. Still despite that difference, there must have been some commonality, because she fell for my father’s cavalier ways. This much is for sure, he could be a sincere man when it came to his heart and although he didn’t know how to spell every word, or his handwriting wasn’t as practiced as another’s, the effort and unabashed courage it takes to come forward in that way must have seemed admirable to my mother.

                They fell in love.

                A year later I came along.

                Twelve years later they divorced.

                I was a sheltered, only child. I was always big for my age. In those times I assume it was a rare occurrence to have an 8 lb. baby, because for years I would hear the story of how I was so big I didn’t fit in the stroller. Or maybe because my mother was a petite woman, it seemed strange she could give birth to such a big chunk of flesh. Despite my size though, I was shy and secluded. I grew up in front of the TV. And early on most of my contact was with my sister. Half sister on my father’s side. The broken marriage back on the island, remember? When he got together with my mother he brought them over to live with us. She was my caretaker for what I’m to understand was my entire infancy.  This fact perhaps has a lot to do with the relationship my mother and I never had. She and my father were always working when I was very young and my half brother and sister were part of the household so my sister did most of the parenting for me. My brother wasn’t too happy from what I’ve seen in pictures, so I don’t know what he did? I don’t have many memories of him. We didn’t have much of a relationship, ever, it seems. They were in their early teens when we all lived together and from what I’ve heard, we were dirt poor. Perhaps this, and the fact they were with us, and not their mother, had something to do with my brothers non-participation in my life. Resentment maybe? I went through the same thing years later, so I understand if that’s the case. It could have also been that my father at that time, didn’t quite have a handle on his temper, with them.

                For me to venture here I first have to tell you that my father was abused. I know I‘ve mentioned it one way or another in lines prior to this, but I want to make it crystal clear.

                He and his brothers were the victims of serious physical and mental abuse at the hands of their father.

                All in the name of discipline in the old world, so as to lend to the confusion of such circumstances, he and his brothers took severe punishments far beyond the parameters of what’s acceptable today. Being corrected for things you may have done wrong in your youth, but with such dire consequences, how would you know what’s right and wrong at that age? You have no compass to guide you. No gauge to measure by, no experience from which to say this is wrong, its excessive, and unfortunately no higher education from which to derive that enlightenment. Subtract a decade or two from the timeline on the mainland, and that’s the time you’re living in if you’re poor in Puerto Rico. Yet despite these facts I still contend, although he has evidently done his part to continue the cycle of abuse and my older half siblings who were the recipients of that carriage would probably disagree, that my father is a kind man. A loving man. And a good father. To the best of his limited ability, he was as much those things as a more privileged person would be. Why?  Because I knew of the abuse since I was very young. He told me about it at an age when I was still able to be lifted up on his lap.

Yes. He told me all about it. He confided in me his pain. He worked it out with me and I was his council. He healed himself through me. When I tell you how he did this and how I know this is what he was doing you will understand better the wicked beauty of life and the living in it.

                My father used to tell me stories. He would make me laugh so hard with his funny stories. He would tell me how when he was a little boy his father would have these elaborate ways of reprimanding him and his brothers. Now forgive me, but its hard to communicate the humor in his stories as an adult, because after the realization of what those stories really meant, it has been truly difficult to hold on to the humorous nature of how the information was passed on to me. But I’ll try.

In a sort of Abbot and Costello way, a Laurel and Hardy, Marx brothers sort of way, my father would tell about how his father, when he did something wrong with a chicken or a mango or something ridiculously indigenous to his humble childhood in Puerto Rico back of the late 40’s, his dad would discipline him and his brothers by, for example, by throwing them into a rose bush.


He would go on and on about how he was plucking thorns out of his ass for a week or so afterwards. An exaggeration of course, but from a child’s perspective, your father making all these faces and sounds describing the pulling out of a thorn from his butt in such a purposely humorous manner, you laugh. And he smiles. And he loves making you laugh. And you’re this pudgy little kid he made with this beautiful woman who is so different from any other he’s ever been with and he loves you and he never in his life lays a hand on you. EVER.

Unlike your sister and brother who for whatever reason do know that side of him. The thought of it now brings forth a well of emotion I find hard to explain. No matter how many times I read this part of this work, I cant help but feel sorry for him. And I feel that others may see that as some sort of betrayal, since he did the damage he did to everyone else but me. But I guess there’s nothing I can do about that.

                I digress;

                There were hundreds of these stories.

                Like the time he did I don’t know what with his brothers, and his father caught them and had them stripped naked and on all fours in a circle. Telling them to take their noses and stick them in each others asses.

And how he was wondering what the hell his brother must have had for lunch because he did not appreciate what he had to deal with at that particular moment from him. Like, if you know this is what we deal with, the least you could do is keep your ass clean dear brother, type of thing. I was so young, he clowned and I laughed.

                If you haven’t connected with what I’m trying to communicate, realize that he was telling me these things in a “when I was your age I had to walk thirty miles to school” sort of way and the moral of the story was always, be a good boy. Do as your mother says. You’ve got it good. I didn’t. And, I love you.

                Did I know it was all true? Of course not. How could I have ever connected those dots at that age?

But you see, this could also be the reason his first son, didn’t really feel inspired to play the big brother role too much. I wont bother going into examining his psyche too much, I really cant devote too much time and effort to someone who isn’t much more a part of the story than a voluntarily absent individual. I will close the thought of him on the acknowledgment that there may have been resentment there among other unsettled issues. He never looked for my father unless he needed money as a young adult. It caused dad some heart ache. I got that much first hand. And he got the buckle end of the belt enough times to build up some walls if you know what I mean. So be it. I’m sure he’s got his own demons to deal with now.

                Deal with’em Jr.

                Life goes on.

                My sister got it too, but it goes to show how different we all are and how we all would react differently to the same or similar stimuli. My sister did most of my raising as I mentioned earlier, she was there for me. She took care of me. She loved me and I loved her more. She was everything to me till the day she left. She ran away with a gang in her late teens. One of those gangs like in the movie Warriors. That’s how it was back then on the streets. Late seventies, Brooklyn, there were gangs. My sister needed a way out, and that was it. Why a way out? Well, I think when your father takes your hand and puts it in a flame over the stove, forever deforming your thumb as punishment for not doing your chores, or something not much worse than that, justifiably so, you look for a way out. She stayed as long as she could I guess. I like to think I was a big reason why she put up with it until she did. We had a bond perhaps, but I’ll never know.

When she left I was on my own. A little boy with a mother he hardly knew. A young mother with a son she hardly knew, and as I would later find out, was unsure she wanted to even have given birth to.


Breaking the Mold

(Divorce, Resentment, Discovery, Rebellion, Abandon)

“Writing is this: an impulse to share with other people a feeling or truth that I myself had. Not to preach to them, but to give it to them if they cared to hear it. If they did not – fine.” – Brenda Ueland, 1891-1985

                In other words, Fuck’em.

                Fast fwd>>

                Of course there was resentment!

                I’m twelve fuckin’ years old for Christ sakes, where’s my god-damn family structure here?! What the hell happened? Of course there would be resentment. Unbridaled, confused, self loathing, hateful, inexplicable, undefineable, misdirected, guilt ridden resentment. Blah! All over the place. Like a stick of TNT shoved up someones ass and lit under 5 lbs of heavily gaseous beans, BOOM! Resentment, all over the place, all over you, all over me, just all over.

                What happened man?

(blocked-repressed-or the ever less dramatic-I just wasn’t there-memories/ occurances- is what happened, bitch.)

                The ever famous, Dragged Me Out of Where I Work story.

                The He Slapped Me story.

                The He Used to Call Me Names thing.

                You don’t remember?

                I say, “no?”

                But I do remember some fights? – I say innocently. Emphasis on the word Some, or Fights, either or, with that little boy inflection of “I don’t know.” Because I didn’t. And this hurts I suppose, not to have a witness. Not to have a partner, an ally… And what is one if not an ally? Hmm. Let’s not go there, you and I together. You may go alone if you wish, with my blessing (God knows I’m leading you), just not us, not together, no.

                I know it seems I’m sitting in judgment on the case against my mother here. I know, but I’m not. Believe me, we’re all going to get our fair share of the whip in here. Besides, my mother needs no defense, she’s my mother, for this alone she’s already sainted if you know how that is. If not, one day you will.

Remind me later to talk about mortality.

                But, back to my point, if ever human, even saints confess transgressions I would think. So, yes, I was stood, this I do remember, before my father, the three of us, amongst the packed boxes, and asked, who would I like to go with? Mommy or Daddy?


                Eleven & 1/2 maybe.

                I chose.

                I chose the side who’s family was made more present. I chose the side who made it a point to integrate their brother to our household, entire family included, like batteries in that -as seen on TV ad. Pushed, crammed, rushed in, brother of mother, and family of. Husband, wife, three kids. Two bedroom apartment. Not the only family I knew, but the ones I saw more of.


                Or instinct?

                Survival. Perhaps.


                Eventually, had to move. A ploy by my father to try and re-establish his own household, but yes, I remember, big fight, they followed. The side that resisted and distanced itself methodically from the other side, this side, I chose.

                 The side who in twelve years was the only side that privileged enough from the union to take their family back to visit their homeland, which was a farther and far more costly trip than the other side’s place of origin. The side who partook of that and still, deep inside withheld her loyalty from her own family and kept it far far away. That’s the side I chose.

                I was conditioned, exposed. By default it seems, I chose. Like a flower chooses the Sun, as if there were ever a choice. 

                “Con mami” I said.

                The bargaining chip chooses.

                Just so I could hear the choice bragqed about for the next few months. It was some sort of victory. But who won, did I win? Who really won? Who really won? Did she win?

                Simultaniously the life I knew was deconstructed bit by bit. A new less exclusive one put in its place. One where the opposing vote had been eliminated.

                One where if I disagreed, there was no where to run. No court of appeals. One where I was no longer the priority, but eventually, quite clearly, the liability. The obligatory responsibility.

                There was no advocate present anymore. The priorities shifted to where they had been all along, only now, they settled there. There was no one to say hey, the kid needs something, get it. Instead, as I would find out later I was getting the leftovers, the scraps off the table so to speak. Because that’s what I was, the leftovers.

                So now that the “other side” was gone the domineering opportunist side was free to hoard everything (the resources) for what truly controlled them. It was the Foreign Aid project folks. When here in our land there was one that needed as well, the Foreign Aid project took priority.

                Oh, but he’s fed. He’s clothed. I mean, not what he wants, not like the other kids at school, sure, his stuff is cheaper but he has to do with less, because the priority is for the Foreign Aid project.

                So he’ll do with a little humility, a lot of embarrassment, so much peer pressure, an inferiority complex, an eating disorder, all to fuel his whirlwind of emotions that he’s too young to even identify and work through. So the opportunist side uses the resources to enslave the foreigners through this Foreign Aid project. Did I say Enslave?

                Yes, I did.

                So she can become some sort of pariah, a god to them, their only salvation from their squalor. This was the Foreign Aid Project.

                But wait, how about getting them Visa’s so they can come to the U.S. like all your cousins have done for their Foreign Aid Projects? How about that? Isn’t that a real solution?

                NO! It’s not. Because then they might actually help themselves! Then who would be the salvation? Who would they be dependant on? See, it happened with Brother, and now he doesn’t really need the F.A. Project anymore does he? NO! It’s not going to happen to the rest of them. They must stay enslaved to their poverty in their third world country, My third world country she is proud to say every so often, and the F.A. Project will be their savior. No matter the sacrifice.

                The sacrifice.

                Guess who that refers to?

(More than once and still to this day she says to me, “nothing is ever achieved without sacrifice”

                Boy, I gotta say, she sure is right.)

                They must never achieve a condition of independence from the F.A. Project. The opportunistic side made sure of that, and I, would just have to do without.

                Now what the hell am I supposed to do? What do I know? Mama’s boy that I was. What could I possibly know? The only thing a twelve year old can do I suppose is go with the flow, grow, live and learn.             Become a teenager.


                Now I play a part in my own fate.

                What part? Who knows? I was young, what could I know of the world or what it had in store for me at that age? Nothinq. All I could know is the moment. And now, listen closely, because the following is about the only culpability or responsibility I will claim towards the situation: The things I would do at this time in my life, although the acts of an immature youth, although done out of frustration or spite or as the classic cry for help, serve as no excuse to justify those actions as much as they serve even less to support the reasons for any resulting consequence due to in part or whole to those actions.

                This is shit I really don’t want to ramble about.

                But of course I have to. In order to paint the whole picture of what makes this story important at all I have to lay down the groundwork. I have to go there. I have to dig deeper than just the difficulty of the situations at hand, I have to go this far back. I have to offer it all up and put it on display for everyone to see who I am, why I am that person and what made me this way.

                Have faith, it all leads up to that moment this all flashed before my eyes and it all made sense.

                Who am I telling?

                So I did things. I was in a daze at first, still following my mother around like a younger boy than I was. Or maybe I was acting my age? I tend to be hard on myself about the years after the divorce. I somehow think I should have been more mature. I know at times that I was an intelligent kid, I knew a lot about a lot at that age, but I think back and I see myself as this naïve man-child that should have been able to foretell what was to come. I’ll touch on this later when I get to what eventually did happen, for now I was too busy being a twelve year old nincompoop.

Fiddling while Rome burned.

                As time passed, I saw my mother go into a second youth. She re acquainted herself with her people.


                Full force.

                She moved a friend of hers into our one bedroom apartment.

                Then a cousin of hers joined the gang as well.

                Soon after I was ousted from my room and quartered off behind some partitions in the living room.

                My new room she said, one day after I got home from school. It seemed things changed when I wasn’t home now. Hindsight is 20-20. I wish I had a prescription back then, because I didn’t see it coming.

                All the while as she went out on all niters coming home the next day over and over again.

                Things were growing inside me.

                I started to feel alone.

                My father’s visits were less and less frequent, and when they did occur they became these insidious information retrieval and insemination operations. There were times I couldn’t stand it but I just welcomed the change of atmosphere. So I put up with the questions and the “you know what your mother did” stories. It all came to a head when the most delicious tidbit was dropped on me one day before he dropped me off.

                That, a strategic ploy on his part. Something like pulling the pin on a grenade. You don’t stand around to feel the blast.

                How it came about I’ll never remember, but in the end I came away with the knowledge that my mother had two abortions before I was born and I would have been the third if my father hadn’t begged her to keep it.

                How convenient.


                Isn’t that nice.

                Thanks Dad.

                See ya next… whenever.

                Of course he was making himself out to be the hero and trying to win the tug of war, still. But was it true? Well my mother didn’t deny it when I finally asked her. Well I didn’t ask her, it just came out. She knew something was wrong, I must have been acting strange? Either way, when she found out what it was she went with the – shocked at how he could tell me such a thing – routine.

                Ooh we were aghast. Appalled. Shocked.

                Thankful, I now knew. (or thought I did)

                As time passed I was told more frequently how we couldn’t afford the things I felt I needed to feel normal. You know how that is, and if you don’t, well first, where did you grow up? And second, I’m telling you, the other kids have something and you want it too. Only, I knew I couldn’t have everything, so I picked and chose what I would have, if I could have something. I chose one pair of good (cool) Lee jeans over two or three pairs of (wack) Choppers at the bargain place. Remember Robbins? If you’re from where I’m from you know.

                Of course, I didn’t have much as a result, but what I did have I was content with. And that meant everything since I was already called Fat Boy and felt out of place at school anyway.

                Things were grim, depressing, I was in a world I didn’t feel comfortable in. I was never accepted in this world. I always felt left out. Always alienated. I had thoughts of killing myself quite often back then. I would go up to the roof of our apartment building and just look over the edge. Romanticizing everything that crossed my path that had to do with death, dying, suicide.

                I remember once writing out a contact between myself and the devil. Yeah, Satan. Actually cutting my finger and signing it in blood.

                I might have been having a problem with faith I think?

                And I do recall saying the words “god hates me” more than once or twice.

                At around this time my mother met a guy.

                Well, he was the superintendent so it was hard not to meet him I guess, but it became clear eventually they were involved. I had a problem with it of course in the beginning, but as time went on, to my surprise, I liked the guy.

                When it came to me, he tried. I guess that reached me.

And it was nice to be reached I recall.

                When I asked about him my mother would say they were just friends. Don’t ask me why? I would wake up some mornings and find them fallen asleep on the couch in each others arms, and I didn’t mind. I liked it. I liked him. He was a nice guy. His name was Pedro if I remember correctly.

                For a minute there, things seemed a little better. The clouds seemed to part and the sun shined on our humble existence there on 95th street and 37th avenue. Good old Jackson Heights, before it became the war zone it is today, at least that block, not the historically preserved south side. That of course, remains picturesque due to our city’s gentrifical needs. Suffice to say that back then though, it was all a pretty pleasant neighborhood.

                But… as soon as you get used to something or start liking it, life’s lesson to me was then and for some time after, that it would be gone.

                You would lose it.

                Without explanation or reason, it would just be “poof” gone.

                Next thing I know there was this lanky bug eyed individual side by side with my mother at every family gathering (her family) in our home.

                I wasn’t introduced. I had never seen this person before. And this guy… he didn’t bother trying.      What’s more, this son of a bitch never even said my fucking name. Just came in and took over my mother.

                Not that by then I had much left anyway.

                Then the guy moved in.

                By the time I was sixteen I had had my rude awakening already. While looking for a pair of socks one day I found three thousand dollars inside an envelope (remember the resources?) Sometimes I wish I hadn’t, but she always mixed up the sox and mine ended up in her drawers all the time. Or worse, with his.

                You know you dislike a person when you simply can’t stand the thought of your sox being mixed up with theirs.

                I wished I hadn’t found that money though. Because all I could remember as I thumbed through the endless amount of money, more than I had ever seen in my life, was the echo of her voice going through my head telling me we didn’t have money for my shoes. That shirt I wanted. Underwear.

                This was about the same time I found food stamp stubs lying around the house and realized that was what’s known as Public Assistance. Welfare, for all those who prefer to use the term. And the point of all this is that you receive public assistance if you’re really down and out, which we weren’t, because my mother did work for a living. Or if you’re a single mother and claim to need it. Which ok, I could understand then that we needed it, but then if I’m the child that makes up the single mother status, and if there is relief in the form of public assistance, then why is there so much money in an envelope hidden away and I am being told there is none when I need something?

                Man, finding that money ruined me. It corrupted me completely. After that, it was over for me. It solidified the suspicions I had had and it cemented the idea that I was the unloved unwanted black sheep of the family that wasn’t even my family anymore.

                I acted accordingly. If that’s what I was then I thought I should play the part.

                I disregarded any moral rights and wrongs and waged a campaign of “light” rebellion against the union I was opposed to.

                I was Castro.

                I say “light” because it really didn’t take much for me to be the worst son in the world when it came to my mother. I was never into drugs, I was never a criminal or in trouble with the law, but I broke my eleven o’clock kerfew and I did steal, from them.

                From them. No one else. I was a real tough guy. A bandido. An outlaw.

                Fidel would have been proud.

                See, when I had found that money I had been slapped with the injustice of my being denied in order to grant comfort to her family in Peru. Because that’s what the money was for. The Foreign Aid project in all its glory. So I took justice, and money into my own hands. When I needed something, I would look for the stash and pilfer. If the stash wasn’t available I would out and out take what the intruder had to offer.

                He was the puppet regime.

                My whole attitude was, fuck him. He didn’t like me, I didn’t like him. I was a stupid kid, justified in my feeling but unjust in my acts. Some would sympathize and others condemn, all in all no one lived it but me and I did what I had to do. So where does the outside opinion really matter here?

                Despite my reasons, just or unjust. Forgivable, understandable, or not, I wasn’t prepared to take the blow I was about to take from this guy. Or from my own mother.

Simply put, (and I’ll put it simply because to tell you the truth it sucks enough to dredge this all up every few weeks when I can manage the strength, emotionally, to even pick this project back up. No matter my complacency or defensive wall it still hits me like a brick. So if you don’t know, I’ll tell you. Bricks, when flung, hurt as much when running from, as they do when running towards them. Analytically speaking, if you haven’t realized, I’m the one flinging, and getting hit here. I don’t need to put it complex-ly and probably end up in a deeper depressed state or standing over a fire fueled by the very words you read. Do I? If you need clarification on anything, write me a letter, we’ll talk.)

                I was told one day “we are moving” and I said, really? Where are we moving to?

                East Elmhurst was their answer.

                Hmm, I said, “ok”.

                As I left the house to get with my buddies and probably end up breaking kerfew and night again hanging out, laughing, maybe drink a few beers (we were crazy) I thought to myself, damn, what a drag, I’ll get home later or tomorrow and I’ll have to help them move all our stuff.

                Ugh, I hate moving.

                Well, I got home, opened the door, which to my surprise wasn’t chained or locked. I wasn’t going to get a lecture about coming home so late, being evil or a bad son, unlike all the other mother’s sons?

                I entered my home. Now, an empty apartment.

                I suddenly realized…

                “We’re moving” meant, “We” are moving, not you.

                I was abandoned. I remember thinking, “So this is what it feels like.”


                Didn’t know the values of work, how to even get a job, making money, saving money, spending it, life, nothing.


                See you in a couple weeks.

                Like I said, need clarification? Write me a fucking letter.



A couple weeks can turn into a year really fast.


But I cant tell you about this yet can I? So lets go back to where I left off…

                I hope it’s understandable that memories of that time are pretty vague… I do remember being alone in the apartment for a while. Days maybe. More likely, weeks. Three, maybe four? But probably more.              I had lost all hope and all care for time after a while.

                My mother eventually came by. And again, I apologize for the lack of real chronological accuracy here, but she brought food, sometimes. And I remember, for days at a time, languishing in the realization that I knew now, what actual shock felt like.

                I remember thinking, “what had I done to deserve this?”

                But I knew.

                But what did it matter then, knowing or not.

                I learned that sometimes the reasons don’t mean shit. That sometimes, you were fucked so bad that they couldn’t fix things anyway, so the reasons could all go to hell. The task at hand now, was to survive.

                But not yet.

                For now I had to eat dry white rice and drink black unsweetened coffee. That’s all there was in the apartment that used to be my home and sometimes, no one came by for days.

                Oh yeah, I know what you’re thinking, I was a big overgrown pussy.

                If you’re not thinking it, well, bless your heart. I often do. And I’m often harder on myself than others are so forgive me for saying so.

                I was sixteen years old. You know that. I look at my kid brother now and wonder if, like a lab rat I could dump him into the shit I’d lived at his age, if he’d harden like I did. If he’d do more, or less, than I did. I wonder?

                This is then though and that is now… and I cant tell you about that yet, cause back then, this hadn’t happened yet so…

                When my mother came by she would look at me like something I cant describe. With pity I suppose. Sometimes I think pity should have two T’s and perhaps it doesn’t so that in a contrived way you could pity it, but anyway, she looked at me with shame perhaps, back then I couldn’t know. She would ask me how I was doing.

                I think I wanted to kill her once.

                Maybe it was a euphoric state, from hunger and whatnot.

                She would ask me, what was I going to do?

                Hmm, let me see Mom, since I’ve been taught no skills, I’ve dropped out of school as a result of the turmoil that our lives have become, oh, excuse me, my life, because your life’s just fine somewhere else now, no?  But maybe the effects of you, transplanting me to my fathers family in Brooklyn t te first sign of trouble, the family in Brooklyn you kept me from really getting to know all my life but recently looked to to save you from the curse that is me, and alienating me from any academic hope that way, then asking me to come home when I’d run away from my ½ sisters home where you left me, where I couldn’t adjust, and in hindsight seemed like a pre abandonment anyway, and not being able to stand the fact that my friend, Henry’s mom, a kinder woman than you, was doing for me, and her own two sons simultaneously, what you couldn’t do… Since I, have no knowledge of life other than disappointment and dysfunction to this point and I’m a child in a man’s body, why don’t I go out and steal something from somewhere, and go somewhere else, and sell it to someone, so I can maybe buy myself some presentable clothes, so I can maybe go somewhere else, and ask for a job doing something, I don’t know what? Since I don’t know how to do anything, again, thanks to you, so I can make some money and maybe, just maybe, survive.

                That is, if along the way, between stealing, and selling and eventually surviving, nothing happens to thwart that plan, like I get caught stealing something to go sell it and either I go to jail or get killed in the process. I could do that?

                Or I dunno, maybe its safer to just sit here and die?

                I said, “I dunno” and she told me I should go back to school. She said that if I knew what I wanted to do she would help me.

                I mulled this over for a couple days.

                Can you imagine?

                I’d already become jaded and I didn’t know who exactly I was anymore but I knew I wasn’t the same person that was abandoned twenty lbs. ago. Yes, being abandoned is the best diet a teen can have.

Three weeks later, after starting a week late at a technical school for architecture, catching up in a week and deciding that, between the time of conception, and realization, in other words completion, for a work of architecture was way too long a creative process to ever be fulfilling. It was defeatist and a killer of creative motivation, in short, it wasn’t for me.

                My mother helped me though, she signed for approval as my guardian when I took the school loan to be able to go there. I asked them when I turned my supplies back in if I would be stuck with the loan and they said no.

                But I was.

                Just another little way I was fucked in the ass early on in life. Because it would take me about three or four years before they tracked me down and told me I was in default and owed four times the amount I borrowed when I was sixteen years old.

                No wonder I wasn’t able to get a credit card.

                I guess when your childhood is like wading through a swamp of garbage, the cuts and scrapes you get trying to get out cause enough infection that it stays with you for years later. Like a venereal disease you never knew you got from that person you slept with years ago, the one you were so proud of getting away from, till the person you want to marry, the person you’re so proud to be deserving of tells you they’re dripping with it, and they just don’t know why.

                But you know why.

                You know why, you just can’t get a credit card.

                As far as you think you’ve gotten from it, it’s always gonna be right there with you isn’t it.

                Your past.

                You, were abandoned.

                You, were unwanted.

                You, are leftovers.

                And isn’t it nicely wrapped up like some witty work of fiction… You have the scar to mark you from ever feeling like your worth anything in this society, all before you even know what this society is all about.   You get the social evaluator of your time, the credit bureau, to tell you constantly, you’re worthless, over… and over… again.

                How quaint.

                Have I slipped into the future again? damn.

                My uncle eventually moved in after that, let me stay till the space I was occupying appreciated in market value.

                He was renting off corners of the apartment to lower his own rent.

                Then he accused me of stealing and threw me out.

                I had been working on a dream here and there with a couple of friends on the block, something to do with songwriting and rap music I feign to think. And my mother, with her bi weekly visits, seemed to be soothing herself with the pseudo supportiveness she was deluding herself to be providing when she got the news from my uncle. She helped me find my father and to my surprise, I succeeded. Turned out he wasn’t far from me at all. Walking distance from where I was living till then.

                He took me in, and I thanked my mom for her help.

                And I didn’t see her much after that.

Footnote- Because I don’t know where in this chapter to exactly place the reference- I left out the part about eating dog food to survive.





                Why are you reading this?

                Are we friends?

                Are you getting anything from all this?

                I mean, I just read this myself up to this point and I gotta tell ya, I wouldn’t blame you for going back to Barnes & Noble or Borders or whatever shi-shi place you got this from and asking for your money back.

                Really, I wouldn’t.

                The publisher would blame me, but hey, if you’ve read this far do you think I give a shit?

                I’m probably dead anyway.

                Fact is, that’s what I’m supposed to say. That’s what I’m supposed to think, since I’m alone in this world and when you feel that way you think no one really cares what the hell you have to say anyway. So of course I’m going to break momentum and ask you these things because at this point, remember, I’m freaking homeless here, I don’t see the end of this tunnel yet.

                I don’t see how the hell I’m getting out of this.

                But anyway, not to keep you waiting any longer, where was I?

                So I find my father.


                You’re gonna love this one.

                I wrote a short story about it that probably explains it a little better than I can right now, so here you go.

                It’s called … Lost.

                I don’t know where my father is.

The last time I saw him he was sitting on the stoop just outside the apartment he hadn’t paid rent on in six  months. He was unemployed, his hack license having long since been revoked. He was staring into space through watery bloodshot and tired eyes. Those eyes were set under the most serious brow you’ve ever seen and that, just part of  the strong warrior like face I always knew him to have, even now.

                Still thick, hanging in the air like waves of gray cigarette smoke refusing to integrate, was the after–shouting calm but eerie silence between himself and his new bride.

                I was eighteen at the time. He was in his late forties, early fifties at most. She was twenty, and his half sister. Mother of his youngest daughter, a woman barely, whom he rescued from their father’s house shortly after the bloated heap of flesh professed her virginal love for him. This epiphany, only a couple of very short weeks after meeting my lonely father for the first time on a trip back to his childhood home.

I was there. I met the man who made all the stories my father told me as a child, true. Dozens of them that my father used, to teach me and entertain me. He loved to make me laugh as a little kid, something he was great at doing, and proud of. The lessons were always simple: obey your mother, be a good boy, do good in school. The reasons were always the same: “because when I was a kid your age, back in Puerto Rico, know what my father did to me… to my brothers… to my mother…to all of us?”

He would go on in these “Abbot and Costello” ways about the elaborate ridiculous punishments his father would concoct for him when he had done the most innocent country boy kinds of things. He was the star of his own TV show when it came to this, and the comedy was first class. I always tuned in because the punch line was the same too. Him, yelling like some “Tom & Jerry” cartoon and grabbing his behind, jumping in the air if that’s where he got his lickin’. Although I should add, it wasn’t always a straight lickin’ he got.

                In the end the moral was always “I love you, I want you to have what I never had, so make the best of it, don’t be stupid like I was, blah blah blah.” As I got older of course, the stories got shorter and eventually not at all. The message also got shorter as it got older, but clearer with the same kindness in mind. It went something like – “Don’t fuck up”, and as time passed he provided an example of consequence.

I thought about this and the time in my life I had realized that the cruelty in the punishments he joked of had not been slapstick, in fact, they were no laughing matter at all. I thought of the rose bushes he was thrown into, naked. I thought of his mother being dragged around the house by her long beautiful dark hair. I remembered my grandmother’s jet black hair, like a ravens feathers spread over her shoulders and couldn’t picture it happening. But then I couldn’t picture my uncles, as boys, on all fours, in a circle,  stripped and made to stick their faces in each others asses either, as I looked on my father now.

I thought of his two children before me, now no where to be found. I thought that of the three of us, I am the only one without mental or physical scars at the hands of this man. How they weren’t so lucky, how he was kinder to me for some reason, how that fact couldn’t only be obvious to me and probably has something to do with their absence now.

                I thought of all these things as we sat there together, watching the day leave us both behind, and always my thoughts came back to the stories.

                The message.

                And how ironic it is that now, it was my turn to advise him not to “fuck up.”

“Dad… ” I said, and I knew I was on the verge of speaking to him more boldly than in my life I ever had nerve to.

                “…I know you’re not happy.”

                He heard me.

                “And Dad, I know you want to do the right thing, but maybe, just maybe what you need to do is send her back.”

                He just kept staring, but he heard.

                “Take some time?” I said.

                “Take some time and get things settled, if you want I can do it with you, we can get a place together and you can get back on your feet. We can take it from there.”

                I said, “I know it’s hard, but you need a break”

                “And maybe so does she.”

                “Dad” I said, “I know you must be having doubts about this and…” I said, thinking this is on the cusp of disrespect – “I know that when she opened up to you, you were… alone”

                I almost said Lonely, but I would never disrespect him that way.

                “Pa, maybe if you send her back you might be able to see things clearly, and either bring her back or whatever.”

                “Pa” I said, “my only concern is you. You’re my father, you’ve helped me and I want to help you”

                Not a word.

                He didn’t move.

                I got up and put my hand on his shoulder, paused and said goodnight before going inside for the night.

                The night air was cool following me in through the screen door, slick, like the tail between my legs. The evenings in Queens were kind that summer. Kinder than the days. I say that because that summer I got my first real job as a foot messenger in NYC. The sun beating on me day in, day out, and everything I had been through in the last year had taken me from a plump 230 lbs. when times were better, to being a 170 lb. 6ft tall, mess of confusion. I stomped up and down Manhattan that summer and really hadn’t realized the toll my experiences took till’ I stepped on a scale one day and couldn’t believe my eyes. “Not even if I had tried,” I thought. Not even if I had tried with everything I had in my soul could I have literally worn away such a huge part of myself.

I slept that night, and woke, and went to work to earn my minimum wage, sweating. I didn’t see much of my father for the next few days that I can recall. I went over the words I spoke to him endlessly in my mind. With the idea I had offended him and he just sat silent, I thought he would probably throw me out on the street, where I would have been anyway if not for him, he was just having trouble getting to it. That, and having been abandoned by my mother in the first place a year earlier had me on the private line to God I had convinced myself of having every free minute of the day. I had developed my mantra as a result of my experiences to sound something like: “Fuck Everything, I Cant Die, I’m in Hell Already, What Is There to Lose?” So I shared my story with a friend and he offered me a place to stay at a modest price should my fears be confirmed.

                Of course, there was the chance, it had occurred to me, that somewhere along the line the words I had said to my father instead of being taken wrong or to heart the way I meant them, would be twisted around in that sick but all too familiar way, (because I tend to recognize those ways in myself) to mean what he wanted them to. But no, I thought. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t have heard anything more than what I was trying to say… could he?

                “Father, you’ve helped me and I want to help you”

                On an evening so similar if not for the lighter mood in the air, sans fighting, we found ourselves back out on the stoop, my father and I. And I couldn’t help but saying to myself, “de ja fuckin’ vu” as he looked over and began telling me how proud he was of me. He went on reveling on how I’d grown so much and changed so much and I kid you not when I tell you that he said he could remember sitting me on his knee and telling me like an insidiously cleverly veiled threat, “all those stories of when he was a kid.”

                He began telling me he had a plan and I remember hearing certain details of it but not absorbing any of it while that suspicion still lingered. It had something to do with getting a new apartment… and moving in… and…

                “You want me to give you MY entire check every week!?”

                Somewhere in there I couldn’t remember hearing anything about anyone going back to Puerto Rico?

                Or anyone else getting off their fat bloated ass and getting out and getting a job, or toning down their whiney condescending tone towards my father, or my father taking a break from such abuse?

                I’m looking?

                I’m looking?

                I didn’t hear anything like that? I’m sure now.

                And I distinctly heard the word “Welfare” in there somewhere?

                And… you want ME, to give YOU, MY entire check, Dad?

                I felt something unexpected and tight come over me. I felt the determination of my mantra giving me strength, but in a cool, determined way. Without anger. Without rage. As sometimes was the case. I looked at my dad with pity inside me, but of course, not in my eyes. And I said,

                “I can’t.”

                I told him, gesturing with my hand at my neck, “Dad you’re here.” Then raising it above my head I said, “and you want to take me here.”

                “I can’t do it,” I said.

                Thinking, “I can’t do it.”

                Saying, “I’m sorry dad”

                And thinking, I can’t, I can’t, I just can’t go with him, I can’t be part of this, he’s lost, he’s lost, he’s just lost and I can’t let him do it. Not to himself, not to me, I mean, I tried, I tried, I really tried. Didn’t I try? But this, no.




                I can’t, not this.

                He can’t do this.

                Not to me.

                What he’d already done long ago.

                I’ve never dared question my actions that day for fear of the answers I may uncover. I can only remember my thoughts, crystal in recollecting, as they were in conception, solid, clear, and unchangeable. I simply couldn’t let him do to me then, what in my youthful ignorance I couldn’t recognize had been done already, long before that day.

In retrospect, he seemed beyond reason and hope to me in every way.                 He seemed lost.

                Looking back across the years in disbelief, like a horizon beyond the span of a thousand miles traversed, I wish I could enter the memory, now like a dream, and embrace my father then, kissing him and saying goodbye with good conscience, rather than not knowing if I’d ever see him again.

Looking ahead I can see nothing beyond the tip of my nose and I wonder, that day… who was actually lost?

                                The End

                And I guess I’ll never know, but everything in there is true. I handed that in to a professor in English class believe it or not. 101 or 201 I don’t recall. I do recall I didn’t get much feedback. And I hate pouring it out for no one to say shit about it. It got a good grade though. So I guess pain writes well but doesn’t get much input.

                I still don’t question my decision to take that option my friend offered and leave my father behind. I simply couldn’t fathom being dragged under any further.

                It was and still is a decision that hurt.

                Because I used him.

                My mother left me at his door when her brother threw me out and when I got on my feet I dumped him when he was asking for my help.

                Only, the kind of help my father wanted was terrifying to consider.

                That woman, his ½ sister on his father’s side, must have been three hundred lbs. And if that wasn’t all, because that’s no sin, she was the most intolerable woman I have ever encountered. She would scream at him and her child at the top of her lungs like a beast from the wilderness. It was all I could do sometimes to keep from running into traffic the way she would yell in that house. I won’t even get into them being together, an act of absolute – I don’t know what – that got him disowned by his entire family. Not that they were an exemplary group anyway, but they were all the family he had. And me.

                But of course my father, in what seemed to be his new pattern was in trouble with the rent. He was unemployed and on public assistance, he seemed to have no hope in sight as I think I mentioned in the story. I just wanted to distance myself from all that. I had distanced myself from my mother completely by then, and I see now in retrospect that I was ready to make a dash from my entire life.

                In retrospect I recognize that I wanted to erase my past altogether. I wanted to become someone new. Someone else. I was embarrassed of where I came from. I was ashamed to be from this man who came from that man and was part of this family of dysfunctionals. And from this mother who was supposed to be better than that and who ended up betraying her first born for the promise of a better life. A life for herself and her new son. I wanted to run for the hills. I wanted to disappear. But I didn’t know anything yet. I was so wet behind the ears I would have to carry a bucket under my chin to keep the rest of me dry. I had no idea what I was, who I wanted to be or how to find out other than knowing I didn’t want to be them. And boy… I had no idea what life had in store for me. Whether it would get better or worse, or just stay the same. I had only began to become aware of the world outside my own reality and I was completely idealistic about what was out there.

                It wasn’t long before I found out I couldn’t run fast or far enough to escape what I was trying to get away from.

                But for now, I was out on my own.



Frankie and Johnny


                I’m living in an apartment with a man and his adopted son. Jesus, pronounced with the H sound folks, so you know, is a kind man. A thin older gentleman who works in the fashion industry, he extends me the offer of renting a room from him when he hears my story from his son, Gary. Gary knows me through Frank, a cousin of Mundo’s. And Moons, as we call him, was the center of the universe for our circle of friends before my universe imploded some years earlier.

                Now, when I say the center of the universe, I don’t mean anything sentimental. I just mean that that’s where everyone gathered. Mundo’s father used to own a store on the corner of his block, but when his mother suffered a stroke he sold the store and dedicated his life to working and keeping his wife company. Mundo went to catholic school and dabbled in being a DJ, which I guess made him popular. I met him through a friend named Billy. Billy lived on my block in Jackson Heights and met me through another friend on the block named Jose. Jose used to write graffiti. His tag name was Clod.

                Don’t ask.

                Really, don’t, because the answer is really obvious. He would say so himself when you asked him. And when he shrugged his big overdeveloped shoulders and grinned his friendly grin, you would just laugh with him in a friendly way about it because he could probably stomp you like Magilla Gorilla if it went the other way.

                Anyway, I met Billy, started tagging up the streets with him, running from the cops and store or truck owners who would chase us from the dark shadows of the night now and then, subsequently hanging out, and he introduced me to Mundo, whom he met through John and another guy I didn’t see too much of that he went to school with. They went to Queens Vocational High School in Long Island City. 

                You’re probably dizzy by now, but in the end, that’s how I met Frank, John, Mundo and the rest of the guys I would call friends before like I said, all hell broke loose in my teens.

                This is all worth mentioning because I met Gary, who I was now living with, through Frank, who lived in the building just behind us.

                Now, at this very moment I don’t remember how I got reacquainted with Frank.

                I barely knew him when I was breaking kerfew way back when I had a home. He would just come and go from his cousin’s house, never really hung out with us, but you would know he was there because he didn’t really fit in. He actually stuck out like a sore thumb to tell you the truth. See, Moon’s father is Dominican black. African Dominican as to African American I guess you could say? You see, Dominicans don’t make the distinction the way Americans do about their African roots. I mean, they distinguish, but in a much more casual way. And in any case, Moons has issues with the whole subject and would rather be dead than called black. Which by distinction he is, despite any way he may choose to see himself. The back end of this point is, that Frankie’s mother, Mundo’s aunt, married a German American. So Mundo, and Frankie, were like milk chocolate, and vanilla. The rest of us were different shades of tan.

                It didn’t help matters that Frank, when I first met him was going through a punk phase. An egg white in the bright red Mohawk sticking up about 12 inches straight up in the air punk phase.  We were the hip hop flunkies all of us, so we didn’t really mesh I suppose.

                These days he didn’t have the Mohawk and was pretty much into the same new wave slash dance slash rock thing I was into.

                But how did we re acquaint? I still cant remember.

                I was in exile for a while. Not only because of my family life and the turmoil of survival, but also because of John.

                Back then I had become friends with Johns cousin, Christina. A sweet girl who had issues with her parent same as I did. To tell the truth I fell in love with Christina on our walks home. She was beautiful and lived closer to my area, when I had a home, than to John’s so we trekked it together a couple times. This was nothing huge, me loving her, because I was too shy to do anything about it. I was just her friend and somewhere along the lines decided that’s all it would be. (In other words I decided I had no hope) Which is just as well because it turned out she ended up with Henry, whom I haven’t mentioned yet because I don’t think I knew him too well at that point, but he turned out to be like a brother to me soon after John introduced us.

                Or was it Billy?

                Probably was, but it felt like John.

                Which if anyone was closest to Henry, it was John. These guys would actually do dance routines together at Studio 54 back in the day when it was a hip hop dance scene.

                God that was gay.

                Yeah, I was somewhat jealous I guess. I was by then seeing a pattern where as I had nothing and everyone else had more. I mean aside from my problems at home, which by then hadn’t boiled over yet, I was feeling way sorry for myself when confronted with the seemingly more fortunate lives of my immediate peers.

                Did that have something to do with John and the exile?

                Maybe, but I think John’s addiction to cocaine had more to do with it.

                He was snorting and sniffing like a batallion of vacuum cleaners. It was shortly after my withdrawing from him due to that situation, and my being a friend to Christina after she found out Henry was cheating on her, that John flipped out and accused me of stealing from him and interfering with Henry’s relationship.      Which of course in his mental state, could be solved by wanting to fight.

                I couldn’t fathom the thought of fighting a guy who was like a brother to me. I was bigger, but John was older, more experienced, and coked up. So I froze. At that time there was an instigator whose name I cant even remember hanging out with the crew, a wanna be rapper white boy who latched on to Mundo for his music equipment and DJ contacts. That guy fueled the fire, but he wasn’t to blame. Something ugly had been festering in those ranks for a while before I was confronted with it. When it finally came out, I ended up with no friends.

                Shortly thereafter, no family, no home.

                Now, no father.

                This is when I learned I should be very careful when accepting the generosity of others. Because despite the gesture being kind and thoughtful, it should be fitting and comfortable for the one who its offered to, else it cant be appreciated can it?

                By the time I got to Jesus and Gary’s apartment, I don’t think I realized what I was getting into when I agreed to move in and sleep on the sofa bed in the living room.

                Experience in life was definitely needed to come to the realization that living that way was not going to be as easy as agreeing to it. There was no privacy and it didn’t feel right. It felt like I was in the way.

                Don’t get me wrong though, I’m grateful. I wasn’t always forthcoming with money for them, and they put up with me exploring my boundaries, and for their patience I am eternally grateful. If there were something I could do to repay their kindness today I most certainly would do more than they would probably be comfortable accepting, for sure. But I’m sure as well, that no matter what I do, I would know it could never be enough.

                We hung out around 69th and Northern Boulevard a lot, Frank, Gary and I, we goofed around and had fun in a more innocent way than the crowd that frequented Mundo’s house years earlier. It was OK for a short while. I worked as a messenger for a graphics company in L.I.C named Unitron now. A small step up from the messenger service I started at while I lived with my father. I was even exploring doing things within the company, but I still didn’t know where the hell I was going.

                Aside from Jesus, Gary and Frankie, some people from the neighborhood and a couple guys from work, I didn’t have many friends. That may sound like a lot, but really it’s just the three names, and even them, I didn’t know if I could trust.

                I’m sorry of course, but I was lost. I didn’t know where to place my loyalties, who wanted what from me or why, or even what I wanted out of life. I felt alone a lot of the time, I felt like less of a person than others who had families and friends by the dozen. And I was too young or too dysfunctional from all that I’d been through to know how to talk about it or even that talking would help.

                Inadequate is a good word I guess.

                And it’s now that I realize what a wanderer I really was back then.

                It seems like a miracle that I even survived sometimes. By all rights I should have been stomped out by this cold world long ago, yet something has always allowed me to see my way through.

                I hope that somehow, that continues to be true.



Where am I now?


                I’d love to tell you that I’m ok, but I’m not.

                I’d love to tell you that its all over, but its not.

                Since I left off, a lot happened of course. A friends mother died while I was living with them.

                Renting a room.

                Part of a room really.

                We later rented an apartment together, with another acquaintance. And that was interesting. But of course, a disaster.

                When his mom past away… let me not be rude, his name is Billy. Billy, this is everyone who bought this book, everyone, this is Billy. Billy would like me to tell you all he has a really big dick. At least, that’s what he wanted us all to know back then. He had some fascination with his cock and he needed everyone to know it was huge. Yes, he did actually show people. Through his pants, through his sweats, through his underwear as was my nauseating privilege having lived with him, and I learned quickly not to actually “come here” when he asked me to from the bedroom or I would see an idiot pushing up a tent with a look of ridiculous fascination on his face.

                But anyway, when his mom past away, we were left there alone. Kids really, alone in the world, in an apartment in Jackson Heights Queens. Me, Billy and his two little sisters. We were shocked of course, but I couldn’t know what they felt. Their mom by contrast to mine was at that time a sweet little woman, who only shares a name in common with mine. She patiently put up with her three kids where mine opted to rid herself of the concern. And she had a heart as big and beautiful as the biggest you can imagine for taking me in. I mean, of course there was the money in exchange for the space, but even poor people won’t go out of their way or put themselves out for each other if there isn’t a benefit to it larger than a few dollars here and there. And she saw the benefit in helping me, thank god. It was hard enough renting rooms because you aren’t of the means to afford an apartment, but to do it with strangers would have been harder than it was living with my boy at the time. She put up with an overly sexually active Puerto Rican son that solved all her concerns with his loving sense of humor, and two blossoming daughters in a city like New York. I think she wasn’t even five feet tall, and she had so much to deal with. She was so brave, I see now, in retrospect. Being so young, I must have been 19 by then, what the hell could I know about relating to anyone else’s life? I had no way of even dealing with her loss, being that emotionally immature and god knows, stunted by my own experiences, much less could I be a proper friend to her surviving family in their time of need. She succumbed to pneumonia quite suddenly after seeming like she was getting better while she was in for tests at Elmhurst hospital. I saw the shock, I sort of felt the shock, but never having lost a parent I loved, I was in limbo with how to deal. For them I mean, because I wouldn’t even bother thinking of myself at a time like that. Even though I did wonder what would happen to us now?

 [D1]Life on 69th st with Gary and Jesus- Work at Unitron, trying to extend myself into friendships and the weirdness that ensued.

In closing… that was it for 2000. As life got better and I got happier… it got harder to write. No, it’s not hard to write- what really got harder is getting back into the whole place I was writing from. Time didn’t stop, the way I would have liked it to- for me to write from that place- without having to completely destroy what I presently had- in order to get the words out. How many days and moods were ruined because of working on this little auto-bio of mine- I can’t even count. I do know that one day- I just didnt come back to it anymore.

In the process of organizing these pages here I stopped and read a few lines and was almost reduced to tears for how sorry I felt for myself- as if I were watching a movie of this kid and what he was going through- but it was me- and the combined pain almost broke me. This was in a few minutes here at work… so you can imagine what it would be like if I actually got into it. But I know I do have to finish this. The reasons why aren’t even clear to me. Like there’s something over that wall that can only be clear to me once I’m over it… So I’ll get into it again and see how it ruins me. Or who knows- how it may rebuild me. Below are some notes attached to the end of the very first version that I never got to organize… they’re fun to read. I didn’t go through them all so there may be some juicy stuff there I might not be comfortable exposing- but for the fact there’s been so much time between then and now it’s rather irrelevant by now. The fact those notes, chats, and whatever they are were attached to the document at all says they’re relevant to the SOF in some way. I won’t leave you to figure out where the story is going though… In the end I’ll be telling you about- if not more about how funny life is and how things have a way of coming full circle. The story will end with my spending Christmas back with my family after they rescue me from near homelessness. Frank will have interceded and told them everything I was going through, and although estranged for years before that time- they took the opportunity to repair our relationship in the most loving way that no one could have invented or imagined if not for the weird way things just turn out. A lot of shit happens before then though, so it should be a crazy enough ride for the reader. Enjoy the notes- and don’t tell me if I embarrass myself!


To come:

 I question myself. I doubt myself. Certainly I do blame myself. I’ve heard it said it’s human nature to blame one’s self. Because there are things I could have done to prevent this from happening, sure. Aren’t there always? Who can see into the future though?


DAMIANDZN:        I loive yiou

LBS1976:              I don’t know that language

LBS1976:              you’ll have to show me what you mean

DAMIANDZN:        I know how to get it out of you, dont worry, you speak many languages under certain circumstances

DAMIANDZN:        I’ll show you sweetie

LBS1976:              “When I look into the future, it’s so bright it burns my eyes.”

–Oprah Winfrey

DAMIANDZN:        why this? you tell me? —Yoda

LBS1976:              “The best preparation for tomorrow is to do today’s work superbly well.”

–Sir William Osler


“What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matters compared to what lies within us.”

–Ralph Waldo Emerson


“Opportunities multiply as they are seized.”

–Sun Tzu

DAMIANDZN:        I plan on working you over superbly well today so that tomorrow’s work needs no preparation—Daniel Damian Mendez to Lauren Scnur

DAMIANDZN:        schnur

LBS1976:              who is Lauren Scnur?

LBS1976:              my groceries are here I have to put thrm away now

DAMIANDZN:        “I will seive yu and the opportunity to multiply” D.M. to LBS

DAMIANDZN:        typos are making me sound stupid, go do and call me , bye

LBS1976:              you are stupid!

LBS1976:              to be with me

DAMIANDZN:        foir you I am

DAMIANDZN:        being with you is my proudest acheivment

DAMIANDZN:        put that in your quote book

LBS1976:              bye

DAMIANDZN:        muah,

DAMIANDZN:        whats more is, your love to me, is the greatest gift.

it’s the most inconceivable miracle.

your precious heart, open to me, makes me the luckiest man on earth.

your affection, is my solace from all the worlds ills.

what little meaning you place on your embrace, is an injustice to what I value most in life right now.

my heaven is the space on your breast, where I lay my head, and feel your beautiful hands reach around me.

the warmth of your arms, surround me.

this, like to a frightened little boy, feeling safe,

this I treasure.

and it’s you, whom I love

who I give thanks to god for.

who has my heart captured, above all others.


there are millions of words, put together in millions of different ways, both eloquent and rough, to say what I feel… all of which should be unnecessary but none of which seem to say it well enough,

I Love You.


Dear Mr. Smith,

    I am an aspiring writer with little training
and no experience seeking to contact you or one of
your writers in the hope that someone may help me
tell my story.

    Max Patel recently wrote an article on his
first time being arrested and processed by the
system, I recently have had the exact same thing
happen to me as a result of being victimized in
another way.

    Shortly after my 29th birthday in September,
(October 18th, 2000) I was illegally evicted from
my home while I was away at work. All of my
personal property and belongings, over twenty
thousand dollars worth of stuff was stolen from my
apartment by my landlords and I was left with
nothing but the shirt on my back and the few
things I carried in my gym bag. If you can imagine
such a thing, then you know it's something that is
inexplicably life altering if not life ending. As
a tactic to intimidate me further or scare me
away, my landlords also filed false allegations
against me and had me arrested, much of which Mr.
Patel described in exact detail in his article.
Since the beginning of all this I have been
homeless, and with very little help from the court
system, am doomed to dealing with this incredible
stress and pain through the coming season.

    I am an upstanding citizen and have been all
my life. I have never been arrested and had no
record before this.
My only crime was to be naive and expect my landlords
to repair what they needed to in my apt. I was
withholding two months rent at the time and they
were harassing me by turning my hot water off for
that same amount of time. I never thought they
would go this far or this could ever happen to me.
I'm hoping I am not finding out now what I've
wondered in the past as I passed the homeless by
in the streets. That this is how it happens. This
is how you slide down into the depths of

    I am hoping that with what I have written down
so far, it be possible to tell my story on your
pages with your's  or Mr. Patel's help if
possible. As my girlfriend pointed out recently
after reading some of my notes, my story (which
I have temporarily titled The Real Survivor) would
be of great human interest at this particular time
and season. What I have been through and am still
going through as I write this I am sure, even in
my inexperienced opinion, would grab the attention
of the general public.
My main interest is to let people know that no
matter who they are, this can happen to them too,
to inform the public of one New Yorker's story and
hopefully prevent it from happening to anyone
Being that I have no training or experience in
journalism, I would have no problem in handling
this in any way you see fit, i.e. via interview,
editing of my notes or co-authorship should you be
so generous.

     I have decided to follow my interest in
writing as a career, it has been my only salvation
throughout this whole ordeal. I hope that I can
add another positive outcome to this totally
negative experience by being able to make this
happen too. That can only happen with your help of

Eagerly awaiting your response,

Daniel D. Mendez

Administrative Assistant
Submedia, LLC
fax 212-219-4009

When the police wrap the handcuffs around your wrist, for a second there you think it may be something softer. You think, as they clamp together, the two pieces that make up a handcuff, that it may feel like a rope or leather or some other form of bondage. What it does feel like is incomprehensible. Whether that feeling is amplified by the irony that I called the police to escort me for my safety or not, I do not know. Whether its because I didn’t do anything to merit this grand prize of social standing is also a mystery. Now that they are here and they are placing me under arrest for things I didn’t do is all I have the perspective of dealing with. It hurts. Physically and morally and spiritually and physically. They are hard steel clamps made, you think when you have them on, to seriously hurt you. To damage you. Should you attempt to escape? To break you. They are a thousand times harder than your flesh or bone.

Bones, breaking.

“Where are you?”

They will bend you to their will, not the other way around, without concern for your well being. No matter the cordiality of the officer who puts them on, he’s just doing his job, they are still the weapons they were meant to be. That’s right, weapons. Because if you think they are merely restraints, youre dead wrong. Theyre weapons. Weapons against your perception of freedom. Being there I can tell you, I admire those who dare to think of freedom once they have those things slapped on them. It takes more than an open mind to achieve that, you have to go beyond the striking reality of it. Like looking past a man with holding the open end of a loaded gun in your face to think of any other moment beyond the one you are in. Presently, I’m not there yet, so nevermind.

Click, click-click they go as they close tighter and you are introduced to a new kind of pain. Before you can even become familiar with that new friend though, you are made to get in a car with him. But cars arent made to hold the both of you. So you have to cram yourself in there with him. Lean on him. It doesn’t exactly work, so now you have more pain. New-new pain. Different pain. Discomfort and pain. Adjustable pain. Pain, interchangeable with pain. Your options: pain, or more pain. Wait though, as an added bonus we’ll throw this in: the car starts moving.

                Now with the sway and the lurch of  a moving vehicle you have the added excitement of negotiating the pressure and intensity of your pain on the fly. This ought to keep things interesting. Will you have time to contemplate the low of your existence at this point in your life? Ah, yes of course, believe it or not, you’ll have time for that. You’ll have time for your eyes to water at the thought of being alone in the world and being made to go through this. Being unjustly incarcerated on top of being victimized. Icing on the cake of life. Yum. Force fed, every bite. Thanks, delish.

This doesn’t last though so don’t feel so bad. Who am I kidding, the emotional stress and the pain go hand in hand, incredibly so. It lasts. Especially when the pain, being so mind boggling, should surely have not to share the stage with anyone, but does, and does so graciously. Head/ lights goes down, curtains part, music starts, and as you are just starting to adjust your eyes in the darkness, getting a feel for you misery, settling into it, allowing for it to lay claim to being the worst of it… the spotlight hits the stage. Your pupils dialate at the realization you will not be alone. The police car sways on one of its million or so turns, or brakes, or slow downs, your cuffs dig further into your wrists, your hands now numb from the intense painful pressure they apply even in the best managed position, your back arched from being in the cramped back seat of a police vehicle, you think stupidly, something that would be funny in any other situation, that criminals must inherently have shorter legs for there to be so little room in there, and then it hits you, you will not be alone in there. In jail. That’s where youre being taken. Central booking. Jail. Youre releived when you see its your local precinct, but again terrified when youre sat down, cuffs still on in the holding cell and reach the conclusion that this is just temporary. You will be going to central booking with the whole of the criminal poulation of the borough of Queens.

At this point you cant hold it back, so you openly have to cry. Normally you could wipe your tears before anyone could see them, but still cuffed they just have to dry on their own. Your friend pain cannot help you in this way, he will not dry your tears. He introduces you to his friends though, it seems they hang out here, despair and hopelessness. Hi, how are you? Nice to meet you, hi, how’r you, my pleasure. They don’t say much after that, but they keep you company till youre processed, fingerprinted, and your girlfriend arrives. You managed to get a call off to her before you were arrested. When you couldn’t believe what you were being told by the officer you asked to accompany you for your safety, that they were going to have to arrest you. She’s here now, my pretty Lauren, crying, and it makes me cry seeing her that way. How I love my sweet Lauren, god bless her, she doesn’t belong here. Doesn’t deserve to be dealing with this. For me or anyone. She is so far removed from things like this, being where she’s from, brought up so sheltered. She is here though. She could have turned her back and although it would have been cruel I’d have understood. Seing her cry now, this is when I first swear revenge on those people. My sweet angel shouldn’t be made to cry, ever. I still love you Lauren.

Straighten up. Suck back the snot. Blink a few times. Here they come. She couldn’t see me from behind the one way glass, but it looks like she asked to see me. Be strong, she cant see you like this the way she is. Tell her its ok, everything will be fine, tell her youre o.k. hey, hi, don’t cry, its o.k. everything will be fine, get my stuff from the officers and my bag from John, I dropped it off on the way here, the officers were nice, you have his number, they are taking me to central booking they say I will be out today, so don’t worry, this is all a mistake, I love you, please don’t cry.

God, I love that girl so much.

This is the worst day of my life.

This is the worst day of my life

This is the worst day of my life.

Back in the car, ohh, sway, ouch, brake, ah, tight, lurch, shit, knee, fuck, sway, ouch, I didn’t do anything, brake, shit, ouch, sway, I want to kill those people, lurch, sway, sympathetic officers, nice, ouch, shit, fuck, damn, brake.

Take off your belt and shoes and step through there. A metal detector. Step back, collect your things go through again. Look up at the sign. Step to the left. Mug shot. Shit. Fuck. This is the worst day of my life. Come, follow me, shit. Where am I going? The big cell was empty the officers said it was slow today, I may be out quick, good, but this is smaller, wait what is this? Smaller cells, wire mesh behind the bars, its darker in here. Cells on both sides, cant see inside. Step to the left, answer the questions.

Are you allergic to pennicillin?


Do you have any contagious diseases?


Any history of mental illness?

Not that I know of.

History of drug use?


This guy’s a freakin nurse.

Blood type?

Don’t know.

Been tested for TB?


How long ago?

Couple years.

Looking around my eyes focused on the cell I couldn’t see in before, the look of releif must have been obvious on my face when I thought I was alone in here with the staff. My heart dropped out of my chest and into my ass when I focused beyond the fence behind the bars and I saw the faces looking back at me. More than a dozen men, all the types you see standing on the corners in those less than desireable parts of town. All standing there looking in my direction. Looking at me. Like hungry animals waiting for their raw meat.

I know of a place, a place where under a single light bulb you will climb the stairs towards the first level of dark high ceiling warehouse style rooms. Inside these large rooms you will find pens, for lack of better descriptive terminology, stables of sorts. These rooms if you care to call them that, are 4 x 6 with four wooden walls to separate them. Your left side is someone elses right. There will be a board of wood one, maybe one and a half feet from the cement floor along your right wall. On this will be a thin mattress. Lay on the mattress and look up you will see through the chicken wire net that covers all the stables to the high ceiling above. Dark and dank with the dirt only a hundred mens breath could leave behind over god knows how many years.

You will find these things on eighth avenue. You will find them only if you need to. You will be shocked. You will be afraid. The fear will be a cool mist that covers your skin turning it yellow under the city lights. You will wonder how far down is. You will be afraid that you may have to find out it goes further than this. You will walk back to the train, meet your girlfriend at the gym and hope. Hope to god you can evade this particular mud slide section of your decline from the human race. Buy some more time under her roof. Dissect her response to what you found and discern whether her reply is sincere. If it isnt, learn quickly to play along for your own survival. You must survive.

Dreams and realizations.

The feelings I feel from the side of me that would be called macho, for lack of better reference are not strong enough. I see women who are so beautiful, I find myself in their immediate area and can do nothing to save myself. I admire them with the same gusto any other normal single man would. I pledge to myself all the things they would, just as they do, with the same fervor they express. Yet I can put into motion no more than the electron it took to produce the thought in my brain.

I can’t seem to get over her. I well up in tears at the mere sound of the words. An admission to what we bury deep in order to get on in life. Facing it. Dealing with it head on. It hurts profoundly to know I can never be with her again. It hurts ten fold to know these wounds are self inflicted. That I did this to myself in the name of going no further without the reciprocation of the whole of my heart felt love, to know this was the way it came about, to know that I left her, hurts more.

I miss her dearly. I love her deeply. I cannot be with her because of the way she loved me. Much less in deed than I loved her completely.

I wish I could go away. I wish I could disappear from this life. I feel so alone. I have regressed since being here amongst these people who I feel should be my family, but aren’t. My mother is my mother, the rest, they are who they are, but I feel as though I do not belong, and I don’t want to. I want to be away, but I feel so frightened at the prospect that I may fail. That I may suffer so much more degradation in the name of my principals and my dreams. I feel the fear of having to kneel before the master as he recaptures my soul and enslaves me once again. The degradation of having to compromise my freedom and therefore my expression by submitting to the will of the slave master. The nine to five, the interview, the job.

Death. Equivalent. No, better, at least death would bring peace, the other would be like a death sentence. A life sentence really. A life sentence behind bars.


What would make this right is if I could kill that son of a bitch who did this to me… no, then again, no, not kill him. Excuse me, them. I would need time to write, the security to know I will be taken care of as far as being able to live, and be able to have all the time in the world to write. Yet, again, one day be free, so I couldn’t kill him. Besides, like I’ve said before, he didn’t take my life, I wouldn’t want his. I couldn’t justify it. To myself. What I would like is their hands. I would love to be able to take their hands from them. The hands they used to touch all my things. The hands they used to rob me of all my worldly possessions. I wasn’t a rich person, but I had things there that were priceless. Pictures of my father who I will most likely never see again, pictures of my mother as a young woman… many things.

If they could wake up one day and find they have no hands… that would be beautiful.

If I could have their hands in a box. Preserved. It would give me great pleasure. It would be just. Let them live the rest of their lives like that. Let them live with the results of their own evil. And don’t let me find out they are getting along well without them.

Tonight on dateline, this couple mysteriously woke one day during their vacation in Mexico to find their hands were surgically removed. Yet despite the bizarre crime against them they have managed to persevere. They have managed to do everything with their feet. Tune in tonight to see the amazing details of this couples unique and inspiring story.

Damned if I don’t take those feet too.

No, always worse. The sweet irony would be if I would send them back their hands with a note:

                Glad to see you’ve managed so well, just as I have without what you took from me, now that we are all recovered, both yourselves, and I, I will return what I took from you. I know you cannot do the same for me.


Thank you.

I think I’d get a laugh out of that.

I mean the jail idea wouldn’t work at all really. I would have to first commit the crime against them, which wouldn’t be so bad, but a bit technical I suppose. Having to learn how to successfully amputate hands and all, I don’t know, it may be too taxing. Having to acquire the medical supplies, devising a plan, I would have to follow them for at least a month, see what they do, when they do it, they have those damn noisy brat spoiled children to contend with too…

Perhaps during the school year it would be best, those future misfits would be gone. Then to actually do it, I would have to overcome them both, all by myself, probably at their home, some ether. I couldn’t allow myself to be seen. Performing the surgery, sewing them up, OK, maybe its possible, but then what?

I would have to preserve my prize. Formaldehyde? In jars? Then I would have to turn myself in, right? And that’s a huge risk right there. Things will be out of my hands. The unpredictable variables with the act were enough, what if things were not to go my way in the system? I would have to convince a jury that I did not want to kill them, only hurt them. And I would have to plead guilty, because I wouldn’t want to get off of course. That’s a hell of a tightrope walk right there. Then, pleading guilty to a lesser charge, they might want their hands back. Which would be great joke-wise, but is that really worth it? “O.K. I’ll give you the location of the hands, … shake on it? Oh, sorry” or “I gotta hand it to you, it sounds like a good deal, sorry, no pun intended” but there was of course.

Realistically the odds are against me, even if I convince a jury I was out for revenge and not murder, their contempt for the severity of the act, again no pun intended, really, might be too much, and they could sentence me to more time than I would need. Also think of the insanity plea variable… who needs that? I couldn’t write in an insane asylum, I imagine the distractions would be too much. It’s a consideration that may be thrown at me though, if things went awry, and all of a sudden its about damage control. Have to consider that possibility. Hmm, that’s the sound of consideration.

Then, even if all went well, I do the deed, stow the treasure, attain the appropriate sentence, do you know how many Colombians are in American prisons these days? I don’t. But I image quite a few. And these people, the Cabrones, not Colombians in general, in general I like them, as stupid as the Cabrones look, and may be, they got me for what they did, and they are definitely, if not connected, than not too far from someone who is. I would have to watch my back doubly so considering the general population wouldn’t be quire boys either. As devious as that breed of Latin has proved to be, now yes, Colombians in general, its safe to say that even if I survived the initial posturing and testing of bravery from the general population, I would probably be awakened one night and quickly realize the guard standing above me just caused that warm feeling liquid to pour from my neck before I pass out and die. I don’t think you get to feel any pain if your throat is cut, do you? I mean its so close to the brain, your head must drain of blood so fast? Well I would hope that’s the case. I would also hope he would have the decency not to say anything cliché like goodnight ass hole or something of that ilk. Much less try to convey a message from the Cabrones like “this is from your friends in Flushing”… how corny. I wouldn’t have time to tell him to think of something more original either. I wouldn’t want to go out like that. Would you? Who would want to die all corny like that? The look on my face would be something like that of  befuddlement. What kind of way is that to die? With a look that says ”huh?” on your face.

It wouldn’t work at all. Good idea, but it just wouldn’t work at all. Shame too, I could have used the security and time to write. The hands in a glass case would be a great decoration too for when I got out and had a best seller to start off my career as a writer.

Oh well, cest la vie.

Day dream.

So I walk into this restaurant on Northern Boulevard where through the floor to ceiling windows just moments ago I noticed two familiar faces stuffing just that and I decide to come in and say hello. How could I not, I’ve missed these folks. My heart races with excitement, my stomach knots up because it really has been a while since I’ve seen these people. Will they ever be surprised to see me. I mean, these people are special. They mean a lot to me. I think about getting back together with them, well, not constantly, but somewhat often. I hold them dear I guess you could say. Actually, I even carry something with me for the occasion. Should it ever arise, and low and behold, what luck, it has. Let me reach around my back and get it so I can present it to them. Boy, will they be surprised. I cant wait to see the looks on their faces. Ah the sweet anticipation. You know? I could stop here by the counter and relish it, but no, I wouldn’t want to run into anyone else I know and ruin the moment. This should be pure, for us all. This should be as great a moment as it can possibly be, nothing should ruin it. Hmm, there it is, snugly gripped in my hand as I walk up to their table now. Couple more steps, wait, let me keep the gift down so they see me first, I wouldn’t want to spoil their surprise. Oh, look at that, she recognized me, I smile, now he glances at what is dropping her jaw. “Hey there” I say, with a bit of a smile, and without a moment to lose, present them with what I have for them. Wow, it couldn’t be more perfect. That wrinkle in her forehead, the one between her eyebrows fits snugly between the sight. Snap. Just one. She isnt greedy, sweet Olivia, she needs no more. Boy, its great the time afforded you when implementing the appropriate hardware. People haven’t even noticed in the split second it takes to move my hand in his direction that she has completely taken in my gift. Snap, SnapSnap. Carrrrlos, I have to admit, I like him better, he’s such a gullible cuss, who wouldn’t like him, the big dummy.

Let me go now, I don’t want to interrupt them any further. Besides the snaps, although a lot more civilized than the loud noise I would have made without the silencer, still gets noticed when the effects of a well placed shot become obvious to the people at the next table. I should go now, this place is really noisy right now, not my kind of joint. I think they’ll be fine without me. I never anticipated the warmth of a gun in the small of your back after its used.


You learn something new every day.

Making my way out of this place, amid the shoving and pushing hysteria all of a sudden engulfing the place to my wonder… I feel this sense of completion. A warm feeling of glee rises up from my midsection. And I walk out into the night. Free.

As I pass that restaurant I have that fantasy every time. I imagine one night I will see them there eating. They are Colombian. The place is Colombian. The place is popular. It’s a likely occurrence. What are the odds I wonder? I always forget to include the kids in the daydream though. Most times at least. Strange. I have often wondered how it would be to do things to one of their kids, like they did to me. I don’t use that scenario that much though, I don’t know why. Its as good as any I suppose. Although they would have to grow up and get their own places. Who knows how long that might take? If it ever happens, god knows, the way those brats are being raised by those sick fucks, they may just wait around for their parents to die of natural causes. Who knows, maybe one of those sick little runts will grow up to do the duty for me? Y’know, it seems likely, judging by what I remember of how they were being brought up. Those brats. I don’t think their parents communicated with them much outside of screams, and deservedly so at times. The brats were spoiled and couldn’t take no for an answer. She was the boss, Olivia. But not like a good boss, more like Tony in Scarface. Sick bitch. I know it was her idea to get me out of the apartment by those means. She was the master half wit. Mr. Shunt in his head was a broken bitch of a man. He never showed any cojones the year and a half I lived there. He seemed to be following orders the entire time. It was a truly sad situation.

Question is, will I do these things? Will I ever feel the inclination to set the wheels in motion to any of the various forms of revenge I have taken the time to elaborately conceive? Tell you the truth, I don’t know. I don’t want to let them go. They comfort me. They give me entertainment. Lately there’s been one involving a sniper rifle and a rooftop near a place where I know they like to do family things together. This is a good one because there I do involve the children, and I choose one of them as opposed to both. Sort of a statement made to take one of them away from the other right before their eyes or something. In order to put upon them the suffering they caused me, or whatever. Just good old fashioned revenge. What better excuse is there? In this one I am on this rooftop or even better, a hilltop, concealed in some bushes. With one of those really cool little tri-pods for the barrel of the rifle. Strong, perfectly calibrated long range sight pressed to my brow. I can see the whites of their eyes through this thing. I don’t know the first thing about long range marksmanship, but I have an old friend, Travis, who was a marine and a special operations freak. He always had one of those novels by that ex navy seal commando guy who had put together some sort of elite team of the best assault troopers ever. There’s a computer game as well. Anyway, I’m sure there are some pointers I could get from him, Travis, not the navy seal guy. All I would need is to show him the hardware and he’ll just want to use it. Then there isnt anything you cant get from a book these days, or the internet for that matter. So I can see their bad breath through this sight. Sweet. Thin cross hairs calibrated perfectly to the ratio of wind vs. distance, all I have to do is click here or there and I know the shot will hit its mark. I would have to do some hard thinking on who should be taken out. Beforehand of course, but I feel like it would come to me once I have them under my sight. Off handedly I think it would be him, being the patriarch and all. Although being the dimwit he is, maybe knocking her out would be best. This would doom his dumb ass to raise the kids by himself. Its like a labotomy to him. I would take his brain away. But then again, she is such a cunt he would probably thank me. He looked half way to killing her himself at times. Always under her thumb, I felt sorry for him. Its his own fault though, who told him to marry that hag? No, it would have to be him, this would curse her to raise the children by herself. To raise them traumatized from seeing their father’s brains spread over the burgers on the grill. Not to mention raising them as she herself is traumatized. Sweet. I would have to pick just the right moment. A moment when he’s holding one of the kids in his arms, or both, and he goes to get a kiss from her. Now that’s unlikely, so it would have to be a moment when I know she’s at least looking at him. Or all of them are looking at him. I could get one of those equally cool stand alone sights that can see a wider range of the area so I can see them as a group. The rifle sight would only target one at a time. Cool. That’s it though, no more gear. I would have to dump the gun there. Let the cops find it, its better that way, less ties to me. Expensive give away but whatever. It would be too obvious to carry it out of the park, or off the rooftop. Too big. Too long. Of course it’ll have a silencer too. This will afford me the time to escape being that they wont know the direction in which the shot came from. Ideally I could hope only to have his back to me and he, facing the family. Ooh, I could acquire their cell number somehow, not hard to do, and call them when the moment is juuust right, ask him if he answers, I introduce myself first of course, just say, hi Carlos, remember Daniel Mendez? Then ask him to look at his family, and ffffffffffffptck. Brains everywhere. Or, if she answers, ask her the same question, if she remembers the name, my identity being changed by then of course. Hmm, maybe not, way too much effort there, so maybe I’ll just say hello and ask her to pass the phone to him. He can know who it is because hey, the only way he’s gonna spread the knowledge is by sharing his brain cells a second later. Yeah, thats the better scenario, so she hand the phone to him and hey, yada yada, and ffffffffffffffpchtck. I look through the other scope for a second. Enjoy the reaction. Then get up and move out.

What fun.

In real life, I move on. As far and as fast as life will allow someone to move on from as many things at the same time that I am attempting to move on from.


Theres no doubting somethings going on inside me…. There are whirlwinds of doubt regression, madness … I write I write I don’t even look up to edit I don’t know what it is I feel. I want out of me… away, I want to be no where. I want to be thinner than air so you cannot find me …

Peer pressure.

Bajando694ever [1:49 PM]:               it’s a a dope day what are you doing home?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:50 PM]:              had to download winzip to finally open the pics

 Bajando694ever [1:50 PM]:              ok

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:50 PM]:              standing here about to shower but talking to myself about Lauren

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:50 PM]:              i wish i could hit her in the face with a cverbal pie

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:50 PM]:              verbal

 Bajando694ever [1:51 PM]:              dude, it’s not even worth your time and energy

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:51 PM]:              wish i could respond to er stupid as

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:51 PM]:              ass

 Bajando694ever [1:51 PM]:              you don’t need too respond at all

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:51 PM]:              one day she’ll get a response

 Bajando694ever [1:51 PM]:              thats the beauty of, no need for it

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:52 PM]:              i wish i could just say, you deserve the unhappiness that you feel in order to make you write to me what you did

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:53 PM]:              u read the e mails, its like she just exploded after she couldnt get a rise out of me

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:54 PM]:              she’s too stupid, i mean really not smart enough to figure out that i havent  responded because she has to be treated with caution right now… because she really isnt worth it

 Bajando694ever [1:54 PM]:              well thats your satisfaction

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:54 PM]:              one day though, i’l make myself known

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:55 PM]:              she’ll get the peice of my mind i am holding back

 Bajando694ever [1:56 PM]:              but the best thing about this whole thing is that you don’t have to anything 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:57 PM]:              i dont like it when idiots think they have the upper hand

 Bajando694ever [1:57 PM]:              thats what i’m trying to point out, she doesn’t

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:57 PM]:              she thinks she does

 Bajando694ever [1:58 PM]:              let her think what she wants

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:58 PM]:              no

 Bajando694ever [1:58 PM]:              i don’t get you

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:58 PM]:              one day i’ll let her know how petty she is

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:58 PM]:              she thinks i havent responded … why?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:58 PM]:              because why?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:00 PM]:              she’s a spoiled jap east side bitch who has it all handed to her by asking daddy for it, she’s bitter and lonely and she needs to face it, and one day i’ll slap her in the face ith it

 Bajando694ever [2:00 PM]:              because you 2 are no longer together and ok thats that, so you’re moving on wioth your life, why would want to let her know anything it doesn’t mean anything, you’re done , you both went your ways and good ridance

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:00 PM]:              good ridance is all i would want to say to her

 Bajando694ever [2:00 PM]:              so what?  what does that have anything to do with you now?  nothing at all

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:01 PM]:              at least that

 Bajando694ever [2:01 PM]:              it’s like you got rid of her but you still feel like you have stuff to say , it makes no sense

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:02 PM]:              i hate her fake bullshit spoiled attitude

 Bajando694ever [2:02 PM]:              but hse’s longer a concern to you, so even talk to her or respond. it’s like whatever

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:02 PM]:              i wanna say fuck you in such a big way, she hits the wall of reality and wakes up

 Bajando694ever [2:03 PM]:              you’re not going to wake nothing up

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:03 PM]:              watch

 Bajando694ever [2:04 PM]:              i don’t get that, i would be like i’m not with her for whatever reason and ok well i guess theres no need to say anymore to her ever.  no matter what stupid remarks she has , i would know what the truth is and thats  that

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:05 PM]:              i have the need to make things right in me, i cant walk away from certain injustices i guess

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:05 PM]:              i beleive wrong do-ers should be punished

 Bajando694ever [2:06 PM]:              right?  what are you going to make right?  it’s not llike you’re trying to reconcile 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:06 PM]:              or at least have their faces pushed into a mirror so they can see what shits they really are

 Bajando694ever [2:06 PM]:              fuck that , what are you a judge amd jury for people

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:06 PM]:              i dont think people should be able to get away with shit like that

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:06 PM]:              i dont deserve what she wrote

 Bajando694ever [2:07 PM]:              but thats my point she’s not getting away with anything at all, if anything you’re the one with the upper hand because you no longer need this person in your life

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:07 PM]:              i deserve better than that, and since she tried to hurt me rather than be a respectful person like i was, i’m gonna fuck her and fuck her good

 Bajando694ever [2:07 PM]:              fuck what she wrote, what does it mean?  absolutley nothing

 Bajando694ever [2:08 PM]:              again my point comes out, you deserve better So you no longer have to deal with anything 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:08 PM]:              evry one she knows is going to know its her i write about in my book, but she will not be able to prove a damn thing because her name wil be changed and the details will all be slightly off

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:09 PM]:              she’s gonna get hers in a big way

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:09 PM]:              new york is going to know shes the bitch who was written in that book

 Bajando694ever [2:10 PM]:              dude , you hold on to these insignificant things, your life would be alot simpler if you just let go o9f all the wack experiences

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:10 PM]:              she’s gonna have to stick her head so far between her legs to get over that humiliation

 Bajando694ever [2:10 PM]:              does that make your life any better , i mean really

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:11 PM]:              nah man, if it was you being done wrong maybe you could just let it go, but no one does that to me man, same as those fuckin fucks in corona, one day theyll get thiers

 Bajando694ever [2:11 PM]:              thats a differnent story, that deserves something

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:11 PM]:              i would respect her if she would say, ok, when it gets here i’ll mail it… but to come off like that?

 Bajando694ever [2:11 PM]:              .but i girl and B.S. talk cmon3

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:12 PM]:              knowing she has the power to say fuck you and keep the money, after i spent a yr and 1/2 spending on her already…

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:12 PM]:              fuck her

 Bajando694ever [2:12 PM]:              but you don’t have respect her, it’s not really going to make you or break you if you don’t

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:12 PM]:              shes gonna get it 10 times as bad

 Bajando694ever [2:13 PM]:              she’s not going to keep anything 

 Bajando694ever [2:13 PM]:              she responded to me and thats that

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:13 PM]:              shes sittin on her fat ass thinking , let him say anything so i can tell him to fuck off and keep the money

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:13 PM]:              watch

 Bajando694ever [2:14 PM]:              thats not true

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:14 PM]:              petty bitch, she’s gonna regret not being more adult about it

 Bajando694ever [2:14 PM]:              it’s me and her ,, about the money now

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:14 PM]:              my wrath is gonna be so wide and far reaching

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:14 PM]:              watch

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:15 PM]:              you know how she’s gonna feel seeing me on the best seller list… like a fuckin asshole

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:15 PM]:              and if i write one specifically inspired by her…

 Bajando694ever [2:15 PM]:              why do you care? what she thinks at all?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:15 PM]:              BANG!

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:15 PM]:              a big FUCK YOU heard over a million miles

 Bajando694ever [2:16 PM]:              she is no longer a part of your life, she is invisible

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:16 PM]:              money in the bank and her bitter regret is all she’ll have to live with

 Bajando694ever [2:16 PM]:              she should be is my point

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:16 PM]:              nope, people like that are everywhere unfortunately

 Bajando694ever [2:16 PM]:              she might not give a fuck what you do with your self

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:16 PM]:              and this one did the wrong thing to the wrong guy

 Bajando694ever [2:16 PM]:              not even give you a second thought

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:17 PM]:              she will when she recieves a copy of the book

 Bajando694ever [2:17 PM]:              it doesn’t compute

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:17 PM]:              you dont feel what i feel

 Bajando694ever [2:17 PM]:              i’ve been through worse 

 Bajando694ever [2:17 PM]:              she’s a girlfriend you have

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:17 PM]:              and when she recieves copies of the reviews and the best selling book charts and the articles on me, rub it in her face

 Bajando694ever [2:18 PM]:              when that happened to me i was pissed to all hell, but never would i give any of them the satisfaction of seeing me give a fuck

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:18 PM]:              no, i loved that idiot, and i loved her alot, and i dont deserve what she wrote

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:19 PM]:              she deserves to know at least that she is who she is and she’s truly petty and pathetic

 Bajando694ever [2:20 PM]:              i don’t think that any of that will help your life in anyway what so ever

 Bajando694ever [2:20 PM]:              in the big scheme of ones life

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:20 PM]:              i dont let shit go like that, if i did, i would be less of a person, and i’m not, it’ll help i assure you, it will be the righting of a wrong

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:21 PM]:              something that will prove that not everyone can get away with doing the wrong thing

 Bajando694ever [2:21 PM]:              i loved my ex that i lived with and she totally crushed me, but from that day of doom i would never ever give in to that shit, saying anything would have been 

 Bajando694ever [2:21 PM]:              my down fall

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:21 PM]:              thats good for you, if it works, good

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:21 PM]:              not me

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:22 PM]:              when i would be successful in life and love, i would make sure they know they lost out if they did me wrong

 Bajando694ever [2:23 PM]:              like always you will do what you want… but when you get a chance not now maybe kater or some other time, think about how this will improve your life 

 Bajando694ever [2:23 PM]:              i really believe it’s not worth your precious time and energy

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:23 PM]:              i need to egt to the gym, enough talkin about it, these pics are downloading, … i hope i neve rlet it go, because it will feel fuvkin great to make shit right one day

 Bajando694ever [2:23 PM]:              i really do

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:24 PM]:              its worth it, it’ll feel fuckin great

 Bajando694ever [2:24 PM]:              for the time being, but i doubt it will do anything for

 Bajando694ever [2:24 PM]:              but what the hell

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:25 PM]:              it’ll do a great thing, it’ll feel great

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:25 PM]:              vindication

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:25 PM]:              look it up

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:25 PM]:              thats what its all about

 Bajando694ever [2:25 PM]:              it’s a waste of your time and to much effort

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:25 PM]:              nope

 Bajando694ever [2:25 PM]:              i know what the word means 

 Bajando694ever [2:26 PM]:              but she’s agirlfriend you had thats it

 Bajando694ever [2:26 PM]:              yes you had feelings but who hasn’t been hurt

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:26 PM]:              sorry, she was more than that

 Bajando694ever [2:27 PM]:              your life is bigger than that

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:27 PM]:              dude, if that generalization works , cool , but i hear it and it does nothing for me

 Bajando694ever [2:27 PM]:              what ? she was the one?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:27 PM]:              its big thats right

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:27 PM]:              so shit like this will not be forgotten

 Bajando694ever [2:28 PM]:              if she was the one , none of this would have happened .. get it

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:28 PM]:              take it easy man, 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:28 PM]:              who said she was the one?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:28 PM]:              wjhat is the one?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:28 PM]:              no one is the one?

 Bajando694ever [2:28 PM]:              i thought thats what you said

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:28 PM]:              in this life theres more than one man

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:29 PM]:              too many people on earth to be a one

 Bajando694ever [2:29 PM]:              well than thats what i’m talking about

 Bajando694ever [2:29 PM]:              she was one 

 Bajando694ever [2:29 PM]:              of the many

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:29 PM]:              ask those people who are widowed and they re-marry, who do they re marry? the “two”

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:29 PM]:              lol

 Bajando694ever [2:29 PM]:              get over it, she hurt you ok  fuck her, let her say what she wants

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:29 PM]:              the one is just the one you choose , tats it

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:30 PM]:              nah, theres right, and theres wrong, what she did, what shes doing is wrong

 Bajando694ever [2:30 PM]:              you know who you are 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:30 PM]:              and one day she’ll suffer whatever she suffers for how wriong she did in this time of her life

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:31 PM]:              i do, and i’ll reap the benefit of he r wrong one day, thatll be her bitterness

 Bajando694ever [2:31 PM]:              i believe that totally, but you don’t have to waste anymore time saying,doing,writing, to this girl

 Bajando694ever [2:31 PM]:              what goes around comes around

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:32 PM]:              i’m not, i have to hold back for 500 bucks

 Bajando694ever [2:32 PM]:              if you believe in that what comes around goes around… you don’t have to do a damn thing, 

 Bajando694ever [2:33 PM]:              people who do wrong will get theres and yoiu wouldn’t have to do a thing

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:33 PM]:              its gonna come around, maybe i wont have to lift a finger, maybe the press will do it for me, maybe one day i’ll run into her and she’ll come out her face and be all nice and i’ll reach in my pocket without saying a word and i’ll hand her a little 34 cent stamp and walk away… on the back it’ll say fuck you too

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:34 PM]:              and thats gonna be good enough

 Bajando694ever [2:34 PM]:              ok

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:35 PM]:              maybe in the book i’ll take all this we typed and i’ll add it to the other shit I have stored away and publish the whole thing so she feels like an ass worth of shit when she sees how i spoke of her

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:35 PM]:              how love turned to fuck you because of her stupid handling of the situationm

 Bajando694ever [2:36 PM]:              ok perfect, she’s not worth you mentioning her at all,  we just happen to be having a discussion

 Bajando694ever [2:36 PM]:              thats another good point

 Bajando694ever [2:36 PM]:              don’t waste your time Dee

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:37 PM]:              how the success i reap from it will make her wish she handled it better and was by my side to reap the benefits, but how bitter the truth that because of her stupidity, she helped make it all possible

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:38 PM]:              anyway, i gotta go, lemme hit the gym

 Bajando694ever [2:38 PM]:              later

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:38 PM]:              all this isnt a waste, its all fuel fior the fire thats gonna light up my future

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:38 PM]:              later

More peer pressure…

JohnBlazeforlife [1:03 PM]:                what are you doing?

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:04 PM]:               you want to meet at 74th st tonight , we’ll take them pics

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:04 PM]:               ??

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:04 PM]:              chatting wit bitches, yo i think i saw that columbian slut that answered my personal from around here

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:04 PM]:               you probably did

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:05 PM]:              yo, but the thing is, … she’s a fuckin blazing hard on type bitch!!! yo

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:05 PM]:              i didnt have any idea till i saw her face fromn that angle in the pic

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:05 PM]:               what doe sthat mean?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:05 PM]:              she was BAAAAAAAD

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:05 PM]:               oh 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:06 PM]:               but again you don’t say anything

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:06 PM]:               whats wrong with you

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:07 PM]:              dude i didnt realize till later

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:07 PM]:              take it easy, u want me to jump on bithces left and right

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:08 PM]:               and why not

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:08 PM]:              i was going to court for god sake

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:08 PM]:               you would lots and lots of fun 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:09 PM]:               you wouldn’t have said anything anyway

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:09 PM]:              fuck you

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:09 PM]:               no not me them

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:11 PM]:               you will do as you please, but the way you describe these chicks , seems like your letting them pass and for no apparent reason

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:11 PM]:               just my opinion

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:12 PM]:               go get them asses NIGGA!

go get them asses NIGGA !

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:14 PM]:              yup, and you should have seen the ones i see on the train and in the street that i let go too

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:15 PM]:              i just am not there for it man

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:15 PM]:              i dont feel it

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:15 PM]:              i’m horny, but that doesnt make me motivated man

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:15 PM]:              i am not some fuckin animal who 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:15 PM]:              does what his dick tells him to do

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:15 PM]:               ahh don’t give me that shit, we’re talking about girls that have seen you and replied to your ad because they like what they see and that you’ve talked too

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:16 PM]:              fuck you , give you that shit, i’m telling you i aint fuckin ready, you want me to go out with these bitches and what? sit there not interested?

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:16 PM]:               is that what you call it? ” being an animal”  how about being human

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:17 PM]:              look at them across a teble and ask myself what the fuck am i doing here?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:17 PM]:              i’m not interested, motivated , whatever, its not there

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:17 PM]:              thats it

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:18 PM]:               like i said , do what you want, but you’re saying this like you have already met these chicks and you know that theres no interest

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:19 PM]:              i saaw this bitch live, if thats her, i am interested in seeing if there can be some sex, she has got a fuckin bad ass body

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:19 PM]:              as far as anything else, i like this brazilian chick, she seems noce and sincere but not too much on the beayuty side

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:20 PM]:               dude , this isn’t some sort of commitment, whats wrong with just having fun with it

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:21 PM]:               meet them and if you don’t like or they don’t like then thats that next 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:21 PM]:               it’s A VERY NORMAL THING

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:22 PM]:               i’m not trying to tell you what you “should” be doing but , it’s fun to meet chicks and have some fun with the whole thing

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:22 PM]:               doesn’t have to be this whole thing

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:22 PM]:               about it

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:24 PM]:              i dont like wasting time and money on shit thats not even close to workin out

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:25 PM]:               workin out?! whats that??

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:25 PM]:               as far as money you don’t have to spend al that much money

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:25 PM]:               and if you did you’d be doing something you enjoy anyway

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:26 PM]:               Movies,eating etc etc.

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:26 PM]:              WHAT? nigga first, come into the real world, … dating costs money

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:26 PM]:              40 here 40 there, for what?

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:27 PM]:               dude just meeting these chicks won’t cost you shit , you know what i’m talking about

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:27 PM]:              then if they dont have their own place, 50 more ofr a hotel if it even gets there

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:27 PM]:              maaan, i need to know its workin to a certain extent first

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:27 PM]:               but you’re going ahead of the whole initial meeting 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:27 PM]:               meeting 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:27 PM]:               meeting

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:27 PM]:               meeting

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:27 PM]:               get it?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:28 PM]:              dude, theres a lot you can find out about a chick before the fuckin meeting man

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:28 PM]:               workin?! what are you talking about?!

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:28 PM]:              you can know enough to know if you even want to look deeper

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:28 PM]:               not on no damn comouter you won’t

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:28 PM]:               computer

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:28 PM]:              like this chick from brooklyn who played herself with me the other night

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:28 PM]:              she is stupid

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:29 PM]:               you can see expressions are shit like that

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:29 PM]:              so i know i am not doing much there

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:29 PM]:              man, whgats in the head is important, expressions lie

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:30 PM]:               you pay attention to my exact words too much

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:30 PM]:               check this out…………

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:30 PM]:              plus, you get into hangin out, its easier to let physical shit influence you, and i want to know what type of PERSON 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:30 PM]:                i am dealing with first

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:31 PM]:              if i were just about ass, then it would be like you want it to be

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:31 PM]:              but unfortunately i dont function like that

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:31 PM]:              i’m more complex

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:31 PM]:              i dont want to be, i just am

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:31 PM]:               can i ask why you concentrate on things like that?  how about going with the flow.. it’s like you put rules on 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:32 PM]:              and i’m bad enough dealing with it, i dontr need to make it worse by trying to be what i’m not

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:32 PM]:              now if i see a bitch and i dont feel like talkinhg, i dont

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:32 PM]:              its unfortunate, but if the inspiration isnt htere it isnt, so what am i going to do, guiolt myself? force myself?

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:32 PM]:               but what you don’t understand is that sometimes with certain girls thats what it’s about ass and with some it’s something esle

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:33 PM]:               not all girls that you meet have to be some sort of ill connection, thats just the way it happens for “people” in general

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:35 PM]:              what you dont understand is that i am not an “in general” mother fucker

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:35 PM]:              sometimes i wish i was, 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:35 PM]:              but i’m not

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:36 PM]:              so do i fight it and be something i’m not?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:36 PM]:              or do i just deal with it

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:36 PM]:              ?

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:36 PM]:               we all have our own way of being

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:36 PM]:              which one?

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:36 PM]:               Live Life 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:36 PM]:               be happy 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:36 PM]:               meet chicks, 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:36 PM]:               some work some don’t

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:37 PM]:               and you don’t have to change your views abotu anything

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:37 PM]:               some what to just fuck 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:37 PM]:               s9ome like to hang out and fuck

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:37 PM]:               some want to be freinds

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:38 PM]:               and all this has nothing to do with your “ungeneralness”

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:38 PM]:              i am living life, i’m not happy, i’ll meet the chicks i think are good enough to bother with when i am ready, some will work, some wont, thats right, and i’ll still be me, who i am and better off for being me and not who other people think i should be

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:38 PM]:               so thats why i say, just meet these chicks and have fun with it

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:39 PM]:               i don’t think you should be anything, be what you want to be,   but when i talk to you it just seems like “nah i don’t want to meet these chicks because it’s not right” 

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:39 PM]:               thats kind of crazy

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:40 PM]:              why the FUCK IS THAT CRAZY dude?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:40 PM]:              thsts crazy that you say that, lol

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:40 PM]:              if its not right, its not right? itr doesnt feel right

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:41 PM]:              theres nothing i can do?

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:41 PM]:               because you are a young,goodlooking dude,and you have no kids and your chillin (weel you know what i mean) it just doiesn’t make sense to me

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:41 PM]:              its from the heart form the gut from the head, it just doesnt feel right?

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:42 PM]:               do you want to get serious with every girl you meet?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:42 PM]:              i now i know, and thank you and youre right, but its bad enough i tell myself these things and i see the women there and i just dont feel the motivation to do anything about it, theres nothing i can do but to ride it out, it;l fade soon enough

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:43 PM]:              i had more on my mind yesterday than today, i feel better that this case is over and i can put it behind me

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:43 PM]:               huh?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:43 PM]:              no, i dont NEED to get serious, but if its possible, it would be good

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:43 PM]:              i am more motivated by substance than material

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:44 PM]:               IF perfect that you use that word

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:44 PM]:              quality over quantity

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:44 PM]:               it’s not about material

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:44 PM]:               so is it possible that you meet someone of quality and substance and she still “just ” wants to fuck you and nothing else?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:45 PM]:              maybe, i dont know

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:45 PM]:               well it is

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:45 PM]:               i’m telling it is

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:46 PM]:              all i know is i have a couple close options, one i would like to do really nasty things to, and one seems like a nice girl who may like me too much, and theres this other pest from jersey online now that i think likes me but i dont think i like her that much, 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:46 PM]:              thats all i know

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:49 PM]:               ok, i’m done

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:49 PM]:              youre a funny muther fucker, but i love you just the same

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:50 PM]:               i love you too, but why ain’t i laughing

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:52 PM]:               yo, so you want to meet at 74th tonight so i can take some pics of you so you can show these girls that you don

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:52 PM]:              i dunno, listen, i give myself grief no one ever gets to hear over why i am not like some “normal” guy all the time, maybe i’m shy, maybe i’m sensitive, maybe this that and the oither thing, bottom line is i am who i am, and as long as i am this way, i have to just be this way, i cant fight it, if i do, i will be even less happy

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:52 PM]:               t meet

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:52 PM]:              sure

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:54 PM]:               ok i’ll take some pics and you can show them to the chicks you won’t meet

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:55 PM]:              faggot

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:55 PM]:               you’re a faggot

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:55 PM]:              i’m a transvestite, know the difference

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:56 PM]:               you know how many girls i met doing that shit

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:56 PM]:              all of which you dont need

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:56 PM]:               i didn’t think twice, i didn’t have all those issues you have

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:56 PM]:               well i wouldn’t know that if didn;’t meet them

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:56 PM]:               but i had fun with alot of them

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:57 PM]:               thats my point about this whole thing that i met them and i didn’t think about none that stuff

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:57 PM]:               i was just meeting a girl thats it

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:57 PM]:               i’ll take it from there

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:58 PM]:               alot of good storys

 Gettn2old4thiSht [1:58 PM]:              i dont need stories, i write them

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:58 PM]:               but i know . you’re different

 JohnBlazeforlife [1:58 PM]:               yes you do

 JohnBlazeforlife [2:00 PM]:               yo’ i’ll call you later

 JohnBlazeforlife [2:00 PM]:               i should get toi work

 Gettn2old4thiSht [2:01 PM]:              k

 JohnBlazeforlife [2:01 PM]:               later, Don Juan Di Marco


This is what I should be getting. I should have so many of these piling up around me yet I don’t. Now it’s become harder than ever to create what I need to. The occasion to sit here and put down my thoughts is something as rare as the most rare species. Something thought to be extinct if not remembered and reminisced on. Something heard of in adjacent conversations you’re not invited to participate in. Something fleeting, almost escaping me, something like, reaching for that hand as the body goes over the cliff of lost opportunity. I will have to reach and grasp that last little bit of the hand that feeds me so to speak. I will do this as I see that last look in the eye of someone doomed to their fate.


That look of hopelessness and resignation in the eyes of my work finds me doing all the labor of pulling it back in. Which is perfectly fine with me. I in turn find its that way that I get my best work done, when my back is up against the wall. I feel better knowing the demons are all approaching from the front and not sneaking up from the rear. This way I can at least see where the blood is drawn and not have to wonder where I hurt from like so many times before. A metaphor for what psychological damage has been done to me, I wouldn’t know where I was hurt, or from where I bled, I would just know what I felt. The end result of an unknown sum of things, a sense of defeat, an inexplicable fatigue looms over me. Whatever, the point being that somehow in that fucked up state I found some sort of strange comfort.

Maybe from the overly familiar, maybe from what’s been driven into me like ages worn into stone. Maybe its just become what I know as they say, but I seem to need the solitude. The unsettlement. The feeling of being alone in the world. My own personal angst.

Put that way it doesn’t seem so strange I guess, also robbing me of something that way, I feel. A never ending cycle. There is no purge. No relief in confession. Admission. If I report, then what? What but a few words to occupy your neurons momentarily have I provided? Lets not go there. I might actually succeed in justifying the entire elimination of all motivation.      Some things are better left unsaid. Undiscovered. Territories too dark for man to venture. The price of satiating curiosity, too high. Too costly the wounds of such an expedition. So am i. Something to be left alone I suppose. There in lies my bliss. And to finally outgrow the wrappings of peer pressure, societal pressure, to be one and the same, to try and fit in, not to be so different is such a release. A freedom. To know these things about myself and to be comfortable with them. For so long I’ve known the sickness, but not the cure. Or at least the treatment, since there may never be a cure. And to that add the knowledge that in this world there are so many people of so many backgrounds with so many combinations of parents and upbringings, the knowledge that in order to know enough, you must first accept and know, you will never know it all… I surmise from all of that, that I am not alone. There must be others. The odds are slim, but they are there. We are all here. Alone. Some still uncomfortable with it, but some, like me, finally putting enough of the puzzle together, having discarded the pieces that didn’t fit, but were forced into place in order to make some sort of picture that resembled the “norm”, are now snugly tucked in our skins. Content. For now.


(Gettn2old4thisht is me)

BoingyBaby214 [11:49 AM]:               happy 4th 😉

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:50 AM]:            thank you, u too

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:50 AM]:            your home?

 BoingyBaby214 [11:50 AM]:              yupe   (Why she says “yup” and adds the “e” at the end, I don’t know)

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:50 AM]:            i didnt even realize till late yesterday 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:50 AM]:            that it was independence day today

 BoingyBaby214 [11:51 AM]:              that’s what i thought

 BoingyBaby214 [11:51 AM]:              how r u? did you make it 2 the dmv?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:51 AM]:            yes, got the permit, lol

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:51 AM]:            again my friend john gives me shit though 

 BoingyBaby214 [11:51 AM]:              😀 that’s great!

 BoingyBaby214 [11:51 AM]:              whys that?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:52 AM]:            because he says i should ask my mother for driving lessons and stuff, and i respond, it isnt really that important to me, if my brother hadnt gone, i woulndt have bothered

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:52 AM]:            then he asks why am i so resistant to it

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:53 AM]:            and i go , ok, here we go again

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:53 AM]:            he hated that i said tha tlast comment

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:53 AM]:            lol

 BoingyBaby214 [11:54 AM]:              so he feels that you should have it has a priority?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:54 AM]:            and i clarified, feeling sort of silly, i mean i am almost 30, getting a permit? i am going to ask my MOM for driving lessons??

 BoingyBaby214 [11:54 AM]:              HA

 BoingyBaby214 [11:54 AM]:              is it cuz it’s ur mom?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:54 AM]:            i clarified, i didnt say i was resistent, i merely said it was like whatever to me

 BoingyBaby214 [11:55 AM]:              hey, i’ll give you lessons man

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:55 AM]:            well i am a man already and this is something i just didnt do as a kid, so i relly dont care too much for it 

 BoingyBaby214 [11:55 AM]:              do u think u may enjoy the play once u get started?

 BoingyBaby214 [11:56 AM]:              i didn’t get my liscense until about 20 and i had sort of the same viewpoint

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:56 AM]:            i’m not gonna ask my mom, thats for sure, i mean it was long ago, and i shouldnt feel resentment, but the reason i didnt get a permit at age 16 was because she broke a promise to me

 BoingyBaby214 [11:57 AM]:              i had flunked my first one cus 1. the guy was an a-hole 2. i still had too much resistance on my bestfriends passing away

 BoingyBaby214 [11:57 AM]:              r u still holding her accountable 4 that?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:58 AM]:            well she is, but i dont care, i just dont want it from her, y’know? i wouold rather it have nothing to do with her

 BoingyBaby214 [11:58 AM]:              hey, i gottcha

 Gettn2old4thiSht [11:59 AM]:            i was an impressionable kid and she hurt me with what she did, it sort of made our relationship worse on a whole other level back then

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:00 PM]:            you dont promise a kid that if he passes his classes, busts his ass to do so, i was never academically profficeint, that you will let him have the car you say your going to junk anyway, then when i did pass, she claimed she never promised a thing

 BoingyBaby214 [12:01 PM]:              of course, a child’s bound w/ their parent is incredible and we are either 1. ones that will deny our parents faults and figure it out later 2. call it the way it is at that time – either way, parents have a huge responsibility – a constant interview process to be accepted and not screw-up and if they do, to make ammends, if they don’t – oh moy are they in trouble! 

 BoingyBaby214 [12:02 PM]:              Oh my goodness, that’s awful!  not even knowing that can define your future level of trusst with others, let along a loss of tremendous disrespect for her

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:03 PM]:            but we were poor, or so i thought till i found thousands of dollars hidden away one time, and she realized she could get money for the old car, so of course, she didnt remember a promise… so i said the hell with it and never bothered to get a licence or anything, shortly there after i had much bigger worries anyway

 BoingyBaby214 [12:03 PM]:              have u ever let her know all that’s happened w/in u?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:03 PM]:            what good would it do

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:03 PM]:            shes old, she knows shes made mistakes i dont need to re hash it all 

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:04 PM]:            that would be selfish and vindictive of me

 BoingyBaby214 [12:05 PM]:              i’m not meaning to rehash it – or have it as a arguement of any sort, merely a conversation that acknowledges what happened at that time AND also validating what has happened lately – I completely agree with ur statement “selfish and vindictive” until I did it myself w/ my mom

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:06 PM]:            after a certain age or time period, what other people do to you ceases to become a matter of accountability, instead its your own resposability, because now its you alone who carries it with you by choice, its up to you , or rather me now to learn how to let it go or live with it, i have no one to blame but myself if i cant do that… i understand what youre saying though no need to worry about it

 BoingyBaby214 [12:07 PM]:              it happened as i never imagined and most importantly, oddly enough, it released SO MUCH CHARGE for ME, and deep down inside i think it felt better for my moms to let her know, hey i know ur not perfect, u know ur not, let’s stop fronting all the time because guess what – I LOVE YOU ANYWAY – then i withdrew for a bit, left some breathng room and it’s quiet hard to pinpoint exactly what has changed but the relationship is a lot purer and real now – she also respects me more

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:07 PM]:            i can see how hearing her say shes sorry might heal me in a way but to get to that point will be an ugly hurtful process and i relly dont want to do that to her, shes older, shes my mom, i love her regardless and well, i know her, so i know it wouldnt be like 1 conversation and thats it 

 BoingyBaby214 [12:10 PM]:              i understand.  please note also, i never mentioned for her to apologize, nor getting anything from her but a mere acknowledgement. i do understand your position.  i tend to be more cold harded w/ my mom and just dove for it, she needs to learn to take more responsibility – it’s a major downfall

 BoingyBaby214 [12:12 PM]:              so do u want lessons?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:14 PM]:            i understand, and maybe a few years ago i felt the same, i actually did, but there came a point where i started thinking of her differently, maybe one day youll look at your mom,and we being all human, and temporary, youll see that she is only that, and she wont always be there, so i feel all this shit internally but would i rather sit my mom down and make her cry  because she should be accountable? because yes she should, or would i rather give her a iss on the cheek adn tell her i love her, i think the la

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:14 PM]:            tter because she wont be around for ever

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:16 PM]:            and one day, when shes gone and all her energy disperses or whatever happens to souls, she will know all i fel and all i was put through and how the sligthest thing she did in my youth may have affected me profoundly enough to influence my life for years to come

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:16 PM]:            but also, she will know i had no need of making her pay more than her own concious surely makes her pay for it now

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:17 PM]:            lessons?

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:17 PM]:            iiiii dunno

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:17 PM]:            its like whatever

 Gettn2old4thiSht [12:17 PM]:            lol

The far end of the ring.


I feel nothing. I am empty. I am a shell of the human being I was, not long ago. Or rather the one I was not, long ago. Or the one I was, not long, long ago. I have no empathy towards others. No matter the situation or circumstance. I am shut down. I am not home. This is a shell. An empty house. Do not disturb sign on the knob. Vacancy. Vacant. Dead. Living dead. Without life. Vampire. I can draw no blood from my wounds. I am dry. Heaving to cough up something worth something. But nothing. Nothing worth nothing. Worth anything.

I get this way now after speaking to Lauren. I am tired of the person I love but cannot be with. By choice. I cannot do this anymore and it makes me something without life. It stops me. It halts my momentum. It brings me to a dead end and I sit there staring at the sign. It stares back. And its good. Its better at it than I am. But still I stare. In the darkness at the end of the street. Alone. I do not feel the cold around me. Gas has run out of the car. Monoxide all around me and I do not care. I do not breathe. Windows up, windows down, I do not know. I do not feel the cold. I am toxic. I am a void in the space which I occupy. The air passes through me. The wind mocks my existance. I am non-existant. The car is non existant. The street does not exist. It is all figurative. I am figurative. Not literal in any sense of the word. Should I regress to the rant on bones? I am invisible. I am nothing to see. I see nothing. I would do nothing, should I see it done. Right. Wrong. I do not discern. I do not even observe. I do nothing. I am not here. I am away. I am numb.

I cant do the repetitious power struggle thing anymore. I cant stomach it anymore. I do not want the stomach should I have to stomach it. Remove the stomach. Take the stomach. Donate the fucking stomach. Next time, I cannot help you, I have no stomach for which to hold your stomachables, thank you. I cant listen anymore to the countless different themes and issues brought to the table and repeat again the same things I have said since I took the initiative over two months ago leaving her. Again I have to say the same words all over again. Again I have to remind her that I left for certain reasons and I am not taking one single backsliding step towards that past relationship or any future one unless the issues are faced head on and dealt with. So again I have to hear every god damn other thing come out of her mouth, a mouth that I loved with all my heart, but one that not one fucking issue that had to deal with anything at all to do with my discontent at being mistreated and neglected comes out of. All issues were hers. Only hers. The power struggle. We shall not deal with issues you say need dealing with Daniel. However relevant. We shall deal with issues I say need to be dealt with. Only those issues I say need be dealt with Daniel are dealable issues. How was your day? What did you do? How is everything? I miss you, I love you, when can we see each other? Come over why don’t you? These are my issues. Then we shall subvert, circumvent, set aside, and forget your issues as you will be passified in the meaningless bliss of the relationship you once had before dear Daniel.

Until I fucking wake up and smell the coffee again, wondering what the hell ever happened to the issues I wanted dealt with, and this is where it always got interesting. I bring them up, the issues, my issues, and we regress into the Lauren must incite Daniel mode, I respond, therefore giving her the reason she needs to call me a monster and proceeds to leaving me.

Only this time, I didn’t come back.

Do you know what it is to be dearly in love with someone and have to come to terms with the fact that in a year and a half they have not had the consideration, love or respect to make the smallest sincere effort in at least demonstrating they could possibly, probably, maybe, slightly try to show that they even were receptive or tried to understand in the very least what it was you were explaining you needed in order to function further within this relationship that meant so much to you? Do you know what it is to have to decide, that against your feelings of adoration for this person that you have to face the fact that in that same amount of time they haven’t been able to, for the love between you, face and put the most miniscule fraction of effort behind your request? Do you know what it is to know this after debating it with yourself for so long? To come to terms with it and decide, and know your decision is an inevitable and inescapable one? Your decision, to leave that person you love so, so very, very much? Do you know what it is? Does anyone know what that feels like? Does anyone understand that its like making yourself unhappier because you are presently unhappy in the situation you’re in but you love this person and for moments in time they do inspire joy in your heart like no other person has ever inspired, but you know you cannot be neglected like this for one more day. Not one more hour. Not one more minute, second, fraction of a second, millisecond, nanosecond. Just no more. And you know you love this person more than anyone you’ve ever loved, if I didn’t mention that already? But you know you have to leave them. But you don’t want to leave them. You love them. But they don’t love you enough to try and be affectionate to you the way you are to them.

Just to try?

At least to deal with the issue of affection?

Instead they avoid. They agree and forget. They say they understand and then they set aside. They deny. They defend. They argue. They build walls. They resist imaginary confrontations and contradict imaginary expectations. They begin a power struggle campaign to spite your pointing out  their flaw. Instead of, from the heart, from their love for you, opening up that same heart, and allowing themselves to love you in new ways. If unfamiliar ways, then experimental ways, affectionate ways. Ways that would benefit us both. She, for giving something she knows not the joy of giving, and me for having returned what I’ve for so long been giving. Instead of anything positive for the relationship, they do what they did do. They resist. They hold back.

Until over time, and countless attempts at reaching them beyond their auto defense mechanisms, in order to plea for the life of your love with the person, they force you to come to the decision of leaving.

Does anyone know what the fuck that feels like?

Yeah? Well keep it to yourself because presently I’m numb and could care less what the hell you know or don’t know. It wouldn’t help anyway.



I’m here doing my angst filled thing, hand on head, head in pain, pain in my heart, heart in my hands, and I will make you pay. When from this I am away. By association you will pay. Association with me. I will find a way.

Lets try and not let them speak. The demons. Raise your voices. Up on your feet. Arms in the air. Wave them around. Make a ruckus. Make a stir. Do not allow them the attention. The attention they want The attention they likely deserve. Like flies about the dead they swarm above my head. I can hear them buzzing. Their little negativities. I hum along. I play the game. I will not let them register. They will not be heard. I have succumb to their weight some. Yes they carry much weight with them although they float about so nimble. They press down on you as they make their passes. What you do not want to hear, you sort of recognize from past encounters. One where you weren’t so strong. One where you went underfoot. Braced yourself for the worst. You took the hit. At least when in that position you know the familiar sense of it. When you’re here, you can never see how you’ll get out in the end. What the outcome will be? You just don’t see it. You cant visualize it. It doesn’t make sense to you. Why is that I wonder? When it’s the other way you know you’ll survive. You know you have before. Sure, you have your doubts if it’s a bad turn, but I guess since all hope is abandoned to have ended up with your ass in the air anyway, it really doesn’t matter the outcome does it. Next thing you know you’re still here.

For now though you’re swatting flies. Shooing away the buzz buzz buzz. Had their way they would keep you from your workout. They would keep you here. Your butt even sore-er from even more time elapsed into the unrecoverable past and you sitting on it. Your ass, not the past. You cant sit on the past. The unforgiving past. Will it ever stand to our defense? Should he have his way father time, he would have us his way. A fine father he makes, he is no father at all. If he is, its no wonder we’re all so dysfunctional. Could we all then have someone to blame? Other than ourselves?

I’m talking about eating of course. I will redeem myself through diet. I will become a god through my physical being. I will conquer the beast of fat once again. And through that relived victory the path to former glory will lift itself from the ruins of my life. The path to Olympus will rise out of the ashes and show me the way. The safest way to the horizon. To my destiny.

Or not.

Or I wont have it any other way.

Although I wonder, is this what this book is about? The infinite self doubt I will feel overcoming me my entire life? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I recall times much better than these for my soul. I recall times I was twice the man inside, that I sometimes feel I am now. The question is, what happened to cut me in half? The answer would be: a whole lot a shit happened there Danny boy. A whole lotta shit.

Cest la freakin vie I guess, logic would dictate I can not live my life by the pains of the past right? Then why is it bothering me so much that I’ve allowed myself to become involved with someone new?

Uh-huh, here I go again. What have I done? I’ve gone around and got myself involved.


I’m not over Lauren yet and I’m exploring the larynx of another woman? If not for exhaustion and a hundred teasing false alarms we would have consummated the relationship, or lack there of, as it may be, the other night too. What am I thinking? I don’t know. We first dated a couple weeks ago. We went to see A.I. together. We talked up a storm, if storms can be manifested so. Which is to commemorate storms when they are manifested because the rarity of good conversation deserves such a natural upheaval to mark the occasion. We had a good time. All was nice and innocent. As a matter of fact it was so decent I thought nothing of it, so much so that the next day I went out with someone else who answered my personal. Oh yeah, these are people I met online. Thank you AOL. And I ended up swapping spit with that chick on the very first day. Who the hell am I? Who have I become? Funny, this girl, the one I can say I am “seeing” now, made a case of the first date having gone so well because of the “chemistry”. All the while she spoke and I thought to myself, if that was chemistry, then what was it the next day when I ended up making out at South Street Seaport with Ms. Dominican Washington Heights? Alchemy?

We’ve had a good time she and I, but I don’t think I have to say, I mean, at this juncture I think you and I, the reader of this book and myself, know each other so well I shouldn’t have to actually write down the apprehension I feel towards the situation. You know me by now don’t you? You know this. But of course, I shouldn’t assume anything, so I will. I’ll write it down. I feel apprehensive towards further involving myself with this woman. Did you know that already? Could you tell? Well I do. Right now it’s the feeling of being pressured into sex that’s got me holding back. Holding back, hmm, I actually said that. I’m holding back I guess. And I didn’t even make the conscious decision to do so, whaddaya know bout that? Will wonders never cease? And it couldn’t be at a better time that things like that start taking care of themselves I’m glad to say. Since even now, at this late point in time I still got a call from Lauren this morning, 9 am. Unanswered. Message said: Just wanted to tell you I was thinking about you… and that it. Bye. (more or less, slightly more verbally but not content-wise) Mind you she refuses to see where I get it from to say she is a person who wants things done for her and comes forth only with half intended, non-committal, inconclusive actions. Of course she doesn’t see it though, because with messages so decisive and whole-ly intended such as those, of course we can derive intention and direction to her actions. Well, know what? Thinkin’ bout ya too Lauren, k? bye. We’ll get somewhere like that. Like driftwood. So I press end and the call goes to voicemail when I see the number because I really can’t do it anymore man. I think I mentioned that somewhere didn’t I? Especially not at 9 am either. I retrieve the message, and I hear that meaningful thing she said, I mean, It is meaningful, but really though? Is it? Please, please I pray I’m not judged harshly for this but I think again, by now, I should have your empathy at least, if not your agreement of course, for how I react to her now.

Disclaimer: I love Lauren with all my heart and I did not want to leave her. What I wanted most was for her to be responsive and responsible to me as much as I was to her, she wasn’t, so I regrettably had to leave.

            So when I hear the message I go back to bed and I say to myself “should have thought that much about me when we were together… when it counted”.

I am callous. I am cold. I am aware of it. But I am tired. I held a torch for more than two months and the girl couldn’t make the realizations necessary to do something conclusive about losing me. My arms got tired. I dropped the torch it seems. I look at it now on the ground before me. The flame is withering away in the passing breeze. Still nothing is done to make me think I have done the wrong thing here. Unfortunately heartache isn’t a guiding force in life. Not one you should follow if you want to be happy that is. Wicked is the way things work I say. Wicked. Don’t you think? Should I get into it? OK, quickly, keep perspective so we can go back to this momentarily.

Life is wicked. Its wicked because if you want to be happy, the obvious place we turn is each other, yeah yeah yeah, blah blah, sure you don’t, you may not now, but eventually we all do. I don’t care how strong you are, how independent or individual, once you feel the love of another human being, you’re hooked. That being established, we look to each other to make each other happy, but the answer isn’t there, is it? You can’t follow your heart if you want to achieve happiness. The saying goes, follow your heart to happiness, or something to that effect right? You’ve heard some fool say it here or there at some point or another I’m sure, and you would think that for love, where love is concerned, that should hold true, true-er, true-est, but it doesn’t, because your heart will tell you, as mine tells me, to go back to someone who repeatedly ignored my simple requests for affection and consideration, two givens in a normal relationship, and I obviously cant do that can I? I can’t go back, if I went back I would be satiating this feeling in my heart but when I wake up from that dopening high and take a look around I will no doubt be where I was before. An unhappy place. A place where I am not looked out for. A place where my requests are ignored. Where I give, give, and give of myself, but am not reciprocated towards, am I? No. I’m not. So which one is it? Follow your heart if you want to be happy? Or don’t follow your heart if you want to be happy? Be true to your heart maybe? Maybe that’s the wording, the fine print, the interpretation, the translation, the manner in which to perceive it, the angle. Maybe that’s it? Maybe.

Maybe not.


I shut my eyes to that thought (should have thought about me as much when we were together…) about the woman I not long ago loved so so so so much. Who I still have to say I love, but have lost faith in, and what happens then?

Well of course, I dream about Sandra?!?!?

Sandra, the Colombian (negative) stereotype I made the mistake of being with for a year and a half, ending a year prior to meeting Lauren. Why the hell would I have dreamt about her? And that I had contacted her to have dinner with me, I met her, we said hello and she immediately went into a story about a guy she was doing. At which point I looked at her and my mood being killed, asked her why the hell she would tell me such a thing, right before I looked around and realized my car was stolen no less. I don’t own a car in real life, but in my dream it was blue, dark blue, and I loved it. I think I had just got it too because it felt as if having it stolen was a hopeless situation, like I didn’t have the title or something, what do I know about having a car? I felt helpless.

And there you have it, better therapy through publishing. I’m feeling helpless everyone. Isn’t it great how these things work out?

What I’m going to do about Patricia, the girl I have fallen into “seeing”, I don’t know. For now, I think we’ll continue to be movie buddies. Movie buddies who swap spit. Movie buddies who take each others clothes off. Dry hump. Touch each others …

We’ll stay friends.

Mind you its not that I don’t want her, I do. Being horny though is no reason I think to get further involved in a relationship. And unfortunately though, right now, that’s all I want. The sex. Yes, as deep and as meaningful as I tell myself I am , as I may be interpreted to be, right now, that’s all I have any use for. So I hesitate. Because there in lies the bullshit depth and non-shallowness that at times just as deep in bullshit I am interpreted to be. An interpretation that at times I take pride in, and at other times, like these, I know I’m undeserving of. Where the stone falls? Where it lands, on what side of itself or the line is up to the same fickle interpretation I suppose. All I can do is deal with the now, and the now says I have nothing to offer this person. Nothing but my selfish needs. Needs which to fulfill without conscious would lead to all the conscious implications.

Even touching on the subject so, sheds light on all those implications. So many implications.

Is it just sex?

Is it just casual?

If so, is that O.K?

Is it O.K. with her?

With me?

If not, does she want more?

Expect more?

Do I?

Then the doubt that any answers to any of the above questions are true through and through and not one of those answers you give because you want them to be true, then after you have the sex, things change.

Some will say things always change. They may be right. From my experience, which really isn’t much, things do change.

Some time later:

But I don’t.

I’m the same stupid bastard.

Well, even with confirmation things would change, yes, she told me straight out she was harboring hopes for more, I still went ahead and got deeper in the shit with this person. Now, I don’t want to be involved anymore. When she’ll get the bad news? Soon. Why I did it? Pure boredom. It spooks me out to think of how into me this person is, so soon after meeting. She’s a great girl, caring, sensitive, attractive, although I must admit, not to my all around tastes, which may be the underlying cause to my lack of overall interest, but none the less, she’s affectionate, understanding, intelligent, everything. As far as I know, everything, but I’m not interested.

It occurs to me I am getting back to where I was before Lauren. Being single, and not wanting a relationship. Being clear about this to the people I am involving myself with. I am doing this unconsciously. I am resisting this regression or progression, whichever it may be, again its up to your point of view. To mine its obviously something I wasn’t wanting. Perhaps because of being in this unique situation of leaving someone I really didn’t want to have to leave. Not wanting to go back to the place she took me out of, where incidentally I was happy, before she came along, but I guess loving her and being loved by her, although in such a deficient way, must have felt better to me than what I was in when we fell together.

Want to know the catalyst in this breakthrough?

The occasion I am here writing and I hear that little noise AOL’s buddy list makes to announce someone coming online and I rush over to the menu bar to see who it is. Looking not for someone familiar, but someone new. Someone I havent gotten to know well enough yet. Someone I can get to know better. Someone I can tell, I am not looking for a relationship, just a friend, and if theres more, then theres more, but no garauntees, no promises, no commitment, no relationship. Now as I write I realize whats happened to me. Patricia came along at a point in time where I didn’t know what I wanted. Unwittingly, she has helped me figure it out.

I don’t want a relationship.

I don’t want a commitment.

I don’t want to be in love.

I just want to have a good time.

And be free.

Free to take a shower and get the smell of this woman off me.

I feel like a shit.

Three months have passed and she called me to ask if we can start over. Forget everything and start over. She really doesn’t see how I’ve been predicting that’s what she wanted from the very second I decided to leave her. It really is incredible. As incredible as the overwhelming feeling I have to go back to her.

I love her. I love her so fucking much. I miss her and I want her but I know, I know from experience with her already and from a feeling that inexplicably comes from parts unknown, that in short time we would be exactly where we were when we broke up. Myself needing more, and she, in one of a hundred different ways, not giving more.

This is nothing I haven’t said before.


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