Johnny’s War Pt. 1

I went to see my peepaw every Thursday at the State Veteran’s Home. My father told me it was a minute step-up from a civilian’s old folks home, but only because he got to die the way all soldiers want to: with fellow forgotten heroes.

When he first arrived, they gave him six months, but not even god could tell a Marine when they’re going to die—he gave the doctor and god a proper fuck you and survived another two years.

“You’re the child of a long line of stubborn men, son,” my father told me on our way to see peepaw one Thursday night. “Your grandfather survived the Frozen Chosen, I survived the battle of Hue, and your great grandfather survived Gettysburg. Us Lorraines have survived every war we’re known to have fought in. Your Great great grandfather is the only known Lorraine to not enlist and fight for his country…but not out of cowardice, out of principal. He fought battles as a civilian; he fought with words and civil disobedience; he wrote pamphlets condemning the Indian Wars and championed abolitionism; he chose jail over paying taxes for the Mexican American war, and almost died alone, in a cold dark cell, but he, like all Lorraines, survived, giving his heart to the ideals and principles his father and grandfather instilled in him, up to the very last beat of his heart…”

I interrupted my father’s patriotic oration, “Did peepaw die?”

Peepaw was, like my father is now, dying of coronary heart disease, and earlier that day, he lost his final battle to a heart attack. The only kind of attack Lorraines don’t survive.

 

This is Getting Rotten

I’m still here.

And I still hate myself.

Probably more than before, but it doesn’t really matter anymore.

Forced smiles are getting tiresome. Everything is getting tiresome.

My eyes want to close, my heart wants to stop beating, my brain wants to be donated to science, and my liver wants to be used as a paperweight.

It takes more muscles to frown than smile. Bullshit. Not if frowning is your default expression. Asshole.

I cut a smile into my balaclava. Every morning I plan a revolution from my bed. Maybe tomorrow.

I’m grumpier than I was a few seconds ago. I’ve been in a bad mood for more than half my life.

A few weeks ago a big ass Rottweiler latched onto my leg while I was riding by it. Blood immediately gushed out, ruining my favorite socks.

“Oh my fucking god! I’m so sorry,” the Rottweiler’s owners screamed. “Honey, do something,” the annoying housewife said to her annoying husband.

He unbuttoned his shirt and gave it to me to wrap around my leg. It was sweet.

“Should we call the ambulance?” they asked me.

“Na, it’s not too bad—I’ve had worse,” I told them.

The dog locked eyes with me and said, “My bad.”

I accepted its apology with a smile. It was a pretty dog.

The shirt was soaked and no longer holding back the blood from the huge gash on the front of my shin. It didn’t hurt, but the amount of blood was semi worrisome.

“Alright then,” I broke the awkward silence, “My house is right down the street: I have gauze and alcohol and all that shit.”

The couple was upper middle class; the shirt around my leg probably cost a hundred bucks; they didn’t look like the types to have a Rottweiler; they looked like the type that would have a shnoodle or cockapoo or some other puntable designer dog.

“Well,” the housewife said while I adjusted the shirt, using the sleeve to wipe up some of the blood running down into my shoe, “do you want to call the police?”

They were terrified.

“Na, shit happens. I’ll survive, but keep that beautiful beast away from kids,” I said before hopping on my bike and pedaling away, leaving shocked and relieved dog owners.

If it was a stupid dog, I would’ve called the police, but I like Rottweilers, especially beautiful goliaths like theirs.

I got home, and bandaged my future scars. I wasn’t worried about rabies—they were too rich to have a dog with rabies—and I wasn’t worried about all the blood.

Shit happens.

The next day I got kicked off the train for blowing up on a guy sitting in the bike car without a bike. This fucking infuriates me. And it’s not even because I can’t sit down—I get on at stops with that many people so I always have a seat—it’s that others can’t sit and watch their bikes because some asshole doesn’t know train etiquette..

As I waited for the next train, I laughed while thinking about how fucking annoyed I was at a rude person, yet the previous day I took a vicious bite to the leg and acted like nothing happened.

It’s so me.

Dog bite: shit happens.

Rude person: I hope they get hit by a train.

I really need to get the fuck out of the city.

I need to escape.

I need my hut overlooking a small town in South America. If I’m going to be around people, I need them to have a simpler hierarchy of needs: food, shelter, family; not phone, Starbucks, Tinder.

My misanthropy is making me boring. Every post I have to talk about my hut in Uruguay. I’ll change it to Argentina in the future. Monaco looks pretty, but I’m pretty sure it’s the most expensive place to live on earth. Nevermind, the people who live there are probably even more annoying than the people here.

My misanthropy is getting exponentially worse. I would never hurt a person though—outside a punch to the larynx to shut them the fuck up—and I would make sure the Anarchist book store was empty before firebombing it.

My misanthropy is beginning to damage the environment.

Some lady who regularly rides the train started talking to me about global warming while getting off. Her bike has a bunch of annoying stickers about the environment and “Bush is Satan” and “No blood for oil”. I was tempted to ask her where her “Obama is Satan” sticker is considering he continued the Bush Doctrine, funded rebels who now use them against us, overthrew Gaddafi, drone struck additional countries we’re not at war with, and much more, but I didn’t feel like arguing with an intellectually dishonest partisan.

She kept yapping at me as we walked down the train platform. She wouldn’t shut up. So I lit up a clove, took one puff, threw it on the ground and walked away.

She doesn’t talk to me anymore.

I want to get a sticker for my bike that says, “My other ride is a hummer.”

People like her aren’t wrong, they’re just so fucking annoying. Sanctimonious cunts, inhaling their farts and exhaling hypocritical political positions.

My misanthropy is making me support positions I don’t agree with.

“Can you sign this petition calling for the end of the Gaza embargo?”

“No, I think the Israelis should just annex the Gaza Strip.”

“Can you sign this petition asking for the release of all Killer Whales and other sentient mammals from aquariums and theme parks?”

“Fuck killer whales. Their bent dorsal fins make me smile. I agree with the Japs. Whales are a delicacy.”

“Would you like a pride button to support the LGBTABCDEFGHIGKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ community?”

“No, I don’t like rainbows or gay people…and bisexuality doesn’t exist, they’re just hypersexual people.”

I don’t believe in any of this shit, I just hate the people telling me it. All of them wear scarves in summer and have thick brimmed glasses and septum rings and colored hair, and they’re all fucking boring.

I also hate petitions. They don’t do shit. If they did, the final season of Game of Thrones would be getting remade.

I’m such a sweet person when I’m alone.

People bring out the worst in me.

It’s my fault. I’m weak.

I just want to be normal.

Fuck.

I still can’t kill myself. Maybe in another ten years.