Rainy Day Rambling

I haven’t posted in a few weeks, I think, so I guess I should ramble a bit.

This post shouldn’t have any grammatical errors since I’m sober and have been for the last week or so due to the Flu. Fucking Flu. I tell myself each year that I’m going to get a shot, but I never do. I fucking hate needles. “But you have so many tattoos,” people tell me, somehow thinking that a big ass needle filled with fluid is the same as a couple dozen micro needles dipped in ink. It’s not even a pain thing, I have a high pain tolerance, it’s feeling the needle break through my skin…fucking gross. Next year I’ll finally get the shot, though. I have to. I get sick every fucking year despite my awesome immune system. I commute via train every day so getting sick is inevitable. The train’s a goddamn moving petri dish. There’s no escape.

Besides the Flu, I’ve been doing good. I just got home from a two day stay with my lover in SF. She’s wonderful. Broken and wonderful. I fucked up last night by telling her, “One day you’ll hate me.” No one wants to hear that shit, but it’s true. I’ll eventually sabotage this relationship like I do with every other. I can only take so much love; so much affection; so much kindness before I snap. I have to. I hate myself. Us self loathers eventually reject all forms of love, however pure. I tell myself I don’t deserve love and affection. And I’m right to think that way.

She calls me her cuddlefuck. I call her my plaything. We’re not together, nor will we ever, but we’re good friends. Friends who fuck each other every hour or so we’re alone together. Unfortunately, my dick stopped working recently. Fucking meds. She says she doesn’t care, and I believe her, but it’s still humiliating going soft inside her after a few minutes. It’s even more sad when she asks, “Is there something wrong with me?” Fuck, I never thought about how ED makes your lover feel; like they don’t turn you on enough to keep you hard. It’s not a libido thing, I’m always horny, my tongue and fingers can play between her legs for hours, all while my cock is shriveled up like a preop transgender on hormone blockers. Maybe I’ll just started poppin’ molly again. That’s stupid.

Speaking of Molly, one of my sisters called me last night high on a quad stack my nephew gave her.

“I’m fucking rolling hard,” she said with a giggle.

“Where are you at,” I responded with a giggle.

“Home.”

“Fucking weirdo.”

She’s going through a divorce right now with her former high school sweetheart. He’s a real scum bag. He knocked a girl up two months after they broke up. Now my niece and nephew have to see their stupid fucking dad with a new kid and new bitch, while adjusting to the divorce. Who fucking does that? I told my sister that she should request full custody. “I already did. The judge doesn’t care that he had another kid so quickly.” The system is fucking broken. Too bad she’s not in Cali still; judges here auto take the woman’s back. She’d have full custody and alimony, but she chose to move to Vegas. I guess the divorce process there has to be different since so many people get drunk, then married, then divorced. Maybe, I’m not sure—I’m not a fucking lawyer.

Anyways, she thought it was a good idea to pop a pill and chill by herself. Bad idea. I love rolling, but I don’t even by myself. I can pop a pill, go out for a bit, then come home and chill by myself for a while before taking sleeping pills so I’m not tweaking until sunrise, but doing the whole ride by yourself is no Bueno. Plus, she’s going through a break up with a guy she started dating recently to forget about the mess of a divorce, so I know she spent a few hours texting I love you(s) and I hate you(s) to him.

I hated my sister growing up, and she hated me. I’m the youngest, and the only boy, so I had a special relationship with my mom and dad. It didn’t help that I have the type of personality that made me easy to raise. My sister would fuck up and blame everyone else. I would fuck up and blame myself. My sister would sneak out, get caught, get angry for getting caught and not talk to anyone for weeks. I would sneak out, professionally sneak back in, not getting caught, and do my chores the next day. I think I just learned from her fuck ups. My sister used to steal my mom’s car, smoke in it the entire night, then wonder why she got in trouble. She’s not stupid so I think she might’ve been doing it on purpose, for the attention.

I’m not exaggerating when I say we hated each other. We got into fist fights all the time. I broke two of her fingers one time because she thought she could slap me twice and get away with it. She got the first slap in, but I caught the second, and twisted the fuck out of her fingers.

I love her now though.

Oy, my tangents.

I’m home for the weekend. I need some time to myself. I enjoy being with my lover, but I can’t spend too much time around anyone—that’s a sure way to make me hate them. How fucked up. But it’s true. How sad. But it’s true.

It’s been storming here for the last week or so. I don’t hate the rain, but I hate prolonged raining. After three days, I’m done. I do hate people who say they love the rain but spend all their time inside, regardless the weather. It’s easy to love the rain when you hate sunlight. How stupid.

I just found out that I agreed to go to another Friendsgiving tonight. Boo. That means I’m going to get obliterated tonight. Mexican Friendsgiving = tamales and tequila.

I really shouldn’t complain. I’ve been spending a lot of time in SF with my lover, so my friends know I’m not in one of my antisocial moods. They’ll think I don’t like them if I don’t go. I love them. My friends put up with my bullshit. “That’s just how you are,” they tell me. Fuck, that’s depressing. I’d happily spend time with each of my friends individually, but groups freak me out. There’s too much going on; too many conversations. I know someone is going to bring up my lover tonight. They’re going to drill me.

“So what’s up with J? Are you guys together?”

“No, we just like to fuck each other.”

I’m a very private person in general, but especially when it comes to sexual relationships. I’ve never been the type of dude to kiss pussy and tell.

I need to try to not get too fucked up tonight. I really want to finish a story tomorrow, and I definitely won’t if I’m recovering from a night of tequila. I could just pop a bunch of my Gaba and hope I won’t mix it with booze and blackout. Oy, that’s not going to happen. El Jimador it is.

My sister in law’s niece, my niece, is spending the next two weeks here while her Mom and Step-Dad are in London. She has downs syndrome and she’s fucking beautiful. She’s inside folding my new baby niece’s clothes. It’s going to take her a long time to fold all the clothes because she hugs each piece of clothing before folding it.

I guess I’ll end this with that beautiful thought.

 

Fuck, I ramble too much. I’m not going to proofread this. I already forgot what I said.

Deny My Programming

A beautiful schizophrenic man used to come into my dad’s scuba diving shop every weekend. My dad allowed him to look around, talk to himself, use our restroom, and occasionally talk to us about the black hole in the center of our solar system. He was welcome as long as he didn’t bother any of our customers or attempt to try on new wetsuits.

I remember one time, while my father was busy assisting a customer, giggling as I watched him attempt to put on an extra small women’s wetsuit. He managed to get both his legs in, stretching the seams, essentially ruining it, before my dad caught him. My dad wasn’t mad, he also found it kind of funny, despite ruining the two hundred dollar suit. Instead of banning him from the store, he went to the backroom, and pulled out a used extra large wetsuit for him to have. The man attempted to undress right in the middle of the store, but my dad guided him to one of our changing rooms. He went in wearing ancient rags, came out in a 7mm wetsuit, and strutted out of the shop like he was rocking a tailormade Armani suit.

I was six or seven when I first met this homeless man, and around eleven when my father told me that someone killed him in the back alley behind our store. Some biker beat him to death because he’d unintentionally disrespected an Angel’s patch at the local chapter’s bar.

I wailed for hours after hearing the news—to the point my mother had to take me to the hospital. Something was seriously wrong with me, they thought.

Why was an eleven year old having a nervous breakdown over some homeless person?

Because he was my friend.

This man, who society deemed broken, was kind to me.

He wasn’t like other humans.

He never touched me or hit me or hurt me in anyway.

He made me not feel like a weirdo.

I think about my schizophrenic friend all the time.

I imagine the day he got fed up with this world and created a new one in his head.

The day he denied his programming.

I imagine the day I might do the same.