So yesterday I woke up and hoped Brownie was dead. All I wanted out of the day was simply the death of our oldest and most loved pet. And when I asked mom she said no. And then she said "Wait, did you say is she dead?" and I say "Yep.." and she says "Oh, I thought you asked 'Is Brownie better?'". She died at 9:45pm because that swelling basically closed her throat. A terrible and slow way to go.. She was twelve years old, and I'll miss the hell out of her.
At least she's free now.
Yesterday I woke up because my fan went off (which means the sweat quits drying and the room crawls from 92 degrees up to 98 degrees). Through the wall I could hear mom say that she thought it was a brown-out, which at that point was better than my first thought that my fan was dying. Turns out it was a brown-out, but the low energy flow during it fried one of our breakers, which took my room, the laundry room, the kitchen and the hallway all offline. So I got to spend some time resituating my room to mostly run off of one extension cord.
Right now my brother's son is here for summer vacation, as specified in the custody agreement. Except when his vindictive and evil mom tried to call us and got no answer due to our phones being shut off, she decided that if we can't afford phones then we can't afford to have him here for the summer. Our phones were off at the time, but now we've got two pay-as-you-go phones. Apparently us getting rid of our too-expensive phones (a rare holdover from before my dad died, anyway) was enough for her to sic DHS on us. And they'll take my nephew, because when we got evicted we had to (swiftly) sell our doublewide for seven thousand bucks, when it was worth at least fifteen thousand. We barely even managed to sell it before the landowners came and claimed everything left on the property as theirs (besides that, now they're suing my mother and brother for five thousand dollars each). So we pretty much had five grand to buy a home with and two thousand to move it to our new place.. And at least some of you know what kind of home you can buy outright for five thousand dollars (the rest of you probably didn't realize you could find one that cheap, period)..
The assholes who owned this place before us messed up the door knobs, messed up the wiring (hence the breaker), punched holes in the walls, allowed their kids (probably) to run free and wild with a staple gun and attack the walls and floor, and they also trapped who knows how many damn animals in this house, to where shit and piss were smeared into the carpet so bad that two hours of steam cleaning one spot didn't clear it even though it was sucking sludge out anyway. We had hoped that we'd get some inheritance from my grandmother (dad's mom, and my last remaining grandparent) passing, which we were going to use to repair the walls and floors, and also re-carpet this disgusting hellhole. But we didn't get any inheritance. And don't think that my nephew shouldn't be here. He's got his own room, and we make sure he has plenty to eat (even though we starve to do it.). His slimy asshole of a mom lived with us (leeched off us) for a while, and poisons him against us every chance she can get when she knows exactly how we are. She married a weak-willed rich guy who she abuses, and in turn he abuses my nephew (they have two other kids between them, and he hates my nephew for being a symbol of the past). They whip him daily for the slightest disobedience and then bitch at us that we never punish him. Fact is, he never does anything to get punished over. He's the best kid I know, and his scaly mom knows damn well we've got nothing but the best intentions for him. She's just found out that we're on the raw edge of losing everything and all she can see is that its time to hit em hard, take even more!
I'm worried pretty bad about my mom (and brother, for that matter), committing suicide. Our lives have never ever been easy, but my mom has stood tough against all of it up until now. She hates it here. She hates this house. She hates this town. She hates that dad is gone. She hates that every time we can get even a miniscule burden off our shoulders that at least two more come crashing down. The custody agreement states that my nephew is to have his own room at all times, so mom gave him hers while he's here. She sleeps in her car now. And his mom doesn't give a shit. Doesn't care that my mom is depressed and just sick. Doesn't care that my dad died suddenly and left us with nothing but bills and a void (if he were here he would have patched all the holes, and he knew plenty about wiring repair too). And I doubt you care, either, faceless people reading this.
If my mom kills herself, I suppose I'd follow. I don't want to, but if mom truly thought it was the only way, who am I to question? She's a great many times more valuable than I am, in every way, and she's the only stable sane person I have left. She's the only one I've ever seen put the dire needs of others above her own comfort.
This is a disgusting world. This is Hideous America, as I've titled this blog. I've got a not-yet activated indiegogo campaign (not activated because you have to have a "verified" PayPal account, but to get verified they deposit a random amount less than a dollar and you, in turn, tell them the amount, and you're verified! Too bad them withdrawing the money out would overdraft my negative bank account and cost me thirty bucks in fees) called "The Rich Aren't Good, And The Good Aren't Rich", basically just to prove that not one single (Christian) American will help a stranger unless there is a natural disaster or horrific murder (publicity) attached. That depsite "do unto others" and "love thy neighbor", they're all just going to church as part of their self-image, their community image. I'm sure plenty of you that have read this consider yourselves good God-fearing folks that'll lend a hand where needed, but you didn't once think "Christ, I need to send this guy a message. I need to save him." All the while the Billy Graham fund has a four hundred million dollar surplus they sit on top of and idolize. I wrote the Billy Graham folks, and I begged. Shame and pride aside, I begged and begged for forgiveness and even a thin scrap of help. Even pointed out that the Bible says to go the extra distance to protect widows, and I didn't even get a "We feel so bad for you! Keep praying and stay strong, life will work out. God has a plan." If He has a plan, its time for it to come alive. If He has a plan for me, its to show you all how awful life can be, and how lucky you are not to be me.
I didn't get a response. Same as this blog. So don't count yourself holy, or saved, because none of you are. You're either blind and uncaring, or you're just as pathetic as we are.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
The Chain of Human Value
How many of you decided to chase the American Dream and go to college? Took out loans, collected supplies, prepared, only to arrive and find out the curriculum is too advanced, the pace is too fast, and the teachers and staff don't give half a damn if you can't keep your head above water? Now you've got a hellacious student loan, unpaid, of course, hunting you down.
And a wrecked credit score.
What about watching your friends/family/strangers get cannibalized by bad circumstances and credit cards? My father always told me to never get a credit card, no matter how helpful it might seem, because they're just waiting on you to trip and stumble.
Stumble and wreck your credit score!
To get a home loan (which is the only way poor assholes can get a home), you need a government-required 640 minimum credit score. The lender said what I need to do is get myself two credit cards and use them for three to four months and that would generate a 640 score. My mom has a 670, but no lender will consider anyone who is currently unemployed. No lender will consider anyone that hasn't been employed very long. And no lender will consider anyone with an unpaid student loan (my brother, in this case).
I'm starting to realize that a credit score serves to: help the rich get richer, help the rich turn away the poor, and to judge people in the laziest way possible. There was no, "Well, lets see why you don't have a credit score, hmm? Maybe you're still a responsible person even though there is no obscure numerical rating saying so!" portion. There was the, "If you don't have a credit score, and don't want to risk what wretched shambling joke of 'financial stability' you do have to gain a score, we can direct you to a very scenic public park that you can live in, and as an added bonus, all the fresh dog poop you can eat!"
On the temporary and deceiving "bright side", Brownie finally got to go to the vet today. He pulled a syringe of pus out of the bubble (versus the five or six he should have pulled), and gave her an antibiotic shot and some liquid antibiotic she's supposed to take a couple times a day. That'd be handy if she could eat at all. That'd be handy if her face wasn't so swollen that she can hardly blink (my sister pointed that out today, thanks). This is that "one notch above negligence" I was talking about.
You know, I've written Ellen DeGeneres maybe twenty times in the last ten years, trying to get my mom the attention and help she's deserved, and I've received absolute 0 for a response. I never expected a response from her, but at least from someone on the staff, some hollow words to send me away. Instead, Ellen gives away shitloads of free goodies to her audience (who all can either afford to live near her studio, or can afford plane tickets/vacations there). They don't need it. GAME SHOWS SHOULD BE FOR LOW INCOME BRACKET PEOPLE ONLY. Middle and high income folks shouldn't even be allowed to play for fun, much less more money they don't need (and I mean need, need to buy food with, not aww, I can use this money for hardwood floors, or marble counters need). This whole godawful world is a ridiculous joke, and inhabited by the ignorant and blind.
And a wrecked credit score.
What about watching your friends/family/strangers get cannibalized by bad circumstances and credit cards? My father always told me to never get a credit card, no matter how helpful it might seem, because they're just waiting on you to trip and stumble.
Stumble and wreck your credit score!
To get a home loan (which is the only way poor assholes can get a home), you need a government-required 640 minimum credit score. The lender said what I need to do is get myself two credit cards and use them for three to four months and that would generate a 640 score. My mom has a 670, but no lender will consider anyone who is currently unemployed. No lender will consider anyone that hasn't been employed very long. And no lender will consider anyone with an unpaid student loan (my brother, in this case).
I'm starting to realize that a credit score serves to: help the rich get richer, help the rich turn away the poor, and to judge people in the laziest way possible. There was no, "Well, lets see why you don't have a credit score, hmm? Maybe you're still a responsible person even though there is no obscure numerical rating saying so!" portion. There was the, "If you don't have a credit score, and don't want to risk what wretched shambling joke of 'financial stability' you do have to gain a score, we can direct you to a very scenic public park that you can live in, and as an added bonus, all the fresh dog poop you can eat!"
On the temporary and deceiving "bright side", Brownie finally got to go to the vet today. He pulled a syringe of pus out of the bubble (versus the five or six he should have pulled), and gave her an antibiotic shot and some liquid antibiotic she's supposed to take a couple times a day. That'd be handy if she could eat at all. That'd be handy if her face wasn't so swollen that she can hardly blink (my sister pointed that out today, thanks). This is that "one notch above negligence" I was talking about.
You know, I've written Ellen DeGeneres maybe twenty times in the last ten years, trying to get my mom the attention and help she's deserved, and I've received absolute 0 for a response. I never expected a response from her, but at least from someone on the staff, some hollow words to send me away. Instead, Ellen gives away shitloads of free goodies to her audience (who all can either afford to live near her studio, or can afford plane tickets/vacations there). They don't need it. GAME SHOWS SHOULD BE FOR LOW INCOME BRACKET PEOPLE ONLY. Middle and high income folks shouldn't even be allowed to play for fun, much less more money they don't need (and I mean need, need to buy food with, not aww, I can use this money for hardwood floors, or marble counters need). This whole godawful world is a ridiculous joke, and inhabited by the ignorant and blind.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Good Times
More on Brownie, the elder of our cats, who has been suffering a wild neck swelling for four days now. She was supposed to go to the second-class citizen's vet clinic last Friday, and like I said the line was 24 dogs and a cat and only 2 dogs were seen in all that time. After her unnecessary boiling-hot car ride to the poverty clinic it seemed like the swelling went down by about half, which gave me some hope.
I checked her today and now its bigger than it ever was, and spreading around the right side and up behind the ear (throat-choking zone, basically). Once I felt the spread I ended up having to cry (I try to preserve my precious salt for sweating, though). After crying I got mad as hell and went and got my damned knife again, and gave one more attempt at lancing, which failed miserably, didn't even break the skin (yet again). The knife is sharp, the point at least, and I hold it so that only the tip is exposed so there is no possibility of going too deep, and I clean both the blade and the site I shaved, besides.
But none of that precaution means shit, because she's still going to die. I still can't pop it, and if I can't pop it I sure as hell can't put her out of her misery. That was my dad's job, and he's gone. I love animals to death, I save every leftover scrap I can possibly get my hands on, and have even hunted birds and rabbits for my cats on a couple occasions I was forced to, to keep these kitties healthier than I keep myself. I believe every single creature on this earth has a life to live, and likes and dislikes, and good days and bad days, from the smallest all the way up to the animal human. Just because something was born as a snake or spider doesn't mean it needs executed on sight.
This is one more coat of sweet, sweet poverty. Money is essential to protect those you love, and to pull them away from the cold, clammy hand of death. And if you don't have the money, you'll die. Or get the absolute barebones treatment, one millimeter above negligence.
And here is Brown, our oldest cat, dying a slow death of misery and useless suffering, no dignity, like an elderly person that has no air conditioning and no visitors and no hope, like ex-professors and doctors that don't remember their own names, like healthy powerhouse workhorses reduced to piss-smelling skeletons in button-up plaids and diapers. How each and every one of us deals with watching our great grandparents, and then grandparents, and then parents fade, suffer, and then disappear, all the while dealing with life's menagerie of repeated tragedies.. I'll never know.
At least she gets to share in the same death that the grand majority of us all get to experience.
Also, for both my "credit score" and my mother's hopes of going back to her hometown, those are also trash. I have a "thin file" and therefore don't have a credit rating, which lenders do not like at all. Apparently the innocent til proven guilty spiel doesn't apply to finances. So we sit here until the slow vampire of debt makes us unable to escape, then.
Did you have a better day than me?
I checked her today and now its bigger than it ever was, and spreading around the right side and up behind the ear (throat-choking zone, basically). Once I felt the spread I ended up having to cry (I try to preserve my precious salt for sweating, though). After crying I got mad as hell and went and got my damned knife again, and gave one more attempt at lancing, which failed miserably, didn't even break the skin (yet again). The knife is sharp, the point at least, and I hold it so that only the tip is exposed so there is no possibility of going too deep, and I clean both the blade and the site I shaved, besides.
But none of that precaution means shit, because she's still going to die. I still can't pop it, and if I can't pop it I sure as hell can't put her out of her misery. That was my dad's job, and he's gone. I love animals to death, I save every leftover scrap I can possibly get my hands on, and have even hunted birds and rabbits for my cats on a couple occasions I was forced to, to keep these kitties healthier than I keep myself. I believe every single creature on this earth has a life to live, and likes and dislikes, and good days and bad days, from the smallest all the way up to the animal human. Just because something was born as a snake or spider doesn't mean it needs executed on sight.
This is one more coat of sweet, sweet poverty. Money is essential to protect those you love, and to pull them away from the cold, clammy hand of death. And if you don't have the money, you'll die. Or get the absolute barebones treatment, one millimeter above negligence.
And here is Brown, our oldest cat, dying a slow death of misery and useless suffering, no dignity, like an elderly person that has no air conditioning and no visitors and no hope, like ex-professors and doctors that don't remember their own names, like healthy powerhouse workhorses reduced to piss-smelling skeletons in button-up plaids and diapers. How each and every one of us deals with watching our great grandparents, and then grandparents, and then parents fade, suffer, and then disappear, all the while dealing with life's menagerie of repeated tragedies.. I'll never know.
At least she gets to share in the same death that the grand majority of us all get to experience.
Also, for both my "credit score" and my mother's hopes of going back to her hometown, those are also trash. I have a "thin file" and therefore don't have a credit rating, which lenders do not like at all. Apparently the innocent til proven guilty spiel doesn't apply to finances. So we sit here until the slow vampire of debt makes us unable to escape, then.
Did you have a better day than me?
Gun Control!
Will never happen! If you take the guns, they'll grab a crossbow. Take that, bows. Take that, a knife. Take that, a spoon. Take that, a tree branch. Violence sees itself done through human hands, and they'd have to literally remove our right to bear arms. From the shoulder socket down.
Does anyone know if I could get a 40 thousand dollar loan to buy a house with?? (Said house is a brick-foundation double wide that was reclaimed by a bank.. I've got a perfectly neutral credit rating, and my monthly income is a few bucks over seven hundred (the loan payment per month would be around 230-250..). Although we don't have any money to move our stuff with, that payment would be 200 less than our current one, and the house isn't a total piece of trash (as opposed to the five thousand dollar piece of trash we do live in currently)..
Although I've never been in any kind of debt in my life (due to living with others and, well, not taking on any kind of monthly payment/big-ticket items at all), and the thought of it is terrifying, my mother hates it here. Its far from every familiar thing we've ever known, and we're sinking anyway. I figure I'll die in another eighteen years at the ripe old age of 48, just like my dad (who was at least three times healthier than me on the day he died..), so who gives a damn about debt? :)
I'll probably not get to experience "the golden years", so I've considered ordering up some catheters and adult diapers just so I can get that experience in early.. Salvation Army has all the ancient clothes I'd need to transition my 10-piece eight-year-old wardrobe to grandpatherly hipster clothes to match.
Does anyone know if I could get a 40 thousand dollar loan to buy a house with?? (Said house is a brick-foundation double wide that was reclaimed by a bank.. I've got a perfectly neutral credit rating, and my monthly income is a few bucks over seven hundred (the loan payment per month would be around 230-250..). Although we don't have any money to move our stuff with, that payment would be 200 less than our current one, and the house isn't a total piece of trash (as opposed to the five thousand dollar piece of trash we do live in currently)..
Although I've never been in any kind of debt in my life (due to living with others and, well, not taking on any kind of monthly payment/big-ticket items at all), and the thought of it is terrifying, my mother hates it here. Its far from every familiar thing we've ever known, and we're sinking anyway. I figure I'll die in another eighteen years at the ripe old age of 48, just like my dad (who was at least three times healthier than me on the day he died..), so who gives a damn about debt? :)
I'll probably not get to experience "the golden years", so I've considered ordering up some catheters and adult diapers just so I can get that experience in early.. Salvation Army has all the ancient clothes I'd need to transition my 10-piece eight-year-old wardrobe to grandpatherly hipster clothes to match.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Layer Cake
Today my niece got an unattended couple of minutes outside and decided to drown two kittens simultaneously. I've seen many examples of small children being cruel to animals and have decided it must be some kind of ancient caveman DNA crying out, but I've never seen it end in death. Or two deaths, for that matter.
And they were the two coolest kitties we had, to add to it.. An ultra-tiny black boy cat (who was so friendly he'd always sleep by your feet if you were around) and a fluffy wide-faced big-eyed orange girl cat (who was so friendly she'd always sleep by your feet if you were around). The orange one was scheduled to get out of this hellhole in a couple days also.
She drowned them in their own water dish (an upside-down trashcan lid, because that's how fancy and well-off we are!). And she probably was grinning and enjoying the experience too.
Her mom was a psychopathic drunk who beat her dog and hurled her cats every time they tried running inside in hopes of eating. Thing is, she's been picking at and slapping our two inside dogs for 3 months now and getting punished for it, time and time and time and time again. She gives not a shit.
Before anyone tells you kids are a miracle, the best thing you can do for yourself, a life-brightening experience, consider. Assuming you beat the disorders and autism odds to begin with, then you can let em grow up and find out if you've raised a torturous Frankenstein monster or not!
I don't have kids. Made that call a long time ago (because my weak spine and weaker bank account) can't support me, much less anything else. But my girlfriend of six years has two kids, and I am basically their dad (even though both kiddos enjoy talking about their vapor-thin invisible fathers. Xavier is eleven, and his dad acts eleven and beats women and does crystal meth (and anything else he can get his biohazard-dirty hands on). And Xavier loves him. Hasn't seen him (or a dime from him) in over five years, and he loves his ol dad because HE HAS AN XBOX. That's it. He knows full and well his "daddy" beat the everloving shit out of his mom, dragged her through the dirt, slammed her head in, and into, a car door, kicked her in the privates. That last point should show who he is. And now he's got three or four other kids, plugging right along, beating and drugging and evading the child support office all at the same time. And Xavier pisses all over the toilet, and chews paper and sticks it to the ceiling, and bosses his sister around every hour of every day, spills tea and eats food like a two year old, refuses to clean his room (for five years now) to get his game system back. He's been spanked, denied field trips, denied game time at school, closed up in his room, royally spanked by "Papa" (another man in my girlfriends life that has beaten the hell out of her) for ruining his house (which he does ruin the house, he pees in the floor beside the couch, even though he bawls when we tell him "Are we going to have to buy diapers for you?"). He's had it all snatched away from him and all he wants is to piss off his sister, piss on the everything, and spill just a little more food and drink. I've told him "You'll never play another video game under this roof, ever again, until you start using the bathroom, and eating, like an eleven year old, instead of a (sloppy) three year old. He lies and tries to throw his sister to the wolves every opportunity he gets, no matter how unbelievable the lie is, and I don't doubt he enjoys it when she does burn for his crimes. I feel like I'm raising him up only so he can have fun in jail for the rest of his adult life. He's lazy and bossy and will never work, I'm sure.
Sorry if I sound cruel myself here, but I took the first three or four years of him spraying shit in my face in stride. Now that he's older, and now that I know he's better than that, and he knows he's better than that, its really really getting old. And he knows its getting old, because anytime he's forced to do something he hates doing (like apologizing or wiping his piss ((or shit))off the seat) he screams and howls and yells "Not fair! Not fair! Not fair! Not fair! Not faiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir! Not faaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiir! Not faiiiiiaiaiiaiaiaiaiaiiaiaiaia! AaiaiaiiiiiaiiaiaiaiaiiiiiaiiaiaiiiiiiI!*gag* *cough**gag* NooooooooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaiiiiIIAIAIAIIIIIIIIIAIAIAIAIIIIIIIAIAIAIIIIIIIAIAIAIIIIIIIIIIIIIII". And then I say "Yes, buddy, it is fair. Because you pee in the floor, and your sister doesn't. And you sister and mom sit in your pee, and you don't. And half of anything you try to eat or drink ends up thrown around (or stuck to the ceiling) of the kitchen. And you refuse to apologize. And you uncle has told you, your grandpa has told you, your grown cousins have told you, I've told you, and your mom has told you, ten thousand thousand times. No food in the living room. No pee in the living room. No food in your room. No bossing your sister. No shoveling down any bit of food that doesn't require cooking (he'll eat entire packs of hotdogs and loaves of bread and gallons of milk in a single day, some of it eaten and the rest shredded up and stuffed into the couch, or behind the couch in the windowsill, or hurled outside, or stuffed behind the toy box in his room). And how many things have you stopped doing? Do you want a grand prize for peeing in the floor? Would you give me a high five if I peed in your bed? No, you wouldn't. Does Jake say to Finn, "Hey buddy, can I pee in your house?" and Finn says, "Sure buddy, pee in my house! Right in the floor, because it doesn't stink, and it doesn't matter that everyone else on the planet uses the toilet, and everyone on the planet has told you its disgusting, and just like a damn baby, to pee in the floor.".
Nothing matters. Guess some people just have to grow up to fill that niche (or cellblock). DNA matters, and apparently his "dad's" wifebeating shitface DNA is just too redneck and idiotic to alter. I knew the guy long before he slung his sperm around, and the first thing he ever said to me was "You want some of my brain pills?". I've already figured out that the world is so overstuffed with douche because said douche runs out and irresponsibly has kids left and right (and runs like hell) while all the noble guys (such as my own damn self) keep from having children if they aren't prepared to, and never have kids if they're never prepared. Noble horses dying in the stables while the donkeys and mules rampage the pastures. Good!
Just another wonderful layer to the ass cake that is my existence. I really hope this at least makes some other folks feel a little less taxed by their own lives. Now I get to wade out in the ticks and chiggers and molten heat to bury two innocent baby cats who actually did manage to have a worse day than I'll have.
And they were the two coolest kitties we had, to add to it.. An ultra-tiny black boy cat (who was so friendly he'd always sleep by your feet if you were around) and a fluffy wide-faced big-eyed orange girl cat (who was so friendly she'd always sleep by your feet if you were around). The orange one was scheduled to get out of this hellhole in a couple days also.
She drowned them in their own water dish (an upside-down trashcan lid, because that's how fancy and well-off we are!). And she probably was grinning and enjoying the experience too.
Her mom was a psychopathic drunk who beat her dog and hurled her cats every time they tried running inside in hopes of eating. Thing is, she's been picking at and slapping our two inside dogs for 3 months now and getting punished for it, time and time and time and time again. She gives not a shit.
Before anyone tells you kids are a miracle, the best thing you can do for yourself, a life-brightening experience, consider. Assuming you beat the disorders and autism odds to begin with, then you can let em grow up and find out if you've raised a torturous Frankenstein monster or not!
I don't have kids. Made that call a long time ago (because my weak spine and weaker bank account) can't support me, much less anything else. But my girlfriend of six years has two kids, and I am basically their dad (even though both kiddos enjoy talking about their vapor-thin invisible fathers. Xavier is eleven, and his dad acts eleven and beats women and does crystal meth (and anything else he can get his biohazard-dirty hands on). And Xavier loves him. Hasn't seen him (or a dime from him) in over five years, and he loves his ol dad because HE HAS AN XBOX. That's it. He knows full and well his "daddy" beat the everloving shit out of his mom, dragged her through the dirt, slammed her head in, and into, a car door, kicked her in the privates. That last point should show who he is. And now he's got three or four other kids, plugging right along, beating and drugging and evading the child support office all at the same time. And Xavier pisses all over the toilet, and chews paper and sticks it to the ceiling, and bosses his sister around every hour of every day, spills tea and eats food like a two year old, refuses to clean his room (for five years now) to get his game system back. He's been spanked, denied field trips, denied game time at school, closed up in his room, royally spanked by "Papa" (another man in my girlfriends life that has beaten the hell out of her) for ruining his house (which he does ruin the house, he pees in the floor beside the couch, even though he bawls when we tell him "Are we going to have to buy diapers for you?"). He's had it all snatched away from him and all he wants is to piss off his sister, piss on the everything, and spill just a little more food and drink. I've told him "You'll never play another video game under this roof, ever again, until you start using the bathroom, and eating, like an eleven year old, instead of a (sloppy) three year old. He lies and tries to throw his sister to the wolves every opportunity he gets, no matter how unbelievable the lie is, and I don't doubt he enjoys it when she does burn for his crimes. I feel like I'm raising him up only so he can have fun in jail for the rest of his adult life. He's lazy and bossy and will never work, I'm sure.
Sorry if I sound cruel myself here, but I took the first three or four years of him spraying shit in my face in stride. Now that he's older, and now that I know he's better than that, and he knows he's better than that, its really really getting old. And he knows its getting old, because anytime he's forced to do something he hates doing (like apologizing or wiping his piss ((or shit))off the seat) he screams and howls and yells "Not fair! Not fair! Not fair! Not fair! Not faiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir! Not faaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiir! Not faiiiiiaiaiiaiaiaiaiaiiaiaiaia! AaiaiaiiiiiaiiaiaiaiaiiiiiaiiaiaiiiiiiI!*gag* *cough**gag* NooooooooooooooooooooooooooooaaaaaiiiiIIAIAIAIIIIIIIIIAIAIAIAIIIIIIIAIAIAIIIIIIIAIAIAIIIIIIIIIIIIIII". And then I say "Yes, buddy, it is fair. Because you pee in the floor, and your sister doesn't. And you sister and mom sit in your pee, and you don't. And half of anything you try to eat or drink ends up thrown around (or stuck to the ceiling) of the kitchen. And you refuse to apologize. And you uncle has told you, your grandpa has told you, your grown cousins have told you, I've told you, and your mom has told you, ten thousand thousand times. No food in the living room. No pee in the living room. No food in your room. No bossing your sister. No shoveling down any bit of food that doesn't require cooking (he'll eat entire packs of hotdogs and loaves of bread and gallons of milk in a single day, some of it eaten and the rest shredded up and stuffed into the couch, or behind the couch in the windowsill, or hurled outside, or stuffed behind the toy box in his room). And how many things have you stopped doing? Do you want a grand prize for peeing in the floor? Would you give me a high five if I peed in your bed? No, you wouldn't. Does Jake say to Finn, "Hey buddy, can I pee in your house?" and Finn says, "Sure buddy, pee in my house! Right in the floor, because it doesn't stink, and it doesn't matter that everyone else on the planet uses the toilet, and everyone on the planet has told you its disgusting, and just like a damn baby, to pee in the floor.".
Nothing matters. Guess some people just have to grow up to fill that niche (or cellblock). DNA matters, and apparently his "dad's" wifebeating shitface DNA is just too redneck and idiotic to alter. I knew the guy long before he slung his sperm around, and the first thing he ever said to me was "You want some of my brain pills?". I've already figured out that the world is so overstuffed with douche because said douche runs out and irresponsibly has kids left and right (and runs like hell) while all the noble guys (such as my own damn self) keep from having children if they aren't prepared to, and never have kids if they're never prepared. Noble horses dying in the stables while the donkeys and mules rampage the pastures. Good!
Just another wonderful layer to the ass cake that is my existence. I really hope this at least makes some other folks feel a little less taxed by their own lives. Now I get to wade out in the ticks and chiggers and molten heat to bury two innocent baby cats who actually did manage to have a worse day than I'll have.
Friday, June 21, 2013
Product Placement
Guess I should go into depth a bit more about myself and my circumstances, just to draw the reader in deeper..
I come off pessimistic and full of anger, and I am, so that's good.. But that isn't how I live my life, day to day. I laugh at the worst news, tell people everything will be okay, the whole perma-smile thing. Tough work. Like last night.
My cousin has a cat, who was our cat for ten years, which we got from a litter of kittens that his cat had. In that ten years my aunt died so my cousin asked for the cat back. Which is fine, because just like all poor people we have way too many animals (no money to spay/neuter + extended poverty + neighborhood animals = catsplosion). So for around two years he takes the cat (Brownie), and she hides from wild children and general loud noise for the majority of that time. Now that my father died (two years ago in a tornado, but not from the tornado, from a heart attack), my cousin is living here with us again. And he sleeps on a mattress in the living room floor. And he has two jobs. And he whines all day about how broke he is while he buys new Transformer action figures every week and the dumps that he takes have more nutritional value than the fine diet (of hotdog/mini-pizza/bologna/beans/potato soup/mayonnaise-made biscuits and ancient frozen deer meat freezerburned past the point of tasting good) that the rest of us attempt to live off of. And like the class act he is, he comes here (around 11pm each night) and then stuffs his idiot face with as much of our food as possible and then he goes to bed, and bakes up a fresh goliath shit to expel the next morning before he leaves.
So the cat. The Brownie.
She's twelve, and she has a swollen cheek. This is either a)infection from a scratch or b)infection from a bad tooth or c)swelling from an infected saliva gland. Its infection, and we don't have enough money to..
.. well. Money. We don't have money for a single thing. Currently we manage to pay our land payment (460 a month) and keep electricity on. So any time you think "Hey, this could help..", think about every object or location involved in said "help". Vehicles take money to move. And tires that have no wires showing through. Appointments need a phone to call on(they went off a few days ago). I am disabled and receive a check each month, but I also have a woman and her two kids to take care of (no friends, ignorant hypocritical unhelpful parents, and any family she has that would love to help is.. broke!! Because you're either broke and good or rich and evil. Then again, talk is cheap when you have 0 dollars, just like everything else at that point). I've wanted a window screen for months now and haven't been able to get one. We have no central heat or air (and I've only lived 3 of my 30 years with it, anyway), and the box fan in my window is constantly pumping in gnats and wood roaches and wasps and mosquitos and stink bugs. And this property we're on now is crawling with centipedes, found three inside and the last one was halfway up my pants leg (on the inside, of course.). So as I type this remember I'm fighting constant wildlife :) And its a few minutes til 9:30pm and my ancient Atomic Clock (been running for over 5 years on the same set of batteries) says its 86.4 degrees in my room.
My mom has lost over 30 pounds since my dad died. Partly from working, partly from sweating, partly from depression/poverty. My brain keeps ticking back to that.. Its pretty hard to lose weight, even in poverty. Whats the cheapest food at the store? Bologna and hotdogs and potatoes and tiny pizzas that are 1100 calories each. Whats expensive? Fruit. Veggies. Meat that doesn't snap and pop and explode when you cook it, like these hotdogs do. Anything with "reduced fat" or "lean" on the label. Milk. That last list is also a list of things we never have. And toilet paper and toothpaste can occasionally be added, too. I've whittled my standards down to where if we have toothpaste, toilet paper and sugar then I'm happy. This is poverty! Wheeee!
So you can understand why people irritate me when they say "I'm just too broke, sorry.", and they have food, and electricity, and clothes with no holes, and more than one pair of shoes. You're nowhere near broke. You'd have to put a couple hundred bucks in the gas tank and drive days nonstop to even approach being broke. If I got dropped into a POW camp I'd be the guy saving everyone's scabs and lost hair so we'll have something good to eat in the future, straining urine and eyeballing who looks weakest and which ways the sun shines during the day for drying the meat out. Can collect sweat and dry it for salt to preserve Tony, too.. Hopefully I don't ever get around to eating sweat-jerked Tony with a side of scab chips, though.
But I have pinched green spots off of bread to eat it. And fried rank hamburger so brown that it already looked cooked. And ate food I've dropped in the floor. Don't get me wrong, I don't know anything about the level of hunger on the Feed The Children commercials, I'd hit a Subway dumpster before that ever happened.
Another thing.. If you think about commenting anything about "Oh, man, its your fault!", at any point, my forever response will be: "Agreed! A portion of this whole situation is absolutely my fault.". I could try harder to find some kind of extra money, despite my disability. Seen that commercial, Chase or Mutual of Omaha or one of those other things I'll never have/need, where the guy makes magnificent structures out of simple cheap toothpicks and now he's selling pieces to museums. Whether its a total load of crap or not, its true. I've seen amazing sculptures made out of plastic spoons, and shredded tires and other completely worthless and easily obtainable materials. I could try to write (or record) a book, because imagination and pen-and-paper are damn near free.. I'm a failure, and I've idled my life away with no ambition, and until recently no real fear of living on the street. Guess that changed when dad died.
Can't remember the real statistic, look it up for accuracy if you want, but I vaguely recall that something like 700,000 people go homeless in this country every year. Or maybe it was 50,000.. Hardly matters, the odds of winning the lottery are 1 in 200,000,000. The current odds on us going homeless are probably something like 1 in 2. :) If one tire blows on our only vehicle, we're homeless. And two of them are pretty bald.
Suppose that's really it. On an average day, anyone can blow out a tire and call a friend who can either tow the car or at least aid in procurement of said tire. We have no money for a tire, or even one-fourth of a tire. Or a friend to call to help us get to a tire. Or a phone to call a friend if there were one, anyway. My sister is working at McDonalds getting over 70 hours a week, and she pays the land payment that keeps us off the sidewalk. This is her first job ever, and for over three months every check she's received has been completely absorbed by the bills. When I got my first check from my first job my dad was still alive, and though we were always poor we were never in danger of having nowhere to live.. My whole first check went to a guitar and an amp, which I promptly ignored and never learned much on. I feel sick pretty often thinking about all her money dissolving into bills, when mine didn't have to when I was her age.
My mom keeps getting turned down from Wal-Mart, which I recently learned offers no fulltime positions to anyone less than a manager.. That should be illegal. Also firing employees when they're six months to a year away from retirement should also be illegal. We moved to this place after we were evicted from our last, which was the result of a huge snowball effect that took two years after my father's death (which locked with the tornado that busted windows and the roof of our home) to finally force us out of the last place he ever lived, and the town I'd lived all but the first two years of my life in (and those first two years were spent just ten miles up the road, besides). We barely sold our 8 year old double-wide (nicest place I've ever lived) for a disgusting seven thousand dollars, sold it just a few days before they came and claimed everything on our former land as theirs.
Whole neighborhood was disturbed by the tornado, and we weren't the only people who lost our homes after the damn storm, either. The community and out-of-town/state workers came early on and helped with food and debris, but then they left, and a lot of things still remained ruined. My best example is one of the oldest churches in our town that still, today, has windows busted out and a roof patchworked with tarps, unrepaired. And they still hold service there. But no donations have fixed it. No trained professionals have volunteered to fix it. And no other church has helped fix it. I think its a fine symbol of this country. It still just barely functions, so it doesn't need fixed! It stands there on Main Street, right in everyone's faces, symbolizing (to me) both the elderly and the religious, and how no one respects either anymore.
There's a chunk of Bible that talks about caring for the widows, and save for a few different occasions, no one gives a flat shit that my mom is widowed and suffering every day.
Since then we've had to sell a lot of our stuff, which is normal. But we've also had to sell a lot of dad's stuff. Strange how when a person dies all their belongings and plans take on greater meaning. My favorite relic of my dad's is his old pocket comb that he toted everywhere with him (along with foldable scissors and nail-clippers and a small knife).. Never thought after he died my favorite keepsake would be a fifty cent generic black comb.. But yeah.. We had to sell his crossbow and target, his hunting rifle. His lawnmower. His vehicle. And then we were forced out of the last place he lived, away from the last living memories he left. The last things he worked on and bettered in this world (which is what I think the meaning of life even is: to use our thumbs and words for good, because we have the best words and thumbs on the planet.)
My great grandmother was savagely beaten by two men posing as linoleum salesmen, who then took maybe fifty bucks and then trashed the place before they left. My brother was hit from behind while riding a bicycle after school, him and two other friends, all left for dead. Almost a hundred stitches in his head, some permanent brain damage, and no criminal caught. My mom is being sued for our back land payments from the old property (surprisingly almost five thousand dollars), and though we lived here just two weeks of last year we just received the property tax bill for 2012 for this place (another 390 bucks we don't have). Electric is behind, water is behind.
So this is why I ended up in the bathroom with a knife and Brownie, and, after calculation and a couple trajectory-plotting test runs, attempted to pop the massive swell on the side of her face. Big enough that its keeping her eye on that side half closed. And my sharpest knife (held in a way so that only an eighth of an inch or so of blade was exposed) was not sharp enough. Not so much as a pinprick. Two more failed attempts (and a sick feeling in my stomach) and I gave up.
This isn't my first go-round with home animal surgery. Poverty seems to walk hand-in-hand with it. Ages ago I had to pop something similar on our longest-lived dog, Cookie. Her bubble actually popped on one poke, and I squashed out the yogurt-mousse consistency pus-foam that was inside, hit it with rubbing alcohol twice a day for a week or so and she was good as new.
When I came back to Brownie later I had a box cutter blade this time, and though I'd given up earlier I couldn't stop thinking about her suffering, but how my failed attempts were just hurting her worse, but if it didn't pop she'd die in a matter of days anyway. The internet said not to poke with a needle because the small hole would clog up and need cleared multiple times to drain it. And the skin resisted the razor, too. Even after I pulled the trimmer out and shaved a nice central zone clear. I'm sure I was pulling my punches in fear anyway, but a couple of those times I knew that it must have popped, that time. But no, in the end I made a minor cut less than half an inch long that was less like a cut and more like a surface scratch. And today my mom wasted nearly all the last of her gas taking her to the vet "for my cousin", who was under the impression that it'd cost about fifteen bucks to get it fixed (its 15 just to be seen, then 600 for the cleaning and antibiotics). What he was hoping would happen is that mom would pay for it (because he's dumb enough to think my mom has money still, somehow), and then he'd cry "Oh, I had this bill and that blah blah blah", when all he'd really done was bought more damn action figures. Yes, we should have shoved the boot of RENT OR GET OUT up his ass ages ago, but my mom won't do it. He's family, apparently, even though he doubles as living scum. If it were my house I would have booted him a long time ago. Now he's the only alternate vehicle and phone access we even have (when he's here at all, and he keeps less than a quarter tank in his car so he can always say he's low on gas.). He likes to say he's broke when he's got a jar of rolled quarters sitting right in front of you.
The only cheap vet near here said to be there around 11am to noon, which my mom was. And there were about fifteen dogs in front of her waiting to be seen too. Guess this clinic is open one day a week for four hours. In that four hours they saw two dogs, and wasted the gas and time of nearly twenty other people with sick animals accompanying them (was hot as hell today too).
So now you know a bit more about me, and the fun fun fun I have from day to day, brewing in my own sweat in a room full of mangled bugs, trying to save our oldest cat and failing, cowering in fear of one bald tire fraying a little too much and stranding my mother (who has a minor heart condition to boot) in the middle of nowhere with no phone or familiar faces to rely on. And it'll only get better! Only reason the net is still on is because its my mom's only chance to find a job now. No word of mouth for her, no gas or money to go get a paper (not that anyone uses the paper much anyway).. And the summer is only getting hotter. Perhaps now that I've got some of this self-whining out of the way I can focus more on issues and things that disgust me later on, if there is a later on :|
I come off pessimistic and full of anger, and I am, so that's good.. But that isn't how I live my life, day to day. I laugh at the worst news, tell people everything will be okay, the whole perma-smile thing. Tough work. Like last night.
My cousin has a cat, who was our cat for ten years, which we got from a litter of kittens that his cat had. In that ten years my aunt died so my cousin asked for the cat back. Which is fine, because just like all poor people we have way too many animals (no money to spay/neuter + extended poverty + neighborhood animals = catsplosion). So for around two years he takes the cat (Brownie), and she hides from wild children and general loud noise for the majority of that time. Now that my father died (two years ago in a tornado, but not from the tornado, from a heart attack), my cousin is living here with us again. And he sleeps on a mattress in the living room floor. And he has two jobs. And he whines all day about how broke he is while he buys new Transformer action figures every week and the dumps that he takes have more nutritional value than the fine diet (of hotdog/mini-pizza/bologna/beans/potato soup/mayonnaise-made biscuits and ancient frozen deer meat freezerburned past the point of tasting good) that the rest of us attempt to live off of. And like the class act he is, he comes here (around 11pm each night) and then stuffs his idiot face with as much of our food as possible and then he goes to bed, and bakes up a fresh goliath shit to expel the next morning before he leaves.
So the cat. The Brownie.
She's twelve, and she has a swollen cheek. This is either a)infection from a scratch or b)infection from a bad tooth or c)swelling from an infected saliva gland. Its infection, and we don't have enough money to..
.. well. Money. We don't have money for a single thing. Currently we manage to pay our land payment (460 a month) and keep electricity on. So any time you think "Hey, this could help..", think about every object or location involved in said "help". Vehicles take money to move. And tires that have no wires showing through. Appointments need a phone to call on(they went off a few days ago). I am disabled and receive a check each month, but I also have a woman and her two kids to take care of (no friends, ignorant hypocritical unhelpful parents, and any family she has that would love to help is.. broke!! Because you're either broke and good or rich and evil. Then again, talk is cheap when you have 0 dollars, just like everything else at that point). I've wanted a window screen for months now and haven't been able to get one. We have no central heat or air (and I've only lived 3 of my 30 years with it, anyway), and the box fan in my window is constantly pumping in gnats and wood roaches and wasps and mosquitos and stink bugs. And this property we're on now is crawling with centipedes, found three inside and the last one was halfway up my pants leg (on the inside, of course.). So as I type this remember I'm fighting constant wildlife :) And its a few minutes til 9:30pm and my ancient Atomic Clock (been running for over 5 years on the same set of batteries) says its 86.4 degrees in my room.
My mom has lost over 30 pounds since my dad died. Partly from working, partly from sweating, partly from depression/poverty. My brain keeps ticking back to that.. Its pretty hard to lose weight, even in poverty. Whats the cheapest food at the store? Bologna and hotdogs and potatoes and tiny pizzas that are 1100 calories each. Whats expensive? Fruit. Veggies. Meat that doesn't snap and pop and explode when you cook it, like these hotdogs do. Anything with "reduced fat" or "lean" on the label. Milk. That last list is also a list of things we never have. And toilet paper and toothpaste can occasionally be added, too. I've whittled my standards down to where if we have toothpaste, toilet paper and sugar then I'm happy. This is poverty! Wheeee!
So you can understand why people irritate me when they say "I'm just too broke, sorry.", and they have food, and electricity, and clothes with no holes, and more than one pair of shoes. You're nowhere near broke. You'd have to put a couple hundred bucks in the gas tank and drive days nonstop to even approach being broke. If I got dropped into a POW camp I'd be the guy saving everyone's scabs and lost hair so we'll have something good to eat in the future, straining urine and eyeballing who looks weakest and which ways the sun shines during the day for drying the meat out. Can collect sweat and dry it for salt to preserve Tony, too.. Hopefully I don't ever get around to eating sweat-jerked Tony with a side of scab chips, though.
But I have pinched green spots off of bread to eat it. And fried rank hamburger so brown that it already looked cooked. And ate food I've dropped in the floor. Don't get me wrong, I don't know anything about the level of hunger on the Feed The Children commercials, I'd hit a Subway dumpster before that ever happened.
Another thing.. If you think about commenting anything about "Oh, man, its your fault!", at any point, my forever response will be: "Agreed! A portion of this whole situation is absolutely my fault.". I could try harder to find some kind of extra money, despite my disability. Seen that commercial, Chase or Mutual of Omaha or one of those other things I'll never have/need, where the guy makes magnificent structures out of simple cheap toothpicks and now he's selling pieces to museums. Whether its a total load of crap or not, its true. I've seen amazing sculptures made out of plastic spoons, and shredded tires and other completely worthless and easily obtainable materials. I could try to write (or record) a book, because imagination and pen-and-paper are damn near free.. I'm a failure, and I've idled my life away with no ambition, and until recently no real fear of living on the street. Guess that changed when dad died.
Can't remember the real statistic, look it up for accuracy if you want, but I vaguely recall that something like 700,000 people go homeless in this country every year. Or maybe it was 50,000.. Hardly matters, the odds of winning the lottery are 1 in 200,000,000. The current odds on us going homeless are probably something like 1 in 2. :) If one tire blows on our only vehicle, we're homeless. And two of them are pretty bald.
Suppose that's really it. On an average day, anyone can blow out a tire and call a friend who can either tow the car or at least aid in procurement of said tire. We have no money for a tire, or even one-fourth of a tire. Or a friend to call to help us get to a tire. Or a phone to call a friend if there were one, anyway. My sister is working at McDonalds getting over 70 hours a week, and she pays the land payment that keeps us off the sidewalk. This is her first job ever, and for over three months every check she's received has been completely absorbed by the bills. When I got my first check from my first job my dad was still alive, and though we were always poor we were never in danger of having nowhere to live.. My whole first check went to a guitar and an amp, which I promptly ignored and never learned much on. I feel sick pretty often thinking about all her money dissolving into bills, when mine didn't have to when I was her age.
My mom keeps getting turned down from Wal-Mart, which I recently learned offers no fulltime positions to anyone less than a manager.. That should be illegal. Also firing employees when they're six months to a year away from retirement should also be illegal. We moved to this place after we were evicted from our last, which was the result of a huge snowball effect that took two years after my father's death (which locked with the tornado that busted windows and the roof of our home) to finally force us out of the last place he ever lived, and the town I'd lived all but the first two years of my life in (and those first two years were spent just ten miles up the road, besides). We barely sold our 8 year old double-wide (nicest place I've ever lived) for a disgusting seven thousand dollars, sold it just a few days before they came and claimed everything on our former land as theirs.
Whole neighborhood was disturbed by the tornado, and we weren't the only people who lost our homes after the damn storm, either. The community and out-of-town/state workers came early on and helped with food and debris, but then they left, and a lot of things still remained ruined. My best example is one of the oldest churches in our town that still, today, has windows busted out and a roof patchworked with tarps, unrepaired. And they still hold service there. But no donations have fixed it. No trained professionals have volunteered to fix it. And no other church has helped fix it. I think its a fine symbol of this country. It still just barely functions, so it doesn't need fixed! It stands there on Main Street, right in everyone's faces, symbolizing (to me) both the elderly and the religious, and how no one respects either anymore.
There's a chunk of Bible that talks about caring for the widows, and save for a few different occasions, no one gives a flat shit that my mom is widowed and suffering every day.
Since then we've had to sell a lot of our stuff, which is normal. But we've also had to sell a lot of dad's stuff. Strange how when a person dies all their belongings and plans take on greater meaning. My favorite relic of my dad's is his old pocket comb that he toted everywhere with him (along with foldable scissors and nail-clippers and a small knife).. Never thought after he died my favorite keepsake would be a fifty cent generic black comb.. But yeah.. We had to sell his crossbow and target, his hunting rifle. His lawnmower. His vehicle. And then we were forced out of the last place he lived, away from the last living memories he left. The last things he worked on and bettered in this world (which is what I think the meaning of life even is: to use our thumbs and words for good, because we have the best words and thumbs on the planet.)
My great grandmother was savagely beaten by two men posing as linoleum salesmen, who then took maybe fifty bucks and then trashed the place before they left. My brother was hit from behind while riding a bicycle after school, him and two other friends, all left for dead. Almost a hundred stitches in his head, some permanent brain damage, and no criminal caught. My mom is being sued for our back land payments from the old property (surprisingly almost five thousand dollars), and though we lived here just two weeks of last year we just received the property tax bill for 2012 for this place (another 390 bucks we don't have). Electric is behind, water is behind.
So this is why I ended up in the bathroom with a knife and Brownie, and, after calculation and a couple trajectory-plotting test runs, attempted to pop the massive swell on the side of her face. Big enough that its keeping her eye on that side half closed. And my sharpest knife (held in a way so that only an eighth of an inch or so of blade was exposed) was not sharp enough. Not so much as a pinprick. Two more failed attempts (and a sick feeling in my stomach) and I gave up.
This isn't my first go-round with home animal surgery. Poverty seems to walk hand-in-hand with it. Ages ago I had to pop something similar on our longest-lived dog, Cookie. Her bubble actually popped on one poke, and I squashed out the yogurt-mousse consistency pus-foam that was inside, hit it with rubbing alcohol twice a day for a week or so and she was good as new.
When I came back to Brownie later I had a box cutter blade this time, and though I'd given up earlier I couldn't stop thinking about her suffering, but how my failed attempts were just hurting her worse, but if it didn't pop she'd die in a matter of days anyway. The internet said not to poke with a needle because the small hole would clog up and need cleared multiple times to drain it. And the skin resisted the razor, too. Even after I pulled the trimmer out and shaved a nice central zone clear. I'm sure I was pulling my punches in fear anyway, but a couple of those times I knew that it must have popped, that time. But no, in the end I made a minor cut less than half an inch long that was less like a cut and more like a surface scratch. And today my mom wasted nearly all the last of her gas taking her to the vet "for my cousin", who was under the impression that it'd cost about fifteen bucks to get it fixed (its 15 just to be seen, then 600 for the cleaning and antibiotics). What he was hoping would happen is that mom would pay for it (because he's dumb enough to think my mom has money still, somehow), and then he'd cry "Oh, I had this bill and that blah blah blah", when all he'd really done was bought more damn action figures. Yes, we should have shoved the boot of RENT OR GET OUT up his ass ages ago, but my mom won't do it. He's family, apparently, even though he doubles as living scum. If it were my house I would have booted him a long time ago. Now he's the only alternate vehicle and phone access we even have (when he's here at all, and he keeps less than a quarter tank in his car so he can always say he's low on gas.). He likes to say he's broke when he's got a jar of rolled quarters sitting right in front of you.
The only cheap vet near here said to be there around 11am to noon, which my mom was. And there were about fifteen dogs in front of her waiting to be seen too. Guess this clinic is open one day a week for four hours. In that four hours they saw two dogs, and wasted the gas and time of nearly twenty other people with sick animals accompanying them (was hot as hell today too).
So now you know a bit more about me, and the fun fun fun I have from day to day, brewing in my own sweat in a room full of mangled bugs, trying to save our oldest cat and failing, cowering in fear of one bald tire fraying a little too much and stranding my mother (who has a minor heart condition to boot) in the middle of nowhere with no phone or familiar faces to rely on. And it'll only get better! Only reason the net is still on is because its my mom's only chance to find a job now. No word of mouth for her, no gas or money to go get a paper (not that anyone uses the paper much anyway).. And the summer is only getting hotter. Perhaps now that I've got some of this self-whining out of the way I can focus more on issues and things that disgust me later on, if there is a later on :|
Monday, June 17, 2013
Discriminate
I've never understood the sexist/racist piglets out there.
The simple act of thinking you're better than someone else makes you a lesser person. Just setting foot into the arena at all, and the fight is lost.
.. Have you not seen Jeopardy? (which consequently I did not know how to spell, and it seems crazy enough spelled right..).
In the gritty end we're all made of salt and bone and blood, and as salt and bone and blood we are quite hard to tell apart.
Maybe once a year I say, "I'd like to grow my beard out like Thor.", and everyone in earshot shouts, "HELL YEAH!".
And less than a damn month later random people start telling me its time to "do something about the beard".
I never knew life would be so hard.
The simple act of thinking you're better than someone else makes you a lesser person. Just setting foot into the arena at all, and the fight is lost.
.. Have you not seen Jeopardy? (which consequently I did not know how to spell, and it seems crazy enough spelled right..).
In the gritty end we're all made of salt and bone and blood, and as salt and bone and blood we are quite hard to tell apart.
Maybe once a year I say, "I'd like to grow my beard out like Thor.", and everyone in earshot shouts, "HELL YEAH!".
And less than a damn month later random people start telling me its time to "do something about the beard".
I never knew life would be so hard.
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