A Buffalo and Two Wolves

I watched his life leave his body. I heard him take his last breath.

“Let go. Just let go. You will be honored.”

He blinked once and then the light—the spirit—went out of his eyes.

Dad successfully hunted down his Buffalo. Almost a year to the day his brother and dog died. He took the Buffalo’s life with his brother’s gun. Both my uncle and grandfather helped from the Other Side. God. Wakan Tanka. Mother Mary. St. Michael. They all were with Dad as he made his straight and true shots. It was a righteous kill.

The moment will stay between him and me. But, he knelt over that Buffalo, blessing him and thanking God. This was Dad’s destiny.

(Um, God—thanks for not striking me dead with that whole joke I kept up about if Dad didn’t get a Buffalo I was done with God. And, thanks for the stomach too.)

I was that sure. I knew My Father was going to take down a Buffalo. Every bone, every bit of hid, the heart, the liver, horns, and all the edible meat will be utilized and honored. (Not the tongue, though—EW!)

A life-long dream of Dad’s. A spiritual experience. No, a spiritual event. And, I was there to share the moment with him.

“I’ll never forget this day,” he said.

“Neither will I.”

I have never been on a hunting expedition. I just never had the inclination or desire. I am NOT opposed to hunting (if it is done respectively, using the whole animal, and not in the name of a trophy). I been with plenty of animals—dear pets that I loved—when they tooe their last breath (at the vet’s office, unfortunately).

The Buffalo was different. As far as I could tell he was the biggest bull in the herd. Dad’s theory is that when hunting—animals choose to die. They allow a hunter to take them if they deem it a good day to die.

In the rolling plains of Nebraska on November 29, 2016, the wind was blowing 40 miles per hour. It had snowed the night before, and that morning was overcast with just enough snow dusting the ground. Exactly the way Dad wanted it. After the kill, the sun pushed through the clouds.

Yes, Rancher put the final bullet in the Buffalo’s spine, because he is an expert Buffalo hunter, and knew exactly where to place the bullet in the pain. Dad was not going to keep riddling the poor animal with bullets. At that point, the Buffalo was suffering. But, Goddamn he would not go gently into that night.

I thought—one shot and the Buffalo would go down. You know, like in the movies. But, that’s not the way it went. The first shot he took—I thought he missed because the Buffalo was so un-phased. The second shot made the Buffalo stop I his tracks. The third and fourth (and maybe a fifth) took him down. One pistol shot and the Buffalo rallied and tried to get up. Two more pistol shots and the Buffalo was still holding his head up. Rancher’s shot in the spine was the mercy shot.

(NOTE: TO THOSE OF YOU READING THIS DO NOT TELL DAD EVER THAT I INCLUDED HOW MANY SHOTS HE HAD TO TAKE. HE DID NOT WANT ME TO INCLUDE THE ABOVE PARAGRAPH IN THIS BLOG THAT HE THINKS SO MANY PEOPLE READ. BUT I AM DONE WITH PEOPLE TELLING ME WHAT TO WRITE. SO THERE.)

Dad is going to make this Buffalo Hunt his Own Story. And, that is fine. That is his right. He goddamned earned it. But this is My Story as I experienced it.

I felt the Buffalo after his last breath and he still felt alive. Maybe his soul stuck around for a bit. That morning this majestic, wild animal was alive and after 10 a.m., he was dead. Dad—and me—and Rancher absorbed some of the Buffalo’s spirit and soul. I really believe that. I felt it. Yes, that’s what I felt.

The day before we got the Ranch, an India in Town told was surprised that Dad was going Buffalo hunting for more than just the trophy. He was really impressed that Dad knew Buffalo were sacred and had smoked his peace-pipe before the hunt. The Indian said after Dad killed the Buffalo, to break a cigarette (everyone smokes or dips out here), over the Buffalo and smoke it. I did kinda---I only got in a puff, but I have the remains of the cigarette. God speaks in many ways.

I want dad to have made for me a small medal of  Buffalo bone that I can wear with my Saint Medals. I am thinking of getting a very small, demure buffalo tattoo. Some place on my body that only I can see. The Buffalo spilled blood for us. I feel to honor him, I should spill a few drops too.

I keep going over and over the hunt in my head and looking at pictures. It doesn’t seem real. I hoped writing this blog would make the experience more real.

I feel like this experience—the whole experience on the ranch—has been very significant. I’m just not sure how yet.

These people—they live by God’s terms with the land. They work live with and amidst animals from Corgis to Buffalo Bulls. This is their life—yes, there are schedules and things have to be done when they have to be done. It’s a hard fucking life. But—it’s true. It’s authentic. Starbucks, iPhones, and malls are not the center of their lives.

Mrs. Rancher is my age and she has a 22-year-old daughter, a 20-year-old son, and 14-year-old girl. What? I feel like a total failure compared to her. Sure I have three degrees (well, two degrees and a certification) that she doesn’t have. But she and her husband love one another. They are help-mates. And, they do travel, not that the kids are older. They have been to Rome and Greece and all over the country for rodeos. Mr. Rancher rodeo-ed for over twenty years and Son is continuing the tradition.

They are not ignorant. They have all take the opportunity to travel and see beyond their ranch, but not surprisingly they return Here, because The Ranch is Life.

They are not better than we are—well, maybe they are…

Sure--put the Rancher one 287 in Jersey at rush hour and see how they do. They would fold. Go toe-to-toe with me educationally and they lose. But, they can talk to horses and ride bareback. It's not a fault being born in the East. I will also be an Easterner. But, there is a reason This is God's Country.

Daughter 1 lives in a house on the ranch with her “townie” husband and little Blue Heeler. Townie was raised in the nearest town, over an hour away. So, he’s not a rancher, but he’s catching on better than expected. Let me just say that the town in which he grew up is way, way country by Eastern standards. She has never known a vegetarian—that’s not a phase the kids go through out here. Mrs. Rancher couldn’t believe that I’d only been to one rodeo and that the stores near us don’t sell dry ice.

In Nebraska, the schools are not mandated to provide transportation, so Mrs. Rancher drives her daughter to school, which is over an hour away ever day. Daughter 1 was married in June on horseback to someone she’s known since high school. She did go away and got a degree in Kentucky, but seeing her working with colts today—she will never leave the ranch.

“Going to school in Kentucky made me appreciate so much more what I have here.”

The driving age is 14. Everybody has shot a gun. Mrs. Rancher has never been to NYC. They don’t identify with a city. Like back East where Home Town is, we identify with NYC. In The Holy City, we identify with Chicago. Here, you can drive for hours and there is no one and nothing around but what God made as He made it.

I doubt the kind of bullying I experienced in junior high occurs here. They were SHOCKED to hear the details of my teaching experiences. There alcoholics and wife-beaters, “whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches” here, of course. Rancher and his wife knew someone with bi-polar, who acted much like Asshole--and ended up in the nuthouse. The Ranchers drink alcohol (in moderation, the way it should be drunk,) smoke[ed], and swear.

It came to me: “whores, pimps, gamblers and sons of bitches” aren't as plentiful out Here because, well, there are way less people. But also--those people can't thrive--maybe survive--but not thrive Here. Asshole and T. would fold. There is not the safety-net of society to catch them. Or the lawyers to save them. They have to depend on family--who both Asshole and T. turned away.

I think I got it—there’s not the rush to Do Something—to Be Something or Someone—To Live Large. Kids are not expected to move away and life far from their families and experience The World. Success is not measured by money and cars. The perspective Here is Different. The Perspective and Attention is on a whole other bulls-eye. (Pardon the pun—not intended.)

And, it's just damn healthier out here. You can't just sit and eat bon-bons. At least, not on a ranch.

I read an article in the WP today about people making a big hullabaloo at Starbucks. Apparently, one guy, who is crazy anyway, shouted white-discrimination and called some people of color trash and garbage. He just kept shouting that he voted for Trump. Another person got into it with a kid—a barista—because he wanted TRUMP written on his coffee cup so the barista would have to say, “Trump you soy-latte-pumpkin-protein shot-extra hot-venti is ready.”

In Ranch, Nebraska there isn’t a Starbucks around for hours and hours. I know. When I got coffee in the Closest Town, it was 50 cents.

I did not have a real episode from Sunday until today. Tomorrow we are probably leaving. Dad says it’s because I don’t have the pressure and the schedules. No, I don’t. I am “on vacation,” not living Real Life with responsibilities and consequences. I am observing. I am safe with Daddy. But, I can’t just live like this—on vacation all the time. When I first went to The Holy City I could go a couple of days without an episode, but now that I have settled in and it’s “My Life,” the episodes have returned. I still believe The Holy City is the right place for me. But, I am my own worst enemy.

“An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good – he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you – and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: I will take a medium latte with cow milk to go, please. Name? Kate.

Nebraska

Dear Hearts,

I have been wondering why the country—specifically the West is referred to as God’s Country. I mean isn’t like everywhere God’s country.

I am on a 55,000-acre ranch in Nebraska. I have seen a herd of Buffalo. “Lords of the Plain.” I have ridden along with my dad and Rancher to see how Rancher herds the heifers and feeds them.

I have looked out at the land around me and seen untouched prairie and pasture. This land looked the same 500 years ago as it does now. That’s why it’s God’s Country. It’s unchanged by Man.

And you feel so free. You could run for miles through the grass and scream and shout and no one would hear you. It’s you and you and God.

I am so grateful that I came on this trip with Dad. I have really enjoyed just being away from—Real Life. The Life in which I have responsibilities and expectations.

Part of me wants to ask Rancher if I can stay on here and be a “ranch hand.” Rancher loves what he does. It is his life. But, I think you have to be born into this life. J.'s, oldest daughter at 22, is married. She got married on the ranch and rode to the wedding party on her horse. She’s so young. I didn’t think she was old enough to be married.

Gaia and Johnny have made jokes about me meeting someone. They overestimate my value or capacity. I cannot think about being with another man. Who would want me? And, why would I want to go through all the heartbreak, loss, and sorrow. I don’t trust myself to meet a “good man.”

I honestly can’t see beyond tomorrow. I know that Dad/Mom and I have to have the talk about my benefits being cut in half in December and my house. But, I don’t want to have an episode. I am on vacation.

Even though I am in a very, very sparse—and suspect—not very clean bunk house—I’m good with that. Dad and I are hunkered down in one large bedroom with two space heaters because there is not electric heat—although there is Wi-Fi. Go figure.

Rancher lives his life on God’s terms. They know they can’t control the weather or their surroundings and they don’t try. Yeah, sure they plan and take care of business, but they don’t get a day off. Rancher doesn’t get a day off. His 22-year-old recently married daughter lives on the ranch and works it with her father. Mrs. Rancher takes care of the house and works on the ranch too.

The Rancher doesn’t find joy in Starbucks, malls, shopping, or the latest iPhone. He finds joy in a successful calving season, working alongside his children, being with his horses. That’s what he loves the most—being on his horse all day.

I’m not romanticizing the ranching life. It’s fucking hard. I think that being a rancher is something you have to be born into. The one room school house his grandfather attended sits amid his cattle grazing pastures. Yeah, Amazon delivers. But you have to be more self sufficient out here. No one is going to come and rescue you. Without family, animals, and Faith life would be impossible and lonely.

But, I guess that’s anywhere.

Less distractions. There are less distractions out here. The mundane world that our society has worked so hard to create is absent. Out here, the Truth stares you in the face every day. They don’t work to get stuff or go places. They work to survive and keep their ranches (some of which have been in the family for generations) going. They are not impressed with Calvin Klein jeans and a Birken bag. They live with Nature and God.

My advent message today from Dynamic Catholic was “to dream big, what you want for Christmas (not stuff), and re-capturing the childhood wonder of Christmas Morning. DC asked the question, “What do you want out of advent and life?”

I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I want Dad to get a Buffalo.

I want to either really live again or give it up. This whole in-between purgatory thing sucks moose cock.

I just want to run at full tilt through the fields and let my Soul cry out.

God, I’m listening.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: Thank you, Lord, for all my Blessings. I prostrate myself before Thee.

PPS: I am not looking forward to Christmas at all. I wish I felt differently.

PPPS: What is my point in being here? Seriously. I want to know. I just want to find my place. I am sure Rancher family doesn't have it all figured out. But, their kids probably won't end up on disability.

Mercy and Grace in God's Country

Dear Hearts,

I am alone! Alone! Except for Angel.

Dad just left with G-Pa to go to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner.

I am passing up dinner to write my post.

I’ve been off the grid with my posts for a few days. And I not gonna recap everything. Sometimes I can over-analyze and over-think things.

“WHAT?” you say, “not you.”

“Yes, me. I can. I know I hid it well.

I love Blu E-Cigarettes. One of the best inventions ever.

I am having an episode—so bear with me. It’s not a bad one, it’s what I call a functional episode. I shake, but I can function mostly.

“Why?”

Because it’s dinner-time. Because it rained today. Because my cat is sleeping on my bed. Because it’s Wednesday.

Dad left to drive G-Pa to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner. Dad was fine with my staying home.

Fucking Miracles do happen.

(God, Jesus, Mother Mary, St. Peter—I try to follow all the commandments, but I am just giving up on the swearing and Thou Shalt Not Take Thy Name In Vain one. I’m not gonna say sorry—because then Aunt Faerie would make me put a metaphysical dollar in The Sorry Jar. [I’m broke—hence the metaphysical dollar.] Swearing is just part of who I am.)

“I don’t just swear for the hell of it. Language is a poor enough means of communication. I think we should use all the words we’ve got. Besides, there are damn few words that anybody understands. Inherit the Wind.

I digress.

Fucking Miracles do happen. 15 years ago my the idea that my father would drive G-Pa over to Aunt Faerie’s for dinner would have been an impossibility not even dreamt of. Like 100 years ago the idea of a Black president would have been an impossibility. But, Miracles do happen.

Family members love and forgive each other. Because, in the end, blood is thicker…

We can desperately hurt one another. Actually, no one knows how to us more than other family members.

Blood is not determined by biology only—it’s also determined by choice. Aunt Faerie and G-Pa ARE family to Dad. (You lost in the end, Nan. Love is not finite.)

I consider Johnny my family. He is G.’s guy. He is a good man. He is my family. Dr. Swede is my family. He told me that someone is harassing him via telephone. The cops are involved, yada, yada. But I was like, “Hell, no! What do you want me to do? I’ll put a stop to that shit now.”

(I just went to the bathroom—coffee—and left the door open, I love it! Alone. And I took a milligram of Xanax. My little pink pills.)

I digress.

Family. Blood. Grace. Mercy. Forgiveness.

Being 96 and deaf in 2016 is not easy. Being 96 is fucking old. The body is tired and the brain misfires.

“I’m not going to the church dinner tonight. I am embarrassed to go with (Dad). I am embarrassed for people to know that he is my son-in-law because of his big bushy mustache.” G-Pa.

(Hell, yes, Dad’s mustache is bushy and uneven and Sam Elliott on steroids. It suits him)

“Aren’t we all going to Thanksgiving dinner at the church?” G-Pa

Because of my, Dad’s, Mom’s, and Aunt Faerie’s familial history with—well, let’s just say War of the Roses would not be underestimating what happened between the respective families when the Mom and Dad got married.

Time, Grace, Blood, Mercy, Forgiveness, Family was the armistice.

G-Pa saying what he did was truly a PTSD flash-back. It wasn't 2016--it was 25 years ago. For all us--we were in the thick of the War of the Roses. In reality, it was a silly thing that G-Pa doesn't even remember saying. 

I am with G-Pa for the long haul—even if he thinks I should wear nylons with sandals (WHAT?? NEVER!), not smoke, and drive like a Jersey-ite.

The diamond bubble that surrounds the holy city has an inclusion, a blemish in it. Maybe even a crack. Even The Holy City isn’t perfect.

It was a bad situation this week: I asked God, “Why?” That is not a question I ask often—truly.

To make the lemonade out of the lemons (Queen Bey):

“Stop trying to fucking please everybody! Stop trying to fucking do the right thing all the time. You’ve done that all your life!...How did that work out for ya’?”

Not so much…pretty badly actually.

“So STOP IT!”

“G-Pa, I am going to buy a space heater to put in the garage so I can smoke and be comfortable this winter. But I promise the heater is safe and not a fire hazard.”

“You could quit smoking.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”

No sorry. No permission. BOOM! goes the mic.

Mom said the wisest thing to me a while back, “Just because someone is angry with you, doesn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong.”

JUST BECAUSE SOMEONE IS ANGRY WITH YOU, DOESN’T MEAN YOU’VE DONE ANYTHING WRONG.

T. was mad at me because I called him out on his drinking. Did I do anything wrong? Hell, no. Well, actually, yes. I should have smashed his fucking teeth in. You don’t threaten my cat, motherfucker.

“Aunt Faerie and G-Pa, I love you. But, I hate church dinners.”

At the end, it’s just me and God. No one else.

*******

My anxiety is way up because Dad and I are leaving to go Buffalo hunting Friday morning. Tomorrow, I have to pack. We are going to stay in hotels that have germs. I won’t be able to have my same breakfast that never changes: yogurt, blueberries, banana, granola.

There is not Walmart where we are going. GPS doesn’t even recognize Q.’s (the rancher who is hosting Dad and me for the hunt) address. But his family has been there for 120 years. We will be out in the middle of bum-fuck-no-where-Nebraska.

What if my stomach gets bad? What if I forget something? What if I have to smoke outside in sub-zero temperatures? What is my stomach gets bad? What if the germs…What if Q. and his wife…what if I need a doctor…what if…

PARDON ME.

Adah here, Kate,

This is an incredible adventure! You are going Buffalo hunting with your father! All his life he has wanted to do this—it’s his dream. Last December he lost his brother and dog—it’s coming up on a year. This is a good thing. You will be on the road with Dad—you two drove cross-country three times without issue. And, that was “before the internet, iPhones, Amazon Prime two-day shipping, and Wi-Fi etc.

You can smoke in the truck—not that you will smoke a lot—but when you travel with Mom you never quite enjoy the cigarette because you know it bothers her. Dad doesn’t care. Dad understands your stomach issues. Dad will keep you safe. He is not going to let anything bad happen to you.

This is your retreat. You are going “off the grid.” This is time for you to look clearly at yourself, draw, write, color, watch shows and movies. You’ve wanted to go on a religious retreat for a while. You can’t get closer to God than a 30,000-acre ranch in God’s Country. You can scream and no one will hear you. (In a good way.)

You’re going on vacation! You are going to share in one of Dad’s most spiritual experiences ever.

January is coming. The big financial cut for you—that will force some decisions. What do you want?

The White Buffalo Woman is with you. Wankan Tanka is with you. God, Christ, Mother Mary, all your Saints, The Holy Spirit are with you. Dad is with you.

You are anxious and the easy way out would be to stay home—the easy way out would be to not get out of bed—but you are pushing through the anxiety. Dad said HE WAS PROUD OF YOU for fighting your anxiety. I can tell you, even if you don’t believe it, that you are being COURAGEOUS.

You’re going to get out of that well.

Love Adah,

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: I will be off the post grid for a week or so.

PPS: Adah, here again, Kate. God wants this for you. Yes, you can pack tomorrow. Take tonight off.

PPPS: Okay, thank you Adah. But I hafta epilate my legs. You cannot go buffalo hunting with hairy legs!

PPPPS: Adah here---have the extra cigarette. It's okay. Three months ago you wanted to die. Now, you want to live. That is God's Grace and you taking the Help He is offering you.

Broken Peace Treaties

Dear Hearts,

“I mean you’re so much like your mother

I can’t believe it.

You’re your fuckin’ mother through and through.” True Romance

I love my Mother. I could not have been more blessed with a mother than I am with her.

But she is the consummate people-pleaser, worrier, and obsesser.

Dad sleeps with the TV on all night. He pretty much has the TV on all the time.

G-Pa believes that the TV (a 30-plus-year box TV) will get too hot and burn out if it’s watched all the time.

This has become my problem to broker peace. Convince G-Pa that having the TV on always will not break it. If the TV “goes belly up,” it’s because it’s a 30-plus-year box TV. Dad’s watching has naught to do with it.

Why is this my problem? It’s not, but I feel like it is. I need to keep everyone happy. It’s not easy always being the fixer.

Stop it, you say?

I wish it were that easy.

For as long as I have brokered peace in whatever house I live in—often at my own expense.

(I used to goad, when I was very young, my parents into fights by saying one thing or the other that I knew dad would get pissed about. I don’t know why I did it. And, I regret it. Mom says it was my way of exerting control in a house in which I felt powerless.)

When Asshole and I bought The House—he systematically had a psychotic break. I recalled an instance this morning when Dad has left no toilet paper. I used a tissue instead.

That happened on hot June weekend after Asshole and I moved into The House. We ran out of paper. So I figured we’d just use tissues. I know by the time of year that I was stressed to the max at school with regents, finals, and all that end of the year stuff that has to get done in a high school. (You would not even believe…)

I was also in my second term of grad school and getting ready to leave for an intense ten-day program in Cambridge. So, I was doing tending to grad school full time. I also had just moved into my first house and everything was in disarray. At any moment he would scream at me over whatever. Literally. But, you know, he, too, was stressed because the FBI and ACLU were following him. (In his job-less reality)

I just tried to stay out of the way.

When he saw I had put tissues out instead of real paper. He flipped out. I can see the scene in my head and hear his words. I can feel my…seething.

The drunken felon and troll who lived across the country road were sitting on their porches getting a good look at my tits and ass as I did stuff around the house. That pissed Asshole off too. I should cover up in 90 degree weather. He definitely should not have ignored them or went over and told them to mind their line of sight.

I was in bad trouble. He yelled at me—I don’t remember the exact words. But, I was in deep trouble. I was selfish, irresponsible, lazy, and ungrateful. (I hadn’t become a “fucking retard” yet.) So I drove into town and got paper for Asshole—and me.

On Monday, I stole a roll of paper from school. It still sits in the bathroom closet. It was my “emergency roll,” so I would not get in trouble over that again.

He was unemployed by choice. I working at school and on grad school full time.

I should have told him, “No.”

“You go and get the paper.”

But I didn’t, I just seethed. I can remember walking across the yard to the car just seething inside.

I did what I was told to keep the peace—to stay out of trouble. Even though there was no peace in that house at that point and I was already in trouble.

I did that as a kid too.

Dad thinks it’s useless for Martha to talk to me about my childhood and teenage years—where I lived through the same thing. Dad says I need to forget.

I will never forget him throwing a rack of ribs at my mom. She was at the sink and he was at the dinner table. They were arguing over a school concert of mine—if he could leave the concert early I think. (That’s when all elementary kids--20 per grade first to fifth—all sang in the concerts. That was stupid and I hated it. But I’ll never forget that image. The ribs hit the window above my mom’s head and fell into the sink.

Yet, I was Daddy’s Little Girl. Literally. I still am.

That’s a mother-fucking paradox.

If a kid had told me that story when I was teaching—I would have been required to call CPS.

I came out here so I would kill myself. Oh, hell yes, I have a plan—this time it would work. I don’t intend on using it—but the Exit Strategy is there just in case.

So it was here or the morgue.

I am still depressed and episodic out here. But I am drawing, coloring, and writing.

I give up on working right now. I just give up. I don’t know what will happen when the union benefits run out and I am just on SSD. I am not doing anything about it. I’m just waiting to tsunami to sweep me away.

“Broken bottles, broken plates

Broken switches, broken gates

Broken dishes, broken hearts

Broken words never meant to be spoke

Every is broken

Seems like every time you stop and turn around

Something else hit the ground” Bob Dylan

Originally I was supposed to come out here to not have to worry about getting in trouble. No one here would call me a fucking bitch or threaten to smash my fucking teeth in. Any where but the nose—that sinus surgery in 2010 was brutal. I have a 10 thousand dollar nose. Don’t hit the nose. Or the colon.

Now I am out here but I still worry about getting in trouble.

G-Pa is good to me. He really, really is. He has his anxieties. Just because he criticizes my driving doesn’t mean I’m doing wrong.

So it’s not G-Pa’s fault. It’s not Dad’s fault. (IT SURE AIN’T YOUR FAULT MOM.) It might be Bugsy’s fault. If he gets too ornery I may Jersey him a bit.

How DO I get over worrying about getting in trouble? How do I break a lifelong ingrained-as-I-breathe-habit?

Every fucking relationship I’ve had follows the above pattern. Every fucking job too.

Why can I right now hear T. berating me in my head?

Fucking Cunt Hillary (I felt that way about her in ’92 and I voted for her dick husband in ’94) said she wanted to curl up with a good book. Fuck that. She did not. She wanted to take a fucking gun—or hire someone—to fucking kill Trump and the GOP.

I do just want to curl up in my bedroom and not leave. Not ever. Please just stop time and don’t make me deal with the real world. I swear I will be good and not get in trouble.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: This is one of those blogs that just wrote itself. I didn’t intend to write all that I did.

PPS: NOT YOUR FAULT MOM

PPPS: If I am going to live, then I have to break this cycle. Fuck, I can’t even quit smoking and I don’t want to. The former is a lot of work and I’m tired.