no tug of war

no third degree - holding solid like my ass is concreted to some soft cushion - yeah this makes no sense. NO phobias can cause this kind of exhausting life syling - Dark comedy where the cast is threatened by the thought of their characters being cut at any moment. Something sick and consoling about the idea death is waiting behind every trap door - and that one (or more) of us - could drop off in the snapping of fingers. Cut me, cure me. We're drunk, we're worried, we're taking medications like deciding on the color of aluminum siding. What? Wait! Thissg ets exciting! Not 2wweekks Be cky Suiciding - or tryiing - 200 Aspirin - one day she may get it right p - and all doctors can say is "take two Prosac and one Wellbutrin and try to stay away from th emedicine cabinet!" _ NO insurance??? Yeah, you're cured, get out and open a bed for the next confused bi-ped. Yeah, we're all dead, just walking tall aimless writing our own dialoge with one eye on the clock and our other on the 'whatever we take or do' to get us into the next moment untouc hed. this is an odd, and obscene circus - this liife! this living! with waiting and wanting and - and- everything WE are not explaining! Or not letting be explained. for shame. [next line] for shame. [next word] for shame ---

So, my dad had a heart attack...

3am, Monday, March 29th, Melvin Deen (my father), woke with chest pains. He immediately woke up my mother and they went to the hospital. After a EKG comfirmed he indeed had suffered a heart attack, he was rushed from Brunswick to Saint Vincent's in JAX, FLA. After several days recovery Melvin is now back home with more artifical doodads in his body.

Its been a rough few days. Coping has never been easy for me with chemical assistance. Bangin' OC's is a good way to keep my mind off the fact that my father could die any minute. Every time the phone rings, I think, "Is this the call? Is this where I find out my father is dead?" Yeah, good times.

Well, the old man is back home now. Needless to say, I havent updated my blog in a week. But now that he's ok, home and resting, and I've ended my 3day long splurge of IV narcotics, I have time to do the really important things in life: Mentally masturbating on the internet in hopes of getting my mind off my problems. LIFE SUCKS sometimes.

I saw a guy I went to school with at the Methadone Clinic this morning. He recognized me and was gracious enough to shake my hand. I said some brief but polite words and left. I dont care about anyone I went to school with. The nastogia of class reunions ranks up there with Barium Enimas. If all those assholes fell of the face of the Earth tomorrow, I could care less. The past can burn. The future is all I look to. Every time I see an old ghost is makes me want to get on a plane and fly to another country where I'll never see anyone who knows who I used to be before I realized that who I was. I used to think that because I wasnt like everyone else, it was somehow a flaw in me. Now I know the truth. Outcasts are picked on relentlessly because they scare everyone trying desperately to fit in. The fact that I'm NOT like those assholes is NOT a flaw, but a compliment. I'm not the same person now that I was in school. I dont even know that boy I used to be. He's dead. I have a son now, and a father struggling with heart disease. So when these ppl I went to school with see me and want to shake my hand because they think they know me, it makes me want to vomit. They have no idea who the fuk I am and I dont care to ever let them know. They'll see my name on a book one day, or on TV, and they'll tell their neighbors, or co-workers, "Hey, I knew him!" No, you didnt. Youve never known me. And you never will. Because you're too busy trying to be like everyone else. I NEVER want to be like anyone but me. I, am enlightened. If all you see is what's on the outside, the clothes I wear, how much I weigh, my haircut, you dont see me. And you never will. That thought alone lends some comfort to this sad, redundant life. Good times.