Steal Your Face

large (9)The longer you go without sex, the less it matters.  Women who are undersexed, according to Wikipedia (HA) become exceptional flirts but seldom if ever pull the trigger, as it were.  Sex is fear.   Women who end up in this state have inevitably been denied love and affection from a man/woman with whom they were in love.  They lose confidence from the rejection.  They lose dignity from the crumb crawling.  They lose the “relationship” but never leave it.   The pain of it lingers in a space too difficult to reach.  Human beings can adapt to anything.  Women can adapt to sexless, loveless lives even if it is the thing they want most because of that lingering. I know all about this.

Damaging romantic events, love unreturned can divide one’s life: the time BEFORE it happened, and the time AFTER.  It becomes a landmark on our emotional map.  The time AFTER pulls us down and divides us from trust, love, sex, romantic happiness.  The time before?

Ryan.

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We met 16 years ago and ended a few years later.  And I still miss him though I know he is not long for this world.  He was the true love of my life.  We did a lot of drugs and everyday was a felony.  We took a lot of chances and moved in dangerous circles where one must have money, drugs,  savvy and decent Spanglish to survive it.  Somehow we kept the cable on the whole time.

There were so many laughs, just as many fights,  and endless drug shenanigans that bound us together as partners in crime which seemed more intimate than love. Of course, it all crashed down.

As I got better, he got worse and there was no where to stand without seeing that line between us.  Eventually, I left him – it was not a life for me.  It was a certain death in my mind.  Ryan never thought past the moment he was in so he was never tormented by the inevitability of addiction. The last time I saw him (2012) he was so ravaged from heroin and meth that it was hard to look at him.

This once gorgeous, ballsy, intelligent, loving Dead Head had become a skeleton on the altar of addiction.  He was in the grip of dark evil.  We still had the easy banter and the equally easy silence.  We were happy to have time together but he was a shadow and his sanity had faded considerably.  I was afraid to be around him.   I cut him loose and have not spoken to him since.

I pray for him regularly and I think of him more often than I would like to.  It’s like I am keeping vigil, waiting for word of his death.  Anyone can change, miracles can occur and I am proof.  Jesus could just easily step into his dark night of the soul as He did mine.  Ryan can be salvaged.  But I have found out that there is not much time. He is in worse condition than he was in 2012 and back then his flame was flickering.  My heart hurts and I want to reach out but self-protection is not something you abandon in the name of faith.  I can not save him and I hate it.  I can only pray, ask others to pray and continue to place everything in the hands of Christ.  I feel like this is the first draft of his obituary.

Remember when we say up on New Years Eve 1999 – Y2K?  You said “Well, my beer is empty so that happened.”

How you would get irritated when I struck up little chit chats with strangers in any given line at any given place?

Remember when I finally fell in love with Jerry Garcia’s guitar playing and in exchange you fell in love with DEVO?

Our  NBA obsession?  Crack, heroin, Antoine Walker, The Mavericks – good times.

Remember how everyone was named Flaco?

The ten dollar tickets that wouldn’t stop paying off?

When, after a fight,  Mike Tyson said “my back is broke.  it’s broken.” and we made it our outgoing voice message?

Remember your job where the  Asian chicks did Tai Chi in the parking lot and how hard you worked and how much you loved it?

Packing drugs in fake birthday gifts to go north which always felt like we were taking the same risk one would in fucking Turkey?

Remember the snow storm that  couldn’t keep me from you and all the love peppered between the suffering and withdrawal?

I wonder how many of you have “a Ryan”, bright and dark, woven erratically through the fabric of your life BEFORE.  And how many of you have lost something to your AFTER. 

I don’t think I’ve written a more personal post than this.

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Here Comes The Judge

I judge people.  It doesn’t matter that I have come to believe in Jesus and am trying to live a spiritual life.  That only means that I judge less harshly.  I even judge people who get up for Communion because I know they haven’t been to confession in 20 years.   I loathe dogma but there I am, cloaked in it, walking down the aisle to receive a sacrament while judging the dude next to me and calling him an asshole in my head.  Yeah.  Who’s the one who doesn’t deserve Communion?

I’ve confessed this a couple of times and the priest doesn’t seem to think it is a sin but a character flaw.  What is the difference?  I’ve stopped going to confession because everything I have confessed is just a “character flaw”.  I’m going to need to commit a murder to get some confession cred.

I like to sit in judgment of others and so do you.  YES you do.  Come on now.  But faith in God has given it an aftertaste like drinking beer that’s been in and out of the fridge three times.  God is ruining everything.  I can no longer role around in my defects laughing.  They have all turned to shards of glass and though I have stopped rolling I have not gotten up.  There is glass in my ass.  There is glass in my soul.  I am becoming something better than myself and through no fault of my own.  If I were behind it I would be rolling around in chocolate pudding or vodka.  When you believe in something greater than yourself, you become less to make room for that Greatness.   And I signed on for that.   So really, I should only be judging myself.

In closing, Jobriath was amazing. 

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the bEaT goes on

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Who gets MONO anymore?

Me.  I get mono.  And double pneumonia.  And a host of other medical problems that I won’t get into right now.

On the bright side, I am sane and spiritually healthy enough to deal with it all.  SURE I am a little hysterical but hysteria is one of my endearing qualities.  And no disease is going to bEaT that out of me.

That is all.

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The Way The Truth and The Life

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As we enter Holy Week, today being the day that Jesus entered Jerusalem and willingly went to His death, I remember the miracle in my life.  I was about to die and I felt the hand of Jesus on my head.  I thought it was my stepmother, a true believer in all that Christ has taught.  It was not her.  And I knew I was saved by Jesus.  It is not always easy to say that.  It is not easy to say the NAME of Jesus without being laughed at or at the very least, judged as daft.  But He is real. 

We don’t all get a miracle.  But we all have the choice to follow Him. 

 

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i am henry viii i am

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Ok, Did you watch “The Tudors”?  It was about as historically accurate as Roman Centurions invading Normandy.  It was a hot people sexfest wrapped in wholly ridiculous fashions.  No one was jaundiced.  No one had “the pox”.  It was “Search For Tomorrow, 1535″

Here’s what I know about the reign of Henry VIII.  He didn’t have a six pack.  No man had a six pack in 1537.  They had tooth rot and maybe syphilis but not six packs.  The women were not bone thin with tiny tits parading in gilded gowns that could pass for current day prom dresses.  .  They were “rubenesque” and out of shape and they likely had a festering forest between their legs as opposed to Brazilians so evident on this thing.  Women were a mess downtown.  There was no sanitary protocol.  I don’t even like to think about it.   Everyone smelled back then – but Henry the worst with his open stinking leg ulcer that caused people to vomit into the cloths they carried in his presence. People would inhale halved oranges which they carried on their person.  If caught, I think it would be high treason.  By the time he was approaching 40 he deemed everything high treason.  If you cut a fart in his presence your head would be chopped off. 

He broke with the Catholics for reasons only Queen Anne Boleyn would understand and essentially formed the Protestant faith.  That took balls.  He considered himself a conduit to God.  That took medication that wouldn’t be invented for centuries. Henry was an attractive young man and as proficient at sport as was portrayed n the series however but at the end of his life he was so fucking fat he had to be hauled from room to room in a sedan chair carried by four men.  His coffin was so heavy it was dropped and broke open on the street.  Yeah. That’s hot.

I watched The Tudors the way I used to watch “90210”:  so I could yell at the TV.  I am warming up for my later years.  It was fucking ridiculous.  I mean I am fucking ridiculous. 

Ok I ran out of jokes.  This was a horribly disjointed post. 

 

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addiction: brought to you by Mazda

5440_101166680291_202671_n Did you ever watch the show “INTERVENTION”?  It’s this show where they exploit the escapades of an addict on camera then film the family intervention and subsequent recovery.  I’ve never seen one where the person dies.  There should be episodes like that.  The percentage of success is not realistically represented on this facakta show.

When I was 13 I started to think partying was better than school, dancing, gymnastics and most of all my parents’ divorce which was the backdrop to all.  I mean all.  There was no getting away from it.  Air and their divorce were the only sure bets in my life. Weed made it go away.  Boonesfarm wine made it go away in basements with boys getting to third while I knocked back the rest of the bottle.  That was probably a sign, no?

I stopped in 1989 at the height of expensive cocaine and the decline of the white dealer.  I would periodically return as if on vacation, shoveling coke up my nose but not drinking preferring the undiluted and crisp high of pure chemicals.  Or something.

Then I would stop. 

Then go back and add new heavier drugs, perfect the art of dealing to hillbillies for 3 times the price and stay high enough to tolerate the cast of heroin addicts parading through my nice apartment with all mod cons because, in case I forgot to mention,  I was such a high functioning and perhaps elitist drug user that it was hard to really tease out if I was even was one considering the normal trappings of my life in contrast to the flickering lights of the lives of the others.

Then I would stop. 

I was the worst drug addict imaginable.  I once had a boyfriend whom I adored – a rip roaring junkie – who forever said “You SUCK to get hight with!  You ruin it with your need to get fucking sober! Can’t you just get high and fucking enjoy it!  You’re torturing me!” and shit like that.  I would not resign to the addiction.  I refused to go without a job, clothes, cable, a car, name brand cigarettes.  I would rather die than be seen with a pack of Basics.  I was not cut out to be a drug user. 

Here’s the thing:  I never appeared to be high.  I never hung around my family all fucked up and looking like a crack whore, stealing their money and helping them look for it like the “INTERVENTION” drug addicts.  Perhaps if my life had been brought to you by Mazda I would have been a more declined, depraved and higher rated drug user. Insofar as Neilson ratings anyway.

Addiction isn’t produced in Hollywood.  It is lived deeply, lightly, fearfully or in a full embrace.  And it is often stealth and easy to manipulate, to incorporate into your personality as if it were a sense of humor or some other natural aspect that your loved ones would think normal.  Drug addiction was a lump of clay for me which I molded poorly in the beginning but became so good at it with practice that the ghost of Patrick Swayze would have been afraid to help me spin it.  I was a sharper.  I was too good.  I was so good I didn’t even know I WAS good.

I was not a good drug addict.  Just ask the 13 odd junkies I knew who are now dead: the mark of a truly committed addict.

I guess what I am trying to say is that “INTERVENTION” bugs the shit out of me.

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paranormal assholes

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Out of sheer boredom I have been watching “Paranormal Witness” on Youtube.  One after the other after more still and it’s always the same story:  “the ghost of a lost child”.  Always some benign spirit who needs to be recognized and the house’s inhabitants fall into it episode after episode but they all end the same:  the spirit is not benign.  It’s evil.

Were I an evil spirit I would probably use this method as well.  Lure them into communing with me then destroy their lives or at least scare the living shit out of them.  I know some of you disagree and feel that spirits that walk the earth are not necessarily evil and maybe you are right but I don’t think so.  

I lived in an old funeral home for 3 years.  There were many uncomfortable and scary occurrences but I,  being so hip and all, stayed in the house and communed with this force that was very present.  I never saw anything but other people who came to the house did.  I thought I was the shit.  Living with ghosts like it was nothing.  I even thought that the night I flew out of bed choking to find hand prints on my neck was “interesting”.  Nonethless, I moved from that room.  I was scared.  I was scared when I would wake up to something pressing me down to the bed and would throw my hands behind me to grip the headboard like it would save me.  It stopped the event – but just for that night.  And still, I thought I was the cool chick who lived with ghosts.

It never occurred to me that in the 3 short years I lived there I had been taken out by ambulance near death not once but twice. I refused to acknowledge that I was bipolar and chose instead to use illegal drugs to manage my hysterics and depression.  My life was breaking apart, like shingles flying off of a house in a hurricane. I didn’t see the connection between my decreasing life and the increasing force of “the other side”.

Spirits are not something to fuck with.  Don’t get a house clearing, don’t try to talk to the entity, don’t think you are cool because you live with ghosts.  Get into the light.  God, Jesus, Buddha whatever.  Get into the light.

 

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