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Well the plan is a simple one; it's to sell up and get the hell out of dodge!
Actually it's not all that simple at all; in fact it's complicated and scary. Just about every year the family heads south for the summer, or in fact any other time we can get away with it, and every time we go we talk about how nice it would be to live there. This usually goes on for a week or 2 after each visit and is then dropped until next time, not this time, oh no! This time I was blindsided and double teamed into submission.
There have always been reasoned arguments not to just go and do it, like look how old we are, who would employ us, how could we afford it, what if we lost everything we have worked so hard to achieve over the last 20+ years? In fact when you think about it all of them are excuses not to take a leap into the unknown and all of them are born out of fear.
The facts of the matter are that we are both in little more than minimum wage jobs, neither of which is that secure, we have little to tie us to the area. Well actually not so true for the wife, all her family other than 1 son are here, but me all I have are here with me now. However there is a third party in this, the daughter. Now she is at college and has some concerns all of her own, although not with the idea of going south... maybe she will put them into her own words here.
So after some debate we said lets go for it, after all when you are at the bottom of the heap little things like a recession are hardly noticeable because there is nowhere else to fall.
So we called an estate agent and talked about selling the house. Now the plan was to just sell and go, somewhat naive at the time. See we intended to just sell head south and use some of the equity to pay for maybe 6 months to a year's rental on a place and then look for jobs.
The problem here is that neither of us have ever sold a house before, or rented privately. It seems that people want things like jobs before you rent and jobs with 3 times the rental of the property combined income per month. What is wrong with people, you would think they would be happy with a nice fat wad of money in their back pocket! Never mind we will not be deterred from our goal. We still intend to head south but it's going to take a little longer than we thought; now we will sell and rent here where we still have jobs and then look for work and move.
Actually I say it's going to take longer than we planned, that's not quite true. There is no time scale for any of this, after all who can say if you will sell your house in this day and age. The thing is its set in motion unlike every other time we have thought about doing it. So we figured Christmas is coming let's market the place from the beginning of 2010 cause no one is going to buy before then now are they?
Well all that took place back in August and we made an appointment for the estate agent to return at the beginning of December to that all the paperwork and the HIP could be sorted in readiness for marketing. See now there is no point trying to tie these things down to specific dates, cause well once all the paperwork is in place not being visible on the market even though the chances of anyone taking any notice of you is wasted time. Except someone is taking notice, and someone is coming all the way from Bucks tomorrow to look at our humble abode, and that's a long way I can tell you!
Now it seems funny as I think about it, but even though we made the choice to go ahead and do this its been kind of unreal and I have been somewhat nonchalant about the whole thing. That is until I got the phone call from the estate agent telling me about our expected visitor and now, well I am just a bundle of nerves, because now it's all too real.
Oh don't worry I am not getting my hopes up that the 1st person through the door is going to buy the place, after all they are never going to want to pay the asking price and I am not going to want to sell for much less either.
It's not even the thought of the house being sold that's got the nerves tingling, it's that irrational fear of, what if...
Anyways, I'll have to get back to you on how it goes with our house hunter...
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There are many things in this world we can disagree on that's just life,man. Someone will always do us wrong.
I like Obama. There are things he has done that's rather fucked up Cash for Clunkers don't even make any fucking sense some e mail I got said something like 3 billion we spent and we saved 352 million or something whatever but the bottom line here is that Congress controls our shit and they voted for it. Obama may be the captain but even the captain cannot physically force to steer his crew the right way. The crew would have to trust their leader before they will follow what he says.
I really have nothing against Republicans. It just floors me though how 9 out of 10 times they be voting against our president. But a Republican is just that. The value here is keeping that paycheck as tax free as humanly possible sure I'm in on that. In a perfect world wouldn't we all just love to see our gross pay be our take home pay?
But what about the entire picture? If we in this perfect Republican world ran it where the rich get the breaks they so deserve and hope it trickles down when it gets as bad as it got just before Bush finished his term and we fell into a recession how does this make us look to the rest of the world?
It's just life that justifies having to pay our taxes every pay check. But we all eventually see the fruits of our sacrifice don't we?
I mean I'm sure most of us went to Public School. Most of us have taken out a book in the library. Most of us at one time or another needed the help of a fireman or a policeman. So why all the negativity surrounding a public Health Care Option?
Sure it's gonna take a hit on our taxes. But look at the big picture.
Mister Wealthy has his own health insurance. He's the apithaty of health he works out eats the right foods and does everything right.
We are under the current health care where this 5% doesn't have the means to see the doctor. This 5% cannot see the doc for a H1N1 shot. In fact,that 5% turns into millions and then it mutates to a fucking air born virus that's just as bad if not worst than contracting AIDS.
But what if we had a Public option? Then suddenly just show your ID card to the doc and they'll set you up for an appointment. You get your preventative care. Millions on top of the already insured get the shot.
H1N1 is not given the chance to mutate except to the illegals that couldn't show their ID unless we make vaccinations available to all.
What is that worth to us?
All I'm saying is that there will always be fucking crooks out there crossing the border or popping babies for a fatter welfare check. It's gonna happen unless we fucking shoot them all or make popping babies without the means to take care of them illegal.
But what comes around goes around. The business owner may see higher production because their employees are more healthy. Maybe we can put a clause in this public option that would lower your rate if you can prove you are trying to lose weight and get more fit or something.
But to me it's all about the big picture.
Domino effect.
If bum on the street didn't take the H1N1 shot and sneezed on Mr Executive then Mr Executive walks into his building and spreads it to everyone. All get sick some may even die but production goes down.
I just think of it as an investment to our nations overall health. And I think it's worth doing if only some of the shipmates would trust their captain to steer them in the right direction.
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One of the kindest and most gentle men I ever knew was my paternal grandfather, Elven Brown. Actually Elven Brown was my father’s stepfather and thus not truly a blood relative of mine at all. My real paternal grandfather, John Alfred Arrington Turrentine, had disappeared on his way to the Panama Canal to accept a job there in 1912. He had taken passage aboard a ship at New Orleans and sent my grandmother a telegram to that effect. The ship burned and sank at sea and Jack Turrentine was never heard from again----yet, strangely enough Jack Turrentine’s name was not to be found on the passenger list and the life insurance policy which he had made out to his wife Dora was not paid until seven years had passed with no sign of Jack Turrentine. So Grandma Brown farmed her five children out to various relatives and went to live herself with her brother Rufus Roark. After collecting the insurance in 1919 (I think that it was $10,000) Dora married Elven Brown. To me he was "Dad Brown" and I came to love him dearly.
Elven Brown was a man of small stature. He was wizened and wrinkled by a farmer’s lifetime in the sun and his hands were callused and worn. At sometime in the past he had been thrown from a horse when a teenager and had broken his left leg. It did not heal well and for the rest of his life he walked with a slight roll to his gait. His eyebrows were bushy and long and overhung a pair of crystal clear blue eyes which seemed always to be smiling and alert.. He was broad shouldered for his stature and stocky despite his small size and he possessed enormous strength in his arms and shoulders and in his hands..
I was nine years old when I first met Dad Brown. He was totally illiterate then and could not sign even his name. Two years later however he had learned to write at least his name and could and did sign checks and letters written by someone else for him to sign. Never at any time I knew him did I see Dad Brown read a magazine, a book or a newspaper.
Dad Brown was a farmer, and he was very skilled in those arts that made for a good crop and were necessary for a farmer in the first half of the twentieth century. He was an expert tree nurseryman and he grafted a number of pecan and walnut trees every year. He was a tolerable blacksmith and was about as skilled at keeping livestock alive as the local veterinarian. But his real forte was the curing of meat. Dad Brown killed from six to twenty hogs a year and cured the hams and made the sausage from them. The first really cold snap of the winter triggered the activity of "hog-killin’ day", which nearly always was twenty-four hours long with Dad Brown working all night long to get the first steps of curing accomplished and smoking certain cuts. His hams, sausage, and smoked meats were famous throughout the county, and he supplied Mom Brown’s brothers with all of their cured meat also.
It was Dad Brown’s contention that every meal of every day for the whole year must have at least two different types of meat—and it must be cured by him. Usually these two types of meat were pork and beef but occasionally he would be satisfied with chicken and pork. Dad Brown considered each meal of every day to be a social event. Normally there were ten people at table for every meal and many times there would be visiting cousins, aunts and uncles. At each meal in addition to the two meats we would have at least two usually three garden vegetables, cornbread at lunch and biscuits at breakfast and probably both at supper. Three or four types of jams jellies and preserves were included and fresh fruit in season came from the orchard in the back yard which never in my time ever had a failure. Lightbread was rare—store bought bread was too expensive at ten cents a loaf. Home churned butter was always on the table and it was one of my tasks at nine years old to do the churning . Coffee was always available both at and between meals..At breakfasts we always had oatmeal with heavy cream. "Red eye" gravy as well as as "whitenen" flour gravy at every breakfast. Ribbon cane syrup, sorghum molasses and honey were there at every meal.
We ate well despite the poverty of the family but nearly everything we ate was produced right there on the farm or gathered from the banks of Ten-Mile creek just on the other side of the corn field. We almost never went to the grocery store. In the six months that I lived in Dad Brown’s house I saw no "store bought" fruit or vegetables. Elven Brown was a "subsistence farmer". He wasn’t sure that any one could produce food as clean and healthy to eat as he did and was always a little suspicious of anything that came from the store. Coffee, tea , salt, sugar, flour and exotic spices he allowed as store bought, but he didn’t like to do so.. We never missed the dewberries, blackberries, pecans, walnuts, "poke" salad and wild honey available in the woods along side Ten-Mile Creek.
Deserts were served at every meal. Pies, puddings, custards, cakes, muffins, were available almost every day and fudge, taffy, divinity or caramel candy served in the evening while we played checkers or monopoly.
Pecans, walnuts and black walnuts were a major crop at the farm in addition to those trees in the woods by the creek and there was always a 100 pounds or so in a burlap bag beside the fireplace, and it was fun to eat nuts and throw the shells in the fire. Most evening in the winter we also had pans of peanuts roasting in the wood stove to eat during the winter evenings and farm raised popcorn laced with home churned butter to eat in the evening while we played games or just watched the fire burn in the fireplace.
So I started to tell about Elven Brown and ended up by telling about life on his farm. That was no mistake. The farm WAS Elven Brown. He lived and breathed that farm and the cows and hogs and chickens and horses that made it all he had to have to make him and his family comfortable even though he didn’t have a dime in his pocket or couldn’t read. He loved the farm.
After the farm work and while waiting for supper Elven Brown and I used to sit out on the front porch and pet old Carlo (the collie dog) and talk about my future. Everyday Dad Brown would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’d tell him something or other different nearly everyday, and he would mull this a bit and then agree with me that that was the best thing to do.
It was sort of a little game between us.
When I was eighteen and in the Navy, stationed at Corpus Christi Elven Brown died. He and my grandmother had moved into town and bought a house on the outskirts of Lancaster and the entire land about the house was only a city lot —about 60 by 90 feet. They left that 240 acres of prime black land that under Elvens care would grow anything and had maybe fifty prime nut trees and plenty of room for a cow herd and maybe twenty or so hogs and moved those two into Lancaster across the street from the cotton gin - Elven Brown died in six months. I am convinced that Elven died because he had no purpose in living any more. He had no weeds to fight or land to plow or trees to graft — so he died. He was a good man.
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Back when my daughter was small enough to not be too tall to play in McDonald's play house she used to love to go there and play around.
Signs were everywhere that states no one over this tall allowed and no more than 6 people at a time.
She was all alone playing in that little gym.
Suddenly about eight 12 year olds too tall to be playing in there started taking over this play house and before I can yell to get my girl out of there then complain to the management I heard a blood curdling scream.
It was my daughter one of those bastards fucking stepped on her hand.
I fucking yelled at those kids the parent in charge didn't know a word of english or at least they pretended to not know I don't know man but these kind of people that act like they can do no wrong needs to die.
My daughter was yelling for me to get a band aid and I was screaming "Does this place have a first aid kit" oh man was I hot.
I raised fucking hell in that place threatening to have this franchise closed down I almost knocked down that non english speaking parent after yelling at all the kids of course no one fessed up to who did it and when I stopped yelling you can hear a pin drop everyone had their eyes fixated on me.
From the moment my little girl started screaming and she was deep inside that playhouse right there I felt like I couldn't help my little girl.
Right there was when I started flipping the script.
Today I was with my daughter. She swore in at the Military office downtown then my wife and I along with a lot of her friends met up with her at DIA airport. I even had my host home guy he did quite well.
Here comes the plane a few hours later. Here comes the hugs and tears.
It was hard for me man.
I fucking bawled over there.
I really didn't care how it looked.
We hugged,told her I loved her and was very proud of her.
Then I gave her a band aid.
She knew right away.
The head person in charge there was a small Navy crew that was bording along with my daughter tells us "Don't worry. We'll all take good care of her."
"YOU ALL BETTER TAKE GOOD CARE OF HER" was my reply.
8 weeks.
8 weeks.
She'll make it.
I hope.
But even if she doesn't,
Daddy's right here.
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To understand the stabbing, you must first understand the time it was in my drug addled life.
I met her through mutual friends in the fall of 1996, I was 22 at the time and we met at a meth party.
Yeah, I once was quite the tweeker, a product of Nancy Reagan's "Just say NO" project, but of the generation of "Fuck that, lets say Yes!"
Anyway, we seemed to hit it off pretty nicely, did dates, hung out and everything was cool. I thought I found "the one". The trouble with finding "the one" is that it puts stupid blinders on your head, with bitchen' sex and emotional attatchment added, I was hooked. Did I mention sex? Yeah, this chick could fuck, crazy fuckin', man. No holes barred.
What I didn't know but quickly found out is that she was psycho and her psychoticness came on slowly and I'd never really been in many violent encounters at this point in my life. What went fro the odd punch in the face to being assaulted with a baseball bat was the relationship (me being the recipiant) to gnarly make-up sex was the norm. This shit went on for three years.... At some point I decided to clean up, quit doing dope, I really didn't enjoy it anymore anyway and get on with life. I was making decent money in the construction field and wanted a normal life.... Not to happen. She came home one night and attacked me and I was the fucker to go to jail. I was pretty pissed, but like an idiot, I went back to her a week later despite the court order. We were gonna work it out...... Yeah right.
Febuary 5, 1999, I come home frome work and she was out with wer tweeker friends and this pissed me off 'cause I wanted out of that life but she didn't. She came home and we started fighting and I was done. I told her I'd pick my shit up in the morning and we were done. Even 'Crika has a limit for the amount of shit he'll put up for freaky sex. So, That was it, I told her it was over and walked out of the house and right out of the door she hit me in the back. Felt like a carlie horse on the left side of my upper back and a biting pain in the kidney on the right, even now I don't know why I went back in the house but I did. Silence. What went from a raging domestic dispute turned into a staring contest.Finaly she broke the silence by asking "Do you want me to pull that knife out of your back?"
WHAT THE FUCK! I go to the bathroom mirror and sure enough there's a goddamn fillet knife handle sticking out of my back. Shit, this isn't good, no sir. A lot of the next five minuets are hazy, as I was in a bit of shock, so bear with me and I'll answer questions later...
She pulled the knife out and I felt a rush of air come from my lungs, but not from my windpipe and a sticky warm, wet rush down my back and down the crack of my ass. I went back into the bathroom to see the damage and knew I was fucked six ways from Sunday, The wound was bubbling when I exhaled. Major Culver told us in ROTC about sucking chest wounds in first aid training, fuckitude in the higest order.
I come out of the bathroom and tell her this is serious. I needed the phone or I'd die. Mistake. All hell breaks loose. I used to own a police nightstick and she had it when I made my anouncment of wanting to live....She started to whack the shit out of me with all the gusto that a tweekd out meth monster could muster. As I retreat to the back bedroom, coughing blood and smarting from repeated blows to the head, I asses my situation.....
1. I have a sucking chest wound. Fatal without treatment.
2. I need a telephone and psycho girl has it.
3. Said psycho girl is pounding a hole in the door with my nightstick.
Things are not looking up.
She beats a hole through the door and starts poking me in the face with the nightstick and I snap. I whip open the door and glare. I wish I could reproduce the look I gave her. Stopped her psycho ass in her tracks. She dropped the nightstick and ran. I caught her in the neighbors yard and beat her. I have barely a recolection of this, I do remember blood flying from my fist and I stopped because I still need a phone, hell, we lived seven miles from town and my lungs were in the process of collapsing.
In the end, she escaped, I was choking on my own blood and you ain't gonna catch a tweeker. They run quick.I put on some Black Sabbath (sabotauge) and lie down by the baseboard heater to die......
Seven hours later........
A cop comes in, lifts me up, and starts pounding the shit out of my head aginst the wall. One might think this would piss me off, but the first thing that went through my head was "Wow! A sunrise!" I thought I was dead meat. Bonus morning! After a hefty pounding, a lady copp says "Bill, I think he's injured. Quit beating him." Turns out out while he was beating my skull upon the wall, blood was spattering him from my stab wounds. He tried, after the fact to address my wounds but the EMT's got there first and I'm out at this juncture. Gotta love pain killers.
Left lung collapsed and the right one was going. In ICU I was still cuffed to the bed and went straight to jail for two days after I was stabilized.
More to this tale, but I shan't fortitude to write it, perhaps later.
This is for you Creepy Uncle, I dug down in the repressed shit, just for you. Your sister had better have a very nice gourd.
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I'm a huge survivor fan and the thing I notice about that show is that the one that wins the million dollars is usually the one that slithers by quietly and doesn't make himself or herself known to everyone. When you become well liked you are a threat and will eventually be eliminated. If you win reward challenges you are also a threat. In fact,anything good about you in this game is considered a threat and with some exceptions usually the person that wins is the person most watching would not have wanted to win.
I feel like I'm at a point of my life when I can look back at some of the choices that I've made. From the time I was 12 years old I had a paper route and I always strive to do well. The people in the neighborhood seems to have liked me usually tipped me well because I would take that extra step to ensure they always had a dry paper. No I wasn't the paperboy that would just throw the paper at their driveway. I would take it up to their doorstep and put it inside a special box that I suggested to some to have and they loved me for it. Even the ones that never tipped I would still do this for.
I was raised to respect my elders so it didn't matter. I was getting payed to do this job at 12 and I strived to do this well.
I've always been like this. In every job that I have had I strived to do better and better.
Another job in particular I had was at a plastic injection plant where they made plastic and medical parts. There was this machine that bagged spoons,forks and knives. You had three cardboard boxes in front of you and stacks of other boxes next to you that you had to open when your boxes ran out. Then you pull a knife,fork and spoon and put it in it's little pocket on the machine. Then this machine would move it every second and it would bag it,seal it and drop it in an empty box that was originally the box the individual parts were in. You can turn off the machine to catch up or move the boxes around and stuff.
So the factory record in production in this machine for a 12 hour shift was 21 boxes. This record was held by a long time staff there and it stood for many years.
So looking at this machine I figured out that I can use both my hands to pick up the knife fork and spoon. With the knives on the left,the spoons in the middle box and the forks on the right I would with my left hand pick up and twirl the utensils so it's upright in order,knife,spoon fork and with my right hand it would be fork,knives on the left then spoon in the middle.
So at the same speed as everyone else when I did it this way I had two sets on each hand to put in two pockets to their one so essentially I was going twice as fast as everyone else at this machine.
So on one shift I had this machine for the full 12 hours and the time to beat this record was today.
When that 12 hour shift ended I ended up with 32 boxes.
So you think breaking a record like this would be a cool thing?
Hell no.
Soon afterwards I was getting blamed for mistakes the break people made when I would take my breaks to the point that a month later I was let go.
Voted out.
And my previous 15 year job goddamnit I truly went above and beyond and cared a whole lot about the people I served man took them to places the newer staff stressed about even the thought of them doing the same so bye bye me.
Fuck it.
Nothing I can do about it now.
So.
Reason for this blog?
Some advice to all.
If you want to keep a job that you like,
Stay invisible.
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Yesterday woke me up. I was doing my usual ride on Cronus,one of my engine assist bicycles when my tire blew out a good 7 miles away from home. I was rather dehydrated by the time I had gotten home you can check out my video's in my"doing something about my mid life crisis" thread and both my legs had cramped up halfway home.I walked half my distance with two cramped legs it got so bad I started up Cronus just so I didn't have to push her. I mean sure I'm an idiot I should have stopped ANYWHERE and asked to drink from a garden hose I had no money for a bottled water but I didn't do that and I continued home.
I could have called my wife to come get me. She can't drive my standard shift truck I call Luther but I could have easily just locked up my bike have her take me home then bring Luther to pick up my bike but I didn't do that either because I really didn't think I was that far away from home and my pride was behind me. I chose to ride my bicycle to my destinations I choose to live with the consequences.
So that tire that EXPLODED had just 40 psi of air in it. It even says max inflation is 65 psi. It was one of them ultra thick gel tubes inside a Kelvar tire with thick sidewalls. I mean JESUS CHRIST MAN! WTF??
Why did that tire EXPLODE??
Today I got on the scale.
Last time I was bummed out when I saw I weighed 280. That was the exact weight I was before my quintuple heart surgery.
After surgery I had dropped to 250 and I don't know why but I should have kept going.
I stepped on the scale today and it says 290.
Two fucking ninety.
I never in my life weighed this much.
And I wonder how I fucking blew my tire..
That's it man.
This time for real.
FOR REAL.
I gotta lose my weight if I ever want to ride my bikes to Cherry Creek again.
I LOVE those rides and my bikes are I mean they are TUNED IN and NOTHING can go wrong mechanically except because I'm so heavy I could blow another tire.
I gotta lose some weight so I can live.
Things happen to my body man and I just shrug it off.
Yesterday all kinds of things were screaming at me. Not just my legs.
My heart was racing I could hear it in my head.
Everything became bright for a spell then it was okay.
I mean I just druged on and today I feel fine now.
But man.
What would have happened if I just dropped dead out there with no one around on that lonely bike trail.
My goal.
To lose 90 pounds by early next spring.
No set date.
I want to update this daily at night what I ate what excersise I did fucking EVERYTHING.
I need this.
I got myself some life insurance last week because I have this feeling sometimes I may not last that 10 year term.
I'm gonna see my doc next week and tell him all this.
He really needs to give me more attention.
Fucking HMO man.
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I just came back from New Mexico the clan all gathered together for July 4th everyone showed up it was quite nice.
It's all my in laws the ones that I thought didn't really like me but it's not like that.
This weekend I really felt like family.
So I got to thinking.
Married 22 years this month what was it that made me feel so negative towards my in laws in the past and why suddenly everyone seems way cool?
It only takes one in the clan. One to gossip about the ones they have a strong criticism against and one to spread this infection to the others.
Everybody has one in the clan.
Everyone.
And that one that does this makes you really believe it's everyone doing this to you.
Don't get me wrong. I loved my mother in law RIP she was the glue that bonded the clan together even after death she is still the glue and with that she is very much alive.
But then suddenly I have no feelings of contempt.
She used to joke and criticize whatever I did and I allowed that shit to get to me. And it made me angry at times.
But now when I look back she really was only kidding.
If I would have only just accepted all that as a joke and not let shit get to me maybe my relations with the clan may have been good the whole time.
Life is too short.
That's my life lesson.
Life is too short to be angry that someone in the clan got the better of you.
So what.
The clan means everything.
Without it life is less meaninful.
When we parted ways today many cried.
Many hugged my daughter because she's about to start her Naval career.
There's some real love here dawgs.
And I feel very lucky.
And that's just my inlaws.
Life is too short to hold a grudge.
Shit happens. So what.
Just wanted to share that.
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June 2004. Early evening.
I have been working hundred-hour weeks for months, and finally tonight I am no longer part of the 'critical path'. I'm having dinner with my three girls for the first time in twenty-seven weeks, and I bet I won't stay awake for more than a few minutes of it.
The drive home is only about eight miles, but I'm having trouble staying between the lines. As I look down the highway, the cars first go out of focus, then the music goes silent, then I'm jolted awake by my head drooping heavily onto my chest.
The adrenaline rush from knowing that I could have just died and taken the rush hour drivers with me lasts for less than a minute and I'm jolted awake again.
All I want to do is sleep. If I go to sleep for just a moment, there is a high degree of probability that my Bronco will stay in a straight line on this straight part of the highway and I'll wake up and finish driving home, refreshed and revitalized. Ready to be daddy when I get home.
Somehow, I have managed to pull into my driveway, and my body doesn't want to leave the vehicle. My brain has trouble resolving a world in sunlight. Things look too orange. There's too much detail. It's making my head hurt. I need my fluorescent lighting and bad coffee.
Suddenly the curtains pull back and my oldest daughter's face pushes against the window. She is smiling, I think, and screaming out the side of her mouth into the rest of the house. A moment later and my girls come out to see me.
My daughters are screaming 'daddy' and my wife is asking me why I didn't want to come in and see them. Sigh.
I open the door and lazily pour out of the vehicle and onto the ground, legs unused to supporting my weight. In a near-drunken stupor, I drag my feet one in front of the other until I'm in the house and on the couch.
My god, were the walls really this red? Was the ceiling this green? The visual cues are so overwhelming that I feel sick to my stomach.
All I want to do is sleep. I'm trying to listen to my girls. I think I might even be faking a smile. It's so hard to keep up with the conversation because I keep dozing off like I did back on the highway. All I want to do is sleep.
I've finally had all can take. "Girls, I'm sorry. I just have to get some sleep. I'm taking tomorrow off so we can spend some time together." The little ones seem to understand. Empathy must come more naturally to children.
"Let's leave daddy alone girls. He doesn't want to talk to us. He's on HIS couch."
Sigh.
Sigh.
Sleep.
I thought a nap would make me feel better, but I just feel hung over. It's like I'm walking through a viscous fluid that resists all movement in my body. My eyes are even affected.
My girls are in bed, so I'll kiss them good night.
Where's the wife? Oh, she's in bed already. "Good night."
"Good night."
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Good night. Hah. Why can't I ever sleep when I'm in a bed? I've been laying here for hours and can't quit working. How do these people just close their eyes and go to sleep...AND STAY THAT WAY?!?
How?
What the hell was that?
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June 2004. Early next morning. Change of tense.
My father and I had installed french doors on the back of the house, and I was never really happy with the way they locked. They were weak where the two doors came together in the middle and just a little amount of determination was required to push them open. Even though they were always deadbolted.
I actually asked myself what the sound was, but I knew it when I heard it. Someone had pushed the doors open.
I reached into my closet and silently grabbed my revolver, a Smith & Wesson .44mag, off the shelf. I stuck my head, shoulder, arm and revolver out into the dark hallway and peered down the long straight hall at the door that separated the kitchen from the hall.
Just as I heard two distinctly different voices whispering to each other to shut up, the hallway door opened and I saw the silhouette backlit by his accomplices flashlight. It was of a rather tall, large-framed person who was holding a long gun in his right hand.
I didn't even have to think.
Boom.
I didn't feel the concussion from the gun. I didn't hear it go off. All I saw was the flame discharge from the end of the weapon.
I had always seen in the movies that when you shoot someone with a large calibre handgun they were supposed to fly backward. That didn't happen at all.
The first thing I noticed was that whoever I just shot was no longer standing so now I had the flashlight shining right in my face. Thankfully, before I could recompose to shoot again, the accomplice fled out the way he had entered.
I ran down the hallway into the kitchen, stepping on the guy on the floor, kicking his shotgun away from him and looking out the back for the other guy.
All of a sudden I was blinded by a wash of lights in the room.
I turned around and was amazed to see that the guy on the floor had pushed himself against the wall with one hand, pushed himself up the wall somewhat, and had actually turned the light on.
As I watched him for a brief moment, I noticed that blood was pumping from his chest and his back.
Afraid that my girls would soon be coming down the hall, I screamed to them to stay in their rooms, but I got no response. I was hoping beyond hope that they were still asleep.
The guy fell back onto the floor and screamed at me. It was a dry, guttural scream that wasn't human. Not even remotely. He kept screaming and started pulling himself across the floor to me, and to his shotgun behind me.
It was just then that I noticed that he was unable to control his body from mid-chest down, and that that part of his body was shivering uncontrollably. And that he stank of piss and shit.
Thankfully, he was getting weaker, and as he did so, he appeared to sober.
After crawling about five feet, he just stopped. He just lay there, breathing shallow, hard breaths.
I thought he had started convulsing, when all of a sudden I realized he was crying. He was face down on the tile floor with one hand under his forehead. He was whispering amid his cries "momma. momma."
He repeated that over and over again. Then he seemed to remember that I was in the room. He looked at me and whispered "help me."
It was just then that I realized I hadn't called the police. I called them and told them I had shot an intruder and they said they'd send a unit over shortly. The operator hung up.
"PLEASE GOD! DON'T LET ME DIE!"
Fuck he scared the shit out of me.
He went into a rambling fit and made all sorts of promises to god that if he was allowed to live he'd change. He'd change. "GOD I SWEAR I'll change. please. please."
He started to cry again. Quietly at first. Then his sobs slowly rose to wailing. He wailed like a baby. For a moment. Then he went silent. His shallow breaths came more and more slowly. More and more shallow.
I suddenly realized that I had just killed a man. Never mind that he was in my house. With a gun.
He had been a human. Now he was nothing.
I had killed a man.
I hope none of you ever finds yourself in a similar situation. I know I did what was right. I'd do it again without hesitation.
But there really is an emptiness that never seems to go away. I stay awake thinking about it. Less often now than I used to, but it frequents my dreams occasionally and I live it all over again. Sometimes he pulls the trigger first. Sometimes I pull first, but my gun is empty, or misfires, or is not a gun at all.
I don't want to think about this anymore.
All I want to do is sleep.
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