Could have been worse

Went to the first counseling session today. It was tolerable. Having been through therapy before I had an idea what to expect. The therapist was an outgoing guy, throwing out plenty of questions, but filled with personal anecdotes, unusual in my experience. My therapist always played the cipher, impassive, sparse, never mentioning his personal life.

He asked us why we were here, which I figured he would, so I answered first since I'd given it some thought. Much of what was said is stuff I've said here, minus MOST of the profanities. The one exception being when he asked me how I felt about my sister, "I fucking hate her."

If my parents commit to it, like I hope they will, they will be the ones seeing the therapist most of the time, then I'll be brought back in, or rotated with the babykicker, assuming she ever agrees to participate (not holding my breath)

Cough/Hack

Lord God, the last week was awful, just awful. If it wasn't all the damn fighting, it was the bacteria; largely due to the blinding sunshine and humidity of psychic distress, I was a pitree (sp???) dish of coughing, pink eye, insomnia, and laryngitis. Oh what fun the last week was, I meant to examine the relationship between me and G, but reality forced my gaze elsewhere.


So what now? I don't have a lot of time tonight for writing, so just gonna throw a few things out there:

1. Am having a lot second thoughts about a job in the insurance industry
but without the money, I may never get out of here.
2. Having second thoughts about the U of Phoenix position,
but without the money, I may never get out of here.
3. My sister scares me, don't think I've ever made that clear;
something is wrong with her be it psychopathy or some other related disorder
4. G and I had a fight over my friggin sister?? I would rather G say to me
"I just can't forgive you for leaving/the rape/whatever, goodbye" than to end it
because of the goddamn baby-kicker.
5. Tournament in 2 weeks, under 140 beginner divisions. I am gonna crush the
competition. I have A LOT of stuff to work out.
6. The one benefit to everything, is it's left too emotionally exhausted to
obsess over my JKD crush, I have just enough emotional energy for one
fantasy a day.

Ugh unpacked even further

Another golden moment.

My father rode in backwards on a white horse, late as usual, his interference kicking dust and shit and bad bad luck. The fighting commenced anew. It was all out movie time and babykicker wanted her Oscar. Papi said something--I don't remember what--and I retorted, viciously and unfairly, "shut-up, you don't mean anything to me." I am after all still brimming with anger at his misdeeds. Babykicker stepped in, exclaiming how I shouldn't talk that away about people who "put shelter over our heads" My eyes widened. This deserved instant mockery. The nasty little child who constantly calls mom a bitch, papi a motherfucker, who does nothing--NOTHING!!--except sleep and eat and scream. Yes,Babykicker, who behaves as if she does us all a favor by staying here, had found Jesus.

This was a craven attempt to woo my father, she's always manipulating him to get what she wants. This time though, my mockery was straight and acerbic and long with sarcasm, for a hemi-demi-semi moment, I think she actually felt foolish.

State of the dogs

This particular fight was largely facilitated by continued hygiene problems with the dogs: everyone shitting and peeing where they're not supposed to. Snuggles and Princeton have ALWAYS had issues, and Fern (babykicker's dog) is nuts (most likely the result of abuse). But Radar wasn't just house trained, I took him to a handler for weeks and weeks of clicker training. Moving back home has been a disaster on that front. One of the babykicker's favorite excuses is that all the other dogs have issues so why is Fern's behavior an issue? (She pees and shits in other people's rooms) This tactic is particularly irksome, considering the effort I've put into Radar's house training. For the record, last night I tried to say, "look, all the dogs have accidents, no one is denying that, but Fern is doing X,Y, and Z. Just put her in a crate when you leave and you will reduce the number of accidents" Babykicker wouldn't hear it. She seemed to be obstinate about that fact....I'm sorry I just fantasized about caving her face in MMA style....she seemed to be obstinate just to be obstinate.

Now I will confess to this, I think I called her a miserable cunt a little while before I said that, I don't remember, so things were already bad and probably past the point of reason. But that's part of why I called her a miserable cunt in the first place. Frustration. She NEVER listens to reasons, rejects all criticism as a personal act (and will turn around say I can't take criticism)....sorry fantasized about choking her out....Yeah, this is bad.
javascript:void(0)
For example, she called me anorexic. Huh??? I eat all the time. She's the one with eating problems.

I'm sorry, this was supposed to be about the dogs, and I'm back to talking about her. The point I was moving towards is I think a lot of the dog issues may be acting out. This is their way of handling all the negative energy, loving them isn't enough. I have to get out of this house. I have to get Radar out of this house. Someone in this house is going to snap big time, I'd rather it not be me.

Ugh revisited

Ok, I don't even know where to pick up from, since the whole thing got derailed when I called my girlfriend for a little support, little being the operative word. I was in tears over the epic fail that is moving back home. I'm worse off, She's worse off, Radar's worse off. Sigh, it wasn't really bad until the babykicker moved back in.

"That's the closest thing to an apology you offered,"
"Really? Are you kidding? I've spent the last year apologizing! I have to shave my beard" Yup. Like I said, the operative word is "little."

What's left for us?

When I speak do people listen? How vague am I?

I think my faith in US has been exhausted, broken.

Ugh

Have *YOU* had a knockdown drag-out fight with your family lately? Happy Father's Day!!!


How odd it is that this seems to be the only way I learn anything about the babykicker. I admit, sad and pathetic all around.

Soooooooooooooo, this time things began between mom and my "sister" over doggie behavior (poop, pee, etc.) Man, I don't even feel like going into the details. I got involved (Her dog pees and craps in my room), and it was a down hill thrill ride from there. Here are a few choice moments:

Me: "You're a miserable cunt." My personal favorite only because it was the truth. She is a miserable cunt. It's what I really believe. Hmm, that is only one moment. Please, cut me some slack, this fight isn't even 30 minutes old.

Ah, but I did say this is the time when I learn something new about the babykicker. I was quite astounded when she boasted of her talents. To which talents does she speak of? Once upon a time, she was a dancer, a very good one. Then she fucked her life up and did squat. Well, as I said, she boasted of her talents. She was such a good dancer she got accepted to Vanderbilt---she went to Cal Arts and failed out in a semester. And what was the other one? She was a good writer. Really? When did this happen? When does she even write??? She either sleeps or is with her boyfriend. Regardless, I'm not sure if she's even seen anything I've written so I don't know how she can make the comparison.

She's delusional. Seriously. She's trying to win a argument with talents she's thrown in the crapper?

That pretty much sums up my rebuttal too, except....my monitor keeps going on out me.....Was talking to G...I'll return to the fight later.

General State of Things

Did some side-control drills last night. I managed to recover guard on everyone, and all but one---I believe--was unable to recover on me. Not bad.

God, as much as I hate work, I'll be pleased to be generating income again. I need to move out of this house. Away from my father, away from the babykicker, and away from my neat freak mom (the only member of the family whom I have a good relationship with).

I'm sleeping in a little too long most days, and any behavior that is even vaguely comparable to the babykicker's makes me a bit neurotic and self-conscious.

I just returned from a lifting and swimming workout. I feel good, energized...I also have too much Endorush in my system. I may go to the dojo later and get another crossfit workout in. I really don't want to be up all night because of some damn energy drink.

I submitted a few poems to an online lit mag, I know the ed. in chief, although we haven't talked in a few years. I'm hoping that, even if rejected, she can give me some advice on what to do with the material. (I've been toying with showing these poems to my girlfriend for the last few months, but I've been reticent to do so because they are about our shared trauma, and how I/we've been affected. I'm scared of her response. I showed her a PS statement I wrote a couple years ago and, er. she took it the wrong way. This is a trust thing. And I wonder if, in order to--and I feel like a self-help book saying this--work through the trauma I need to do this, consequences be damned. This strikes me as peculiarly analogous do the decision people make after they've cheated on a lover. Do you confess or do you bury it? There's no telling what will happen, there isn't even a guarantee that it will be beneficial on an individual if you tell the truth. Hmm, that's interesting. Do I believe I am engaging in a deception by not showing her the poems?)

I'll say this for Endorush, it ain't a bad motivator for writing, but don't tell anyone it can focus the left brain, that's the purview of evil S L O W drugs like pot. Then again, maybe it's a good idea most writer's DON'T try Endorush for creative purposes. That's all the world needs, a bunch of writers hopped up on uppers. So instead of dealing with a bunch who are largely prone to suicide and drink, you'd have a bunch prone to suicide and pep. They'd get around to killing themselves much faster cutting their work out put in half, that or they'd merely do the same work in half the time.

My not so secret admirer

...is only 17. A little surprised--no, more like disappointed--not that I ever intended to do anything about it; but you know a person still has a way to mature, when she can't answer truthfully about her age. Although, one could make the argument, seriously or facetiously, that women in particular only tell the truth about their ages from 18 to 25.

I had a really bad bad bad experience dating a girl who lied about her age, lied about everything actually. I met her on the internet in the wild west days of the aol chatrooms. She was pretending to be someone else, yeah it was downhill from there. Hmm, guess this one warrants it's own post at a later date.

About that Cold

It wasn't the cold that did me in the following Monday, rather this mighty equation
(Maximun Strength Mucinex + Endorush)x Empty Stomach = Barf


And has been recorded before, I think, Radar detests the sound of me puking. I rushed home from Judo, as soon as I started he ran to Mom
s room and jumped on a pillow. Later, as I was puking in the kitchen sink, I could hear him barking his rebuke from my room. As far as barfing fits go this one was kinda tame. I puled mostly water. There was a a sensation of a demon buried deep with the trans-realities of the mystical digestive gradient swirling at the epicenter of the uber-tummy*

That wasn't as thrilling as the next equation.
(((Barf+Suppository){raised to Indignity Squared})X babykicker fit+papi fit+mom fit/Alien V Predator: Requiem)))-4 am Gatorade= Passed out for most of Tuesday

Really, why write at all when you can construct sloppy short hand equations with excessive verbiage?? Oh, by the way, that demon was brown.

*My Grant Morrison impression

Trying not to start WW III

I am taking deep breaths, big fat yoga breaths. I am the king of yoga. I am the oxygen man; my blood cells are just bursting with the stuff; my veins are coursing with love and peace and pituli (sp?) and hugs, Fozzy the bear wocka wocka wocka hugs; they are not frantic with a million savage fire ants; my brain is not a Heavy Metal spectacular.

I am not going to misuse my martial training.

Only one "person" is capable of setting me off in a berserker rage, the girl who put the kicker in babykicker, my sister.

Her boyfriend, will call here--looking for her---incessantly. Once he gets started, he can't seem to stop. I kid you know he will call here 10 times in the course of two hours. This might be cute if he was a fifteen year old stricken with puppy love (the slobbering stupid love that gives you fleas), and if he didn't drive around our col-de-sac (sigh, sp?) when she didn't answer, AND IF the babykicker got her lazy ass up just long enough to answer the fucking phone.

If I see his name on the caller ID I don't answer it; I want as little to do with him as I do her.

Most of the time I don't say anything about it, but today it was just too much. There had been more phone calls than usual, a few of them even, were sane people. I didn't check the caller ID, as he had called the last three times. "Babykicker, answer the phone, bitch, it's your boyfriend"
Now I admit, I cursed, which is a no-no in the rhetoric of argument in this house, as it allows the other person to claim the pseudo-moral high ground. It was off the cuff, both babykicker and myself are prone to tarantino-esque tirades.

She answers. She talks. She clicks. She shouts "That wasn't my boyfriend, it was mom, blah blah angry blah don't call me bitch angry blah-blah" I shouted back he was 90% of the calls in the morning, she said something about males thinking they are entitled, and I tried to let it die at that. I bit my tongue, astounded by her hypocrisy. (Project much? No one behaves as if they are entitled more than you), but it just wasn't worth it.

I thought the issue was dead, when mom came home from work though, Babykicker complains, assuming a posture of false outrage. How dare I call her a bitch blah blah blah angry blah. You couldn't wash her mouth out with two magic erasers, a swiffer, a pound of soap, and a olympic pool of shock treated chlorinated water. I told mom "the real reason she's pissed is I dared to wake her for a phone call, when it turned out to be you instead of the psycho boyfriend she was mad" Babykicker started to say something but I just added, calmly to mom, "sometimes, he will drive by the house when she doesn't answer, it's fucking creepy" I removed myself from the conversation , deciding to take Captain Charisma (one of Radar's many nicknames) outside. She went to tell my mother about how she could speak ghetto, using as much motherfucking profantity as motherfucking possible to motherfuck the point.

It was wet, and Radar surveyed the pool for turtles. She was trying to start a fight with me, looking for a way to push my buttons. I thought about why doing anything would be wrong; if I hold out long enough, maybe her nutjob boyfriend will do it for me...as long as he doesn't come here to do it.

Intervention for the sober

Yesterday, I woke to the sound of my mother yelling at the babykicker.

I was looking at the huffingtonpost with a toothbrush sticking out of my mouth. There was generic classical music blaring from the den. Papi stood in the doorway “You’re really addicted to all this technology stuff, aren’t you?” He had this smile, this glassy I’m seeing you for the first time even though I’ve said it a thousand times smile. Brown eyes projecting—disbelief? pity? smugness?—an alien vision of reality. He was positively beatific! Was there a USB cord running from my temple to the hard drive? Was I bound up in wires? Were my eyes cracked and dry from spending an entire week playing WOW only to break for pizza and piss? Were there little piles of shit in my room?

I had to suck my cheeks together as so not to spit toothpaste everywhere. I swallowed the red flush creeping up my cheeks. I didn’t know which made me angrier: his condescension, his genuine belief that I really was addicted to technology, or his blindness.

With a pop I yanked the toothbrush out of my mouth, “Really, then why are you the one insistent on blaring the stereo?” That’s what I meant to say. What came out of my mouth sounded more like “muff glufff bigooph!” on account of the foamy soup between teeth and tongue, but the meaning was clear, and he left. He turned off the stereo.

Let me back up. I need to elaborate on my emotional response. As a rule any form of condescension makes me angry, particularly when it comes from a parent or friend. My father is an M.D. an infectious disease specialist. Back in’85 when AIDS ascended to arch-fiend in humanity’s never ending battle against nature, he was one of three doctors in ::censored:::, who didn’t run away from gay men dying the slow death of wasting syndrome; he never freaked out, he never turned a patient away from being HIV positive.

He’s very good at being a doctor, but he’s a luddite, and on top of that he ‘s got that great white ego that comes from being a doctor, so already we have an irritating concoction in the works. All my life he has been saying I watch too much tv or spend too much time on the computer or waste my time reading comic books (yeah, I know not technology per se, but the pattern here is obvious). He’s even gone so far as to call the t.v. my best friend. (that was insulting and it hurt)

Growing up I did watch my share of t.v, but even then he over exaggerated. Soccer and Football didn’t matter. All the studying, the extra time I put in on my honors courses. Getting the lead in the school play didn’t matter. Have you read Neil Simon’s Fools? The lead is in every scene, lines on every page. In order to know the part you have to know the whole script! Here I am, with a Master’s degree in English, I devote about 20 hours a week to the martial arts and conditioning, another 5-8 hours on writing and blogging, and I spend some time with my friends on the weekend. When it comes to my father, I have no life outside of the predetermined narrative he’s constructed for me. Nothing I have ever done has squashed this belief and nothing I do ever will, and I stopped trying a long time ago but hot damn it pisses me off somethin’ fierce, like someone shoved a bottle of Tabasco sauce up my nose.

Then there is the issue of my sister. A person with real addiction issues, who has waged a war of emotional abuse that has left my parents’ marriage entropic. Speaking of the babykicker, I’d say her only accomplishment to date is sucking up well over 100,00 dollars of my parent’s money, forcing them to take out another mortgage and dip into their retirement savings which has resulted in nothing but a shallow, directionless parasite, and papi keeps letting her get away with it. She’s a real Rolo Tomasi. Have I mentioned that I hate and despise her? I really shouldn’t. It should be clear from everything I write.

And yet the term addiction is slung at me carelessly as a way to criticize nonexistent behavior. I wonder though....

Oh, and for the record I've never played WOW (World of Warcraft)

A Rant

I get the distinct feeling I’m viewed as a parasite by my mother. This is not a groundless claim. I live at home. I eat her food. She still takes care of my car insurance. She screams at me, that or reminding me that “you’re not a college student anymore, stop acting like you live in a dorm” by which she means I’m messy, even though I confine the mess to my room. Any fight between my sister and mother will inevitably make a turn at “Why does he do the dishes?” She demands with her tuneless southern twang. “Well yeah, your brother’s no better, he’s next on my list.”
Or it is about a car, or something the babykicker said. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not mom always agrees with her, and I’m in my own room stunned, feeling sold out, angry that mom would accept such reductive infantile logic, instantly put me on par with that piece of shit who harms people carelessly and without regard. We’re not people to the babykicker, merely things, obstructions to her grand quest of loafing 14 hours a day while everyone else works—unless she needs something from us.
So that’s that then. Her crimes are my crimes; she should be allowed to hurt as many people as possible.
How did this become the status quo? I work. I pay my own credit card bill. I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. The only bad habit I really have is jerking off to porn, yet I am struggling for a satisfactory counter-argument. No, I don’t want a satisfactory one, I’m searching for one without peer. I want a coup de grace: a simple retort that says “that settles it, he’s a self sufficient adult who takes care of himself. There’s only one parasite in this family.”
I can’t. Is there a difference between being a loser who lives with his parents and an adult with a different set of priorities? Right now, in the age of the idiot king, the economy is in the shitter, more people are getting more jobs that pay less, working longer and longer hours, achieving nothing. Seriously, what do they have to show for it? It hasn’t lowered the price of gas, or repaired our relationship with the world writ large or given our children a better education. Hell, most people are easily controlled authoritarian puppets, they’re just waiting for the right leader to tell them what to do.
This excuses nothing though. I’m not talking about everyone else. I’m talking about me. When I was 19 I remember the first night I was in my dorm room. I had this revelation “I’m a man now!” I’ve doubted that epiphany ever since.
Look where I am. My girlfriend was raped and I was powerless to stop it. My track history in relation to grad school is piss poor. I chose the wrong program, and I was miserable, now I can’t get into MFA program because you can read the misery in my grades.
My girlfriend is hundreds of miles away. I moved because I thought I was sparing her. I was afraid I’d lose it and knock her brown eyes right off her face. The only thing the decision engendered were feelings of betrayal and nervous breakdowns. When was the last time I made the right decision about anything? Hell when was the last time someone offered me advice that didn’t bite me in the ass?
Joseph Campbell wrote about the call. See before the hero’s journey begins he hears the call. He is summoned by light or the powers that be or George Lucas or whoever. But there are heroes who resist the call, and they are punished. Jonah and the whale: man is called by God to do his work, man runs away in fear, man is eaten by whale. Only when Jonah repents and accepts his ministry is he released.
What if you’re tone deaf though? What if you can’t hear the call? It might as well be static, covered in noise pollution, trampled over by car stereos with bass five miles high, a giant arrogant robot, straight from the big-eyes-small-mouth fantasy world of Japan, making the rest of us shake and vibrate against our will. We don’t even get to enjoy the song. You can’t hear it! There is only bass, and a smug asshole at the eye of the storm, king of his chrome world.

I wrote this and I haven’t inched to clarity, not one bit.
I doubt, and it scares me. I doubt, and it tires me, wears me down.

The Babykicker in Rare Form

You won't believe what the babykicker has done this time.

The phone rings. My mother answers it, doesn't recognize the voice, tells the babykicker it's a "friend." Two minutes later babykicker is yelling at my mother. Over what? Well, turns out the voice was her bf--the one that's physically assaulted her THREE times--he apparently got pissy on the phone and did his usual spiel accusing my sister of seeing other guys, so obviously it's mom's fault!? My sister is a lasagna of stupid: she manages not only to display grandiose illogic and incompetence; she has the audacity to yell at mom, blaming her for what the nutjob boyfriend might do, completely ignoring that mom lets her dumbass stay there out of the kindness of her heart.

I am disgusted to say the least. It's pretty bad when a trauma victim can't sympathize with an abuse victim, because the latter is a horrible cunt. I've been so disgusted with her I wanted to say "I've wanted to kick you in the head for the last 6 months, but then I realized if I waited long enough your boyfriend would do it for me" But I fear the situation would devolve into violence from there.

babykickers r us

My sister was attacked by her boyfriend again, that's number three if you're keeping score. In the history of time, I can't imagine a less sympathetic assault victim.

She called my mother at 3:30 on a saturday morning, asking her to call 911 because her boyfriend was driving around with her pot. Huh???? As usual I'm short on details, but at some point he threw her against a wall. My mother went to their apartment and the cops were there, called by the neighbors. My father freaked out, upset that mom didn't take him. (he would have been a liability in the situation) . Of course, she ends up back here.

Sister was up till around 6 am yammering on the phone LOUDLY, with her boyfriend. I'm already finding it hard not to kick her in the head.

can't think of title

My sister has been hanging around. She has a fight with my mother, and is here two days later acting like nothing happened. What is the ten cent word meaning "projecting an aura of sliminess"??

Fabulous Dreams of Death

“The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had”

--Tears For Fears

A sentiment I’ve always related too, albeit it a slanted comparison. I dreamed my sister died last night. As far as my dreams go it was fairly lucid. I didn’t have control or anything, I just remembered a bit more than usual. There were no monsters or parasites or bizarro manifestations of real life counterparts. Nope. The house was the house. People were people. No Lynchian symbolism. No dream logic. Quite simply, her dumb ass finally died in a shower (I was told about this, I didn’t see it unfold) a culmination of years of drug use, drinking, bad eating habits etc. In the dream I was relieved to hear she was finally dead. People could get on with their lives. Everyone was free from her emotional abuse, her callous disregard for others, her valley-girl babykicking horseshit, and her lies. There was a sense of freedom.

Part of me was aware this was a dream, but like I said, I lacked the ability to manipulate events. When I woke up, I was disappointed—still alive, sigh. And I’m not ashamed in the least. It was one of my better R.E.M. experiences, I don’t sleep well as a rule, remembered dream or not. Death, though, seems to stimulate better R.E.M. experiences for me. I remember, years ago, dreaming the death of my best friend, and waking up refreshed. It was off putting for me, but it didn’t change the fact that I slept well. This latest dream seems to establish a pattern.

Things are tough all over

Last night, 3 am or thereabouts, I called my girlfriend and cried, despairing over my inability to find solace from my sister. Who is the bigger threat now? Two idiots wandering the halls of my psyche hiding in the shadows of the Parthenon, or my sister, real, present, and worst of all, related.

In another show of frustration and impotence, I got manhandled in BJJ, and the entire time it felt like I shouldn’t, that I should be doing BETTER. One guy is actually smaller than me our rolls had gotten competitive. Not tonight. Not a chance. He controlled me from the get go, made me tap—more than once I think. I’m a head of the class kind of guy, I don’t like being the dunce. I need to dedicate more training time on the weekends. After my next paycheck I’ll try and schedule a private lessons.

I realized tonight that not only is my triangle defense lacking, I’m not any good at applying the hold either. I need to give attention to positives too. Triangle defense is incrementally better as is over all conditioning, but conditioning won’t mean much if I can’t win my first match.

I need a shield

I've emailed my lawyer about the nuances of a restraining order. I intend to get one against my sister

This is what the edge looks like

Friday: Sister arrives at the house. How she got in I’m not sure. Parents are away. She isn’t supposed to be here, brings her dog, an abused mutt. Dog has no crate. No private space. I try to hide in my room. I felt slimy, upset. Lost my appetite. She leaves, “will be back around 11.” She leaves her dog so I can’t lock her out (Did she have a key? Did I forget to lock the door?) My condition doesn’t improve; I dread her return. I take a shower, the usual violent scenarios play out in my head. I go to a friend’s place for a few hours; I bring him up to speed. I’m taking care of the dogs this weekend so I return. My sister returns at roughly the same time. I manage to get the dogs walked. I keep them in the back of the house for the rest of the night. Sister leaves.

Saturday:

A little after midnight I receive the following text message:

Boyfriend is acting crazy don’t answer the house phone.

The same boyfriend who is 6”6 and over 250 lbs, the same boyfriend who put her dumb ass in the ER, I don’t fall asleep until after 4 am.

The phone is ringing; the door bangs. I wake up at about 8:20. Caller ID lists the boyfriend’s name. I try to wait it out. More ringing, louder banging, person is moving from one door to another. The fear is too much I call 911. I’m trying to keep my composure. Operator tells me to barricade the door. I do. I’m convinced he’s going to break in any minute now. Operator wants me to explain the situation. I do my best list the factors involved. Someone else picks up the line.

“Oh my gawd, I couldn’t get in, you locked all the doors, thanks a lot!”

My sister has an accent that fuses southern twang with valley girl. She is upset, disgusted by my selfishness.

Dumb
-Struck.
Embarrassed.
Humiliated.

I stammer out an apology to the operator, who tells me something about 911 being for emergencies.

My sister’s words are lodged in my head. How did she get in? Where is she? I look around. I go upstairs. The door to the locked. I call her name. She answers.

I bang on the door, shouting, screaming at her for her insult. Screaming at her for making me relive a break in, for anticipating a violent show down with a much larger man, and for not telling me she was coming over. I don’t remember much of what I said, but “I hate you” was definitely part of the spiel.

It takes me ten minutes, but I finally track my mother down. I am outside, barefoot in the driveway. I yell; I cry, but it doesn’t matter. Sister doesn’t leave the house.

Sunday:

Between 2 am and 9 am she leaves, her dog is gone, but my sister has left a mess behind for me to clean up

The State of Things

You’d think I’d have a lot to say considering I started teaching today. Nope. English is English. ENC 1101 or ENG 101 or Introduction to Writing blah blah it’s the same thing. The schools change only in a vague architectural sense. Some are prisons. Others are disorienting Rorschach blotches, while others are just messes dumped in different parts of the city. The students don’t change and neither does the bureaucracy. As they say in Hollywood, Nobody knows anything. And that’s really that. My schedule is the only things that really changes.

Heck, there isn’t much to report on the martial art front either. I think I’m starting to develop a better sense of body awareness and defense in BJJ, and my punches and kicks are marginally better in JKD.

Home front: Shared the details of my fight (sister) with a friend of mine. He believes that my reaction was understandable. “Had I been there I would have tried to hold you back…until that last comment. I would have helped you chase her down.” He was amazed I didn’t kill her the next time I saw her. Some of my friends think I have amazing emotional control, but if so it is sorely taxed in any familial argument. Although I gotta tell ya, if it wasn’t for the whole anonymity thing, I wouldn’t be using the word “sister.” I might not even be willing to acknowledge a familial relationship, but I’ve got continuity issues to manage so as not to confuse my readership of two.