All I am going to say.

I feel a need to write something. It will be short.

Just because I do not wear my heart on my sleeve, does not mean that I do not have a heart.

Just because I do not write depressing blogs, does not mean that I am not depressed.

It causes me a lot of anquish, stress, and heartache to know that you are suffering. It hurts to know that I have caused that. I will not get into the whole story, nor try to justify or defend my actions. I have done that with you already. It is a private matter. I will not burden anyone else with what is supposed to be my burdens. I harbor no ill will towards you. I harbor no spite towards you. If you need to hate me to get through this, then hate me. But don't say that I am dead to you. That I am the worst person alive. That I am nothing more than a shell of a good former self. And then wonder why I try to give you your space. Right now, I am a cancerous tumor to you and your psyche. If I need to remove myself. Then I will. I don't know what else to say, my mind is jumbled and confused right now. But, I felt a need to say something.

Part Two.

Richard

I walk down the dimly lit hallway. The slight Air Conditioning just mixes with the mold and dust and creates a musty feeling. I can already feel the grime of the place slowly crawling up my arms and beginning to envelop me. I sit there staring at the white paint cracking on the door in front of me. Looking into the peep hole, and wondering if he is staring back at me.

I don’t know why I wait to knock. I just sit there knotting my hands into tight fists and clench my jaw. It has been months since I’ve seen him. The sleepless nights, the fights with my second wife, and the lack of time I have had for my other child. All of these things come to the forefront. Some problems are intangible. You try and rationalize them out and attempt to change them with your behavior. Other problems are able to be seen directly in the face. You can look at them, and talk to them. You can hate them, but you love them. If you didn’t love them, then there would be no problem, because even after all some people do to you, in the end you are addicted to them.

I sigh and knock on the door. Knock Knock Knock. The sound reverberates in my head. I barely tapped the door, hoping that he would not hear me. That way I could walk away, and say that I was brave enough to come. After a minute I start to turn away when I hear the click of the knock. The door slowly opens and there stands the skeleton of my former son. He opens the door and stands there looking at me with his sullen hollowed eyes. They are black, and don’t hold the life they once used to. His hair is shaggy, matted, and covers half his face. He holds up his long thin digits over his eyes, attempting to shield them from the fifty watt hanging in the hall. How long has he been in that dark room? He wears no shirt, and it looks as if he has not eaten in weeks. His blue jeans are tied around his waist with an old orange extension cord. You can count every single rib on his torso. He used to be so muscular. Now he looks like he just come out of a concentration camp.
My son, the Holocaust survivor.
He stands away from the door and motions me in with his long disgustingly thin fingers. I follow suit and immediately a mixture of urine, vomit, and alcohol invade my senses.
The smell of teen spirit.
The room is dark with only a faint light from a street lamp outside. There is a small ceiling fan slowly circulating above our heads. The room is bare. There is simply nothing in there with the exception of a mattress and an old chair. A blonde haired woman lies half covered by a white urine soaked sheet on the floor, while her legs are draped across the mattress. I just can’t help but look around the room. There is so much space that simply isn’t being used. I notice a crack in the wall at the far end of the room. All it needs is some plaster, an easy fix. I make this comment to him, but he simply states that he hasn’t had time.

He sits on the mattress and just stares blankly towards me. I look at his arms, blackened and bruised. His toes also show the signs of injections. With every drug injected into his body, a piece of his soul was ejected. I notice all the empty syringes and beer bottles. All reminders of my failures as father. I try to look him in the eye, it is a vain search for something that used to be there. He can’t hold my gaze and just stares down. Does he hate me? Does he blame me? Where did I go wrong?

I try and start the conversation we both know is coming, “you can come home if you want.” I look at the girl on the floor with empathy, she is someone’s daughter. “She can come too, but you both have to go to rehab. You know the deal”. This is probably the millionth time we’ve been through it. He gets in trouble, and comes home. He goes to rehab, does well for a while, but he always falters. There has to be hope left? He just looks at me, “nah, I’m getting clean on my own. These needles are old”. He still has a piece of rubber wrapped around his bicep. “I just need some money to get me through the week, and I start my new job Monday”. I have to hold firm. He slumps to his side and begins to vomit profusely. I just get up and start to walk out. I won’t give him the money unless he at least tries to get fixed. I have tried to get him to clean. It’s not a one-way street. As I move towards the door he begins to yell, “Fuck you!” Here it comes. I turn around and he somehow manages to get himself up with his boney arm. His eyes, once which had no emotion at all, are now filled with a vile hate. And it is directed at me.”I’m sorry that I’m not fucking Duncan!”, his half brother, my second child. “I just need a little fucking help, and you turn your back on your own goddamned child!” He blames me. It probably is my fault. But, I can’t give him the money. As much as it hurts. It isn’t my fault right? I mean that’s what they tell you at those meetings. Yes, I go to meetings. Addicted to your loved ones addiction. I listen to all the other parents, wives, sisters, and brothers. They all talk of blaming themselves, but that they had some realization that it’s not their fault. It’s all just fucking words. I am this boys father and I have allowed him to lead his life to this shit hope apartment filled with drugs, and whores. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one who guided him. Was I too lenient, or too harsh? Which part of the delicate balance did I break?

The woman turns her head and moans something inaudible. How high is she? I wonder if her parents are looking for her. Danny yells at me some more and then turns and begins to vomit. I just turn around and walk out the door. I tried didn’t I? Can I now walk out with a clear conscience? Should I just give him the money? I mean, maybe he is attempting to be honest with me and just needs it for rent? It could be. He could steal the money if he wanted it for drugs. Maybe his telling me and asking me straight forward for the money is a sign he is trying to get clean. Trying to get his life straight. And by walking out the door I am doing nothing more than walking out on his chance to fix his life! No, I have to walk out. That is what they tell you at the meetings. That you can not give money to an addict. But, this is not an addict. It is my son. For all his imperfections, it is my son! When I look into his face and his hollowed out eyes, I see the reflection of my failings as a father. Every fiber of me tells me to turn around an to take his head and put it into my chest. To take care of him. But, I just keep walking away. As the tear begins to roll down my eye.

Freedom to Bondage.

Danny

The first beer that I ever drank was a Corona. I can remember the day that I sipped that first taste of alcohol like it was yesterday. It was in the back of a 2003 red Dodge Neon with my brand new girlfriend. We had been lucky enough to convince a co worker of mine at the local sandwich shop to buy us a couple of six packs in exchange for some extra money so he could get some smokes. I can still remember following behind him as he went to get the beer. The surge of adrenaline rushing through my body hoping that we would not get caught. I saw a snitch in the eyes of every other customer in that grocery store. I had so many thoughts scurrying around in my mind, the thought of my parents finding out, or perhaps getting in trouble with the police. I had almost wanted to ask him not to buy the beer, and that he could keep the money for his trouble. But, when I looked into her eyes, that blue abyss, I had to keep going. I would not look like a sissy in front of her. She was the girl I had to impress. I would do the stupidest thing in the world for her, and it was all because she was a little more developed physically than the girls my age. Boobs have a fascinating effect on the male psyche. It was all so exciting.

Once we had the beer, me and my lady drove to an old park and chilled out in the back seat of that old Neon. Taking off my sandals I could feel some dirt get between my toes, and I noticed some old candy bar wrappers. I grabbed the Corona bottle and twisted off the cap and just looked at the bottle with a kind of awe. This was the moment that I would stop being a child and began turning into a man. At least a teenager. The taste of that yellow liquid cascading over my taste buds will stay with me forever. It was an incredible sensation as it went into my digestive system and started to affect me. After three beers I had a pretty good buzz going. And I could not stop drinking them.

The beer itself tasted like piss. And I wasn’t that thirsty. But what that beer represented caused a thirst that was insatiable.
It tasted like freedom.
It tasted like independence.
It tasted like maturity.
It tasted like rebellion.

So, I kept drinking them, one after the other. It was felix felicis, and I could do no wrong under its spell. After my fifth beer, I looked at Juliette straight in the eyes and went in to kiss her. She was willing, of course she was, I was a stud(so the beer told me anyways). And we went further, and further. I lost my virginity in that car on that day. It was possibly the worst and most awkward sexual experience of my entire life. But, at the time I felt like James Bond fucking some Russian spy whore.

That was the beginning of my high school experience. I had a girlfriend who was a year older than I was. I was on the wrestling team. I was in all academic honors courses. My teachers loved and pined over me. The world was my oyster. I could do no wrong. Every kid is supposed to experiment in high school. It is the one time in life where you are completely free to do whatever you want. Some might say that time is in college, but you can be tried as an adult while in college. In high school, there are no responsibilities. You do easy ass class work and the rest of the time you can just chill out. My parents paid the bills and I just hung out with friends. We would go out and drink every weekend and smoke some cigarettes and just talk. There were parties, and I had always seen some drugs there, but I had never had any interest in trying them. There was no need.

I am not quite sure what caused that “no need” thing to change. Perhaps it was because I was bored with alcohol. Perhaps it was because my girlfriend used cocaine and I wanted to keep up. But, eventually I tried drugs. That high was the most amazing feeling in the entire world. The world stood still and all five senses are in pristine condition. You can not top the feeling of that needle injecting into your arm a liquid which will make you feel like you are king of the world. The sensation is not natural, because nothing natural can be that good. The stresses of the world, and all its bullshit are gone. I took my first hit at a party that I had been invited to by Juliete. She had some college friends and they were hanging out in their dorm room. When I first met them, I had that same sensation as when I had first entered high school, at the bottom of the totem poll whereas, there I had worked my way to the top of the social hierarchy here I was nothing again. And maybe that is why I tried it. It doesn’t really matter why I tried it. The only thing that matters is after that first high, I could not relive it. While getting drunk was fun, it could not compare to this.

If the war on drugs were a physical war against an opponent such as the Nazis we’d be speaking German right now. For all the negative press, and all the attempts by the government to get drugs out of the streets, they are surprisingly easy to get. You can not buy glue at Wal-Mart unless you are eighteen. But, right out in the parking lot one of their employees who get the carts will sell you ecstasy and cocaine. I see no problem with using drugs. It’s a means to an end. You get stressed out in life and drugs help calm you down. You get awkward in certain social situations, and drugs help you open up. They are no a hindrance to a great life, but an opportunity. This is what my father could never, nor will ever understand. When he found out that I had been using, he freaked out. Threatened to call the cops or kick me out of the house. Because, that is what will get me to stop? All his damn bickering ever did was push me further away. He was the reason that I dropped out of high school and he was the reason that I am not fulfilling my potential. Him and his damn overbearing attitude.

What is Real?

I have been dabbing into lolita lately. Now, when I say that I don't mean that I am having relations with a girl who is a nymphette. That would be wrong. I am reading the acclaimed book by a Russian author with the name of Vladimir Nabokov. He created the characters of Humpert Humpert and his fourteen year old obsession he so longingly refers to as Lolita. Now, the story is a tad controversial and is accepted as a genuine piece of literature. I really enjoy this book. Not necesarilly because of the plot, but because of the way it is written. It is written from the perspective of Humpert and he is the narrator. I think this allows the reader a lot more room for which he can interpret the story and truely adds a lot of depth. For example, the narrator(who is writing in the first person) states that he is very attractive and that women are drawn to him becasue of this and his charm. But, he also mentions his brief stints in being commited. Now, if a narrator who was outside of the story physically described Humpert as being attractive the reader would take that at face value. But, since it is writen by Humpert essentially, we can allow ourselves to wonder about how much he is saying is true. It allows us to interpret the character in a much better sense, because we are hearing directly from the character and not being told about the character or his actions. For example, I had a thought that he could potentially have an inferiority complex. He avidly describes what he looks for in a Nymphette(which is basically a girl who is "blossoming" into a woman), and that he notices every slight imperfection. Therefore I think that if he notices tiny imperfections in others, he therefore would notice them in himself. I think that is the reason he goes out of his way to discuss his "physical prowess" and how women are attracted to him. Or, he could simply be an arrogant ass. That's the fun in reading the story and attempting to interpret that.

The Evolution of the Media.

The right to have a free press is truly one of the greatest things that the founding fathers could have provided. We took a lesson from the great thinkers of the past, such as Montisque, and created a government with three branches. This way the three factions of the government would quibble amongst themselves as a system of checks and balances. But, the creation of a free press allowed for an outside force to creat another check upon the government. An unbiased media is critical for a functioning democracy.

I was recently talking to a friend the other day about technology. He was describing his love for the iPod. Which if you are unaware, is a portable device which carries music. I don't know why they called it an "iPod" when it's not actually a pod, but a machine. Anyways, I was then thinking about the internet and how great that invention is. You can do EVERYTHING on the internet!!! You can bank, buy goods, meet people, and let's not forget about all that porn! The internet allows for information to go from one end of the world all the way to the other in the blink of an eye. Al Gore sure knew what he was doing when he created this thing. Back in the 1950's this old guy by the name of Joseph McCarthy was running amuck accusing everyone of being a communist. A new invention called the television helped to quell his uprising because when people actually had a chance to SEE what an ass he was during a congressional hearing, public opinion turned against him. The internet has the ability to do this with current news stories in a much bigger format. People can blog and literally everyone can become a journalist, a story writer, or a filmmaker.

The only thing that sucks is that it will probably be used as a tool and misused. Just as the television created this great ability to see events in real life, and to get news much faster, it has allowed the news to become a commodity. With the invention of 24 hour news networks, the news is becoming increasingly sensationalized. Stories which have real world implications, such as pollitical discourse, are being thrown away to cover more "popular" stories such as Britney Spears showing her who-ha(yeah that's right) or Paris Hilton getting arrested and raped in jail(that's hot). The internet is becoming a tool to help spread rumors and to increase the sensationalism of news and events. Anyways, I had more that I wanted to write...but I don't feel like it. Suck it, biatches(that's black for bitch).

Aint nothin' but mammals.

Some friends of mine are in a battle over whether or not men actually do in fact have souls. He says that men are basically farmers. We plow the field(and by field, I mean a woman's vagina. It's kind of like a metaphor) and spread our seed(by seed, I mean seaman or sperm). Whereas she says that is not a good outlook on life. And that men are capable of having "emotions" and "feelings". He says that men who have "emotions" and "feelings" are in fact fruits(and by fruits, I mean gay people).

So, in the midst of this argumentation my mind began to wander. I was reminded of a song which had a certain poetic quality to it,

"You and me baby aint nothing but mammals, so let's do it like they do on the discovery channel".

I don't believe in that quote. Because I have decided that out of ALL The things that seperate man from beast. Sex is the only thing that seperates us. Sure you could toss in the idea that GOD breathed in a soul to man, and not animal. But let's cast that aside for the sake of this blog. Man has this vast intellect that we pride ourselves on. But, animals have shown the ability to use logic. Mice can figure out mazes. We build these great buildings. But, birds take resources around them and build nests. We build up these moral values as humans. But, animals show compassion and warmth. We have governments. But, in the animal kingdom there are forms of organization into packs. I guess you could say our elected officials are the alpha males of America. Ha, George W. Bush is our alpha male....I digress. But, sex is the only thing where there is a difference.

Because most animals in the animal kingdom primarilly procreate during times of heat. Whereas man has sex for pleasure most of the time. But, animals have sex for pleasure too, certain ones anyways such as dolphins. But the main difference is that man doesn't have sex. We choose NOT too based out of some created ideology of love or whatever reason. We place an intangible value on the idea of sex and love and monogomy. Man is probably the only animal that would not have sex with an attractive member of the opposite sex(or the same sex if you're one of those "fruits") in order to uphold this sense of honor.

I'm not trying to denegrate the idea of monogomy or love. Or saying that we should just sleep with whomever, but I am just trying to make an observation.

The Beginning of something new. Again.

So, I succumbed to the peer pressure of creating a blog. It seemed that all of the cool kids are doing it, and by cool kids I mean three of my friends. I will try and write some blogs about things that I notice throughout the day and some interesting stories that I may happen to write. My writing might suck and I might offend you, but if you don't like it don't read it. Actually, read it and hate every minute of it. My blogs will not be depressing like some people's blogs though....hopefully.