A Better Woman Than Me . . .

Today I got a media mail from Jeni. Yea, that's no biggie there. The first one was of Sunny Bunny sitting on the couch pouting, I think. I have to admit that even in a pouty mood the little bitty one is still damned cute. Then, not more than an hour later I got another media mail. This one came with the title "This has been my day." Um . . . with a title like that you gotta know something is up.

I opened the mail and instead of an adorable photo of Sunny Bunny or Sugar Plum playing, making a mess of a cake, or pretending to wear a nose ring I heard screaming. It was both of the girls (two and almost one). I was on my way into the market, and I groaned and mumbled "birth control . . . birth control." The grimace on my face certainly showed. I replied back with "yuk." Now, normally I would have responded back that I was saving the mail for a birth control method the next time I wanted to get laid, but I know Jeni well enough to see that my normally funny line would have not been amusing.

Roaming through the produce section of Wild By Nature, Jen started sending messages. She told me about Sunny Bunny's lying on the bathroom floor and screaming for twenty minutes because she wouldn't put her on the potty. She told me about having to put her in her room, where Sunny Bunny proceeded to hit and scream like a possessed woman. Sugar Plum is teething. See the picture?

About this point I sent:

Dear God,

Please send Jeni coffee and baby Valium.

Her response:

PLEASE!!!!!

After telling Jeni that this ranked as a "selling motherhood moment" and that she would survive, I also quipped that husbands can be worse and childhood memories could be surfaced. About this time Sunny Bunny fell asleep, probably exhausted from her antics, and Sugar Plum began playing with the laundry Jeni was folding. In the midst of the calm life came back to normal.

Here is where I can't help but see a strange circle of sorts. When Jeni and I left New Mexico in 2000, I told her she was going to miss her boyfriend (now husband). They were moving to separate states. She adamantly told me no, and that I was wrong. I will never forget when I told her that she was going to wake up and realize the bed was empty, not be able to think, open the freezer and realize she had bought things he likes to eat that she hates. Sure enough, a few months later she called me one morning and without saying hello she said, "You were right, and you are a better woman than me. You can be alone." When they got married in January of 2001, she told her whole family about that phone call. Funny thing, I've never really been with someone for an extended period of time. Yet . . .

Days like today, when Jeni is at her breaking point, I get an immense kind of childish glee to tell her that she is now the better woman. I may live alone, and all that jazz, but the whole tricycle motor department trumps that I think.

People Watching with BB

So last night an old friend and I met up for dinner. Dinner at John Harvard's was good, and the atmosphere made for an entertaining evening. Okay . . . so you should know that BB and I are generally jackasses together. Well, last night made no exception. When we worked together, there were faculty meetings we got shushed at and group scoring of portfolios got us not only shushed but put in different groups. Let me give you three examples of unadulterated humor. He he he.

1. Early twenty-something jock dude sits down at the bar. We had a booth in the bar, so some of this is to be expected. Jock Boy has on camo cargs, a t-shirt, and backwards ball cap. He sits at the corner stool, and the seat on the adjacent corner is empty. Apparently he is waiting for someone as he sips on his Pale Ale. On the other side of this empty seat was a man in his middle years (grey hair, older face) dressed similar to Jock Boy. About the time I am sitting there thinking "Damn, you never really know the shape of people's asses until they sit them at your eye level" BB mutters about gayness in the air. I detract from my randomesque asses thought and ask him what he means. He mentions the clothes of the guys and asks "Don't you think that's a little gay?"

"Eh, no. That's standard uniform anymore. But if they were the the same colors from head to toe . . . "

"Oh, okay." Our apps and my beer came so I never did make my statement about ass sizes, which is probably good. Seriously, a rather large dude had sat his asscrack on the stool directly next to me, so I got to see his girth bubbling over the sides. I am sure he would have heard me if I had asked BB. Well, maybe not . . . but there are somethings you don't want to test.

As we munch on our apps, the Jock Boy finally has his companion show up. So, he's dressed in the similar cargs and hat attire, but when he sits down he puts his foot on Jock Boy's stool leg and leans in. At this point BB and I started wondering when they were going to nuzzle.

In the midst of this, BB asks me if the guy at the end of the bar has tattoos or hair on his arms. I quickly glance back and shutter. As I turned around I uttered "eeeew, hairy like a sweater." BB couldn't help but laugh. Here is where I should mention that our waitress made several passes at our table, and it seemed that every time she paused our way she overheard our observations. Her attempts to hide her laughter were apparent.

BB and I concerned ourselves with our Nachos and entrees, and in the midst of a delightful conversation Hairy Guy headed to the toilet. On his way there we couldn't help but notice his studded black belt, cut off shorts, and of course the black sleeveless shirt that caught our eyes earlier. I let out more than a giggle and reached for my phone. BB shook his head telling me I was going to get him beat up. I reminded him that I had never been the cause of that, but he reminded me that there is always a first. On the way back from the toilet Hairy Guy stopped at the hostess station. I got my picture, and BB took one too. We both laughed ourselves silly, and our waitress came over about the same time with BB's beer. She looked at the direction of our giggles and laughed too.

Yea, I know . . . we are so lucky we didn't get beat up.

2. While driving BB home we stopped at a red light to hear some young twenty-something's asshat music. Not just his asshat tunes, but we saw his tinted windows, wannabe gangster look, and then we caught he was talking to someone. Um . . . on the other side of a me was a female version of him. As the light turned to green and we rolled around the corner I commented that "Now there's a female asshat. Yea, I bet she used vaginal deodorant because of those tight pants." In all honesty, her windows were down and not only could you see her heavy makeup but you got a full view of her circulation stopping drawers.

Sucking in air and shaking his head, "What?"

"You know . . . those women who wear those skin tight pants have to use somethin' down there to cover up the skank smell."

"So, Celine Dion does? You know she's always in leather pants."

"Yea, has too. You gotta spray the vagina . . ."

"Ha! Seriously, that vagina comment was too much."

Perhaps. Good thing asshat one and two were busy getting numbers and dates in traffic or we would have been shit kicked because the windows were down for our conversation.

3. At Sevs BB and I went in for cold drinks. On the way out he noticed a bleached blonde, with a fairly nice body, but her face was hidden. As we got in the car he noted that her other half was clearly a gym buff and had a flat haed. Seriously, he was a guy with a couple of hoops in his ears, the silver rings, and the trademark swagger of a gym rat womanizer. As we waited for those two to check out and turn for a front facial view of blondie, BB remarked that we were bad together. I piped that we were on the road to the poe poe or beatingville. About this time blondie turned my way. As we busted out laughing because her face looked like a cement truck hit it, I thanked god we were in a locked car. BB remarked that "she has the face to stop a cock."

As the couple got in their car, they turned and looked to us shaking their heads. I know they could hear us laughing. In retrospect, we are lucky fools to have our faces in tact.

Yahoo Messenger is Going to be the Death of Me

*I started this on 9 August. I finished it on 9 September.

In April unpleasantries happened on Yahoo chat. I'm not talking about that. Then there was that posting about "Asses and Family." Yea, that shit was just superfly special. Then last night . . .

Last night I got blasted by a friend because he didn't like a joke I made. This is only the third occurrence this week. This time . . . he brought me to tears, more than once. I made a comment about something he said was creepy, and when he took offense to the creepy word I said (in all honesty) that from anyone but him it would be creepy. Seriously, he said he wanted to choke my throat with his hand take me with his sword. Then I got yelled at for putting him in the same class as random guys. I said I was sorry he took it wrong. He carried on. Finally, he told me I should say I was sorry I upset him (which I never should have done). I did that, and it didn't stop. He told me I should always look to myself for the blame and that I blame everyone else, and nothing (and I do mean nothing) I said was right in his mind. I told him I blame myself for my entire life, as so many of the choices I have made have catastrophically exploded in my face. He knows about something from fifteen years ago, that I am not going into here, and what he said tonight about it was just horrible. He knows I blame myself for not having a job. I am a jokester about my job hunt, and I make jokes frequently about it because I have to to survive. He told me I am so bitter that I can not see the truth. He told me that I am blind liberalism, and the conversation tonight wasn't even about politics. In all reality, I do have a job adjuncting, but I strive for more. He told me that I am not where I should or want to be. I told him, once again, that the move to Virginia was financial. He then came back saying that he doesn't care what state I am in that I am not where I should be life wise. He went on to tell me that I blame myself for everything and that I am miserable. Seriously, he had just lambasted me saying I don't take blame for anything. I got yelled for so-called comparing myself to him, I got a snide statement about having my degree, and he used my title in a negative manner again. Yes, I know. He would say that I am making this all about me, when I was the one who offended him. Through all of this, I reminded him that I am pretty happy these days. Well, that was until he brought me to tears three times. Yea, I was up all night.

I let someone take my words and twist them. I let someone rip me from the inside out. I let someone bring back things that I have long struggled and dealt with over the years. It's shitty how these things happen. One moment can reverse you in time and keep you up at night. I look at myself in the mirror enough to know what is wrong with me. I know that I am mal-adjusted. I know that I am bad with people. I know that I am not a social person--never have been. I know that I am sarcastic, but those who know me know how to read it. He should by now, but according to him I continually make him feel bad about himself. Yea, because of a comment tonight to that I've made in the past few years to him and he's laughed.

If I make him feel so bad about himself, why does he keep me around? And, what about what he does to me? Like tonight for instance. When I asked him what happened to make him like this the past week I got told that I was making it all about me again. Yup, the same old cuts. This morning I called his phone at 7:30 am and told him that his words were out of line and uncalled for, that I was sorry he had been railroaded, and I told him he needed to stop taking it out on me. I left that on his voice mail.

Late this afternoon I saw my Yahoo Chat had offline messages for me. I got an apology with the word if, and he said that he just noticed I had been in a funk lately and wanted to help. Heh. Here's the deal: I am not in a funk. Even when I'm the most frustrated, I am still pretty happy. And, is he kidding me saying that was an attempt to help? Yea, he said he was sorry for going so wrong on me and that he'd talk to me soon once he gets his head back.

I just deleted Yahoo messenger.

***

On a side note, he deleted me as a friend and the only way we ever talked was via text or sometimes on Yahoo. Guess who doesn't care anymore?

The choking thing . . . out of line.


On this same note, I have three regrets in life: Paul, moving back to VA, and that I have no work history outside of academia.

The things that cross your mind.

It's funny how sometimes things never cross your mind, and then (like lately) it is like a whole bag of memories found you all over again.

Here goes. Things I never write about.

The events of twenty years ago seem like more than a distant memory. Sometimes I wonder if they happened at all. Then again, I don't like to think about those things because after all of this time I still feel and ache and I still miss him.

Steve was the coolest dude in school, and by default I got to be cool for just being friends with him. What made him cool? Probably because he learned his coolness from his two older brothers. That is what I always chalked it up to. In 80s fashion he wore his sunglasses inside, spiked his hair in strizzle fashion, and just reeked of coolness. I often wonder what the hell he would have turned into. More so, I wonder what kind of friends we would have been later on.

So what brought him up tonight . . . flipping through the channels I heard the opening chords to "How Can We Dance When Our Beds Are Burning," and I sat and listened to the entire song. Funny, a song I rarely hear I still know on opening chords. The story comes from a sixth grade music assignment where we had to sing a song. He sang that, and while singing the song we stared at each other. I think we knew then that there was something amiss with us. We weren't just friends, like we proclaimed, and everyone else argued against. We got kicked out of class together, laughed together, drove teachers to the brink of insanity, and made a general ruckus of ourselves. Good times, indeed.

None-the-less, Steve got fussed at for song selection (we were at a religious school after all), and I haven't the foggiest as to what I sang. I am willing to bet the others from that class don't either. Why do I remember that song so damned much? Maybe because it was a joke between us that he always sang parts of it to me, that we busted out in chorus in math class singing it (yup, hall visit that one brought), and we were outcasts yet cool because of our oddities. The funny thing is is that we loved getting kicked out together, something our teachers never really grasped. I honestly don't really recall what we carried on about to get kicked out so much, or what we conversed about in the hallway, but I do know that Steve remains my primary memory of those formative years. I can still tell you the first time I saw him and the last time I saw him.

I bet those same teachers would have outright coronaries if they knew what I do now. I bet they would scathe and foam at the mouth to know I've been published on the regular schedule of my life. I bet they would rethink parts of their careers if they knew that what I really recall is not the Daily Devotional, the asexual relations of plants, the divisions of decimals, or the "proper use of color" in art. Yea, let's not go there.

Heh.

Somethings from the past

Here's something I never really write about. Tonight I'm feeling . . . not nostalgic, but that is the closest word I can get.

In 1989 a friend of mine died in a car accident. It was December, and as story books would have it it was a cold, snowy, and icy night. Steve died that day, and I will never deny the fact that not only did I take that hard but damned hard. This year makes twenty years, and I can't say that he's haunted my mind everyday for two decades. Though, I most certainly have thought about him through the years.

Odd things about it . . . when girls turn into women and realize they are in their 30s the conversation almost always turns toward that first love, and the first love is almost always of the middle school variety. We giggle about doodles in notebooks, phone calls, first kisses, and that first gift. I got my first gift from Steve, which about two people know that fact, and sadly he died the next day. I didn't find it in my locker until a month later. Yea, Steve died right before the holiday, and it was left in a set of lockers that we rarely used. When I found it I remember thinking that it was like a voice from the grave. Sometimes, I do still think that. It was nothing more than a small teddy bear with a Santa's hat, about the size of my hand in total, but it certainly makes for a great first gift.

I still have that thing, packed away in my Christmas stuff, sometimes I pull it out, and I rarely make mention of where it is from. Usually, I tell people it was an unsigned gift in the seventh grade--true--but I don't tell anyone that the handwriting on the tag was clear as day Steve's. I don't tell them that I sat that January night in my room looking at that stuffed bear with tears falling. I don't tell them that sometimes, sometimes, my memories creep up on me and take me back twenty years to adolescent angst, acne, and big 80s hair to see Steve running up to me yelling "Hey, Hey . . . I've got a joke for you."

Snot Out of My Nose

Resumes. I’m drafting my C.V. to Resume form for some jobs (yea, yea . . . I know), and seriously I just about blew snot out of my nose reading some of these template resumes. Aside from the posting of personal information (i.e. home phone, address, school data), someone had a resume with ribbons all over it, another with her picture (notice I am employing my feminist genes and not making a remark), and . . . the one with flowers AND a picture. Yup, that one was my personal favorite.

Some dude said that he showed honesty and security with handling large sums of money at Wells Fargo Bank. Yea, this actually means “there were bank cameras so far up my meager teller’s ass that I couldn’t so much as sneeze without setting off an alarm!” Then there are the statements about “To find a position that showcases my ability to use my talents and skills.” Yea, really. Use your talents and skills? Isn’t that what everyone wants? I hear I’m good at French Kissing, should I put that in my resume under special skills? We all know it really comes out to, I’ll work for less than that chump with the college degree. Hire me sucker.

Okay, so I’m irritable at the moment. Well, who wouldn’t be with snot coming out her nose? None-the-less . . .

Oh God.

Sitting on the couch, listening to the rents discuss who took off their sleep mask first (they have those medical ones to help them sleep)I rolled my eyes.

"Yea, it's always nice to hear 'Put your mask on Old Woman' or 'Shut up Old Man' in the middle of the night."

My father, in his tactless glory, said "Well we all know what you yell out in your sleep . . . Peter, Oh Peter." He doubled over with laughter, as I picked up another stitch in my knitting.

"Heh," I mumbled. "It's more like 'Oh God' you dirty old man."

Then the man without hearing said "I thought you didn't believe in God?"

"Yup, I'll believe in God if it gets me a job or laid."

His mouth was on the floor while I cackled like a jackass.

Glimpses complete

Well, I finished the latest short story. And . . . I sent it out to four lit magazines. It is bad form to blanket 25 or so, so I do four at a time. Rejection rates for fiction are incredibly high, so this could be a long and sad process. Sadly, for fiction I am used to it.

Now, off to work on either A)making it book length or B) finishing another short story about Piper and Vaughan. Mmmm. I kinda of like these characters and I think I will play with them for a while more.

The "Soldier" story is still in the works. Much more difficult genre to deal with on that one.

Glimpses

I spent the weekend on Hatteras Island, NC (I have friends who rented a place, otherwise my broker than broke ass would have not been there), and things got stirred . . . Here's from something new.

Don't ask me where it's going, I have no idea. And NO, I had no such bizarro fantasy while in The Banks. You've even got typos. That fresh.

Glimpses

Okcracoke Island is the typical, oft written about summer island for vacationers owning or renting houses. It’s unobstructed beaches prove fertile ground for waves catching, sunbathing, and outright lounging. It’s a small, secluded place, with just the right amount of trees and shore and people. It’s characters range from the leathery and old to the young and new with stores selling knickers and homespun purses. Tiny roads twist you around this island, and in the village even tinier roads house homes for the old and new. “For Sale” signs dot the landscape, more so than usual this year, and as we turn to the bend to head to the craft store the cutest little cottage catches my eye.

It’s faded white paint, gently chipping away, one story bungalow, almost hidden in the trees with the sand and crushed seashell drive way scream of retreat and release. The “For Sale” sign urges entry, but I already know I cannot even dream of a house right now. Yet, as we turned the corner I got a glimpse of life with Vaughn.
I saw him standing on the porch, holding a sack of groceries from the market not a mile away, I saw a black eight ball Swingline bike parked in front of the porch next to a pink one, I saw half dead orchids on a table partly obscured by the open doorway, I saw Gerber Daisies in planters under the front windows, and then I saw myself.

I came from the dim hallway, in a flowery cotton summer dress with a head rag holding back my hair. I had to have been writing as I had a pen in it, and my face had that far off look. My skin was barely tan with deep with summer, and as I looked closer at him Vaughn’s was too. How could this be? Was he here with me too? Did we live together, did we own this house? Did he own this house and I only the visitor?

He kissed me on the cheek, in that sweet and soft way of his, and the kiss was almost buttery and deep rose sweet.

“I bought the stuff for dinner. Dan and Sherry should be over the ferry anytime now.” His was still the same, his tone still captivating and soothing, sweet to only me, and recognizable in any crowd. Yet, something was different.
Playing with my hair he murmured in my ear, and I put tomatoes and corn away while giggling. The bandanna on his head covered his hair, but it was covered in paint. As I stopped to look closer at the scene Vaughn was in denim overalls with the signs of an artist’s frenzy work all over them. All I could think was please let this take me to his studio and I wonder if I sold a best seller. I must have because this place requires cash. Oh God!

…

I must have muttered “Oh God” because Cindy asked if I was all right. Rolling my shoulders back in a care free island way I told her yes that I just couldn’t get over the beauty of the place. Pfft. Really, I was shitting my pants because I didn’t know what in the hell just happened.

No sooner had I seen my life as we turned to corner and I came back to reality. Three shoeless boys peddled their bikes down the narrow cottage road balancing handle bars and ice-cream cones while we maneuvered the car to the pottery and craft shop. Shaking the glittery cobwebs of Vaughn from my mind I climbed out of the car and wandered into the shop. Nothing in the shop really struck me, and we left without buying.

The Village Peddler has rooms partly filled with trinkets and knickknacks—the kinds of things I loathe—and Indulgences made me giggle as I saw a tote with my favorite designer’s fabric. I pointed and said “Hey, that’s Amy Butler fabric!” I didn’t but because I make my own bags, and I like my constructions better. The young couple of the store had a small baby, and they were working on feeding him. As we left, a wave of incense from a nearby shop wrapped through my nostrils and Vaughn and I were in my study (I presume so with it’s Mediterranean Orange walls, rows of books, and photos in kitschy frames). Damn, I want to see his freakin’ studio, not my nasty, empty coffee cup filled office.

“I have writer’s block,” my fantasy self wined as she slunk down into a well worn leather office chair. Vaughn, still in the same over alls and bandanna, gruffed.
Rubbing her shoulders, “You always say that when you have a rough part. It’s only rough until you finish it, and then you get all giddy and drink champagne on the docks with the tourists like it’s 1999.”

“Mmmmmm,” she tries to nestle her head on her shoulder with his fingers.

“Oh shit!”

“Are you okay,” Cindy reaches down to help Piper up while rolling her eyes at me.

“Really, where the hell are you today? I realize we are on vacation, an island, and all that jazz, but I think you’ve gone on a little too far off the radar. You just tripped over nothing.”

“Ha. Ha. I’m fine . . . just making sure you’re on your toes. Though, perhaps I should rethink my plan. Bodily injury on my part is not fun.” Flexing my knee, I rolled my fat ass up and tongue flipped Cindy off.

“You are a moron.”

“And you’re a retard for hanging out with me,” at that I drug Cindy into next tourist trap shop while silently thinking I was losing my God-given mind. Though, being able to finish this fantasy might be nice. . .

Asses and Family

Sometimes people are just asses, and sometimes no family member can be trusted.

The very short end of this story is that my father’s family disowned me a few years back, and I don’t care. They are alcoholic asses, treat me badly, and I don’t enjoy the insults. His sister is particularly awful, and I make it a point to avoid her at all costs. My father hasn’t spoken to her in two years, and he only did so when she called. He keeps the conversation short, and he cuts her off. Why is any of this important? Because whenever she is in contact with us or my former sister I get attacked. Attacked by her, other family members, and my life becomes an outright hostile zone of warfare.

Well . . . my mother asked me to show her how to set up a Facebook account so she can keep up with old friends. My mother then added the alcoholic bitch of an aunt as a friend (FYI Facebook tells everyone when you do these things). Can someone please tell me why she would do this? I saw the alert a few weeks ago, and since two cousins I used to spend my summer’s with got cold and distant. They no longer message me. I have now deleted them. And, Shawn a cousin I’ve been particularly close to blew up at me again.

He has a history of mood swings—the booze and drugs don’t help—and you should know he contacted me . . . NOT me to him. He came to see me, uninvited and unannounced two summers ago, and he tried to bully me. I was in the middle of a health crisis, cancer scare, and I didn’t need his shit. He left without saying a word. His then girlfriend has always stayed in contact with me. How sad that he can't . . .

This time . . . he caught me on Yahoo messenger and wanted to know why he hasn’t heard from me. Said he didn’t have my new cell. Kept badgering the issue and the fact that he found out I went to see his old girlfriend a few weeks ago. I ended the conversation and went to bed. Woke up to him saying “You aren’t perfect.” I forwarded him a sent email that had the number. He continued to blow. I told him to leave me be. I won’t go into the specifics right now, because I am soooooooooo mad, but I have him blocked from emails, my phone, and my life.

The point is he said that I use my brother’s death, my sister, and my health as an excuse for my behavior; that the problem is always me; that I never apologize; and that I am a spoiled brat. He called me immature, insulted my education (again), and the list goes on. I finally did it. I told him that at least I have a career and didn’t take more than a decade to get a two year degree (which he still isn’t finished with). He flat out said that he’s talked to the booze laden aunt and others about me. Bringing up my brother is out of line. More so, Yahoo messenger is going to be the death of me. Only one person can see me online now (he's fighting a war, so I chat with him on rare occasion--old, old friend).

As usual, Booze Bitch had her way. I got attacked again, and this time it is nice to know that my mother stirred the fucking drama.

Solider Home, Solider Gone

Sometimes days like the past few days make you fall apart and internally combust, and then the past several months shake you to your core. I still am pondering what the hell I am going to do with my career, but in the meantime . . .

I get pensive. I get thoughtful. I get humiliated. I write.

I send out short stories. I get rejections. I send out more. One day I'll break in. In the meantime, you can read pieces here. Here's a snip of one I am working on.

Solider Home, Solider Gone

He could still feel her lips on his as he boarded the plane. They had been slightly moist, tinged with coral lip gloss, and tasted like sweet rain. Her eyes . . . filled with tears, not letting him go, and he could feel them as he walked away. He knew then that he wouldn’t see her again, but she didn’t. Even if he did make it back, his heart already told him that she wouldn’t be the same. Her tenderness, her young campy nature, her gentle touch would mean nothing on his return. But, he clung to her memory anyway—not in hopes of changing his mind, but in hopes of getting him through the next twelve months. Twelve months of forced solitude with hundreds of others all clad in shades of brown. They were taking off now, and he closed his eyes, humming her favorite song, and held onto the memory of her kiss for a moment more.

***

Three months before he had received orders, calling him to leave his home and job—saying that his time had come, what he had signed up for was now here, and that his country called. Eight years ago he never thought that this would happen. Hell, most folks of his generation never thought it would happen, but now it was. He joined to pay for college—in a oft repeated statement that he had to because his dad drank away his college fund—but he never “signed up” out of some deep ingrained patriotic desire to serve his country. Nope. He was strictly for the monetary gain and free school ride. Shit, now it was all coming to an end.

Those first three years in the Army hadn’t been that bad. He was young and green, and the imposed discipline wasn’t too unnerving. It gave him a sense of purpose and direction. In the end, that was all he really needed. But then he had gotten out, earned a degree, and found a content and happy life as a computer data programmer for some company on Long Island. The pay wasn’t bad, he lumbered through his days, and once a month went and rejoined his Army days. Not that it mattered much . . . he still did the Guard out of habit and an instilled sense of devotion. But he never dreamed that he’d see and do what he did.

So everyone knows the story . . . two planes took out part of New York City, a plane took out a wing of the Pentagon, and another went down in Pennsylvania. Yeah . . . we all know, and we all know that the US military went into overdrive afterward. Men and boys volunteered, Guard units were called, and the country sang “My Country ‘Tis a Thee” in practical unison. A patriotic fervor broke over the land, uniting one and all, bringing out the “bold and the brave,” and guys like Roy quickly turned into “men.” Roy was never meant to see what he saw, do what he did, or become what he did. He was supposed to be the quiet kind gentile young man that every mother wanted her daughter to bring home for dinner. Instead, a year in Iraq turned him into a rotten son-of-a-bitch, and one that didn’t hang around long enough to hear what anyone had to say about it. Just like when he left he was gone, when he returned he was gone too.

The desert taught him solitude in numbers. It taught him multiplicity in the few. It taught him to loath himself and those around him. His bunk mate, and the guy who kept his back, was from Boston—a real ladies man so to speak.

Could this day . . .

Okay, so perhaps the pay issue is fixed. I should be getting half of my pay at the end of June. If that is so, I'll be okay.

But, I found out that ODU once again acted unprofessionally. So now I am filing a grievance. I can't talk about it at this point.

Now, I have a teenager sending me photos to my phone. Apparently, she thinks I am Darnell (the Dude I get wrong numbers for all the time). All I can say is at least she had on her clothes. Thought the poses and faces were not welcomed.

This has got to end.

Heads Up

Well, I can't fight it anymore. If I don't find an academic post by the end of August I will be leaving the profession. Unfortunately, I will most likely be waiting tables.

Moving back to Virginia was the worst decision of my life, I am belittled every day, and every day I am reminded that I am an embarrassment. I can not survive on my own, I wasted ten years and a hundred grand in student loans. The worst part: the teaching job I have lined up for the summer starts next week but doesn't pay me until 24 August. I will start selling my books and whatever else I can to cover the bills this summer. Hopefully I can unload things on ebay and Amazon.

Like I said. Heads up.