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An Americans Dream

I had over 500 great fucking words written then this piece of shit closed out and I lost it all. Oh well, in any case a recap is in order.

Jungle Journalism now has real direction and form. FUCK Timmy from chapter one, I hope he never gets the girl. Wanna read long novels about bullshit characters? go read Dickens or someone, i’m not writing that here. FUCK! I had some really good words formed into what appeared to be somewhat complete sentences that really made sense. The narcotics and alcohol have really grabbed my by the balls now, but instead of throwing the computer across the room at the opposing wall i’m compelled to get something down. I swear i’m going to lose my shit because autocorrect wont fix i’m to I’m.

Have a title for my book. Note to self: construct a chapter like a chapter from the Bible, write a chapter about illegal drugs and how they shaped my life and go pee……asshsdpkfhasd;kjfhasd

I’m back, anyway…. I was standing there cock in hand and said to my self “ya know what? I don’t care, i’ll recreate those 600ish words as best I can”. A daunting task, it all seemed so fluent and flowing. Now it’s overshadowed by anger and thoughts of school. I’m starting school next semester, finishing my bachelors degree, i’m going to study Psychology. I told myself when I went back to school it would be to study something I would enjoy learning about, i’m interested in the mind, the human mind. I’m not interested in the drugs that change it, the shrinks that influence it or help it along, I wont to know how, why etc… So, that’s what I will study, I can get a job, the paper will help, if i’m going to get higher education I want to enjoy it. This approach will make me much more happier and successful I think. Better to have loved and lost sort of thing than to blindly go into school with the schema of a child out of high school with no real original thought of my own to guide me.

I’m rambling now, not at all what those original 600ish poetic words were like so i’ll stop, and my son is poking me.

Competition Cheerleading is cutthroat and contemptible

Sitting in the crowd I notice a pattern of the ne’er-do-well’s walking past. There is a funny silence that comes over me at the disgusting sight, I’ve actually decided that a pattern must exist so I continue to justify it for my own means, after all it has become extremely entertaining, most the people walking by falling into two very different categories each sharing DNA from the same small gene pool. It’s the World’s Best Dog Competition and I have my own front row seat, no i’m not talking about the kids, it’s the Perfectly Pampered Parents and the Muldoon Knuckle-Draggers holding in their few remaining teeth with some duct tape and gorilla glue. And these god-damn monsters are everywhere, only in a select few places in the world can you get a seat to watch this kind of action, these seemingly anthropomorphic Pit-bulls and Poodles have multiplied and spent every last dollar on their kids, their noses and tits or some wicked combination that ultimately puts them in this jungle together. With a fist full of dollars you could go to the bar where many of the parents gather to start their Saturday morning off with Bloody Mary’s and beers in the back of the building and place bets on your kids.

“Here comes another one now”, it’s being led around by the last round of Whoppers still sitting it’s belly. It has a shape that keeps it’s tits evenly spread apart and causes a natural hunch in the woman’s posture, belly resting on the belt, tits on the belly, neck fat on the tits, head on the neck fat, come to think of it there seems to be a disgusting comfort that comes naturally to the years of abuse. It’s hard to tell where the legs start they’re hidden so well. It turns now facing me, smiling, waving to someone behind me, arm fat waves back and fort sending waves of a smell not easily described in my direction. I cant tell if she is missing teeth or eating black licorice.

“Quick Babe look”, another one is passing by, stare to long and you’ll miss the local plastic surgeon’s latest Picasso. As I move my eyes across the latest beast at a distance you might think you’re in for a show, it is a competition after all. But to the trained eye you’ll soon know exactly why it’s part of the pampered gene pool that just had to shack up with a second cousin to keep the pocket book fat. Starting with the designer shoes I move my eyes up the skinny twig like legs to a back side and mid section that obviously have not had the scalpel’s treatment yet, even Jillian Michaels can’t fix the 40 something year old abs and belly fat, belly fat that has packed up and moved out to those hips which have had atleast a half dozen children through them, some of the belly’s fat even went so far as to become ass dimples hidden only by the most expensive wardrobe. As my eyes move higher there’s a couple of size D melons that have a life of their own, like a human sculpture for a nightly art class they hold their pose perfectly pretending to be operating separately from their master, no life in those things. A little collagen in the lips and a nose like Ms. Piggy, wait that might actually be her, “where is Kermit” I whisper to myself. And the hair, where do I start, some cheap box dye and a back comb that resembles the two kids following her dressed with the color of the team they cheer for. Dad must be at work saving up for the next piece of plastic or enjoying a tasty top shelf concoction in the back.

Parents screaming, kids practice throwing baby dolls up in the air as if it will give them that edge they need to win once they get on the floor. One team even has a ten foot tall mascot, it resembles one of those wacky waiving inflatable arm flailing tube men.  A girl runs up to a group of team mates “ladies, ladies…..” a boy in the group turns and responds “….and gentlemen” the girl snaps back sharply “close enough!”, I can hardly contain myself, I want to bust at the seams laughing. It’s funny how parents will try to re-live their childhood through their children, dressing them up like Barbie and Ken, putting them through all the activities we did or always wanted to do as children, “i’ll never be like my parents” they’ll say, “i’m gonna do things differently”. By days end I am worn out, kids everywhere, no naps, candy is running low, mom and dad’s phones and I Pad’s batteries dying or dead and I didn’t bring anything to write with or draw on so i’ll have to do it by memory. Could this be the American Dream? Has it gotten so lost? Will I ever find it? Am I living it? We’ll see….

Some of the best people watching I’ve seen in a long time, I call this one a win.

-F

Veterans Day Blues

They’ve gone and done it, and I let them come over the wall, through their high powered magnifying glass they shot at me with questions, I returned fire. I was having quite a bit of anxiety about it but the reporter was cordial and not pushy, talking about the last eight years always brings up a bit of fear and loathing but it’s free therapy and if even one person reads it and gets help then good.

How can we beat the stigmas surrounding PTSD? Keep talking about it.

-F

Thanks You!

I always got bothered when people said thank you for your service. Instead of going into detail I would just nod and say thank you back, sometimes I might say thank a teacher or a nurse. Still it bugs me, maybe is the cynic in me or just years of being jaded by my efforts, hard to figure it out, so uh……yea, thank a Soldier, definitely thank a nurse or a teacher! But please don’t thank me.

-F

Looking for a place to talk about a mental illness?

Fighting the Stigmas

The Ugly Ducklings

mental health awareness

In honor of mental health awareness month, I wanted to take the time to tell you about Stigma Fighters.

I am 35 years old. For as long as I can remember I have suffered from panic attacks and depression. My moods were like a roller coaster. Some days, I would wake up in a cold sweat with my heart racing. I was terrified. It was as if someone was chasing me and trying to harm me, only there wasn’t anyone.

It was just me.

The fear shifted, changed and morphed over time. I was afraid of contracting a terminal illness and dying. Then I was afraid of starving to death because I had no appetite.

That was panic.

There was also depression. I didn’t want to open my eyes. I couldn’t bath myself for days. I stopped talking. I stopped laughing. I couldn’t laugh. I forced myself to do the…

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The simplicity of being 4 years young

“hey Butter Bean, do you know what the American Dream is?” says dad

“umm, yes” replies son

“so what is it buddy?” asks dad

“it’s football !” exclaims son

“and you know what football is about daddy?” asks son

“what buddy?” replies dad

“it’s about frowing stuff.” states son (as if it’s so obvious)

It kind of makes you jealous ya know, for having to grow up.