“Decided that if I was gonna die anyway I might as well fuck a prostitute before it was all over. After that a cab driver offered to sell me cocaine. One thing lead to another, and I got a room above a whore house equipped with a heart shaped bed, a stripper pole, and a hot tub.”
My grandfather’s estate has been in probate for over five years now. Even with an existing trust and will, California just doesn’t give a fuck and allows damn near anyone to appeal. After all, as long as the courts are getting paid, you can get them to do near anything. So it seems from my position anyhow.
I think some of this stress got to my dad. Add his age, some labor, and dealing with the suicide of one of his wife’s son’s* a few days earlier and now you’ve got a stroke. He was found around two am, passed out about half ay out the front door of one of the apartment complexes he and his wife own. He’d been cleaning it up for new renters. Apparently his vision went double and he knew there was a problem and didn’t have cell service so tried to make it outside to call. A neighbor saw him and called 911.
He had a good deal of bleeding in his head and a brain stem tear. Its been several days and he is still in the hospital. I’m having a difficult time feeling anything about it. He was a furious tyrant, not a father. I’ve not talked about any of this with friends, because I don’t want to be in a situation where I have to pretend feeling something.
* I guess this makes him my step-brother. So yeah, my step-brother killed himself this week.
Draven Rodriguez, 17, teen behind viral “Laser Cat” yearbook photo.
Fucks Given: 0, because he committed suicide.
Three percent of all deaths in Holland are from euthanasia, the mentally-ill patients and sufferers of dementia are included. Which sounds like people that can’t ask or agree to their own deaths which makes it murder and not suicide. That is one way to deal with the mentally ill.
This one goes out to Robin Williams. Also, Lauren Bacall died, so try not to get that fucking Key Largo song stuck in your head.
This one goes out to everybody in the parking lot of the local Costco last Saturday.
Unfortunately I cannot publicly disclose any further information – only that this is a letter received by a stranger only a few years ago.
As a teen I worked in a call center, gridded partitions of prefabricated carpeted half-walls dividing us into individual bees with an action item list. I worked in the “premier support” grid which would cost you a few dollars per minute to have me answer your phone call.
Winter sales expanded the reach of our customer base, which would have been thrilling had we received bonuses or some compensation for being the actual pleasant voices heard by consumers. Instead we were plagued with desperate inquiries to resolve the problem of a packaged, though optional, program over-writing an INI file used by a an application that was pre-installed with the operating system. In the spirit of being completely open, the desktop PC is unboxed with some Barbie video game installed and certain packages included the Doom video game. When installing Doom it overwrote an important something-something.ini file which caused the Barbie game to stop working.
This is likely the appropriate time to explain that our logo reminded us of Kurt Cobain. Day and night conversing with technophobic and irate customers, while peering at the face of a man that had done the right thing. We all contemplated the possible ways we could end it.
To my surprise, people wanted to play with the Barbie game, so the phone techs came up with an INI file that resolved the issue and included the parameters for both games. This caused so much phone traffic we were allowed to get overtime.
Cause and effect led us to sleeping on the tables in the cafeteria and going back to work. The alternative was sleeping in my car. Not for a nap before clocking back in, but for sleeping at any time. For a blip in my life, that is viewed as a long and oppressing era, I had no where to live. But I did have a 1977 Datsun 280 Z Coupe. This means I had a car with no back seat and no ability to recline the front seat. This is where I slept when it was time to escape the world. I would wake up every hour or so because of noise or the sheer cold of the Rocky Mountain winter.
During this period of daily work-nap-work the company had decided to loop the first and only US commercial in the break room. It had the feel of a late nineties Nine Inch Nails music video and a Tim Burton film. While watching it I could feel the hopelessness of George Orwell’s dystopian Nineteen-Eighty-Four.
With the sound muted I would roll over to see the wall covered with the corporate blood-splattered logo, the suggestion, the urge, the bearing, the compulsive pressure bearing down to incline myself to stop dog-paddling and commence with the drowning.
I would move over again, facing the never-ending video that promised hope and change from the dark cyclical life of soul-crushing meaningless work. The monotony of pretend happiness at the end of the single-file line, if only we could chose that other path. If that option were actually available to the tolitaria.
I closed my eyes and remembered I hate purity, I hate goodness!