“I couldn't live a week without a private library
- indeed, I'd part with all my furniture and squat and sleep on the floor
before I'd let go of the 1500 or so books I possess.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Whistling In The Graveyard: September 16, 2007

Saturday, September 22, 2007

This is gonna kick so much fucking ass...



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Friday, September 21, 2007


Tuesday, September 18, 2007



Ok, I couldn't take it any more. I'm back in town.

I think the fact that I was sleeping in the same room with the gun cabinet had a lot to do with my decision.

Look over at the TV, to whatever inane show my sister left it on. Knowing for a fact that the remote control is IN the goddamn room somewhere but she refuses to look for it and I can't. Bracing myself for that first gut-wrenching of the morning, and then I see the guns...

Yeah, that wasn't good for me at all.

I mean, I wouldn't do it, but my resolve WAS wavering.

Not to mention Mom was starting to assign me chores. It started with little things like wanting me to paint things on umbrellas (I don't know either) to building birdhouses and evolved to having dinner ready when she got home and pruning the trees in the yard.

No, I didn't do any of it. I got sick of hearing about it though.

I also had to get back in town where I could buy things like FOOD.

See, Mom works and Grandma gets "Meals On Wheels" so Mom doesn't keep anything in the house. She brings home dinner and that's about it.

Now she told me she'd pick some stuff up for me, which I offered to pay for, but I just couldn't go get it myself. Well it didn't take her long to realize that I had to eat whatever she gave me.

Exhibit A: I explained that carbonated beverages hurt like fucking hell passing through my newly shuffled innards. From that point on the only thing we had to drink was either soda or unsweetened, powdered, iced-tea mix.

Exhibit B: I asked for milk. That's it. MILK. However, milk now costs $4.00 a gallon (which I AGAIN offered to pay) but Mom couldn't understand why I didn't just drink the old pints of milk that Grandma got with her Meals On Wheels that had been left out for hours, then frozen, and then had to be thawed out and no matter what you do with them they still taste spoiled.

Well I didn't give up on this one. I kept bitching about it and she took it a step further. She bought powdered milk.

The powdered milk alone wasn't really the bad part. It's the fact that she mixed it herself. I didn't drink any, but I know her well enough to know that, like the tea she swore she sweetened, she mixed that milk so thin that it was nothing more than white water.

She demanded that I use the powdered milk she bought. I said I'd use it to make tomato soup if she'd buy me some.

In a month I saw not one can of ANY kind of soup.

I found that the surest way to guarantee I wouldn't get something was to ask for it.

Honestly. Gallon of milk. Apparently too much to ask for.

Now there is SOME food in her fridge, but it's all spoiled. I think it's there just to vaguely remind us what food used to look like.

I could have dealt with the food thing though. It's the fact that Mom had started making up things for me to do. For instance, you remember me bitching about the lawnmower deck that she insisted I could fix if I'd just shut up and go do it? Well she finally paid someone else to fix it. Cost her $20. If I'd have known that I'd have gladly paid the guy a fucking year ago so I wouldn't have to hear about it.

Anyhow, it's fixed, it's back at the house, she wants me to put it back on the mower.

THIS I actually know how to do. Problem is the fucking mower deck weighs well over 100 lbs. No amount of explaining can make her understand that there's NO FUCKING WAY I CAN POSSIBLY DO THIS. I'd have to drive the tractor out of the garage (I was forbidden to operate motor vehicles for a month) maneuver the 100 to 200 lb deck under it, and then, on my back, lift the heavy steel thing with the blades into position and with THE OTHER HAND clip it in place.

Now, perhaps I'm laboring under a great misconception here, but you'd think that most people might be able to grasp the idea that this act might FUCKING KILL ME.

Mom ain't one of those people.

But I knew this was going to be a problem from the start. The trick is to escape before you lose your will to live.

Here's another good story for you:

WARNING! THE FOLLOWING STORY COULD BE CONSIDERED VERY DISGUSTING AND CONCERNS MY BIOLOGICAL FUNCTIONS! PROGRESS FURTHER AT YOUR OWN RISK!


The day before I had surgery I had to drink an enema to clear everything out in case they punctured my bowel when they sliced me open. So I didn't eat anything that day or the day before it and I induced the power shits so I was completely empty. Mom, of course, bitched continually that I wasn't drinking the enema the right way.

Ummm, yeah. Is it POSSIBLE, physically POSSIBLE to drink a saline laxative a WRONG WAY? Maybe if I crammed it up my ass?

Anyhow, I go into surgery completely empty. Go out, wake up, no unscheduled trips to the netherrealms (which was nice for a fucking change) and spend three days with nothing but an IV. Three days of Mom bugging me that I have to go shit.

That's right. She was bugging me that I had to go shit. And she would argue with me when I tried to explain to her that I could probably just as soon lay a fucking Dodo egg as take a shit given the circumstances.

Well the doctor's listened to my stomach and said that my bowels were making good sounds and they'd let me go just as soon as I had a bowel movement. The hospital definition of a bowel movement includes passing gas. Mom's doesn't. This comes into play later

Well after three more days of an all liquid diet and Mom still not comprehending why I was being a jerk and REFUSING to go shit, they released me from the hospital because I farted.

Yes,my release from the hospital was prompted by my farting.

Well that and Mom's panicked notion that Medicaid wouldn't pay for more than six days in the hospital. Where she got that idea I have no fucking clue, but going in the plan was I'd be there for five to seven days. I should have stayed seven. She insisted on six.

But they wouldn't have let me go if I hadn't farted.

More than once.

So I'm home for two more days and I still haven't shit yet. It takes a while to get things going again when you've been completely emptied out you know.

In a panic Mom calls the hospital and tells them that I haven't had a bowel movement in eight days and plead with them to call me (at 8AM) to tell me to knock it off and go shit.

Cause, you know, I'd been holding it in just to spite her. Couldn't have had anything to do with there not being enough solid ANYTHING in there yet.

Well the hospital calls me alright.

They call to ask what Mom's fucking problem is.

They then proceeded to agree with everything I'd told Mom about gas being a bowel movement and my bowel being too empty to expect much. They then reiterated the fact that they wouldn't have released me if I hadn't farted at the hospital.

Now, this kind of validation is nice. It feels real good at the time, but if Mom isn't right there to witness it then she won't accept it. She just assumes I'm lying to her because I couldn't possibly have been fucking RIGHT.

Well the next day I finally did shit.

I plugged the toilet and left it for her to plunge.

I had to. If she didn't see it she wouldn't have believed me.

Now I understand that a lot of this insanity is related to my other medical mishaps. She's concerned for my health. That's nice and all, but what good is concern about my health gonna do if it makes me wanna eat a fucking bullet?

So that's why I'm back in town.

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