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First of all, the heavy shit.
Aug. 9th, 2005 01:21 pmFinally went and opened up the security of the journal, to attract new and curious souls to my little pitcher plant of mental diseases. The trolls? Fuck them.
Assfuck them. I'll only filter out shit that the young'uns shouldn't be getting into, like explicit stuffs and things. "Assfuck" isn't beyond their ken, world, I used to cuss like a sailor at the age of eight. I've actually tamed my shit down a lot since I've gotten a little older.
Anyway.
Somebody was talking about something and it got me to thinking about something.
I used to run around wanting to die.
I used to pray for death. A heart attack, someone shooting me, a tire blowing out, God just popping a grand sandaled Foot down and squashing me into the dirt. I was tired of living. There wasn't anything that made me feel like I was worth a shit. Just a poor chunk of trailer trash living out my little miserable cockroach life, sucking air better put through someone finer's lungs. I was shit, I knew it, and there wasn't anything left but to die. I couldn't see a future worth a fuck.
So one fine Christmas Day in 1996, after I'd left to drop M off at the airport so she could go hang out with her treacherous fuckwit family and her gaggle of ten-cent friends, I returned to my grandparents' house to hang out before I took my son to his other set of great-grandparents. As we were leaving, my grandfather came out into the driveway and stopped me and told me that he was pissed off at me. He had this way of talking down to you, making you feel like such total shit. He told me that I should have at least gotten my grandmother a card, a dollar, a stick of gum, instead of just showing up at his house with my hand out.
Such was Pa's domineering way that I didn't even bother to try and tell him about the Christmas card that was sitting on their stereo cabinet, I just sucked that up and agreed with it. I drove off.
I rode with my son down the road, in silence, in misery, wanting to die. I was sitting there literally thinking to myself: I want to die. I wish I were dead. Just fucking dead.
We got to the intersection where we would turn off and drive about a tenth of a mile and pull into Tracy's Granny's driveway, and the four o' clock sun was in our eyes. I was driving a POS '76 Chevy Nova, and I put the turn signal on and started to slow for the turn, only to see a white Bronco/Blazer type truck flying towards my rear end. I heard its tires squealing as it slammed on the brakes--with the sun in everyone's eyes, and the brakelights on this piece of utter rust and garbage about as bright as a fucking eclipse, it's no wonder that the truck nearly hit us. I was still rolling a bit, and I checked the intersection.
A car on my right, by the stop sign.
A car in the oncoming lane, sitting still. No turn signal, but that wasn't too uncommon--they were obviously waiting for me to turn. So I floored the gas and went ahead to turn.
I picked my head up. The first thing I heard was Robert's shrill three-year-old screams, a piercing siren note of terror. The first thing I saw was the dash. I looked up and there was the hood, crumpled. Steam billowed out from beneath it.
We were pointing in the wrong direction, in the middle of the road.
That car, waiting to turn?
Had been going somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 miles an hour.
I, when hyped up, tend to get hyperaware. Things slow down.
I checked everything so fucking quickly that a speeding car looked like it was sitting still. I pulled out right into its path and gave eight souls into the crap shoot with Death.
I drug my son's car seat out of the car and set it in the grass. He was screaming. Blood was dripping from my face in a steady pace. I felt the bridge of my nose, and there was a lump there. I'd smashed it in the dash. Had I felt a little lower I might have discovered that my right nostril was split. But I was busy. There was a kid fromt he other car, one of four, who was running around the accident site trying to get someone to give him a knife. I have no idea what kind of people these strangers were, who stood around this Southern highway without a Buck between the ten of them, but when he came to me and shook me and asked me did I have a knife, in a daze I said yes.
Christ, I am Southern, you know.
He said his dad was dying. We went over to the car, and the kid wasn't fucking around. There'd been four of them in the back seat, none wearing belts, and when we hit they'd slammed his seat forward on the tracks, all the way up, at the same time that the seat belt he'd worn locked. It caught under his chin and pulled nice and tight.
You ever seen someone strangle? It ain't like in the movies. They heave for air. Their body bucks. As the oxygen continues to be denied them, they slow, like fish drowning in air. The guy was purple.
My brass-handled Rhino came out and made easy work of the seat belt. The kid's dad slumped forward and tore in a rasping breath. He was fucked. His skeleton was a vase in a velvet sack, and my stupidity smashed that shit on the ground. We tried to open his door, by the top of the window sill, and it bent in our hands like a pie tin. We tried to shake the door out of its frame by the bottom of the window, minding the glass, and the whole car rocked. They had to cut the poor fucker out with the jaws of life.
That's one.
The kid tore his ass trying to get out of the car--he got stitches.
That's two.
He had a four or five-year-old little sister--she wound up under the pile of flying kidmeat. Her and dad wound up riding Life Flight.
That's especially three.
Mom had her legs shattered up under the dash.
Four.
Another sister had her nose broken, and her arm, and they had to tape her ribs.
Five.
The last little sister rode in an ambulance, but I forget through the haze of life what happened to her.
She's still six.
Tracy and her grandfather just happened to ride up before anyone showed up. I was racing, pacing around the accident site, crying. It was Christmas fucking Day, and here were six strangers FUBARed through my own idiocy. Would they die? I later learned that the heavy lightheadedness I was experiencing while the ambulance crews raced around stabilizing everyone was shock. My legs nearly went out from under me. Other than a cold pack in a towel and my ex-family's exclamations over what had happened to my face ("I know," I'd say, "I broke my nose."--it would be eight more hours before anyone told me that my nostril was split and that it was about to be sewn back together), I wasn't seen by anyone until after the last ambulance was getting ready to leave. I rode with the kid.
My son got his own Life Flight. He wouldn't stop screaming, and they were scared he'd damaged his neck somehow. Getting him out of the carseat made him howl.
Seven.
Had I hit these people head-on, instead of crashing into them from a forty-five degree angle, I would have shattered my face on the steering wheel. No more Phil. I instead was thrown forward into the bottom of the dash, which my poor beak cracked loose from the rest of the instrument panel. Later on I would find my arrowhead earring lying in the back seat of the car.
Eight. Eight people thrown into the lotto bubble. Would our numbers come up?
So it's nearly ten years later. I still sometimes clinch up when I see brakelights. I still, if I think about it, can feel the hot blood sliding down my face like warm baby oil. I still, if I think about it, can feel the needle start to slide into my nose, the local anesthetic.
And there was something in all of this. Was it a message?
To: Les
From: God.
Shut the fuck up. Tired of hearing you whine. You wanna fucking die? Here's a taste. Oh, and, while you're there, look around.
I look around. There's my son, my ex's family, who still like me, as I remind them of Tracy's dad, their favorite kid, who died of cancer in 1980. There's my mom and her boyfriend, there's M on the phone, outraged that I'm telling her that I'm sorry that I smashed her car up. There's the family in the other car. There's the family of that family standing around in the Duke ICU waiting for their little one and their friend to pull through.
Dying hurts. Dying hurts everyone you know. So people try to be shits and say that wanting to die is selfish. Which of course makes whoever wants to die feel just a little bit fucking worse about themselves. Which, incidentally, doesn't really improve their self-image or their view of life. Good job. Push 'em, a little harder. Fuck, shoot 'em yourself, you know?
I suppose the best thing I ever got from being unpopular, picked on, and hated in school, was the defiance. I am still going to do these thigns that I do. FUCK YOU. I am me and if you don't like it choke on a thousand rotting dicks and let their hungry flies clog your bitching lungs.
I no longer want to die.
Because there are still people out there who would be happy if I did, and when the shit getes absolutely miserable, I go on simply to spite those fucks.
And I am now selfish in a new direction.
I don't want to let the world get off easy. I want to be out there, annoying fuckers, for eternity, if I could swing it.
I can't make anyone not want to die. I just hope that they get through it. I would miss any of you if you did the deed. I would feel bad about myself for not trying to help you out. For being so stuck in my own little life and it's little dramas to not at least offer a hand. An embrace.
So that's it. I no longer think about wanting to die. At least for more than half a second. An image, an idea of how to do it, and then done.
If I die, these days, it will be in a hail of gunfire. I will fight and run. I will get it through some horrid violent crushing thing that there is no escape from. Not from sitting around drinking Drano.
And if theree is no choice but life in a cell or life on the run, I will live on the run. I will kick my way out of the courtroom and run.
The system has failed, and there is in the end no law but your own.
But that's a different story.
Assfuck them. I'll only filter out shit that the young'uns shouldn't be getting into, like explicit stuffs and things. "Assfuck" isn't beyond their ken, world, I used to cuss like a sailor at the age of eight. I've actually tamed my shit down a lot since I've gotten a little older.
Anyway.
Somebody was talking about something and it got me to thinking about something.
I used to run around wanting to die.
I used to pray for death. A heart attack, someone shooting me, a tire blowing out, God just popping a grand sandaled Foot down and squashing me into the dirt. I was tired of living. There wasn't anything that made me feel like I was worth a shit. Just a poor chunk of trailer trash living out my little miserable cockroach life, sucking air better put through someone finer's lungs. I was shit, I knew it, and there wasn't anything left but to die. I couldn't see a future worth a fuck.
So one fine Christmas Day in 1996, after I'd left to drop M off at the airport so she could go hang out with her treacherous fuckwit family and her gaggle of ten-cent friends, I returned to my grandparents' house to hang out before I took my son to his other set of great-grandparents. As we were leaving, my grandfather came out into the driveway and stopped me and told me that he was pissed off at me. He had this way of talking down to you, making you feel like such total shit. He told me that I should have at least gotten my grandmother a card, a dollar, a stick of gum, instead of just showing up at his house with my hand out.
Such was Pa's domineering way that I didn't even bother to try and tell him about the Christmas card that was sitting on their stereo cabinet, I just sucked that up and agreed with it. I drove off.
I rode with my son down the road, in silence, in misery, wanting to die. I was sitting there literally thinking to myself: I want to die. I wish I were dead. Just fucking dead.
We got to the intersection where we would turn off and drive about a tenth of a mile and pull into Tracy's Granny's driveway, and the four o' clock sun was in our eyes. I was driving a POS '76 Chevy Nova, and I put the turn signal on and started to slow for the turn, only to see a white Bronco/Blazer type truck flying towards my rear end. I heard its tires squealing as it slammed on the brakes--with the sun in everyone's eyes, and the brakelights on this piece of utter rust and garbage about as bright as a fucking eclipse, it's no wonder that the truck nearly hit us. I was still rolling a bit, and I checked the intersection.
A car on my right, by the stop sign.
A car in the oncoming lane, sitting still. No turn signal, but that wasn't too uncommon--they were obviously waiting for me to turn. So I floored the gas and went ahead to turn.
I picked my head up. The first thing I heard was Robert's shrill three-year-old screams, a piercing siren note of terror. The first thing I saw was the dash. I looked up and there was the hood, crumpled. Steam billowed out from beneath it.
We were pointing in the wrong direction, in the middle of the road.
That car, waiting to turn?
Had been going somewhere in the neighborhood of 60 miles an hour.
I, when hyped up, tend to get hyperaware. Things slow down.
I checked everything so fucking quickly that a speeding car looked like it was sitting still. I pulled out right into its path and gave eight souls into the crap shoot with Death.
I drug my son's car seat out of the car and set it in the grass. He was screaming. Blood was dripping from my face in a steady pace. I felt the bridge of my nose, and there was a lump there. I'd smashed it in the dash. Had I felt a little lower I might have discovered that my right nostril was split. But I was busy. There was a kid fromt he other car, one of four, who was running around the accident site trying to get someone to give him a knife. I have no idea what kind of people these strangers were, who stood around this Southern highway without a Buck between the ten of them, but when he came to me and shook me and asked me did I have a knife, in a daze I said yes.
Christ, I am Southern, you know.
He said his dad was dying. We went over to the car, and the kid wasn't fucking around. There'd been four of them in the back seat, none wearing belts, and when we hit they'd slammed his seat forward on the tracks, all the way up, at the same time that the seat belt he'd worn locked. It caught under his chin and pulled nice and tight.
You ever seen someone strangle? It ain't like in the movies. They heave for air. Their body bucks. As the oxygen continues to be denied them, they slow, like fish drowning in air. The guy was purple.
My brass-handled Rhino came out and made easy work of the seat belt. The kid's dad slumped forward and tore in a rasping breath. He was fucked. His skeleton was a vase in a velvet sack, and my stupidity smashed that shit on the ground. We tried to open his door, by the top of the window sill, and it bent in our hands like a pie tin. We tried to shake the door out of its frame by the bottom of the window, minding the glass, and the whole car rocked. They had to cut the poor fucker out with the jaws of life.
That's one.
The kid tore his ass trying to get out of the car--he got stitches.
That's two.
He had a four or five-year-old little sister--she wound up under the pile of flying kidmeat. Her and dad wound up riding Life Flight.
That's especially three.
Mom had her legs shattered up under the dash.
Four.
Another sister had her nose broken, and her arm, and they had to tape her ribs.
Five.
The last little sister rode in an ambulance, but I forget through the haze of life what happened to her.
She's still six.
Tracy and her grandfather just happened to ride up before anyone showed up. I was racing, pacing around the accident site, crying. It was Christmas fucking Day, and here were six strangers FUBARed through my own idiocy. Would they die? I later learned that the heavy lightheadedness I was experiencing while the ambulance crews raced around stabilizing everyone was shock. My legs nearly went out from under me. Other than a cold pack in a towel and my ex-family's exclamations over what had happened to my face ("I know," I'd say, "I broke my nose."--it would be eight more hours before anyone told me that my nostril was split and that it was about to be sewn back together), I wasn't seen by anyone until after the last ambulance was getting ready to leave. I rode with the kid.
My son got his own Life Flight. He wouldn't stop screaming, and they were scared he'd damaged his neck somehow. Getting him out of the carseat made him howl.
Seven.
Had I hit these people head-on, instead of crashing into them from a forty-five degree angle, I would have shattered my face on the steering wheel. No more Phil. I instead was thrown forward into the bottom of the dash, which my poor beak cracked loose from the rest of the instrument panel. Later on I would find my arrowhead earring lying in the back seat of the car.
Eight. Eight people thrown into the lotto bubble. Would our numbers come up?
So it's nearly ten years later. I still sometimes clinch up when I see brakelights. I still, if I think about it, can feel the hot blood sliding down my face like warm baby oil. I still, if I think about it, can feel the needle start to slide into my nose, the local anesthetic.
And there was something in all of this. Was it a message?
To: Les
From: God.
Shut the fuck up. Tired of hearing you whine. You wanna fucking die? Here's a taste. Oh, and, while you're there, look around.
I look around. There's my son, my ex's family, who still like me, as I remind them of Tracy's dad, their favorite kid, who died of cancer in 1980. There's my mom and her boyfriend, there's M on the phone, outraged that I'm telling her that I'm sorry that I smashed her car up. There's the family in the other car. There's the family of that family standing around in the Duke ICU waiting for their little one and their friend to pull through.
Dying hurts. Dying hurts everyone you know. So people try to be shits and say that wanting to die is selfish. Which of course makes whoever wants to die feel just a little bit fucking worse about themselves. Which, incidentally, doesn't really improve their self-image or their view of life. Good job. Push 'em, a little harder. Fuck, shoot 'em yourself, you know?
I suppose the best thing I ever got from being unpopular, picked on, and hated in school, was the defiance. I am still going to do these thigns that I do. FUCK YOU. I am me and if you don't like it choke on a thousand rotting dicks and let their hungry flies clog your bitching lungs.
I no longer want to die.
Because there are still people out there who would be happy if I did, and when the shit getes absolutely miserable, I go on simply to spite those fucks.
And I am now selfish in a new direction.
I don't want to let the world get off easy. I want to be out there, annoying fuckers, for eternity, if I could swing it.
I can't make anyone not want to die. I just hope that they get through it. I would miss any of you if you did the deed. I would feel bad about myself for not trying to help you out. For being so stuck in my own little life and it's little dramas to not at least offer a hand. An embrace.
So that's it. I no longer think about wanting to die. At least for more than half a second. An image, an idea of how to do it, and then done.
If I die, these days, it will be in a hail of gunfire. I will fight and run. I will get it through some horrid violent crushing thing that there is no escape from. Not from sitting around drinking Drano.
And if theree is no choice but life in a cell or life on the run, I will live on the run. I will kick my way out of the courtroom and run.
The system has failed, and there is in the end no law but your own.
But that's a different story.
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