Thanks for stopping by, and on behalf of and all the Asylum Elves (Lefty, Swifty, Stig and Bruno) here at Lunatic Central, we hope you enjoy the flow of insanity, and shocking display of deep mental defect.
We love the stat bumps here at Lunatic Central! Big props to Mr. C and Nena Grace at the Insane Asylum!
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Halperin: Dick Leaves a Bad Taste in His Mouth...
So, Time Magazine's (that's still in business?) Mark Halperin called President Obama a 'dick' on Morning Joe?
What's so completely shocking about this is not that (P)MSNBC allowed such a visceral criticism of It's Messiah to hit the airwaves, but that Mika Bra-bra-bra-shin-ski should go through the giggling schoolgirl routine when she heard the word. You're not fooling anyone, Mika: we know that you're intimately familiar with that word.
How do you think she got that job in the first place?
And in denial about the part they’ve played in their own failure.
The Left in this country is bitter, negative, unhelpful, combative, spiteful, delusional, misguided, deluded, retarded, and permanently adolescent. And it doesn’t matter who is power; they would have been just as disappointed, no matterwho had won the election of 2008, and we’d probably even be hearing many of the same complaints from the Left about a Hillary Clinton presidency, because she at least has the minimum of braincells required to make compromises, and the ambition to do whatever it takes to be seen as successful, and that often means giving a big middle finger to the Left for selfish, personal ends. Especially when those ends might clash with boilerplate Libtardism.
The difference in this case is that the Press had an emotional stake in the election and success of Barack Obama, and it never occurred to them that he just might not be up to the job. The greatest indication that Barry isn’t up to the task is all the time he spends not doing it; the multiple vacations, the golf outings, the jetting off to fundraisers, the set-piece kabuki plays of political speeches in front of rabid supporters (some of whom, it’s been rumored, have been paid to cheer, and even faint, on cue). He's never at the scene of an oil spill, flood, or tornado, and he seems to leave the job of actually governing to Joe Biden and Congress.
If Mark Halperin is disappointed in B.O. because Gitmo is still open, because there’s no Single-Payer system in place, because instead of two unpopular wars we now have three (and possibly four), because Republicans and Tea Party people haven’t been frog-marched to the Concentration Camps, because homosexuals still don’t have the right to have buck-naked swordfights in the public square, or because there hasn’t been a federal investigation of Sarah Palin’s womb yet, then he has only himself to blame.
He promoted and then probably voted for this dick.
And George W. Bush’s name had become by November of 2008, ‘Mud’.
The Press did that, too, and Halperin was in the vanguard then.
By comparison, George W. Bush now looks like a reasonable man, a veritable Bismark/Disraeli/Churchill/Reagan all rolled up into one, even if the truth of his Presidency was far from it. The Press, led by people like Halperin, who did such a bad job of covering the Bush Administration (likely because they were far too busy making fun of Bush’s cowboy accent and portraying him as a drooling idiot) was entirely AWOL on the subject of covering Barack Obama the Candidate, and has done nothing but cover for him since. And now they’re tired of it.
I do have to say one thing in Halperin’s defense: you would never have heard the word ‘Dick’ applied to Obama’s predecessors by a member of the media in the past, and while the Lefty press certainly was thinking ‘Dick’ about Reagan, Bush I and II, they at least never crossed that line of disrespect. It’s telling that the man they built up and supported, the man they’ve been lying about for the last five years, the man that The Press has such a vested interest in, is now openly mocked and disrespected in such visceral terms.
Perhaps for the first time in his career, Halperin is telling the truth.
You could only imagine what other adjectives, and body parts, Halperin would have mentioned had Barack Obama been a Republican.
What's so completely shocking about this is not that (P)MSNBC allowed such a visceral criticism of It's Messiah to hit the airwaves, but that Mika Bra-bra-bra-shin-ski should go through the giggling schoolgirl routine when she heard the word. You're not fooling anyone, Mika: we know that you're intimately familiar with that word.
How do you think she got that job in the first place?
I don’t know what all the brouhaha is about: Halperin’s criticism -- even his use of a slang term for a penis -- was extraordinarily mild when you stop to consider just what a disaster Barack Obama is/was/has become.
The Reality of Obama is not what The Promise of Obama, well... promised. It never could be. But that was painfully obvious – to everyone, except maybe Libtards – way back in 2008. Had the Press, which was busily cheering Obama on, and in fact made Obama into a Messianic figure, had instead been doing it’s primary job – discovering who the man was, and what he was all about, instead of being mystified by soaring speeches and an unusual racial bio – they would not be quite as disappointed today as they so obviously are.
Then again, part of being a Libtard is always about being disappointed. That’s bound to happen when you dream of impossible things, and live in a fantasy world where other people’s money buys everything, and Human Nature is something that can be routinely ignored. Liberals engage in what a psychiatrist might call ‘A Self-Defeating-Self-Fulfilling Prophecy’ loop in all things. If they were all put on the couch, every last one of them would emerge as a prime candidate for heavy doses of Prozac.
This is in large part because Modern Liberalism is primarily about emotions, and not about facts, logic or the realistic evaluation of possibilities. People who react emotionally to everything, people who make great leaps of faith and jump to conclusions without thinking, usually find themselves sorely disappointed.And in denial about the part they’ve played in their own failure.
The Left in this country is bitter, negative, unhelpful, combative, spiteful, delusional, misguided, deluded, retarded, and permanently adolescent. And it doesn’t matter who is power; they would have been just as disappointed, no matterwho had won the election of 2008, and we’d probably even be hearing many of the same complaints from the Left about a Hillary Clinton presidency, because she at least has the minimum of braincells required to make compromises, and the ambition to do whatever it takes to be seen as successful, and that often means giving a big middle finger to the Left for selfish, personal ends. Especially when those ends might clash with boilerplate Libtardism.
The difference in this case is that the Press had an emotional stake in the election and success of Barack Obama, and it never occurred to them that he just might not be up to the job. The greatest indication that Barry isn’t up to the task is all the time he spends not doing it; the multiple vacations, the golf outings, the jetting off to fundraisers, the set-piece kabuki plays of political speeches in front of rabid supporters (some of whom, it’s been rumored, have been paid to cheer, and even faint, on cue). He's never at the scene of an oil spill, flood, or tornado, and he seems to leave the job of actually governing to Joe Biden and Congress.
If Mark Halperin is disappointed in B.O. because Gitmo is still open, because there’s no Single-Payer system in place, because instead of two unpopular wars we now have three (and possibly four), because Republicans and Tea Party people haven’t been frog-marched to the Concentration Camps, because homosexuals still don’t have the right to have buck-naked swordfights in the public square, or because there hasn’t been a federal investigation of Sarah Palin’s womb yet, then he has only himself to blame.
He promoted and then probably voted for this dick.
And George W. Bush’s name had become by November of 2008, ‘Mud’.
The Press did that, too, and Halperin was in the vanguard then.
By comparison, George W. Bush now looks like a reasonable man, a veritable Bismark/Disraeli/Churchill/Reagan all rolled up into one, even if the truth of his Presidency was far from it. The Press, led by people like Halperin, who did such a bad job of covering the Bush Administration (likely because they were far too busy making fun of Bush’s cowboy accent and portraying him as a drooling idiot) was entirely AWOL on the subject of covering Barack Obama the Candidate, and has done nothing but cover for him since. And now they’re tired of it.
I do have to say one thing in Halperin’s defense: you would never have heard the word ‘Dick’ applied to Obama’s predecessors by a member of the media in the past, and while the Lefty press certainly was thinking ‘Dick’ about Reagan, Bush I and II, they at least never crossed that line of disrespect. It’s telling that the man they built up and supported, the man they’ve been lying about for the last five years, the man that The Press has such a vested interest in, is now openly mocked and disrespected in such visceral terms.
Perhaps for the first time in his career, Halperin is telling the truth.
You could only imagine what other adjectives, and body parts, Halperin would have mentioned had Barack Obama been a Republican.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Cat: The Other White Meat...
I hate cats. With a passion.
If it were up to me, your typical tabby housecat would be on the Endangered Species List and we'd be able to undertake an effort at Mass Extinction that would guarantee that the only place you'd ever be able to know there was ever any such animal would be a visit to the Museum of Natural History, where little plaster replicas of feline skeletons would be on display, like those of the dinosaurs and three-toed-giant ground sloths.
If there's anything more useless than a housecat, I can't figure out just what that might be. Yeah, yeah, I know, they keep the vermin out of the house, and they provide love (cats don't love; they simply attach themselves to whoever feeds them regularly) and companionship, and give complete retards an opportunity to waste money and emotional energy on cute little cat outfits, kitty litter, saccharine, vomit-inducing calendars and YouTube videos, and Cat Fancy magazine, but is it all really worth it?
I mean, a dog -- at least a great big one -- serves a useful purpose and can at least scare off potential burglars, rapists, and serial killers who invade your property, if not chew such degenerates to shreds. I'm definitely a Dog Person, and not those little yapping rats on leashes wearing little cardigans, either. A chihuahua is almost as useless as a cat, if you ask me. Give me a great, frightening German Shepherd, the wolf-like Malamute, or a saddle-ready Great Dane any day of the week,.
What has prompted this little diatribe against certain members of the Genus Felix has been the behavior and activities of the neighborhood cats.
For some reason I have yet to discern, the little Kitty Gangstas in this neighborhood have taken to my front lawn, treating it as if it were their own private Disneyland. My evenings are replete with the sounds of cat fights, cat orgies, and the chorus of singing and meowing housepets set loose for the night. These activities invariably seem to take place right below my bedroom window.
I would hazard to guess that the abundant shrubbery and flower beds tend to give horny cats those safe-and-secluded retreats they require for their noisy fuck sessions, much like humans use those seedy, out-of-the-way No-Tell-Motels out by the airport, where they charge short-stay rates and extra for clean sheets, and every Civil War-era bathroom you wouldn't use without the full panoply of inoculations against tropical diseases has it's own second-rate, your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine condom dispenser, just in case you forgot.
Nary an evening goes by, and it's gotten worse since summer is here; when I'm not chasing kitties out of the flowerbeds, or I'm not awakened by the sound of cats doing it doggie-style, sometimes in groups. Cleaning cat crap off the front lawn is a disturbing chore, and this is only occasionally made more interesting by the surprise discovery of the dead squirrels, birds, small rodents, and large insects scattered about the property, stalked and murdered by the thoughtless little cretins, and left to rot, fester and smell in the heat.
They don't even TRY to eat them, or drag them home to their owners. Hell, one of them actually dragged a squirrel that had been hit by a car out of the street on onto my front lawn, probably as a love offering to one of his fuckmates.
But last night was the Absolute Last Straw.
I had just stepped out onto the front stoop for a smoke, when my nostrils were assaulted by the most offensive odor imaginable. It was worse than the rancid aroma of New Jersey at low tide. It was a scent that would make a Pakistani Incontinent Leper ward smell like a perfume factory. It's a smell that affronts: it is not only an attack upon the old olfactory sense, but it'll actually make your eyes water and your stomach churn. I know this effluvium all too well.having once had a girlfriend with an abundance of male cats in her full-of-fur-urine-turds-and-stink home.
One of the neighborhood tabbies has been spraying (marking his territory) near my front door, the little bastard, and I had just caught him in the act.
I wish I had had a deadly weapon at that very moment, and screw the idea that this may be some child's pet. This animal needed killin', as they say in the South.
Even more aggravating is the fact that the stupid animal had the audacity to stare at me as if I had invaded it's territory. This must be the little brute who's been dragging and stashing dead squirrel carcasses (I've lifted three out of my flowerbeds in the last fortnight, and the first indication they're present is always the stench) all over the property. This must be the Feline Lothario who's been keeping me awake with his raucous lovemaking in the wee hours. This must be the four-legged lunatic who's dug holes all over the front lawn seeking beetles. This is the reason six or so other cats congregate outside my window on a near-nightly basis.
If I ever get the opportunity to kill this little fucktard, he's a goner.
Which brings me to the sheer inconsiderate behavior of my neighbors. I've left signs all over the neighborhood asking people to keep tabs on their tabbies, to no avail. I don't see the need to keep a pet which, frankly, believes it owns you, and which -- probably because it's an annoying little douchebag -- requires you to let it out every night so that you can get some sleep, and fuck everyone else's sleep requirements.
That's not a pet; it's another petulant child that you're raising.
Another notice will go out; I don't want your cats fucking, shitting, meowing, congregating, pissing, spraying, or even breathing beneath my bedroom window anymore. I'm keeping my Wrist Rocket, baseball bat, and a Super Soaker full of salt water infused with a generous touch of ammonia and chlorine bleach handy in order to defend the old Homestead against this invasion of pesky and destructive little four-footed buggers.
I have half a mind to sell the pelts, and give the meat to the local Chinese and turn the entire enterprise into a lucrative work-from-home opportunity, and if you come to complain with your crying kids in tow, I'll tell you to fuck off. This situation has gotten seriously irritating, and asking Cat Owners to exercise a little restraint with their pets is apparently like asking a democrat to work for a living; it's something they consider outside the realm of normal probabilities.
I've heard the expression "It's like herding cats..." before, and I think whoever coined that phrase was never acquainted with the cats in my neighborhood, who seem to be extremely social to the point of having formed some little kitty street gang dedicated to destroying my landscaping (which costs a pretty penny every month, thank you. Despite what some may say, Mexicans certainly DO NOT work cheap when they can manage it). There's an entire herd of them in my yard every night.
Which should make it extremely easy to help the little bastards shuffle off this mortal coil in numbers that make the effort worthwhile.
Then I might be able to get some sleep and not have my front porch smell like cat's ass.
If it were up to me, your typical tabby housecat would be on the Endangered Species List and we'd be able to undertake an effort at Mass Extinction that would guarantee that the only place you'd ever be able to know there was ever any such animal would be a visit to the Museum of Natural History, where little plaster replicas of feline skeletons would be on display, like those of the dinosaurs and three-toed-giant ground sloths.
If there's anything more useless than a housecat, I can't figure out just what that might be. Yeah, yeah, I know, they keep the vermin out of the house, and they provide love (cats don't love; they simply attach themselves to whoever feeds them regularly) and companionship, and give complete retards an opportunity to waste money and emotional energy on cute little cat outfits, kitty litter, saccharine, vomit-inducing calendars and YouTube videos, and Cat Fancy magazine, but is it all really worth it?
I mean, a dog -- at least a great big one -- serves a useful purpose and can at least scare off potential burglars, rapists, and serial killers who invade your property, if not chew such degenerates to shreds. I'm definitely a Dog Person, and not those little yapping rats on leashes wearing little cardigans, either. A chihuahua is almost as useless as a cat, if you ask me. Give me a great, frightening German Shepherd, the wolf-like Malamute, or a saddle-ready Great Dane any day of the week,.
What has prompted this little diatribe against certain members of the Genus Felix has been the behavior and activities of the neighborhood cats.
For some reason I have yet to discern, the little Kitty Gangstas in this neighborhood have taken to my front lawn, treating it as if it were their own private Disneyland. My evenings are replete with the sounds of cat fights, cat orgies, and the chorus of singing and meowing housepets set loose for the night. These activities invariably seem to take place right below my bedroom window.
I would hazard to guess that the abundant shrubbery and flower beds tend to give horny cats those safe-and-secluded retreats they require for their noisy fuck sessions, much like humans use those seedy, out-of-the-way No-Tell-Motels out by the airport, where they charge short-stay rates and extra for clean sheets, and every Civil War-era bathroom you wouldn't use without the full panoply of inoculations against tropical diseases has it's own second-rate, your-guess-is-as-good-as-mine condom dispenser, just in case you forgot.
Nary an evening goes by, and it's gotten worse since summer is here; when I'm not chasing kitties out of the flowerbeds, or I'm not awakened by the sound of cats doing it doggie-style, sometimes in groups. Cleaning cat crap off the front lawn is a disturbing chore, and this is only occasionally made more interesting by the surprise discovery of the dead squirrels, birds, small rodents, and large insects scattered about the property, stalked and murdered by the thoughtless little cretins, and left to rot, fester and smell in the heat.
They don't even TRY to eat them, or drag them home to their owners. Hell, one of them actually dragged a squirrel that had been hit by a car out of the street on onto my front lawn, probably as a love offering to one of his fuckmates.
But last night was the Absolute Last Straw.
I had just stepped out onto the front stoop for a smoke, when my nostrils were assaulted by the most offensive odor imaginable. It was worse than the rancid aroma of New Jersey at low tide. It was a scent that would make a Pakistani Incontinent Leper ward smell like a perfume factory. It's a smell that affronts: it is not only an attack upon the old olfactory sense, but it'll actually make your eyes water and your stomach churn. I know this effluvium all too well.having once had a girlfriend with an abundance of male cats in her full-of-fur-urine-turds-and-stink home.
One of the neighborhood tabbies has been spraying (marking his territory) near my front door, the little bastard, and I had just caught him in the act.
I wish I had had a deadly weapon at that very moment, and screw the idea that this may be some child's pet. This animal needed killin', as they say in the South.
Even more aggravating is the fact that the stupid animal had the audacity to stare at me as if I had invaded it's territory. This must be the little brute who's been dragging and stashing dead squirrel carcasses (I've lifted three out of my flowerbeds in the last fortnight, and the first indication they're present is always the stench) all over the property. This must be the Feline Lothario who's been keeping me awake with his raucous lovemaking in the wee hours. This must be the four-legged lunatic who's dug holes all over the front lawn seeking beetles. This is the reason six or so other cats congregate outside my window on a near-nightly basis.
If I ever get the opportunity to kill this little fucktard, he's a goner.
Which brings me to the sheer inconsiderate behavior of my neighbors. I've left signs all over the neighborhood asking people to keep tabs on their tabbies, to no avail. I don't see the need to keep a pet which, frankly, believes it owns you, and which -- probably because it's an annoying little douchebag -- requires you to let it out every night so that you can get some sleep, and fuck everyone else's sleep requirements.
That's not a pet; it's another petulant child that you're raising.
Another notice will go out; I don't want your cats fucking, shitting, meowing, congregating, pissing, spraying, or even breathing beneath my bedroom window anymore. I'm keeping my Wrist Rocket, baseball bat, and a Super Soaker full of salt water infused with a generous touch of ammonia and chlorine bleach handy in order to defend the old Homestead against this invasion of pesky and destructive little four-footed buggers.
I have half a mind to sell the pelts, and give the meat to the local Chinese and turn the entire enterprise into a lucrative work-from-home opportunity, and if you come to complain with your crying kids in tow, I'll tell you to fuck off. This situation has gotten seriously irritating, and asking Cat Owners to exercise a little restraint with their pets is apparently like asking a democrat to work for a living; it's something they consider outside the realm of normal probabilities.
I've heard the expression "It's like herding cats..." before, and I think whoever coined that phrase was never acquainted with the cats in my neighborhood, who seem to be extremely social to the point of having formed some little kitty street gang dedicated to destroying my landscaping (which costs a pretty penny every month, thank you. Despite what some may say, Mexicans certainly DO NOT work cheap when they can manage it). There's an entire herd of them in my yard every night.
Which should make it extremely easy to help the little bastards shuffle off this mortal coil in numbers that make the effort worthwhile.
Then I might be able to get some sleep and not have my front porch smell like cat's ass.
Monday, June 27, 2011
A Lunatic in Love?
I haven’t been blogging recently because I’ve been rather busy. You see, here I was doing some research for a post last week when I came across something I most certainly did not ever expect to see.
An obituary.
And not just any obituary; this one belonged to the father of a young lady I once dated at the tender age of 19, or at least it was someone with the same name. So, I checked it out, and sure enough, he was survived by a daughter who had the same first name as this old girlfriend. It gets worse, because her name was cross-referenced several times.
In three other obituaries.
The girl had lost her father, a sister, a brother, and her husband, all in the space of two years.
Something was awakened in this Lunatic, an emotion that he vaguely remembers from the very distant past. I think they called it ‘sympathy’ once. It’s not something that comes to me naturally in my Old Age. There’s been too much damage done, too many miles have been put on this ancient mental engine. But I did put my absolutely freakin’ awesome internet skills to work and tracked down this poor unfortunate woman, who coincidentally, lives less than 5 miles from my own front doorstep (and has for some time. Itmight have been dangerous had either known this previously). He made that call to say “I’m truly sorry…if there’s anything I can do…” and…
…The Lunatic and The Lady met three days later. It was the first time they had seen each other in nearly 14 years, and they were almost instantly transported back to a time when they were 19, couldn’t keep their hands off one another, and could get completely day-you-were-born naked before you could say “John Smith”.
That was the problem the first time around, you see.
Youth, they say, is wasted on the young. You could say that was never truer than in the case of The Lunatic and The Lady. We were so young -- and stupid. The courtship was whirlwind, it was passionate, and it was all-too-short. It burned too bright and far too hot, way too soon. This young buck was an immature doofus, completely ruled by his emotions; possessive, demanding, obsessive, jealous. In some ways, she wasn’t a Girl; she was a fortress to be stormed, relentlessly, until the walls all came tumbling down. I frightened her with sheer intensity; She became my drug of choice, and I did actually think I might die if I didn’t at least hear her voice every few hours.
I was convinced that this was THE ONE, but in retrospect, that decision was made by a horny, needy, clingy, 19-year-old who knew nothing about the realities of Life, and even less about True Love.
When she did the sensible thing and suggested that we see other people (we were about 20 at the time), this Lunatic was devastated. He became vindictive and took her up on her offer with a little trollop who made no bones about what she intended to do, which was to stake her claim upon me. Not to brag, but as a young dude, I was damned cute, I had a job that literally showered me with cash, and I could do The Nasty for hours on end.
I was a catch, as they say. But my heart lay elsewhere. No amount of consequence-free sex was enough to overcome that feeling that I should be with a special someone else.
I then did perhaps the dumbest thing any young man driven crazy by love and all-consuming passion could do; I told The Lady – who was on the verge of changing her mind about the status of our relationship at the time, unbeknownst to me – the truth about my indiscretions, and worse, who they were with (The Trollop had a reputation, built upon the scrawls found only on the finest Men’s Room walls in all of Brooklyn, and by salacious word of mouth. We (my group of male friends at the time) used to say of the Trollop that her greatest ambition in life was to screw her way through the White Pages).
But what can I say? Men are dogs, even in the best of circumstances, and drunk 19/20-year-olds with an erection and a broken heart are perhaps the biggest hounds of all.
In some strange way, I think, it (telling the Lady of my dalliances) was even an expression -- a mentally-deranged one, though it may be -- of love and loyalty. Or at least I may have thought it was at the time. Really, it was more a case of guilty conscience; I was a rotten (in the sense of not being a good one) liar at the time, a skill I unfortunately would acquire as the years went on and mental disorder crept in, and could never hide anything. Besides, we were bound to bump into the Trollop at a later date (we did, and it wasn’t a pretty scene, long story short).
The Lady and The Lunatic continued to see each other on and off for a while, lingering in some sort of relationship Limbo, until IT happened.
IT was an unplanned pregnancy. It almost always is.
We were 20, we were pregnant, and despite The Lunatic’s (totally genuine) proposal of marriage, The Lady was having none of it. She was too young to be a wife and mother, and who the hell knew what sort of husband/father I would have been? In retrospect, I most likely would have been absolutely lousy in both roles. I would have tried my hardest, but these are two areas in life where “A For Effort” just doesn’t cut it. You either succeed or you fail spectacularly.
And here I was, a heartbroken, emotionally-insecure-and-immature drunkard (I had already begun drinking heavily by this time, although I was managing to be the absolute best functioning alcoholic you ever did see) when the decision was made for me; The Lady would have an abortion.
She would have done it without me, but I couldn’t let her face that by herself. I didn’t want to do it, either, but what choice was there? I took her to the clinic. I waited for her. I tried my best in the days after to comfort her, but I was hurting something fierce, too.
We formed what psychiatrists call a trauma bond after that. We could never truly abandon one another, but we also couldn’t be together in quite the way we used to. This sad state of affairs went on for nearly 10 years. We would see one another occasionally, we would even…you know…but things were never quite the same after that. I wanted her, and I hated her. I loved her, but couldn’t forgive her. I could not let it go. She did. She couldn’t have survived otherwise, I think.
Me, on the other hand, I need my wounds to remain raw, to wallow in guilt, shame, and pain, if only because without that agony I will simply forget what not to do and become that which I hate the most; Your Average Male.
We finally said goodbye about a week before she was married. And then there was nothing for 14 years until I had accidentally found an obituary searching for information on someone else. Serendipity. Or was it?
I haven't told you about The Dream…
Three days before I had found that obituary, I’d had a dream. It was one of those dreams that occurs just moments before you awaken, and you don’t know where the original premise came from, or how it started, or even how it ends. You seem to have been just dropped into the dream at some random moment with no idea of what came before, what it’s about, or what you’re doing there, and somehow, you manage to just get swept up in the action before you get pulled out abruptly at yet another random moment. And then you’re awake.
In this dream, I found myself having to explain to my nephews just who The Lady was, why they never knew her, and where she might be now, and finding myself with no answers for their questions.
I don’t believe I had even thought about her for at least a decade before then.
I don’t really hold with that whole “dreams as a predictor of the future” nonsense, but this is the second time in my life -- that I’m aware of -- that I have dreamed something and then had Real Life throw me something directly related to the Dream. Both times it was about a woman from my past, and both times I got the impression that they needed me, or wanted something from me, at the time. Why can’t I dream winning Lotto numbers, instead?
We’re 44 now. There’s been a lot of growing up done in the interim. I’m determined to be a better person nowadays (yeah right!), one who isn’t ruled by his feelings (or his privates), who looks very carefully before he leaps, but that plan was blown to smithereens almost in an instant. In a sense, we’ve become 19 again, you see, transported back in time and space and what felt right and natural then feels very much the same now, and it all seems to have happened seamlessly and quite accidentally. We fell into our old bad habits almost immediately, but this time around, it’s somehow better.
Maybe now we actually know what we’re doing? Or rather, perhaps there have been some boundaries established even if we haven’t actually talked about them, as such.
I don’t know where this all eventually goes (two dates with your Ex from the Iron Age does not The Rest of Your Life make!), but I don’t seem to have the usual supply of venom to put on the page these days. I haven’t felt much like blogging, or railing against the stupidity of my fellow bags of protoplasm, and truthfully, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything else this past week, either. I seem to be a bit preoccupied, so excuse me if you come here expecting your daily dose of caustic word vomit, only to leave miserably disappointed.
I’m trying my best whilst laboring under some very unusual circumstances, so please bear with me.
I’m positive that in the coming days, someone will do something so completely stupid that it simply cannot be allowed to pass without comment and all will be right with the world again.
An obituary.
And not just any obituary; this one belonged to the father of a young lady I once dated at the tender age of 19, or at least it was someone with the same name. So, I checked it out, and sure enough, he was survived by a daughter who had the same first name as this old girlfriend. It gets worse, because her name was cross-referenced several times.
In three other obituaries.
The girl had lost her father, a sister, a brother, and her husband, all in the space of two years.
Something was awakened in this Lunatic, an emotion that he vaguely remembers from the very distant past. I think they called it ‘sympathy’ once. It’s not something that comes to me naturally in my Old Age. There’s been too much damage done, too many miles have been put on this ancient mental engine. But I did put my absolutely freakin’ awesome internet skills to work and tracked down this poor unfortunate woman, who coincidentally, lives less than 5 miles from my own front doorstep (and has for some time. Itmight have been dangerous had either known this previously). He made that call to say “I’m truly sorry…if there’s anything I can do…” and…
…The Lunatic and The Lady met three days later. It was the first time they had seen each other in nearly 14 years, and they were almost instantly transported back to a time when they were 19, couldn’t keep their hands off one another, and could get completely day-you-were-born naked before you could say “John Smith”.
That was the problem the first time around, you see.
Youth, they say, is wasted on the young. You could say that was never truer than in the case of The Lunatic and The Lady. We were so young -- and stupid. The courtship was whirlwind, it was passionate, and it was all-too-short. It burned too bright and far too hot, way too soon. This young buck was an immature doofus, completely ruled by his emotions; possessive, demanding, obsessive, jealous. In some ways, she wasn’t a Girl; she was a fortress to be stormed, relentlessly, until the walls all came tumbling down. I frightened her with sheer intensity; She became my drug of choice, and I did actually think I might die if I didn’t at least hear her voice every few hours.
I was convinced that this was THE ONE, but in retrospect, that decision was made by a horny, needy, clingy, 19-year-old who knew nothing about the realities of Life, and even less about True Love.
When she did the sensible thing and suggested that we see other people (we were about 20 at the time), this Lunatic was devastated. He became vindictive and took her up on her offer with a little trollop who made no bones about what she intended to do, which was to stake her claim upon me. Not to brag, but as a young dude, I was damned cute, I had a job that literally showered me with cash, and I could do The Nasty for hours on end.
I was a catch, as they say. But my heart lay elsewhere. No amount of consequence-free sex was enough to overcome that feeling that I should be with a special someone else.
I then did perhaps the dumbest thing any young man driven crazy by love and all-consuming passion could do; I told The Lady – who was on the verge of changing her mind about the status of our relationship at the time, unbeknownst to me – the truth about my indiscretions, and worse, who they were with (The Trollop had a reputation, built upon the scrawls found only on the finest Men’s Room walls in all of Brooklyn, and by salacious word of mouth. We (my group of male friends at the time) used to say of the Trollop that her greatest ambition in life was to screw her way through the White Pages).
But what can I say? Men are dogs, even in the best of circumstances, and drunk 19/20-year-olds with an erection and a broken heart are perhaps the biggest hounds of all.
In some strange way, I think, it (telling the Lady of my dalliances) was even an expression -- a mentally-deranged one, though it may be -- of love and loyalty. Or at least I may have thought it was at the time. Really, it was more a case of guilty conscience; I was a rotten (in the sense of not being a good one) liar at the time, a skill I unfortunately would acquire as the years went on and mental disorder crept in, and could never hide anything. Besides, we were bound to bump into the Trollop at a later date (we did, and it wasn’t a pretty scene, long story short).
The Lady and The Lunatic continued to see each other on and off for a while, lingering in some sort of relationship Limbo, until IT happened.
IT was an unplanned pregnancy. It almost always is.
We were 20, we were pregnant, and despite The Lunatic’s (totally genuine) proposal of marriage, The Lady was having none of it. She was too young to be a wife and mother, and who the hell knew what sort of husband/father I would have been? In retrospect, I most likely would have been absolutely lousy in both roles. I would have tried my hardest, but these are two areas in life where “A For Effort” just doesn’t cut it. You either succeed or you fail spectacularly.
And here I was, a heartbroken, emotionally-insecure-and-immature drunkard (I had already begun drinking heavily by this time, although I was managing to be the absolute best functioning alcoholic you ever did see) when the decision was made for me; The Lady would have an abortion.
She would have done it without me, but I couldn’t let her face that by herself. I didn’t want to do it, either, but what choice was there? I took her to the clinic. I waited for her. I tried my best in the days after to comfort her, but I was hurting something fierce, too.
We formed what psychiatrists call a trauma bond after that. We could never truly abandon one another, but we also couldn’t be together in quite the way we used to. This sad state of affairs went on for nearly 10 years. We would see one another occasionally, we would even…you know…but things were never quite the same after that. I wanted her, and I hated her. I loved her, but couldn’t forgive her. I could not let it go. She did. She couldn’t have survived otherwise, I think.
Me, on the other hand, I need my wounds to remain raw, to wallow in guilt, shame, and pain, if only because without that agony I will simply forget what not to do and become that which I hate the most; Your Average Male.
We finally said goodbye about a week before she was married. And then there was nothing for 14 years until I had accidentally found an obituary searching for information on someone else. Serendipity. Or was it?
I haven't told you about The Dream…
Three days before I had found that obituary, I’d had a dream. It was one of those dreams that occurs just moments before you awaken, and you don’t know where the original premise came from, or how it started, or even how it ends. You seem to have been just dropped into the dream at some random moment with no idea of what came before, what it’s about, or what you’re doing there, and somehow, you manage to just get swept up in the action before you get pulled out abruptly at yet another random moment. And then you’re awake.
In this dream, I found myself having to explain to my nephews just who The Lady was, why they never knew her, and where she might be now, and finding myself with no answers for their questions.
I don’t believe I had even thought about her for at least a decade before then.
I don’t really hold with that whole “dreams as a predictor of the future” nonsense, but this is the second time in my life -- that I’m aware of -- that I have dreamed something and then had Real Life throw me something directly related to the Dream. Both times it was about a woman from my past, and both times I got the impression that they needed me, or wanted something from me, at the time. Why can’t I dream winning Lotto numbers, instead?
We’re 44 now. There’s been a lot of growing up done in the interim. I’m determined to be a better person nowadays (yeah right!), one who isn’t ruled by his feelings (or his privates), who looks very carefully before he leaps, but that plan was blown to smithereens almost in an instant. In a sense, we’ve become 19 again, you see, transported back in time and space and what felt right and natural then feels very much the same now, and it all seems to have happened seamlessly and quite accidentally. We fell into our old bad habits almost immediately, but this time around, it’s somehow better.
Maybe now we actually know what we’re doing? Or rather, perhaps there have been some boundaries established even if we haven’t actually talked about them, as such.
I don’t know where this all eventually goes (two dates with your Ex from the Iron Age does not The Rest of Your Life make!), but I don’t seem to have the usual supply of venom to put on the page these days. I haven’t felt much like blogging, or railing against the stupidity of my fellow bags of protoplasm, and truthfully, I haven’t felt like doing much of anything else this past week, either. I seem to be a bit preoccupied, so excuse me if you come here expecting your daily dose of caustic word vomit, only to leave miserably disappointed.
I’m trying my best whilst laboring under some very unusual circumstances, so please bear with me.
I’m positive that in the coming days, someone will do something so completely stupid that it simply cannot be allowed to pass without comment and all will be right with the world again.
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