Monday, December 31, 2012

From my Sister

Wisdom from an old Jewish Man...

A female CNN journalist heard about a very old Jewish man who had been going to the Western Wall to pray, twice a day, every day, for a long, long time.

So she went to check it out. She went to the Western Wall and there he was, walking slowly up to the holy site.

She watched him pray and after about 45 minutes. When he turned to leave, using a cane and moving very slowly, she approached him for an interview.

"Pardon me, sir, I'm Rebecca Smith from CNN. What's your name?

"Morris Feinberg," he replied.

"Sir, how long have you been coming to the Western Wall and praying?" 

"For about 60 years."

"60 years! That's amazing! What do you pray for?"

"I pray for peace between the Christians, Jews and the Muslims."
"I pray for all the wars and all the hatred to stop."
"I pray for all our children to grow up safely as responsible adults and to love their fellow man."
"I pray that politicians tell us the truth and put the interests of the people ahead of their own interests."

"How do you feel after doing this for 60 years?"

"Like I'm talking to a fucking wall."

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Happy People.

I was watching Court TV today and they were reading some kids journal from the days leading up to him killing his family.  The day before the murders he wrote a one line entry.

I despise happy people.

There in lies our answer. That's what motivates NPD's and sociopaths. Front, back, and inside. I don't think you can fix that.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Like a Bridge over Troubled Water

A mathematical expression of the frequency resonance
between periodic high and low
Barbaric tantrum activity.
Delta's in brackets
quantify the consumption of .99 cent six packs of beer
and pickled eggs
by fat sweaty construction workers
to the varying distance between bar-stools and parking lots
containing station wagons with sleeping bags and pillows.
It correlates the probability of discovery by current cuckholded husband
based on the frequency of past discovery
episodic ruination of holiday cheer for every one witnessing
shameless histrionics and domestic violence.
Fuck you mom!

My mother made our holidays a special time for us!

Sunday, December 23, 2012

An apology to my borderline ex-wife.

Evidently my ex reads my blog. I will not take down what I have written about her, but I will issue an apology. Like she said so many times through out our marriage I must prove beyond a reasonable doubt  any accusations  I make about her and about her actions.
I will do her one better. I let her webcam her own defense to my implications of her driving by at a high rate of speed, and agreed to post her comments here. Unaltered and unedited. I give you  the cum dumpster.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Blah blah blah

The biggest problem for me this time of year is the large amount of time I have to fill, and the small amount of activity I have to fill it with.  I sit and get caught up in reams of meaningless thought. A nauseating and endless loop of blah blah blah that stretches from ear to shining ear.
I get caught up when I read things from people that have been altered by the personality disordered, and how they say we should be some kind of a flat line.
No anger.
No bitterness.
At least none we should be willing to talk about lest we appear to be less than someone who makes each day one of constant self improvement. That we should be blogging as if we are a finished product and be sharing how we became whole again.
I don't get it.
The day will never come when I don't have to sit on my hands to keep myself from going down and throttling my mother like a Sunday dinner chicken.
It's not hyperbole. It's not embellishment. It's a constant fight to suppress this urge.
And I don't care who knows.
Which brings me to my round about point.
The reason I don't care is because I know I am not the person that is fucked up. It's her. And I'll be goddamned if I am going to become some shrinking violet and not tell it like it is about that fucking slut from hell.
I am not fucked up.
You are not fucked up.
We are not fucked up.
It's them.
(ok we are fucked up but they made us this way)
They have no problem telling the most outrageous lies about their sons and daughters.
Why would any of us shy away from telling the truth about them, or showing the emotions they have left of us with to sort out on our own?

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

The meaning of life.

By god I found it. The meaning of life. Too bad it's written in Korean.

스윙 바이(swing-by)란 우주 탐사선의 항법 중 하나로, 여러 행성의 인력을 이용하여 항로를 변경한다. 즉 우주선이 목성같은 큰 행성의 궤도를 지날 때 행성의 인력에 끌려 들어가다 '바깥으로 튕겨져 나가듯' 속력을 얻는 것을 말한다. 다른 행성으로 가는 제일 안정적인 방법이었던 호만 궤도보다 더 발전된 형태인데, 호만 궤도보다 더 빠른 시간에 목적지에 도착할 수 있다. 예를 들어 보이저 탐사선의 경우 목성에서 스윙바이를 하면 자동차가 주유소에서 연료를 얻는 것과 같은 개념이 된다. 다른 말로 '행성궤도 접근통과'라고도 한다.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Of all the Stephen King Quotes

This one is my favorite.

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.” 
― Stephen KingDifferent Seasons

Thursday, December 13, 2012

Jenna Bush Hager Is Pregnant

Photo of Alienatedmom

It's too easy. Going to Daily strength. Shooting fish in a barrel. The way they view the world is more than one off. Buckle your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy ride. 

Jenna Bush Hager Is Pregnant

I have my Christmas wishes this year, peace on earth, feed the hungry, cures for the sick, clothing and shelter for the needy... 

Luv you need to put some distance between you and Palm Beach. An African kid dies from malaria every thirty seconds. Shopping cart people now out number rats. The last time there was peace on Earth we were living in trees. 

someone help me...i cant stop crying

I miss my son!!! I miss my son!! He is 19 his dad and I divorcing after 20 yrs nasty divorce from a narcissist...

Aw shut the fuck up.

Celebrating Breath

After I can drum up the type of gratitude that I need to keep my perspective, then I will move into thinking about what I learned the most from the last six months of Hashi Mashi, how it changed me both physically and emotionally and then start to form the new goals and concepts for the next four quarters, for the next year.



What caused your estrangement?

I have a 23 year old daughter who met a much older man at work, she had been living at home, and she knew we would not approve

Nuff said.

I can't keep this up. I would rather drink ipicache and puke on the carpet.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Tracy Richter.

It's not hard to find criminal's in this world. Swing a dead rat and you'll hit one of some caliber. They're every where. Serial murderers. Armed robbers. Embezzlers. Habitual double parkers. 
You could be living next door to one and never know.
Until they get caught. Some keep it reeled in. Some break so crazy they are nailed cat quick. 
Women killers are an intrigue.  I like to watch society keep not believing they are capable of what they find so easy to do.  My mother like's to put a twist on her twist. If she kept the lion's share of her betrayals to herself, she might have hummed right along until providence put out her lights. 
Sociopath's are dual entry accountants.
For each back stab, there must be a balancing nose rubbed in the filth.
Nothing is over without cashing that check of betrayal. To reveal themselves and watch the hollow face of loved ones having dinner with someone normal, only to realize they are sitting across from a sociopath.
That's what they live for.
That's the pay off.
That lightening strike and death rattle makes them squirm with orgasmic joy.
I have seen it.
You don't want to. 
It's not easy to find a homicidal, soccer mom hybrid.  
There are women who kill. But rarely do they resort to the subterfuge of a Tracey Richter.

Guys are too busy humping their legs to catch the reptilian lack of sparkle.  Eyes that are on, but show no one of conscience within.

Before a poor slob knows it, he is snared in that tar pit trap of obsessive love.
Ripe for betrayal.

If she were mixing a drink and wanting to fuck me, I would go easy on her too. But if she were mixing me a drink, that would mean she wasn't convicted of first degree murder, and sentenced to life without parole.

Tracey and her second husband met and married in Chicago.
Jim Fischer sums her up here.

After she married number two, she claimed an oral surgeon sexually assaulted her during sedation. Part of a plot to extort 150K from him.
Said she woke up dressed in red high heels with him masturbating.
Accused her first husband of being a pedophile. Plastered the cars and telephone poles in his neighborhood with posters of his picture and claims of his perversion.
The evidence of his deviancy was this.
The evidence of her rape at the hands of her dentist was this.
She waited for months to tell anyone about her assault.
Even her new husband.
She left the house in black skirts to model for Black Velvet whiskey. With nary a check forthcoming.
Sorry Tracy. You're doable, but not even close. 

Her fidelity was in question.
Accusations made.
Accusations denied.
A new start for this marriage was in order.
A new start was made.
In Early Iowa.
A town her second husband apologized to for the carnage she unleashed.

Early Iowa.
 She, for what ever reason, had a kid over to the house. Ostensibly to help with filing.
It ended with her shooting him in the back nine times and claiming he was in on a murder for hire plot with her first husband. She had the kid write a notebook detailing plans about him and her ex-husband conspiring to kill her, then planted it in the kids car. Imagine that 20 year old writing what amounts to a suicide note with a gun to his head.

The law never bought her story, and they kept the notebook's existence quiet to avoid scandalizing the ex further. They were that sure she was a lying sack.
The kids death led to the parents divorce. And the eventual suicide of his father.
While these folks came unraveled, she moved to Omaha and appeared on the Montel Williams show.
She was a hero. A heroine that saved the life of herself and her then 11 year old son.

And for what?

It would be bad enough if these people, just whacked the person they have decided to whack. But this ripples out through every one.
Lives are changed.
Lives are ended.
Lives are distorted beyond belief.
And people are robbed of things that money can't replace.

 In a matter of a moment

Lost till the end of time

It's the evening of another day

And the end of mine

Now the starlight which has found me

Lost for a million years

Tries to linger as it fills my eyes

Till it disappears

Could it be that somebody else is

Looking into my mind

Some other place


Some other time

Some other place


Some other time

Like a mirror held before me

Large as the sky is wide

And the image is reflected

Back to the other side

Could it be that somebody else is

Looking into my mind

Some other place


Some other time

Some other place


Some other time

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Calabanastan 650

Calabanastan 650 is the brand name for the medication containing 500 milligrams of Calfiminist Sistartrate and 150 milligrams of potassium nitrate (salt peter). Calabanastan is indicated for the relief of chronic independent thought. Calabanastan is available by prescription only. It is a powerful central nervous system antagonist that decreases episodic rational thought while increasing social isolation and marked avoidance of internet blogs written by undesirable scofflaws. The action of Calabanastan is unknown. It is believed to target synaptic activity in the frontal lesbonic lobe of the brain. Calabanastan replaces even tempered demeanor with aggressive and impulsive moods, causing the patient to leave unhinged anonymous comments on prohibited blogs .
It is possible to relapse into rational thought while taking Calabanastan.  If you engage in dialogue with a disapproved blogger, or you feel an episode of level headed thinking overtaking you, take the next dose of Calabanastan 650 and cease reciprocal contact with bloggers not found on the list of approved thinkers.
After rational thought passes, it it safe to continue visiting excluded blogs, but only to flood their comment threads with diatribes attributed to fictitious lawyers. Restrict the duration of visits to the time necessary to carpet bomb the blog. LEAVE before you read or try to comprehend the contents of the post..

 Let your lack of impulse control and irrational anger be your guide.

In rare cases, users may experience a decrease in hostility, agitation, or depressed moods while taking Calabanastan. If you notice an increase in relaxed or calm states of mind, double your dose of Calabanastan and slam your thumb in a car door.
Some people can have serious reactions to Calabanastan. It is not uncommon to develop a chapped ass, bulging eyes, and protruding veins in the neck and forehead. Long term exposure can lead to hot steam whistling out one or both the ears. This is all normal and will serve as a visual warning to others that you are medicated and not a person to be trifled with.

Any unused or out of date medications should be disposed of safely by inserting pills into cheese wedges and thrown to the dog in your neighbors yard. A 24 hour therapeutic dose should dispatch even the largest dog.  If the animal remains asymptomatic, DO NOT jump the fence into the dogs territory.
Call animal control and ask for a technician properly trained in the use of tranquilizer dart administration.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Stacey Castor.
Was found guilty of poisoning her then husband David Castor with antifreeze and them attempting to murder her own daughter, Ashley Wallace, with a cocktail of cruised pills mixed in vodka and Sprite. She forged a suicide note and placed it next to her daughter to lead the investigators to believe it was her daughter that poisoned her husband and not her.


Monday, December 3, 2012

White Oleander

Jonsi's latest post continues to make me think. I would like to have a relationship with my mother. I would like to have a loving relationship with my mother. About all it would take would be to sit across the table from her, and hear her say things were pretty crazy back then. You are older now than I was back then, and you know how things can get away from you like a kite on a windy day. I should have left you kids out of it. But I didn't. And I can't change that now.
Not even that. Just admit that what I know to be true is true.
She admits to things off the cuff. I have heard her joke about the panic of having a dead guy on hand and no where to hide him. Yet, defending my self against her merciless verbal onslaught by pointing out her own lack of moral fiber gets a full on denial of all of it.
Like my analogy of getting to normalcy being a journey I just don't have a map for, my mother doesn't have the foggiest idea about how far off the beaten track she is, and even if she did, she wouldn't spend a snap of her fingers to make up anything to any one around her.
This is when she becomes NPD. As opposed to a full on bat shit sociopath.

She is so blinkered that she thinks she has us all fooled. That she can reach across the table and metaphorically slap us on the side of the head and settle back in her seat and deny she did it.
Mom, you just dinged me on the side of the head. Oh I did not~!
My ear is still ringing!
It's from all that pot you used to smoke.
She has never looked at her kids as offspring. We were the low ranking competition. Now that the rest of her world died off, we are all that she's got left to attack.
That's the only way to explain the war she waged against me and Sis the past few years.

I don't like the movie White Oleander. It's perfect until the end.
When Michelle Pfieffer could have thrown her kid under the bus, she takes the high road and stays in jail.
For those of you that believe that scenario, watch Investigation Discovery on cable. There is a segment on "Women who Kill" There is not a one of them that didn't tried to pin it on their daughter if they could get away with it.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Like a journey I just don't have a map for.

When people talk about the old and hard ways we came up, it always works around to how you can't miss things that didn't exist. I remember back when a phone call from Dallas to San Francisco cost several dollars. These were the days when you could leave for work with a dollar and pack no lunch and come back home with a quarter. Adding machines weighed 30 pounds and were a series of cams and cogs  driven by an electric motor. Skyping was what your father saw in Dick Tracey comic books in the thirties.
  Jonsi has a nice post out right about now. About how, despite the frictional situations that all families endure, her family was pretty goddamn normal. Other than an easily overlook-able pissing down the stairs episode.
I love to hear of normal families. I've seen enough of them to know that I would have liked to have lived in one. I started writing this to say I am somewhat envious because I saw enough normality to covet it. But as I tip tapped away, I realize my understanding of normalcy is no less murky now than how I would have understood  a UPC code back then.
The closet thing I can remember to good times was that every Saturday we would go grocery shopping. Shopping for the week, but also to make hamburgers later that night. Jackie Gleason would be on and my father would grill the burgers and we would sit in front of the TV and watch his variety show. The one with the June Taylor dancers.  Long after the Honeymooner's came and went. I would all but press my nose  against the screen and try and imagine myself in the television as the shot skimmed the waters of Miami beach and then flew up in the air just before it crashed.
Those were the only good times I can remember. And they didn't last long. It was a thin slice between the Barbarian's last affair and the next. And before her local celebrity status took away any chance of good times forever.
She could have made it up to us. But my father didn't exact that price. No matter how dearly he paid for her freedom.
I think if I was only broken I might be fixable.  But there just isn't much there to fix.
There isn't enough of me to send to the mechanic and still run the machine.