Sunday, January 20, 2013

Two Affirmations.

One is from Mulderfan who is expresses frustration with her many attempts to appeal to her stonewalling parents. 

This is my daily affirmation: I cannot reason with these people or appeal to them either emotionally or intellectually. Passivity makes me a target, aggression delights them, and assertiveness is met with contempt. Time to face the fact that, regardless of my best efforts, these people will not change…EVER!


And one from The Daily Strength's site for estranged parents.


 Do you have adult children, who have blamed you for everything wrong in their childhood, lost contact either through addiction, divorce, or in laws? No phone calls for birthdays, Mother's day, just no communication. How do you cope with the emptiness, the painful loss of not having your children in your life? 


They say we blame them for our childhood. Just as quickly as they will pontificate about the wonderful child hood they provided. 

It's not their fault they lost contact with their children. It's because of addictions and divorce etc. 
How does your child's divorce effect the relationship you have with your child?
 I would think that it would bring you closer together. 
Maybe the "childhood" you provided turned them to substance abuse? 

Mulderfan says I can lead them to thought but I can't make them think.

DS followers say my way or the highway. 

The problem I had with my mother that she was so sure every body was out to screw her, that she fell all over herself to screw them first. This included her children. No matter if they were 4, 14, or 40. 


Tuesday, January 15, 2013

My swan song about her swan song.

                                            


If you are within the sound of my voice. You will be dead some day.
If you are reading this, you will be dead.
If you never hear of this blog you will be dead.
If you are confined to a wheelchair and type with a stick attached to your head, you will be dead.
Lance Armstrong, you will be dead. Oprah. You too.
All of every thing you know, and every body you know, here, there, and every where will be dead and gone.
Crazy people have a sweaty grip on this concept.
They can see it in everybody else's future but their own.
Oh boy! says they, you just wait. I'll see you in hell.
And they probably will.
But I will have to die to catch up to them.
Or they will have to die and catch up to me.
Either way both of us have to kick he bucket.
Sociopath's just gotta take it beyond the grave. Like they are going to be hanging around to watch the carnage they will unleash. Just as soon as they?
Any one?
Any one?
That's right.
As soon as they are dead.
What kind of a sick fuck plans carnage from beyond the grave?
People like my mother. That's who.
To her death was not the ending of a life. It was the beginning of the flip side of the mind fuck record.
Oh boy! I have yanked those fuckers chains for 50 and 60 years respectively. I have ruined Christmas's. Birthdays. I have wrecked marriages. Kept my family teetering on bankruptcy until they got old enough to run like their ass just burst into flames.
On my way out says she....if I can't take it with me, I am going to wipe myself with it and toss it to the most wretched bottom feeding whore that will exist after I am gone.
Too bad no one down here gives a fuck. Oh it would have been nice. You betcha sheeit.
But to think me and the sis ever counted on any money, you would think we are as stupid as my mother did.
This is the barbarians M.O.
Like this isn't just more of the same we got from her all our lives. It would be nice if all the ways I was compromised. If every thing of value was ever recovered after bailing her out of jail for her first degree murder charge.After all the times we had to move to keep her from humping the whole goddamn neighborhood. After she drove my father down like a dog.But we don't count the cost of bailing HER out. That's too cumbersome for her delusion.It's all about what have we done for her lately. 
I came into his world broke
It's OK to go out that way.


Monday, January 14, 2013

Dumb stuff


I had a first wife. Maybe you've heard me talk about her?
One thing I forgot about was how she beat her mother up during an argument between the two of them when she was around twenty. It was long before I met her, but it still gets brought up and passed around. I asked her how the hell she could hit her own mother. I always get the same eye rolling fuck her she said effing bla bla I'd do it again. Her mother would be listening in and laugh it off.
She also got a DWI while we were married. I wouldn't throw stones. I have had one so who am I to judge? After our divorce was final and people felt safe telling me the stories of things she did while I toiled away building my construction company, I heard the rest of the story about her DWI.
There was a reason she was weaving that had little to do with her blood alcohol content. At the instant the cop turned on the red lights to pull her over, she just happened to be sucking on a crack pipe. She had some more rocks in a baggie resting in her lap and she jumped and they fell all over the floor.
So she gets hand cuffed and taken to jail where she was booked on a drunk driving charge.
Period.
No cocaine to be found any where.
I figure the cop couldn't let her go for fear of her crashing into a car load of kids and him losing his job.
But I wonder why she didn't get booked on possession of controlled substance?

Here's a hint.

  


Friday, January 11, 2013

Mom's Magical Misery Tour.

Map image of 3830 Douglas Dr, Garland TX 75041
3830 Douglas Garland Tx.
This is a side view of the Barbarian's final home.
The place where her second husband went into cardiac arrest at 9PM.
And she called for an ambulance at 9AM. 
Notice the bastard Q's glass truck parked in the drive. 
Map image of 576 Bondstone Dr, Dallas TX 75218

576 Bondstone Dallas 
On the far right you will catch a glimpse of  the lovely driveway where the Barbarian's lover
pistol whipped her soon to be dead victim

The man ran between where the photographer is standing and the curb 
into the intersection on the left while her
lover Bill Jobe emptied his .32 at his back
 striking him once in the heart and killing him.
The gunfire also peppered the house across the street.


E Renner Rd

They loaded him into his car and drove him to Renner and Shiloh road.


In 1967 they were two lane white rock roads and just a very few farm houses there.
They drove his car into the ditch and left him there.


The dynamic duo and defense council 


The peace and dignity of  the whole state of Texas was not safe from her. 
The house on the farm.
Top left: B's father, The big B, B's mother and grandmother
Top right is the guy that was conned into signing my birth certificate
 My father snuffed it between the big tree left of center and that shrub to the right. 












Banshee.



A sociopath's undoing is always the same. Their reach so far exceeds their grasp and they get caught too far out to cover their tracks of insanity.
The Barbarian was so sure that this would be proof positive of the short comings of her children.
I've got news for her.  Every one who knows her is not thinking how she showed her two bastard kids in the end.
It's well known about her involvement in a murder in the sixties. OK, wrong place at the wrong time. Most people know that her first husband took his own life. How did a happy man come home from work on a Friday night, end up in his mother in laws yard gasping his last breath only 48 hours later?
If you knew the Barbarian and are a woman with a husband, she has made a play for him. And if you were a friend of either husband, she has made a play for you.
So she gets to the end of the line and suddenly her downtrodden kids are cut from the will.

You rarely get a lifetime kind of chaos around a single person without that person generating it themselves.
These are just the highlights.
Random pinnacles along the way.
What could have been the payback for a lifetime of her filth was turned into another slap in the face of those that should have been closest to her.
I don't think the ex is qualified to fill her sociopath shoes.
She is more of the neener neener neener stand behind her mothers apron strings and stick her tongue out sociopath.
She's in the big league now.
And she's working without a net.


Thursday, January 10, 2013

This is the very post I wrote on the day the barbarian lay dying.





 One nasty lesson I learned in my short time with Mephistopheles was that I have a long forgotten mean streak of  indifference and being aloof.  One more maladapted coping mechanism excavated from the archaeological dig of that seven months. My best guess it that it's from the need to hold my head up to  glares from strangers and from the Polaroid Avoid I acquired by stepping out of court house elevators and into a sea of flash bulbs and 16 millimeter lighting.  
At first I thought it was cool and I strutted like the King of Sweden.
It was later that I got that sinking feeling as I watched myself on the ten o'clock news and knew that every one from school was watching me too. 
 I made it a habit to lag behind. At court and in school.
The press  weren't looking for me. They wanted her.
Staying  away from her was to stay away from the press.
Living with her now, and after about the 100th time I told my mother to shut the fuck up, the malware revealed itself and began a full on collaboration with my operating system. 
Only in reverse. There is no more shrinking back from human bilge water. 
I don't like bullies. I have never liked bullies. 
Now I won't tolerate them. 
That'll probably be my epitaph, but I would rather go down swinging than to spend the day wishing I had said something to the overbearing fat bastard berating the kid sweeping up popcorn and tearing tickets at the Cinemark.
My no contact will be a three year gig on October tenth.  I have only stepped up twice. But when I do step up, it is with all the earnestness of Mike Tyson licking his chops for a bite of ear meat.

Having lived my adult life in the world of straight forward facts.  I say what I mean. And I mean what I say. And if I expect to bull doze a person, I expect to be bulldozed back. 

It's very simple. Childhood head banging be damned. 
As a kid I didn't possess the chutzpah to sell insanity like my parents. Sane people can't do it. It's embarrassing.
After I went to care for Lay Madre and she wanted to pick right back up where she left off,  it was game on.  I haven't wanted to turn it off since.
 It's really fun. 
People are used to getting their way because no one calls them on their blow hard shit. People like my mother.  She out crazies the craziest and people end up walking away. 
It's funny that standing up to my mother is harder for the public at large than standing up to some quaffed douche with a pencil thin mustache. 


I Dont Always - I don't always drink beer, but when i do i get put on house arrest

I don't always get in a douche bags face, but when I do, I do all I can to make him piss his pants.



 Attaching concrete memories of those chaotic days to the nebulous rhetoric gin-mill that is my mother, brought me all the way back to the beginning. 
Full circle.  
Right back where I started.
Only now I am an adult and I don't suffer fools.  Pathologically so. And whatever else my mother is, she is a fool. 
My current malaise is from the knowledge that my journey is about done. My war with this world is over. I am left with what I picked up along the way, and the need to reconcile the books into something that makes some kind of sense.  

If I regret estrangement from my mother, it is because I can no longer muse at what powers of darkness  claim her for their own.  Like the demise of a planet exploring probe, I have  reams of data to sift through, but there could have been so much more.  

The post spin analysis of her world is fascinating and frustrating.  It would make me dizzy even if I could take every thing she said as the gospel truth.  With her misrepresentations of fact, and me trying to compare it to the reality I know is the ultimate in crazy making.
There is my reality, the reality through the lens of a child. There is her delusional perspective. And  there is the truth.
What makes me crazy is that only she knows the real story behind it all.  But that bitch sits there and tells people anything that pops up in her head.
Gah! 
It's like listening to AM radio and driving in the desert.  I lose myself in some radio theater broad cast  as a 100,000 watt Mexican station blasts top forty out the fillings in my teeth.  Descending into the salt flats muddles the mix  with cross over from the Navajo chant channel. Throw in some Morse code atmospherically bounced in from Siberia and it's just like having my mother in the car. 
I want to hear it all.  
I end up hearing pops and whistles.
It's a challenge between my simple mind and the desert of her narcissism.  I must make it across  before my engine boils over and I end up face down in a pool of  toxic mine sludge.


Someone has to do it. Someone needs to understand how their mind works. If only to scribble hobo chalk marks for those who come behind.
Someone must be sacrificed so that others can live on. 
It's the cornerstone of civilization. 

  

I have left the House of the Barbarian. 
The House of the Barbarian has not left me. 
I am marked as the son of the beast.
Heed the warnings of the misanthropic oracle. 
As I go now
some day so shall you. 
It is hard to do the right thing. 
When right is obscured in darkness and evil. 
Run. 
Run and live another day.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

My first wife was a Barbarian.




So the last year of marriage to the lesser Barbarian went something like this.  It was the year of hate. I hated her and she hated me.  We were like two sharks living in a stock tank waiting for the other to go to sleep first so the other one could sink their teeth in the other.
About four months before I packed my shit to flee, she suddenly gets all lovey dovey. She was fucking me like shit goddamn! and even had dinner waiting when I walked in at night. I am not the kind of guy who expects things to be like this, especially if the wife has a full time job.
I remember one night telling her so. I appreciate the effort. Isn't it funny how far a little sex and some hot chow will go to keep me complacent. But you don't have to grovel.
After a couple of weeks of this she mentions that her family all wants to go to Puerto Vallarta and we are invited. I had a suspicious flash then but seeing how the invite only included a week in a time share who's cost was to split among us and everything else was all up to us to pay for I didn't think any thing more. So we get down there and have fun. She was as nicey nice as nice can be and like one should never do around a sociopath I let my guard down. Her little sister did mention that she was surprised my mother in law let us come because at first she wouldn't allow her to tag along saying she needed to stay home and work on her marriage
Duh.duh duh duh.
Sang to the tune of the tums antacid commercial.
So the stay is over and are all on de plane coming home. We arrive at DFW and disembark and she is holding my hand and we are with her family walking toward the parking lot. It was such a  precious scene.
Her family.
Her loving husband who's marriage had just been snatched from the jaws of divorce court. Outside we all split up to go our separate ways.
As SOON as no one from her family could see us she tossed my hand off like it was big dog turd and said
DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME.



Monday, January 7, 2013

One of these days




Barbara Delores Wilkinson
March 13 1933 - October 2 2012
Barbara Wilkinson, born in 1933 in Wylie Texas, left this world on October 2nd 2012.
Barbara will be met in the afterlife by her cuckolded husband, Durwood Donn Wilkinson, and the wives of all the men she slept with and whose lives and marriages she destroyed. Also awaiting her arrival is her first husband Leslie Hart, whom she drove to suicide on Sept 2nd 1973, as well as Joe C. Williams, the man she lured to her house on November 4th 1967 so that her lover Bill Jobe could have him lean on a bullet and take the slack out of his rope before emptying the pockets of his stiffening corpse and dumping him on the side of the road.
She is survived by her daughter, son, and one grand child.
Barbara had no hobbies, made no contribution to society, never held a job, and rarely shared a kind word or deed. I speak for her flesh and blood when I tell you that her presence will not be missed. No tears will be shed, and there will be no lamenting over her passing.
Since our mother's only past time is joining forces with any person that hates and betrays her family, the blood relatives were denied access
to traditional services at her time of death. Just as she denied her children the chance to attend the services of our father in 1973.
There will only be memories of sad and troubling times. We may have some fond memories, and perhaps we will think of those times. But at the end of the day, All of us will only miss is what we never had, a good and kind mother and grandmother. I hope she is finally at peace. For those of us left behind, may this be the beginning and a time of healing and learning to be a family again. 


GOOD BYE, MOM.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

4 Years




I spent four years in college to learn what this guy explains in three minutes.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013

Another One From Sis and Her Way Back Machine.


“In the first place, good people are rarely suspicious; they cannot imagine others doing the things they themselves are incapable of doing; usually they accept the undramatic conclusion as the correct one, and let matters rest there. Then, too, the normal are inclined to view the killer as the one who’s as monstrous in appearance as he is in mind, which is about as far from the truth as one could well get. He paused and then said that these monsters of real life usually looked and behaved in a more normal manner than their actually normal brothers and sisters: they presented a more convincing picture of virtue than virtue presented of itself—just as the wax rosebud or the plastic peach seemed more perfect to the eye, more what the mind thought a rosebud or a peach should be than the imperfect original from which it had been modeled.”
― William March