Only This, Again.

I will never be what I imagined or dreamed of….

I will never know everything.

I will never touch the moon.

I will not live forever and I still can’t accept this fact or believe it, honestly; even after my body has started to betray me by falling apart.

I have been a hypocrite, an idiot, a thief, a liar, spiteful, condescending, bigoted, biased, cruel, racist, a disappointment AND occasional colossal failure.

I have also been kind, loving, forgiving, patient, courteous, courageous, giving, a joy to be around and an occasionally successful with a task.

I’m just a regular guy, with a regular life, facing normal challenges and inopportune fiascos; doing the best I can, as I can.

I realize that I have unlimited, untapped potential that I know I will NEVER have TIME, in my life, to explore or achieve.

But, I am here, now.

A little sad today, but not too bad…

I’ve learned over the years how to keep those monsters at bay.

Just don’t feed them…

I don’t listen to my mind very much or at least I don’t take its first thoughts seriously…

It’s kinda ignorant…really.

I listen to my heart a little more in my older years but, I know it’s naive to a fault, still….after all it’s put me through.

So, I balance them out, best I can.

I’m just a simple man with regrets and future dreams in the same head & heart I started out with.

A little bruised & dented but, we’re still OK….

It’s not bad to not be perfect.

It’s the effort that counts.

My one saving grace is that I continue to effort the hell out of it.

Dead Men Tell No Tales

I cannot conceive of people committing suicide.

I am completely and utterly unable to understand WHY someone would take their own life.

It does not compute.

I will give you my very unpopular opinion on suicide, then I will explore it with this blog to try & understand….

1) Suicide is the most selfish act a human can commit.

2) There is NO REASON to kill oneself

3) A person is always in control of themselves. They can change things at any time.

OK, that’s pretty much my opinion on suicide.

Do you know why people hang themselves, shoot themselves, cut their wrist, suck car exhaust or other ways?

To be found, discovered that way.

To hurt, shock, punish; to lash out one last time. A final “Look what you made me do” or “Fuck you”

See me…

See me…

I have no concept of suicide.

Admittedly, I do not refrain from killing myself because it is a sin, as much as I was raised to believe, I do not kill myself because I know….have known….all of my life that it is not an option.

I know that it is the cowards way out.

There is no excuse other than painful terminal illness and I’m gray on that.

There is always the next moment. There is always tomorrow. There is always rock bottom.

There is always hope.

Meaning, it can only get so bad. You can sink no lower than rock bottom. If you get any lower, it’s because you dug the hole yourself but, Dammit, there’s still a bottom

You can change things in an instant.

This is a fact.

There are too many avenues these days to get help for suicidal thoughts or intentions.

There is absolutely NO REASON TO KILL ONESELF.

I don’t care how bad your life feels like it’s spiraling out of control and the world would be a better place for it, if you would just hurry up and blow your fucking brains out all over the nice bathroom mirror.

I guarantee the fact that there are millions of other people on this planet that have it much worse; that would kill you to have your life, that would love to have your problems instead of theirs. Would call you blessed…. If even for a moment…they could be you.

There are people that fight for their life every day.

They fight through agonizing pain and the knowledge of unavoidable, inevitable, early death.

They fight until they quit breathing.

And some people kill themselves because life is too hard….?

They can’t see a way out.

There is no hope, they think.

There is no other way, they think.

It’s all about…..Them.

They’re positive.

Oh. My. God.

Fuck your family.

Fuck your friends.

Fuck your co-workers.

Fuck, the world.

My life is too painful.

Everyone will be better off when I’m gone.

I cannot understand this.

It’s stupid.

It’s illogical.

It goes against human nature.

Humans are the only species that commit suicide while every other species on this planet; plant or animal, fight for survival; actual survival, every moment of everyday.

But, your life is too painful to go on living?

Mental illness, you say?

My opinion is that suicide has nothing to do with mental illness.

I’m mentally ill….according to my doctors.

I have been diagnosed with depression, as anti-social and with borderline personality disorder.

Evidently, I am 2 clicks from being a sociopath.

I have the papers to prove it.

I have lived in the gutter.

I was a stereotypical trench coat wearing, brown bag guzzling, sidewalk stumbling drunk.

I was homeless.

I dug thru trash bins behind food joints looking for something to eat.

For a long time, the only money I had was from donating plasma.

I rode city buses for hours; riding for days on end because I felt I had nothing else to do or anywhere to go.

I felt useless. I felt worthless.

I wanted to kill myself.

But, I didn’t.

……I wouldn’t.

It wasn’t an option.

I’m not going to do it.

Anthony Bourdain, did.

I am/was/are a huge fan.

As long as I have his audiobooks, which he narrated himself, his series’ on Netflix, videos on YouTube and many other outlets of which I haven’t discovered yet, I will always be a fan.

He chose to end his life.

From my eyes, A man beloved by millions, a man with a cult following, an excellent TV gig, an employer, a recovered addict, a chef, a father….

Hangs himself in a French hotel room.


I cannot understand this.

“I am alone in a room full of people.”

There is only one way out.

It breaks my heart about Anthony.

Here was a guy I actually looked forward to watching his stuff on TV; reading his books, following him on social media.

I have (had) 2 TV heroes that I wholeheartedly believed in 100%; in their honesty, their quirkiness, their irreverence towards “The Man” and no BS attitude.

One is Mike Rowe, the other is/was Anthony Bourdain.

When I saw anything they were involved with, everything they said or posted, I believed. I knew it would be honest and real.

But, I am also a realist.

I do believe that you can never know what’s in someone else’s mind.

You cannot see the monsters.

You cannot hear the voices.

You cannot feel their pain.

As much as I cannot fathom the prospect of killing myself or why anyone would do that to themselves and put their friends, family and colleagues through so much anguish, I understand that I am not that person.

I know that these individuals leave behind people close to them, that love them asking “Why?”

“Why didn’t he call me?”

“Why didn’t he tell me what he was feeling?”

“I would’ve been there in a flash, if I’d ONLY KNOWN

Anthony Bourdain was not alone in France.

His best friend was nearby.

A hotel full of people, were there.

As far as I know, he still has relatives in France.

All he had to do was say “Help me”


It makes me sad for his daughter, whom he claimed to love and cherish.

It makes me sad for his friend Eric; the best friend that found him dead.

It makes me sad for his friends and family that Anthony believed that he had no alternative but to kill himself.

“Why didn’t he just call me?”

It makes me angry that he was so selfish.

He only cared about himself.

No regard or thoughts of what he would leave behind.

No qualms of guilt in how his death would affect others.

No concern on leaving an 11 year old girl to face this cruel world without her dad.

How can I say these mean things about Anthony Bourdain?

I do not, did not, could not know the man or his problems.

What I do know is that he killed himself.

Which means, he did not give a FUCK about anyone else but Anthony Bourdain.

Suicide is real.

Suicide is terrible.

Suicide is selfish.

Suicide is the cowards way out.

There is always hope.

There is always tomorrow.

There is ALWAYS help….

Don’t be an asshole.

Stay alive.

Anthony Bourdain


You cheated us out of you…

Get Help

Memorial Day 2016

You never really see the flash of light when you’re killed on a roadside in Iraq….or so the dead soldiers tell me.

No, don’t start with me. I’m not like that kid on that movie.

I REALLY DO see dead people.

This is what I’ve learned from lost souls that go bump in the night….

You “think” you see something out of the corner of your eye but all you really feel is barely a millisecond of the sonic punch against your body, the feeling of… can you describe it?

You never knew what hit you?

A flash of pain? Nausea? Taste of blood in the back of your throat? Is that dirt in my mouth?


They had no idea they were being killed.dead

It was just…..over.

[Snapping fingers, echoing]

A bright light.

They all tell me that.

That there was a bright light, a sense of relief; not the kind of relief that you’d figure, I asked them that.

They said “No”, not the feeling of ‘Thank God, I didn’t go to hell” but more like “Thank God, I made it back”

I swear that’s what they tell me.

Let me tell you about one instance:

The I.E.D that was hidden beneath a dead dog on the isolated dirt road outside of Fallujah that killed Private Lykes was so powerful, that his physical body left this earth as a fine red mist mixed with fire and impersonal ripping steel.

There were 6 other troops that followed him into the sky at the exact same moment.

Different lives…different men….

Same fate…

They never knew what hit them either…but still…..

[Snapping fingers, echoing like a distant explosion]

I imagined a queue forming for the entry line at Saint Peter’s gate that morning.

7 young men, newly arrived.

No blood, no guts, no screaming.

They’re standing there, freshly shaved, freshly starched….squared away.

There were more coming…always.

There was also a delay in the phone call to 221 Edgrum Farm Road Bristol, Nebraska.

Private Lykes’childhood home.

Here’s what he told me:

He walked up to his front door about 5 minutes after he died, he figures, but it seemed quicker to him.

He was home, so he just went in,  you know, like usual normal stuff.

He stomped his feet on the Cornhuskers welcome mat. He grinned a little, glad that he was in clean uniform gear.
He said he still wasn’t quite sure what was going on or what had happened but, he felt….reassured that he was ok….that stuff was “okay” that everything was….”cool”

All the other boys that had reported to the Gate that morning had no idea what had happened to them either but, they all basically said that they were all “cool” “good to go”.

They had all been a little upset and angry, to say the least, about not knowing that they had been killed.

I told them to be glad that they hadn’t suffered.

I’m such a hypocrite…..who am I to try and bullshit these kids?

I guess it’s okay to be a hypocrite when you’re trying to make someone feel better.


There is no truth in the fact that there is no anger, hate, and bitterness in heaven; especially standing outside the Gate where most everyone is trying to figure out what in the heck is going on, what happened and arguing amongst themselves…

Some of the people in the line know they’re dead, others don’t…

They won’t, cant, ain’t gonna accept the fact.

Well, anyways…

Private Lykes wiped his arm across his face. He thought he could still smell the cordite, steel and blood, although his gear didn’t show it.

He was grateful for that at least, he didn’t want to upset his folks…


He was very glad that he was home, if just for the moment, because not everyone got an opportunity to say goodbye.

The man that had met them at the gate had taken pity on the small group of Nebraska National Guard troops.

You see…they had just got off the plane outside of Fallujah.

They had never fired a shot in anger or protest…never actually set foot on enemy soil.

They had been on their way to a staging center when the tiny man with crazy eyes and sweating brow killed them with the hidden mortar shell and a Trac Fone.

None of the troops were over 24 years of age.

Private Lykes was 18….and still a virgin.

He walked further into his childhood home.

He remembered that he had just been here 3 weeks ago.

His mom would probably think he had either forgotten something or went AWOL before actually getting on that plane. LOL!

Private Lykes followed the sound of dishes clattering…water running……..people laughing.

He looked down at his dusty boots.

Crap….Mom was gonna kill him….

He thought about that for a second and realized how stupid funny that had sounded….and not.

Maybe his mom wouldn’t freak out if he walked across the carpet.

He moved silently to the kitchen door and looked in at his parents; their backs were turned to him.

His mother was washing the dishes, his dad was rinsing, this time.

Private Lykes smiled to himself, wondering why his dad was in trouble……

Mom alaways made his Dad stand next to her at the sink and assist in the “womans work”, as dad would say, when he was in dutch.

“Hey guys!” Private Lykes yelled to his parents backs, they hated that and he loved it!

Dad jumped and turned first, a look of “oh shit!” surprise crossing his face as Mom jumped and turned with a more questioning and “I’m gonna beat that kid” look….you know how mom’s look at their kids when trying to decide whether to kill them or hug them.

That look….kinda hilarious, really. For a fleeting second, He wished he had a cell phone to take a pic of their faces….He laughed.

That was funny….ha….a phone..

…..he shook his head.

“Michael…?” his mom said wiping her hands on his dad’s shirt-sleeve “What’s wromg?”


Dad pulled his wet arm from his wife’s grasp laughing, saying “Woman, cease!I am not a dish rag”

Mom started to ask him “What are you…?” but something went out of her face.

She had stopped when she saw tears in her son’s eyes. Dad looked at him, searching “What’s wrong Mike, did something happen?” “Why aren’t you…?

The Man that had met the soldiers at the Gate that morning stepped around the corner of the kitchen door.

Mom and Dad were surprisingly, not surprised…or alarmed….

“Monica…..David” the Man said.

The Man stepped next to Private Lykes and placed his hand on his shoulder.

Dad didn’t seem to notice that his wife’s wet hands were digging into his arm now almost drawing blood.



“No” his mom hissed…”No…No…” she started to cry, her fists clenched to her lips.

Dad was pale…quiet.

The Man gently squeezed Mikeys shoulder and told him “Go say goodbye”

Mike didn’t look back at the Man.

He slowly, almost fearfully, walked to his parents and fell into their arms.

They caught their son!

The arms that held him when he had learned to walk, the arms of the mother that had taught him to dance in the living room so he wouldn’t embarrass himself at the prom. The arms of his hero…his Dad, the dad that had taught him to play football in the cornfield behind the house, the arms that had held him high above the crowd to see their Cornhuskers “Fight Fight Big Red!!” they had all shouted at the tops of their voices…

They caught their falling son! They had caught their son that had fallen!

They all stood there together…trembling, holding on to each other, crying, sobbing, gasping, squeezing, oh my God they were saying goodbye and not wanting to….


“No one from the Army has called y’all?” the young soldier asked, his voice muffled in his parents hair.

“No, no one” his Dad said.

The Man from the Gate watched too…..and he wept.

He had been alive once, here, on this earth, as a living, breathing man.

He too, had watched his own mother wiping blood from his feet as he had hung there on that tree; he had watched her weep as he had died….

The Man from the Gate suddenly realized he was getting angry…..this was so unecessary, so unfair for these nice people to have to go thru all OF THIS CRAP BECAUSE PEOPLE COULDN’T GET THEIR SHIT TOGETHER!!!

The Man took a deep breath and wiped the tears from his chin.

Private Lykes’ mother slowly pulled her wet face from her son’s chest and looked up into her sons face,

”Did he suffer?” she was looking into her sons eyes, but directed her question to The Man.

“No” The Man said.

“Why not ask me…?” Private Lykes’ grinned at his mother, acting jealous.

“Because “HE” wouldn’t…..can’t….lie to me” she replied as she wiped her sons wet eyes, smoothing the tears from his cheek…

Now she was staring at the hand that was resting over her son’s heart; so quiet……so, so quiet.

His Dad was holding his sons hand as the young soldier began to fade away. “I just wanted to come by….and tell you guys goodbye.” he said.

Dad winked at him, giving his son’s hand a hearty, hearty handshake.

The Man walked over and put his arm around the young soldiers shoulders.

The Man said “It’s just for now”

“You promise…?” his mother asked the Man, her trembling hand reaching out towards the Man.

“I always have, Monica” replied the Man, taking and squeezing her hand in his.

“Bye Mom…Bye Dad” Private Lykes said, giving his dad a half-hearted mock salute and a return wink that had a tear in it.

The phone began to ring and drew the eyes of the parents to it.

The moment, interrupted…

Monica and David Lykes turned back to say goodbye to their son.

Mikey, was gone.

The Man, was gone.

There was a glowing new rainbow magnet on the fridge.

Mr. Lykes looked at it closely, giving a small, quick sob.

Mrs. Lykes put her fingers to her lips and asked “What…?”

Afraid to know…….

“I Promise…” he replied. “It says…I promise”

Some Fight, Some Quit

I had a friend that killed himself last week because of his ex-wife and his inability to face life.
He left behind 3 kids…
Ages 5-11
I am pissed at him.
Some people give up and blow their brains out all over the pretty floor….
Others fight.


An Insight: Who’s life is it, anyways?

A 14 year old girl with Cystic Fibrosis wants to die…

I’m tired, Daddy

“I want to die” she said.

The beeping machines beeped.
The breathing tube breathed.
The IV drip, dropped.
The Cystic Fibrosis, ate.

“Don’t say things like that to your mother” said Dad, crossly.

The patient looked at her small hands, laced with pretty tubes that pierced her skin, easing the pain, itching like hell and burning.

She didn’t tell her family that part, she didn’t tell her doctors.

She was tired of complaining all of the time.

It was a waste of breath and breath was precious.
It hurt to breathe, too.
It hurt bad.

The breath left her lungs; clawing, tearing, raking….
It came back in like a lamb.

She couldn’t hide this fact.
The pain was in her face like living stitches.

The tears burned more than anything else;
She was very aware of how much the tears burned; angry that the IV’s and tubes kept pumping replacement tears into her body.

Countless, endless bags of tears….

Enough, already.

She was tired…. So tired of crying.

“That’s no way to be” said Mom, quietly; with tear stitches of her own.

“I want to die” said the patient.

“Stop it!” cried Dad “Stop that pity pot shit, right now!”

“Honey” said mom, turning to look at her husband’s heaving shoulders and gasping back.

“You have to be strong” Mom said, turning back to the child.

“I’ve been strong my whole life, mom” whispered the girl, looking slowly up from her clasped hands.

“I can’t remember not hurting” she added. “That ain’t living, it’s dying.”

Mom looked at her.

“I’m already dead….” the girl, sighed

The patient laid back on her pillow and slowly placed her tube riddled hand on her mother’s.

A feather was heavier.

“This ain’t no life, Mama” she said, distractedly looking out the window as if following her precious words out, into the sunshine.

“Everyday is precious” said Mom.

“To you, maybe” said her daughter looking back at her with a sharp glance; “To me, nothing is worth this” She held up the tubes and shook them.

“You’re being rude to your mother” said Dad gently, but sternly; putting his hand on the patients bed rail. “That’s awful hurtful talk”

He lowered the rail and sat on the edge of the bed, looking back over his shoulder at his little girl. “Your mama don’t deserve that”

The patient looked at her Dad.
The Dad looked at her.
The beeping machines beeped.
The breathing tube breathed.
The IV drip, dropped.

Mama looked between them; silent argument tennis.

“I want to die” she whispered; her screaming eyes fixed on her father’s.

He dropped his gaze under the weight of her pain.
His hands were clinched…
Not letting go of his hope for an instant.

“No” He said.

The patient tried to scream, but couldn’t.
“I hate this! You think I wanna live for this! You think I wanna live with something inside me, eating me up, cutting me down, turning me rotten and crippled from the inside out, knowing I’m gonna die from it! Knowing it’s gonna kill me, knowing there ain’t no way to stop it!?”

The machines beeped louder.
The oxygen tube hissed angrily.
The Cystic Fibrosis, ate.

She gasped, falling back on the pillow.

This had all came out in one priceless, ripping breath.

Dad reached for her; she grabbed his wrist, tugging his big, shaking hands to her dry lips.

Dad could feel the cold oxygen between his fingers.

Mama walked around him and sat on the bed, putting her arm over her daughters head, running her fingers thru her child’s gorgeous hair.

“Shhhh” whispered Mama. “You gotta calm down, baby” She leaned over and kissed her child on top of the head “You gotta….”

“Gotta..?” hissed the patient “What do I gotta do?” “All I gotta do is die slow”

“Stop it” said Dad.

Mama’s lips were still pressed against her child’s head; her eyes squeezed tight as her pain spilled into the patients hair.

“I ain’t letting this kill me” said the girl.”I’m cheatin’ it”

Dad said “Stop this” his fist on his chest.
Mama kissed and bled more eye pain.

New face stitches…for everyone.

“I’m wanna kill it before it kills me”

“There ain’t no cure and there ain’t no chance” she said, looking at her dad; her hands pressing his hands against her chest as if trying to force him to pull her heart out.

She continued “I want them to take my body and study it” “I want them to figure out what in the hell was eating me alive!”

Daddy could barely feel her heartbeat.

She gasped…
The machines beeped angrily
The oxygen tube clouded up and whined.
The dust danced in the sunlight.
No words to be seen, now.

The patient slowly reached up and took her mother by the hands, looking hard at her father,willing him to meet her gaze.

Her father looked up and almost cried out.
There was fight in her eyes.
There was determination
There was hatred
There was vengeance….

……. She was serious. It struck him like a blow.

“No” He said and looked away, watching his will to defy her fly out the very same window her precious breath had flown.
The machine beeped quietly.
The oxygen tube purred.
The IV drip, dropped slowly.

He looked at her when her small hands fell from her mother’s….

She had fallen asleep.

“I don’t want to lose my baby girl” Dad said to the sunshine.

Mom was quiet.

Dad looked over his bowed shoulder again and fixed his wife with his own determined stare.
“I ain’t gonna lose my girl” He told her.
….. Almost a question.

Mama just played with her baby’s hair, pulling it’s long tresses thru her shaking fingers.

When Daddy started to reach for her, Mama jerked her arm away from him, slapping at his face and outstretched hand, hissing like a angry cat
“Don’t touch me!!”

Daddy stood up, almost falling; struggling thru her one swinging hand, grabbing her forcefully; God she was strong!

He jerked his wife against his racking, sobbing chest; holding her tight, pressing her face into his shoulder as he buried his in her hair.

His eyes leaked pain and shimmered thru the breath stealing sunlight, staring into a void, a barren future, nothing; He couldn’t, he wouldn’t let his baby girl go!

They too….. were dying.

Every minute of every hour of everyday they watched their daughter die a little bit.

Some days, she died more.

What kind of life is a life when a good day is one where your child only cries and screams a few times….?

They died as much as her when the agony shrieked from her body…. Well, when she still had energy and breath to shriek.


Seems like a thousand years ago.

Now….there was no shrieking. Now she could only gasp and weep beneath her covers, clawing at her pillows, trying not to drown in the middle of her bed.

They couldn’t hear her cry out, anymore.

She had a bell, beside her bed.

He feared bells, now.

His wife was quietly sobbing, her swinging, scratching hands around his back “What do we do, honey?” “What do we do?” she pled, her eyes shiny with all of the pain in the world of a mother who’s child is dying.

Helpless, hopeless, lost, confused, angry, murderous…hopeless.

The machine beeped louder.
The oxygen tube gasped.
The IV drip, dropped.
The killer kept killing….

“Parents, do no harm” the patient said.

The parents looked at her.

She was awake and looking past them.

“Spare me this” she whispered into the fading sunlight.

There was nothing to hold onto.
No anchor, no port, no battlements…
No hope, no cure, no divine intervention… Only each other.

But…their strength was failing them.

Their daughter was going to die. One way or another.

“I’m tired, you guys” whispered the girl

She put her hands above her head and forced a crying gasp from her lips, her eyes lifted to the ceiling.

The hospital room light shone on her pain stitched face as she weakly cried out;

“Do you hear me… GOD!? I’m tired of hurting, I’m tired of crying, I’m tired of Medicine, I’m tired of doctors, I’m tired of pain, pain, pain……. GOD!”

She spread out her arms toward a last, stubborn, lone ray of sunshine that had dared to approach her anguished appeals.

She fell back onto the pillow, the strand of sunlight slipping from her fingertips like a golden ribbon.

She had surrender in her eyes.

She looked at her parents.

“I’m tired of dying all the time, you guys” she said.

[Authors note: I have to stop now. I’m making myself cry. I have children of my own and know that I would rather die the most horrible death than watch my child die before my eyes. Take me instead,,OH, lord! Take me!
I’ve said those words… In a hospital, in a Chapel… Take me Lord, not him.
I’ll start again tomorrow when I’ve thought on this most terrible of nightmares for a parent to never awaken from. I pray, that none of us have to ever experience this. Because it’s real life and shit happens….. Terrible, terrible shit. I’m sorry… I’m getting emotional again. I’ll see y’all tomorrow. God willing and the creek don’t rise] 

– Your friend,

Got Crazy? 


I was kind of surprised there was a gun in my hand….

It’s black and heavy.

It FELT like a gun you know, kinda cold and vibrating….

You know what I mean?

You can feel it too, can’t you?


Maybe that’s just me.

My gun will wield instant death with a ¼ oz trigger pull.

My gun is a dark travel agent with 6 one way tickets….

My ticket is first class express…

No unexpected stops.

My destination is unknown except for a long layover in purgatory, a spirit prison or nirvana…

That’s what the religion people say, at least…. 

I’m at the end of my rope; not the one with 13 knots, although I considered that route also.

I considered a neck tie around the ceiling fan, but I wasn’t doing this for shock value.

I didn’t want to hurt anybody else.imagesroad

I wasn’t angry at anyone, only the guy in the shop window, or the one staring back at me from the bathroom mirror.

I didn’t relish the fact that a child might find me whirling around beneath the fan as if though I were sitting on the edge of an evil merry-go-round….

My eyes wide, my arms outstretched, my legs swinging, a silent scream from my blue lips and swollen tongue.

I don’t want to make nightmares, just quit living in this one.

I’m angry enough at myself to kill me, I guess.

There are pills on the small table beside me, and a bottle of vodka.


They’re pills for what ails me.

To make me feel better.


No pain….at least that’s what I heard.

I had almost decided to take the whole bottle to make SURE I was healed….and feel nothing.

No pain….

I wonder if shooting myself in the mouth will hurt….

I don’t want to be found after 3 days, bloated and not looking quite myself.

I don’t want to puke all over myself trying to fight the body that was trying to save my life against my will.

I don’t want to mess up the motel bed either…. 

I thought about a nice hot bath too, with a razor or a hair-dryer.

But, I didn’t want to start a fire or mess up my the tub.

I decided to quit being considerate since that flies in the face of conventional thinking around suicide victims, so I’m in a nice quiet place now.

I only paid for one night, anyhow. 

“No luggage” the clerk had asked.

“Only a gun, pills and a note” I thought.

“No…” I said. “I won’t be here long”

“Check out time is at 11 am” the clerk continued, still not looking at me. 

At least until he hears the gunshot, more like an hour from now.

I shot him thru the top of his head….

“Thanks” I said.

“You bet” he said back; finally looking and smiling at me. 

You should be thankful they say, in all things.

Thanks for nothing…..

So, here am I, sitting on the edge of a strange bed.

I don’t feel thanks….I don’t feel hope…I don’t feel anything, really.

 I can feel the gun in my hand….

The hardness of the barrel clicks against my teeth.

Practice run. 

My tongue drew back from the bore as if though it were hot.

But it wasn’t…..gun

It’s cold; and it tastes funny. 

Looking down my nose at the gun, both my thumbs over the hammer…..I realize I am practicing perfect trigger discipline. 

I stuck my tongue in the barrel, wondering again, if this is gonna hurt…. 

Ha! If it would hurt…!

I thought you didn’t care anymore, you stupid ass!

I thought you just wanted out!

Blah blah blah Pfffftttt!! 

Pull the damn trigger already! 

I could feel the gun trembling in its excitement.

Guns kill, not people. 

No…it’s just my hand shaking. 

The gun was all business, as usual. 

Pull the trigger, blow yer brains all over the ceiling and bed, twitch a little bit, maid screams…  lawdy freaking dah

The El pistola knew its job….what it was made for. 



Expression of psychosis. 

I could see the hungry brass eyes of the hollow points staring out at me.

“Let’s get on with this” they said to me. 

Just pull the trigger already.

Don’t rush me. 

I heard a commotion outside of the hotel window.


Well, I wasn’t REALLY, in that big of a rush… 

I’ve been waiting 53 years for this moment. Another 5 minutes ain’t gonna kill me…. 

Wait, never mind… Ha ha ha! That was funny!

“…….ain’t gonna kill me…!” 


I laid the gun down on the table, knocking over the pills.

The taste of the gun oil had made my lips dry so I put chap stick on them….

Ha, life is weird. Even at the last moment.

Dry lips… HA! 

See how short my attention span is?

I looked out thru the blinds. 


I knew one thing I wasn’t gonna do; I ain’t blowing my brains out with people right outside my room.

The gunshot would scare them. Might be kids put there. 

Maybe give them nightmares….especially, yep…  there’s a kid.


I know what you’re thinking but, I am very considerate of other peoples feelings, well….at least people I’m not related to or the ones that ignore me.

I couldn’t do that to strangers.

I was raised right. 

I wasn’t being nosey, just looking out the window and watching the man taking luggage from the car.

The woman had the kid in her arms, swinging her around like a little top.


They were laughing. 

They were breathless and shrieking…..but, in the good way.

They were so alive and standing less than 10’ from a man that lived only long enough to die.

Pissing me off… 

They began to do the dumbest, goofiest little dance just outside my window, singing badly “Going to Disney World!”

The man picked up the future Mousketeer and threw her high in the air.

She squealed as she disappeared into the sun.

The mother jumping with fear and delight that her baby could fly so high!

I had to laugh at them, almost. It was more like a “Fuck you” 

They were so silly….

I “laughed” some more….the gun now; by my leg.

I licked my lips; good thing the gun oil was’nt on my lips no more.

There was only the taste of old, dry, salty tears.

It’s not a bad life, just a bad day, I guess…. 


Don’t know why I thought of that…..

I’m getting antsy, thinking too much. 

I flushed the pills.

I thought about hiding the gun in a trash bag; ashamed of myself. 

I changed my mind. 

I opened the door and watched the shiny, new people dance in the sun.

“Hey, did we wake you up?” 

“No, no…y’all are fine” 

They had noticed me…. 

The little girl waved at me “I’m going to see Cindarella!” 

I danced with her, my broken heart bursting. 

“Close the door and dream about hell” I thought. 

Fuck that, life sux.wpid-1422924631320.jpg

That’s when I decided to shoot them instead.

I hate happy people, with a passion.

I went back into the room and sat on the bed, waiting. 

This is a much better idea…. 

Loser Lips

I wonder what kind of person I would have or could have or should have been without other people around me;  the people I mean, most of all, are the ones that made the biggest impressions on me during my “sponge” years; made me what I am; made me, despite me….

I’m pretty positive that up until my 5th year, that I wasn’t racist, politically active, religious, civic minded or had an opinion on any singular complex subject really other than the hard learned fact that I didn’t like the looks or taste of leafy green foods or their seedlings.

Oh, I was also born knowing that I hated tomatoes. I knew that from the get-go. It’s in my DNA.

Guess what “wasn’t” in my DNA?


Anger (Self righteous anger, I mean)

I had jealousy and envy. I wanted a BB gun too and I was upset that everyone else seemed to have one but me.

But, was that jealousy or did I just want to fit in?

I know for a fact that I learned hate, true hate, in and around the 6th grade.

Before hate, we’ll heretofor(sic) [from here on out] refer to the period of time of my “normal” childish tantrums and hissy fits as BH (Before Hate)

I hated everyone.

They made fun of my tennis shoes covered in pig shit.

They made fun of my crooked, buck teeth.

They made fun of the fact that I seemed to be the only human on earth to get lice in my hair every other week.

They made fun of me because I rode the bus, even though they did to but, I had to sit in the front. They sat in the back.

They was cool, man.

I sucked.

They made fun of my clothes, my books, my pecker, my nose, my eyes, my fingers…etc!

They tormented me because I was too beaten down at home to stand up to anybody, and they knew I was scared.

You see, I was too used to being told that I was stupid and lazy; a piece of shit, and I believed it.

If my Dad thought that about me then it must be true.

After all, he was my hero.

Hero’s don’t lie.

I just thought of something.

Maybe the reason I can’t or we can’t, remember much of our first few years isn’t because we were too young; maybe it’s because we never had too much of a traumatic event to scar us and cause us too subconsciously start marking time by the painful events in our lives, not the good times.

I don’t think parents have any idea of the monsters they can create with a word or none.

I’m doing a lot of soul searching in my life right now.

I don’t know if it’s a phase that all 51 year olds go thru; you know, facing our mortality and morality…..looking back?

I am a Mormon and I am beaten down by regrets.

They are as real and fresh to me now as the past instant they became a regret.

“Let go, let God”

I don’t have that much faith.

No, wait…let me rephrase that.

Someone, in my youth told me that God was vengeful, God was jealous, God should be feared and worshipped.

God is Love. A God of peace. A God of forgiveness that drove Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden forever, flooded the world and watched his very own son die on a tree….

I have no idea which God is which.

I have faith.

This is my faith. This is what I believe.

Suicide is a sin.

That is why I am still here. That is the only reason that I am still here.

Someone, somewhere, sometime BH told me that killing someone or even yourself was the worst kind of sin.

I know that burning in hell was mentioned as one of the least torments shelled out to killers, by God, of any type.

What is weird is that I am a Mormon that believes in a literal hell. The residual threads of my Baptist, Methodist, Pentecostal upbringing are still tied to me somewhat.

I don’t know why, it’s probably just a description; Hell I mean, of a terrible place to frighten uneducated and unsophisticated peoples enshrouded in the superstition and ignorance of an ancient time and place.

I am a Mormon in a constant non-stop struggle with myself and my inner monsters, a never ceasing battle between my mind, my heart and my regrets.

I have the forgiving others part down, pat! No problem.

I forgive, I forget; to an extent. I’m only human, dammit!

Of course I’m still hurt and bitter about some things people have done to me but, I don’t beat them over the head with it; I’d welcome them back into my life and never think of those things again and sing and dance and throw flippi’n flower petals all over the place if they’d just let me….

How come I can know that people change, that stupid shit happens, that family is family and no one else seems to?

I’m having a little petulant party this evening it seems.

I’m a Mormon that can’t forgive himself.

Where is the faith that I need?

I would kill for the faith of a mustard seed.

“Let go, Let God”

He has enough to worry about, or, he’s quit worrying.

Why should he listen to me, I’ve lied to him before.

I have gone to the well too many times.

I am a Mormon and I do not believe that God is that forgiving. There is evidence in the Bible that he has his days….

I am a Mormon that believes that I am already in Hell.

I am a Mormon that believes that I am already on the lowest level, the terrestrial, of the 3 degrees of glory. (look it up)

This is as good as it gets for me.

Pain still hurts here.

Here’s the twist….

What if my life sux until my last few minutes and then all of a sudden…POOF!

I understand it all….

Suddenly I know why I suffered or thought I suffered or, I come to the realization that I am actually really here on earth and that HELL is real, and I’m going there FIRST CLASS! No customs to declare!

What if I find out that God had originally sent me here to back up Christ during his trial, help him escape and I got drunk, just like I always do….and he gave me eternal life to feel the regret!!?? FOREVER!!!!

I am a Mormon fighting alcoholism and depression.

No, I am not drunk. I am depressed but, I am writing about it and working thru it, or trying to.

That is how I roll.

I heal myself bit by bit by writing, confessing….bitching at the injustice of it all.

Why couldn’t I have had a normal life?

My God, is this a normal life?

I just remembered something as I stared off into the writer idea abyss….

I have a whole body, even my appendix.

I have my sight, my hearing, my mind, my memories, my sense of humor…

My humanity.

I have a wife that loves me and a step daughter that is planning on putting me in the cracker house.

I have a job I love and I have hope.

I haven’t decided which is better yet, hope or faith.

I know I’ve written about this quandry of mine a few times and I feel like I’ve reached a happy medium between the two.

See…it works.

I was feeling bad, down in the dumps.

So…I wrote about it.

I worked thru it, a little.; and I feel a little better.

I am a Mormon, I am a sinner that never quits trying to be better.

God knows this about me, if nothing else, that I am always trying to be a better man.

He might not talk to me anymore but, I know he knows.

I have faith in that fact.

And that’s better than nothing.

Thx for reading








Yesterday, When I Was Young

Who am I to judge,  now that I’m a crotchety old bastard with years of experience in treacherous human existence to apply toward the categorization, comparison and evaluation of my fellow man?


Why do I make assumptions, when my opinion doesn’t really mean anything, except to me and the emission of CO2 into the atmosphere, thus further damaging the ozone and the feelings of polite society?

Why am I brainwashed by the brainwashed, why must I reap what others have sown; am I a knowing, paying, thankful consumer of obviously, historical tainted goods?

I am a sheep and I give thanks…

Why am I a flawed man that must reap those poisoned fields of the earlier stewards of land, language and lies?

I don’t understand said the led, restrained horse that wouldn’t, couldn’t drink the water…right up to the point he almost died of thirst….

But, he did drink.

Why couldn’t I just be 8 years old for the rest of my life?

I didn’t know about hate, except in the form of tomatoes and buttermilk.

I didn’t know about fashion, except that I never wore shoes that much anyways.

I didn’t know about politics except that George Washington was first and Lincoln was second.

I didn’t know about mistrust except if it had to do with Yankees and niggers…

I didn’t even know that the sun could give you cancer but, I did know that girls had cooties.

All us boys knew that!

When I was 8, I knew my
Granny loved me and my mom was on dope.


When I was 8, I always wanted someone to play with so bad that I kept playing with the 13 year old boy that kept raping me.

When I was 8, I knew not to make my daddy mad.
He would hit me….a lot.

When I was 8, I believed in Santa Claus and Christmas magic.
I didn’t care about Jesus that much, only a bb gun I wanted.

Besides, I knew Jesus loved me; the Bible told me so, this I know….

When I was 8, I knew the Easter bunny and Tooth fairy weren’t real but, I always kept hoping for Peeps and shiny dollars.

I caught frogs, blew up ant beds, picked plums and blackberries, walked barefoot thru mud and briars…


I read about Uncle Remus and Brer Rabbit, Jack London and Buck. I read and dreamed about “My Side Of The Mountain…”

I dreamed about a home where your parents didn’t count the slices of lunch meat and mark the level in the milk jug….so they’d know if you’re a thief.

I dreamed about being Superman and a Johnny Reb.

I protected my home from  northern aggression for years but, they never came.

I dreamed about no more yelling and slapping.

I hoped Granny still had biscuits left over from breakfast.

I hoped I didn’t have to fill the water for the hogs that much today.

I hoped I could steal some change and ride my bike to the store and get a moon pie and a Coke.

I hoped mama wouldn’t notice the milk was a little weak…

Daddy didn’t worry about counting his Baloney slices. He knew I knew better.

When I was 8, I chased lightning bugs and slaughtered them by the thousands…

When I was 8, I could bait my own hook and lie about how big the fish was that got away.

When I was 8, I could lie about anything.
Telling the truth did not go rewarded.

Lying saved me lots of pain.
If it’s done right and points to other people…

Hey, I was 8.
I didn’t like bleeding.

When I was 8, I thought my name was “Stupid” or “Son of a bitch”

Granny called me “Punkin” or “Sugar”

When I was 8, I believed in Jesus but, I still flinched when someone moved too fast.

When I was 8, I believed in Jesus but, he never really saved me in this really, real world.

I hope his promise comes true when I’m dead because if it ain’t, I just went thru all that shit for nothing.

” But Jesus called them unto him, and said, Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.”

When I was 8 years old, that verse was pretty.


Now that I’m almost 51, I’m freaking counting on it.

Over-all and roundabout I’d say I had a typical childhood.

I guess that’s pretty sad, if you can describe your childhood as typical…

I didn’t know I had it better off than millions of others, I was 8!

I didn’t know what guilt was, except when dad said it was all our fault that he was poor.

One good thing though…
Jesus taught me about forgiveness.

It works….if you believe in that kind of thing.

I Want To Die

Like, in 50 more years….

Blogger disclaimer:

No, I’m not gonna kill myself.

Just heard about another lost soul…. I guess it was dark where they lived.

Yes, I think suicide is the ultimate selfish act.

I pity the family of the quitter.

It kills more than one person….

Trust me when I say this; maybe you can relate more than I know.

There is always a way out of the abyss…

It has happened to my family.

It’s always the one person you never would have guessed….

Yes, I realize that some people are lost and see no other way out; no other way to stop the pain.

Yes, I pity them but, not the way you’d think.

I’ll keep that thought private for now.

No, I do not agree with them.

Yes, dead is dead.

Here is a fictional suicide note.


Read it carefully and tell me what you see.

“To whom it doesn’t concern”

I can’t take it anymore, lmfao…..

Everything is going crazy and it’s just more than I can stand, more than I want to stand.

I don’t have any energy. My life is draining away by the day. I don’t want to get out of the bed most days. It takes a mental Olympic feat to even eat anything.

No one understands what I’m going thru or seems to even care. Everything that goes wrong in my family always gets blamed on me. I can’t do anything right.

No matter how hard I try, nothing is good enough.

I get so sick and tired of never being good enough for anybody, no matter how hard I try, how much I sacrifice, no matter how much it takes out of me, no matter how much I have to give up; no matter what I try to do, no one gives a crap how all this affects me or what I go thru in order to meet their lofty, impossibly high expectations of me.

I don’t get it….

I don’t think anyone gives a shit about me or what I care about.

Yeah, I’ve had my struggles and issues lately but, nobody’s perfect, nobody has the right to point fingers at me without walking in my shoes and knowing what I have to sacrifice or what I go thru everyday to be “good” enough to be in this family!

I wish they’d try to understand my pain and cut me a break. I can only do so much.

But, I’m not even gonna try anymore. I am so tired and exhausted of constant, never ending bullshit.

This fucking world is a bunch of bullshit. People always fucking with you and cutting your balls off. Never giving a guy a chance to better himself and fix his problems. Always, ALWAYS! Fucking with me! It never fucking stops!

None of these fuckers in my, so called, “family” give a shit about me. They don’t care what I go thru or what I want or how hard I try to do better.

I’m sick of their shit, I’m sick of my wife, I’m sick of my fucking ungrateful kids, I’m sick of my fuck stick, boss….

Fucking niggers and Mexicans are getting all my jobs. Mother fuckers are everywhere, like fucking roaches!

Fuck God, fuck Jesus, fuck the mother fucking Holy Ghost!

Who believes in that shit anymore, anyways!? Mother fuckers ain’t never done shit for me! Fuck’em all!

Nobody cares what I put up with or what I go thru. Fuck them, too!

So tired of all this shit and not getting a break. So fucking tired…

G*damn bill collecting vultures! They don’t give a shit if you’re out of work or what…

I can’t help my boss was a prick and fired me for missing a couple of hours and coming in late. I know I smelled like beer but that was from the night before.


I was perfectly sober that morning, he don’t care that sometimes a few beers takes my mind off things. It helps me forget about my problems and how everybody is fucking me! It was on my own time….

Well, whoever finds me and this note, tell everyone in my family to kiss my fucking ass! How do you like this shit!?

I can’t believe I let them push me this far… 

I should kill them mother fuckers….thatd solve a lot of shit!


Goodbye, Mom… I’m sorry.

[Trigger Clicks!]

You have GOT to be fucking kidding me!

I swear to God!!

I can’t catch a fucking break!!

(Throws gun against the wall. It discharges and hits him in the arm)

“Hellpppp MEEEEE!!”

Just Biding My Time

“Life is something to do while I’m waiting to die…”
– Treyzguy 2015

The day I was born I thought, “So what do I do now?”

I knew before I got here that my time down here on this terrestrial plane was going to be limited.

I accepted that fact, believing in my pre-mortal ignorance “How hard could it be?”

I mean, I’d been here forever.

I’d survived creation, Lucifers little rebellion, y’alls creation, what you guys call “the Flood”…

All kinds of stuff, I’ve seen; both here and there; stuff y’all haven’t done, what “HE” hasn’t done, what we’ve all done….

Yes, I include myself, I’m not placing all the blame on y’all; because I’ve been a man down here amongst y’all myself for the past 50 years, and like y’all I’ve  had my share of failures and triumphs also, as hollow and trivial as it all seems, now that I look back on it.


I can’t really say that I’ve enjoyed my time while I’ve been here.

In all honesty, if I’d known what it was actually gonna be like when I got here, I’d have never come.

I’d be like “Uh, kiss my angelic ass, I ain’t goin’ down there with all that crazy shit”

I’d much rather go back to the olden days and fight Lucifer and his bunch armed with swords and ending it once and for all than coming down here and having to deal with him every fucking minute, armed only with my free will and my conscience?

That’s just crazy talk!

Ha… Free will…
Ain’t nothin’ free people.
Y’all taught me that.

I’m not gonna drag out this tirade of mine too long today because I get tired of listening to myself bitch and knowing that no one is listening and no one gives a shit anyway…

It’s pointless to bitch….

Oh, it makes me feel better I guess but that’s not the intent, is it?

Bitchings’ main purpose in life is to be heard and appreciated, ain’t it?

There is absolutely nothing you, me, we, can do about it.

Praying is talking to yourself….

Humility is embarrassing and overrated…and makes people want to beat your ass….

Charity is weakness, and the death of humility, since when a person does something nice they want to be, or like to be, acknowledged as selfless, caring and a good person…

Nothing wrong with that…
Don’t lie… It’s a human thing.

But, charity availeth no man…

Doesn’t it seem like humility is the ultimate singular oxymoron and a mind boggling, non-sensical analogy for praise?

Plus, it’s one of the few words I know of, maybe the only word, that has a meaning, a description, examples…..and it doesn’t exist…can’t exist….not down here.

How can you say you’re humble without not being humble…?

See that’s the kinda conundrum bullshit I agreed to deal with when I “volunteered” to come down here and be all…….human.

If I’d only known….


But, I know now, don’t I?

I swear to God that’s why God made suicide and murder a sin.

We’d all be killing ourselves and others as a kindness to get the hell outta here!


I know… I’m sorry…

Not really.

Most of this world and the people in it have driven me to this despair.

Life is what you make it…

Kiss my ass…

My mortal dad always said “There’s only one ass that the undertaker stuffs with cotton when you die and that’s the only one you should worry about”

We never had a chance coming down here….

There’s too many of us with too much free will, too little patience, virtually no guidance and way too little culpability.

It’s a tragedy, ain’t it?

We come into this world all pink and shiny but go out of it grey and cold.

Life is something we do while we’re waiting to die…

My death is the only thing in my life I can count on that is real and will last forever.

No, I don’t wanna die yet. I’m too scared and I can’t remember what it was like there, before.

My faith died the first time God didn’t punish the boy that raped me….

I prayed for it, but…..

No justice for the scared little mortal boy that had once been a great warrior in the Battle of Heaven.

I could fight off the ranks of Lucifers host but not a 13 year old pervert….

Ironic….aint it?

I’m wondering, now, if we all came down here because it was bad there….


War in heaven, War here….

Life has been a waste of my time and energy.

I should have kept my mouth shut and my wings spread…


If I ever get back to heaven I will NEVER EVER volunteer for anything again! I SWEAR TO GOD AND ALL THAT’S HOLY!!

Life is what you make it.

True….but the deck was stacked against us, right from the get go.

Unfortunately, there were other people here, too.

And you can’t count on any of them.

There is such things as self interest, self preservation…. Self.

I never had a chance….

One against billions with the same idea….

To, survive.

But, that’s just me.

Maybe y’all can do better.

I hope so.

Maybe we’ll run into each other on the other side.

I hope so.

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