10 Foot Pole

Believe it or not, there was a time in which I thought I was a normal, well adjusted human being. I had friends, I was comfortable, I was just starting to know my place in the world.

Then I had "sucker" stamped on my face and was shipped to Miami.

I moved here when I was 10. Torn away from everything I knew and was comfortable with. I entered the 6th grade, and, in my journal, one of the most prominant notes made about life in this strange hot land is: "People here are mean." One of the earliest memories I have of school was lending a pencil to a girl who immediately broke it in half and gave it back to me with a smile. She later grew up to be a porn star. I'm not kidding, either. Don't ask how I found her, but she's there. At that link. The name is "Betty", but her real name is Cheryl.

And yes, despite that I think I would. But that's not the point.

I was terribly unhappy during those years. Pencil breaking was the least of my sadness. You'll have to take my word on it. I considered suicide. It was easy. I fancied myself a chemist, and I knew that anything in large enough quantities would kill you. Doing it so that nobody would know what happened was an afterthought. It just had to get the job done. I knew I couldn't get ahold of exotic materials, but it would be simple enough to walk a block in a commercial district into a number of drugstores. I planned to go into the first store, buy the biggest bottle of Nyquil they had, and leave. I would find a place to stash it, go to the second drugstore, and get exactly the same thing. After a while I would have amassed enough to really go under. It'd go down rough, I figured, which would be a fitting way to go. Coughing up green foam from my mouth. Good end for a worthless nub.

Obviously I didn't go through it. One day I realized that killing myself is EXACTLY what those who hate me want me to do. They can then laugh at what a stupid fuck I was for killing myself. While I'm alive I'm taking up resources that they might otherwise get. I'm breathing. I'm eating. And I'm polluting their world. All of a sudden staying alive is more important than not living. It's arguable that my reason for living then became revenge. But since then I managed to just chill out. I live, do my thing, and I'm gone. I'm not clammoring for as much "air-time" as possible. I just gotta do what I gotta do. If I didn't have to do it, then I wouldn't gotta do it.

Sometimes part of doing what you gotta do means making difficult decisions. Sometimes it's allowing oneself getting caught up in the moment. Sometimes it's doing the honorable thing and realizing later than you're just dumb.

I have a habit of not asking questions I don't want to hear answered. And I'd like to think I'm pretty good at not throwing an opinion when it has high probability to hurt. But I am a straight-shooter so when you ask me something I'm going to spit it out without sugarcoating it. Sometimes you HAVE to ask questions of which you don't want to hear the answer. Sure I could just throw answers around, but I'm not touching that with a

Yeah, you get it.

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