There seems to be about 25 readers here. I have no idea who you are but thanks for reading. This project is now done. Goodbye.

Finally a new friend!

Woke up at 4:15 in the morning smelling cigarette smoke in my bedroom and feeling sickened of course and momentarily wished with the purest sincerity that every cigarette-sucking dolt on earth would suddenly turn into a tiny puff of black carcinogenic dust and drift away on the solar winds, never to be thought of again my any member of humanity.

Then I sent a surprisingly gentle message to the landlord.

Got back to sleep finally around 9:30, woke up at 11 and hopped the route 4 bus to the cathedral for an oatmeal and yogurt breakfast. Hung out there for 45 minutes reading The Tolkien Encyclopedia and making a bunch of notes re the D&D hosting business.

Had excellent church-made soup for lunch, with bread, hopped the route 2 bus to Helping Hands Mission where I was expecting to see the Flaming Liberal (who has actually bailed for the Green Party, the little nutter) for the first time in at least five years but he never showed. Met some swell other folks though and chatted about nursing and volunteering and North Bay and game nights and did some more reading and note-taking and at 4PM I bussed it back home and thankfully did not run into the the Diabolical Smoking Duo who will probably view me as Enemy Numero Uno for a few days before caving in again to the finance-based behavior pacifiers of the all-powerful Marginalized Persons Economy.

Pretty darn good day by my standards and I am still buoyed by last night's dream which I still remember well:

I went to visit pal Earth Writer at the hospital where she had recovered and was being discharged and her roommate who was also being discharged was an Italian Greyhound or Whippet-looking dog and he and I fell in love and he followed us out and came along and we drove Earth Writer home and then the pup, bursting with excitement, came home with me where we knew we'd live happily ever after.

One of the best dreams I've ever had. So there.

Another failed overture

Out of nowhere I received a text from some number that meant nothing to me:

Stranger: Pip, what is you aff profile name?

I'm not known as Pip in any circles that I'm aware of and I didn't know what AFF means but google does. It stands for Adult Friend Finder. So I gave it a second's thought and replied:

Me: Goldencunt

It's been a few days and no reply. Apparently it's not working out with my new favourite pen pal. Oh well.

Potassium warning!

Caution: When you see a man coming down the aisle with a shopping cart laden with bunches and bunches of bananas DO NOT: give him a cheerful smile and say, "Say hi to your monkeys for me!"

The response, I learned today, is "Go fuck yourself."

Besides, I don't have 1.9 billion dollars to spare

Are you an earthling?

If not, will you PLEASE

PLEASE

PPPLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAASSE

come get me and get me the fuck out of here?

And if you are, well... you're probably safe. I can't afford 8.01 billion bullets, or even a gun for that matter. Plus I have no taste for killing. Not even mercy-killings. Not even myself. Not even a mouse.

A mouse has been living in my room for a while now. On Friday I trapped him in my waste basket and promptly fucked up and let him get away. Being not too bright he almost immediately returned to the waste basket (where I'd recently discarded something peanut buttery) and I immediately trapped him again and then immediately fucked up and let him go again and then he returned again and I trapped him again and this time boxed him securely and with my walker I delivered him one block away and dumped him "into" the storm drain BUT he managed to land on the grate and took off back up the street like a fart in a wind storm.

I tootled back home and he was already back in my bedroom waiting for me. No mistake. It was definitely HIM. I recognize his physical... blemishes. He's no magazine model. 

At least I know how to trap him now and so I will again very shortly and this time flush him down the toilet and he can ride the sewer system down town. I don't think he'll get back from there.

I've been through the two worst crises of my life in the last year and I have gained some pretty deep and unexpected insights into the matter of suicide. It still makes no sense in most cases but I understand places the mind can go which make it seem very convincingly the only option. 

Other then being physically trapped and tortured or entering the dire late stages of a terminal illness... there is a last resort; something I've pondered since decades ago and something consolidated by Augusten Burroughs in his book This is How: Surviving What You Think You Can't, which I read a long while back because I was such a Burroughs fan as well as being very compelled at the time by the tragic phenomenon of teen suicide; especially gay teen suicide. The last resort being some combination of escape and starting over. I won't venture into the details at this time. They're not particularly new; likely not even to you.

I'm close to recovery from the critical injuries I endured eleven months ago. I'm roughly five months in to a campaign launched by key members of my family to destroy my fucking heart. 

They've not expressed specific complaints about me. They apparently claim to have nothing against me. But they're afraid of bed bugs at all cost.

ALL COST.

Imagine not letting someone into your home because you're afraid of bed bugs and associated potential costs in having them exterminated. Imagine believing that such a visitor is incapable of measures to ensure they are currently uncontaminated before visiting.

Easy to imagine perhaps? Now keep in mind that the spread of bed bugs in this manner is incredibly rare. I'll give you two reasons why. They don't choose to hang out on a human body. Their instinct is to feed and then run back into hiding. Bedbugs DO NOT normally transfer like a parasite or virus. They spread because a nest gets relocated because it's in luggage or some other relocated possession. Sometimes a bedbug might get caught up in clothing from an ill-timed feed (normally done in the middle of the night) when the host leaves the dining area and goes on the move. But not only does the critter need to remain on the host for the duration of the trip (in my case a combination of lengthy bus rides just for starters) but the critter can't be solo. You need a combination of bugs capable of breeding when they get to their new home. And BTW there are AT LEAST three compelling reasons why a successfully relocated solo critter is extremely unlikely to be a pregnant female.

Already the scenario being feared here is extremely unlikely but now... lets start heading down the rabbit hole: 

Imagine that the person you are sacrificing because of this fear of a very unlikely bad time is your brother or your son, who has always loved you and he is going through this very hard time and is particularly lonely and being with his family has been his ONE JOY in life for the last year and he is now kept from his young niece and nephew who had meant the world to him and imagine your son/brother also carries the life long scar from being closeted at a time when straight society were frankly maniacally evil towards gays and the scar of fear of being de-grouped from his friends; a common, if not universal gay man's PTSD, and now here he is being de-grouped from his family: You've uninvited him from Thanksgiving, passed him over for his dad's and brother's birthdays and from Christmas and his own birthday. And now Easter approaches and it's becoming evident that you're passing on him again while he fucking hurts like hell.

Still with me? Imagining this are you? Well hold on to your fucking hat because things are about to get holy fuck surreal. Are you sitting down?

Imagine now that the human being you've sacrificed who is a brother you might profess to love if you were capable of saying the word despite whatever emotional disability you might likely have inherited from your completely emotionally-dysfunctional father who is such a sad broken emotional automaton he can't even hug his own sons, or a son you would never profess to love because you are that automaton; imagine... that this dear relative of yours that you will not allow to visit...

is not even a host of bed bugs. Imagine that he doesn't have bed bugs and never has.

Imagine that you are afraid because he has a neighbor three doors down who.... has...? bedbugs...?

No no. Wait. There's more. Imagine that this son/brother you've so easily crushed in fact does not have such a neighbor. Imagine that he had such a neighbor up until two months ago when that neighbor threw out his possessions and received the second of three sprayings and no bedbugs have been present in the building for two months.

Are you doing the math? Does this seam utterly fucking nuts to you?

If so, that's only because it is. It's nuts beyond my ability to grasp. It's inhumanly cruel beyond my ability to grasp and I am done with it now. When I think of my family it hurts too much and I AM NOT going on with this any more. I cannot survive this pain.

I can only survive by not thinking about them; by forgetting they exist.

Even if they suddenly invited me to Easter, it's almost certainly too late. I know that at my best I can be capable of forgiveness; forgiveness for the stupidity, forgiveness for the insult and even forgiveness for the cruelty.

But could I ever respect them again or find a fondness for them again? I don't know about that. I doubt it. I do know that I'll never be able to trust them again.

But that's me in my BEST moments, on my best days. Keep in mind that this nut fuckery is only the bulk of the iceberg.  All my closest allies have devolved into pixelated zoom and skype characters. I am the loneliest fucker on the planet and the zooming and skyping have become a torture. They just mock me; remind my of my loneliness while the so-called "conversations" on these platforms are logistically dysfunctional. I feel no closeness looking at the fuzzy pictograms of people I once sensed I loved. I'm very dead inside. Love has crept into hiding.

What I foresee happening; as per the second of three modes I seem to inhabit now, emotionally, is not suicide but escape and starting over. Escape. Disappear; especially from the internet, change my name and begin a new life which is not filtered through a computer, befriended to anyone who wants to see me live in person. I'll give my address to the world around me. I'll be open for business. Visitors welcome 24-7. I do feel like that's where this is all going. I have felt it for months now.

As for my worst moments; my worst days; like times I think of the people who were once my family; those times... I find myself honesty wishing that every earthling would be gone and I was the last man on Earth. Seems strange eh? For someone afflicted with crippling loneliness... but that's how I often feel.

Maybe because if I was truly alone, then no one could disgust me. No one could disappoint me. No one could hurt me.

But don't worry. That's not a scenario I'm capable of manifesting.

Sandy Shores Part 5: Fatso

Backwards now, to part five, which was preempted when all hell broke loose:

What can we say about Fatso? He's bigger than a house, with bad legs and a bad attitude with regards to the earthlings he is forced to share a planet with. We're talking bitter contempt for every attitude and every habit; physical or mental, which humans generally consider normal. He considers humans to be fully insane, deeply deluded, superstitious and narcissistic rationalising child-robots, lacking any considerable capacity for logic, wisdom or objectivity.

What a dick, eh?

For a long time he had a far kinder attitude about these things. He was constantly aware of human duality, and saw the consciousness of people as victims of their instinctive selves; saw their plight as genuinely pitiable. He saw humankind's litany of daily sins as inevitable, as per the law of causality, and forgiveness utterly unquestionable, for they know not what they do. He loved them, and he had special relationships where he was privileged to express more-directional love in his own idiosyncratic ways, but those parties have all gone their separate ways, and Fatso is left in the cold and very aware that the superstitious nonsense which governs human minds and human societies is holding him back from celebrating life in the joyful ways in which he is aligned and which a sane society would gladly accommodate. It would seem that his starvation for direct love has poisoned his reserves of radiant love.

 

Luckily he doesn't think about these things when he's dealing with people face-to-face, such as with his housemates at Sandy Shores Peace & Enlightenment Sanctuary. He warmly appreciates the Diabolic Duo's cooking habits which produce a wide range of results; occasionally very delicious ones, and their willingness to share, and he does his best to engage with their playful brand of humour ranging from adolescent to pre-toddler. Everyone at Sandy Shores currently survives on disability benefits and engages together in a sort of marginalized persons economy; a sort of code where no man is left behind. Fatso shares food supplies as a contribution and helps Yougenius with various things, most prominently of-late, with a job search which involves a whole barrel of fun we might try to describe some other time when we can bear it.

And he appreciates the Baron for his warmth and honesty and helpfulness and ability to use his brain cells rather than attack them with harmful narcotics.

Fatso still has visiting nurses and PSW's looking after he and his wounds but perhaps not for much longer. He tries to get outside with his walker for a stumble each day plus two sessions of physio exercises. And he works every day at his Dungeons and Dragons empire. He's putting together a whole new version of D&D and a couple of deeply immersive D&D campaign worlds. He plans to host the game for money, as a home business, and to give his clients the ultimate D&D experience. It's a lot of work to prepare such a thing, but a labour of love, if Fatso still knows what love means.

Sandy Shores Part 7: The Reaccretion of All Hell

Okay, look: The story gets rapidly less interesting from this point on, so let's quickly get it over with.

The PSW arrives on the scene (personal support worker) and fatso sits in his car with him, staying warm and venting. Then they drive to Tims Coffee Paradise where they part ways and Fatso stays for coffee and a sausage brekky bagel. He doesn't want to go home to whatever nightmare is brewing. He then devises the only reasonable solution which is to hit the cheapo bar for $4 pints which mysteriously do not help him think clearly after all.

He hails Aqualad for advice, then calls the manager who promises that she did not repeat the entire roster of accusations to the accused and reports that those fuckers merely diverted the blame for the cigarette smoke to the Mexican embassy next door, so they probably think they've gotten away with it for now and Fatso should be safe to go back home without fearing reprisals.

So he did and found that Yougenius was still eager to be buddies and while Krisastor was frosty at first, he too came around within a couple days.

Sandy Shores Part 6: The Breaking Loose of All Hell

Fatso wakes up to his PSW-appointment alarm at 7:45 AM and is immediately detecting cigarettes smoke even through the filters of his CPAP machine. He scrambles out of the mask and is welcomed by a mouthful of tasty cigaretty air. He pulls himself up out of bed panting with the effort and with fury.

"Fuckers!" he cries, loud enough to be heard by the Mexican embassy next door. He pulls on jeans and warm shirt. "THOSE FUCKERS!" he shouts, loud as he pretty much possibly can. He storms into the kitchen where Krisastor and Yougenius look up in alarm. Their bedroom doors are open and the kitchen is a muthirfucking cigarette smoke cesspool. Fatso bumbles into the bathroom, shuts the door HARD and pisses in the ash-rimmed toilet where butts and ashes have recently been flushed with monkey-grade precision.

He storms back through the kitchen where those fuckers have departed. He wrestles his coat off the hook, leans into his walker and stumbles outside, closing the kitchen door behind him with a BANG, notifying the Baron that a meltdown may be afoot.

It's Friday; a very cold one, and snowy and being forced out of his own room into this discomfort bumps the fatso-fury quotient into defcon 1.

He fumbles with his cell-o-phone and gets the manager on the line. "I cannot take this anymore! The whole unit reeks of smoke! I'm outside freezing because of those lunatics! They are smoking in their rooms every day and every night and I am not paying another dime of rent until they are EVICTED! They're doing illegal drugs every day! They don't wash their dishes! They steal things! I cannot take this shit ANYMORE!" Fatso's brain is positively on fire and he is winding himself into uncontrollable hysterics. He continues spitting threats and obscenities until he is too hysterical to form words.

"I'm on my way over!" says the manager.

To be continued.

Sandy Shores Part 4: Hold on to your hat!

Are we ready for this? I don't know if I'm ready for this. But let's give it a try:

The Yougenius

He's 50 years young, bi-polar, and also autistic I think. He says he was diagnosed as schizophrenic during his imprisonment at the Hamilton Psychiatric Hospital. He says he checked in voluntarily but then they would not let him out for a long time. He can only read or write a little bit so he leans on Fatso a lot to help him spell words so he can text his on-line pals who all have attractive Caucasian female profile photos but text using the syntax you normally hear from males from India who are always explaining their latest emergency to Yougenius and why he needs to send them money so they can come visit him in person. Fatso begs him daily to TALK to these "girls" instead of texting, a solution which would more swiftly weed out the scams which represent roughly 100% or so of these encounters, and which would free Fatso from constant spellchecker duty.

But this chapter is going to be eight years long if I am too anecdotal. Let me try to be concise:

The Yougenius is possibly deluded and either way, is a constant liar. He seems incapable of managing his own affairs, let alone the affairs of his "employer."

By employer we mean the Investment company who manages the Sandy Shores Retirement Resort and Health Spa. They pay him to shovel snow and mop the floors and put out the garbage. He claims that he is the "Superintendent", that he is "in charge" and that management only pays him $40 a month for his services which amounts to roughly $1.40 per hour, which was roughly minimum wage over a half century ago when you could buy a new car for $3000 or a loaf of bread for 20 cents.

But then, Yougenius claims that every associate he's ever had has abused and victimized him. He says he was raped and beaten as a foster child while all his family had abandoned him, that every former employer stiffed him for wages, and that previous "friends" threatened him and forced him to defraud the government for a total of $18,000.00 which they kept and which he is now forced to pay back, and that the police refuse to do anything about it. He claims that almost two months rent worth of cash was stolen from his bedroom and that the landlord should not have charged him that amount of rent and thus he was also victimized in that regard.

He claims that he is a qualified paramedic (with no certification) and that he has saved many lives by praying for people who eventually recovered. He claims that he is an angel and the Son of God and that he can control the weather when he chooses to. He also has live direct conversations with God, whom he calls "Father" when speaking to him. He claims that all his enemies will be punished.

Every time you step in the kitchen he hears you and immediately emerges from his room to engage you. Ninety per cent of the time this engagement involves angrily glaring and bitterly spitting complaints about all these victimizations and the rule-breaking of other tenants and all the work and sacrifices he must suffer as a result.

To a new audience in Yougenius's life it feels like he is raging directly AT you as if YOU are the perpetrator and can be very alarming, and for those of us who know him well it feels like he is raging directly AT you as if YOU are the perpetrator and can be very alarming.

And he has total apparent amnesia, reiterating the same complaints three times a day, roughly a hundred times a month.

For instance he rages about Krisastor smoking cigarettes and crack; yes, CRACK, in his room (which he indeed does, EVERY day) and always leaving his dirty dishes in the sink. Meanwhile Yougenius ALSO smokes cigarettes AND CRACK, YES, CRACK in his room day and night, and also leaves his dirty dishes clogging the sink, claiming that they are Krisastor's; not his own, though he and Krisastor share their meals.

Anything at all that Yougenius imagines, he treats as god's sacred truth, and if you dare introduce any kind of contrary logic into the conversation he gets EXTREMELY AGITATED.

That said, Fatso and the Baron love the guy and bravely tolerate him because they understand that he is mentally ill and that his inability to manage his affairs leads him to immense frustration and desperation and apparent delusion with regards to blaming others.

Besides, Yougenius, when the good side comes out, can be awkwardly loving and playful and at the times the food banks have furnished him generously, he is eager to share. Also, when he steals food from Krisastor he is eager to share that too.

Are you exhausted from this? I know I am. That's all for now. 

Sandy Shores Part 3: The Baron

This chapter will be quick and dirty. We're saving the creme de la creme (Yougenius) for chapter 4. It'll be a doozy.

The Baron claims to actually be of British baron lineage but, just like some "pure-bred" dogs, he doesn't have his papers.

The Baron is friendly, considerate, quiet (bless his soul), and eager to be helpful. He's spectacularly unsteady on his feet and prone to seizures. He's a Trekkie, a hobby writer and serious collector of sci-fi and fantasy books and comics and D&D dice. He loves, not tea, as a good baron should, but coffee, and he loves joking around/light-playfighting with Fatso and Yougenius, both whom with he shares his Netflix account for $5 monthly contributions. He hates the Krisastor.

If you'd love to hear what films and serials the Baron has been watching along with lengthy detailed plot descriptions then by all means come spend the day at Sandy Shores manor and the Baron will gladly put on a pot and regale you to your heart's content!

The Baron gets two thumbs up.

Sandy Shores Part 2: The Disaster

Krisastor the Disaster was a merry old soul and a merry old soul was he. He called for his meth and he called for his cigarettes and he called out every adolescent thought that came to his head, at the top of his voice, day and night, to ensure that no one in the manor ever could sleep very long and so that their every endeavor in life was built around the soundtrack of his constant idiotic voice.

Krisastor smokes in his room all day every day and also through most of the night. There must be some problem with his little bedroom windows because he does not open them. His room reeks of smoke all the time and it creeps out his door into the hall and kitchen and fucks with other tenants and makes their lives miserable. He constantly cooks and makes coffee with spastic jittery glee and spills everything he touches all over the stove, countertops and floor and almost never ever cleans up after himself. He floods the sinks with his dishes and recycling and leaves it for others to eventually wash. When he does dispose of recycling he just throws it in the garbage. He dribbles his piss on the bathroom floor and doesn't clean it up.

Best of all, he gets fucked up on drugs several times per month and spends a day and a half tweaking like a maniac; wailing and caterwauling and crying and whooping and laughing and gibbering and slapping and banging and breaking things and spraying slop all over the fucking place and keeping everyone awake all day and night. He also has a bad cough and coughs as loudly as a human intentionally can, optionally throwing his vocal chords into the mix as loudly as possible. When he trims his beard he leaves his hair all over the sink, faucet and countertop.

To make ends meet he scams fake medical issues for extra benefit money and services and he shoplifts.

If one attempts to engage him in a discussion concerning his behavior he immediately responds by yelling in order to shut them down. He sometimes has a creature visit him in his room where they smoke together, besides getting up to whatever ungodly things we don't want to think about. This creature resembles a human woman except that her eyes are lifeless and she speaks like I imagine undead would speak; incoherently.

Visitors are not allowed in the manor after 10 PM but Krisastor delights in breaking this rule along with every other rule.

Yougenius, Fatso and the Baron have yet to figure out how to kill the krisastor and send his demon soul back to the pits of Hades but they're working on it. You may donate silver weapons via their GoFundMe page.

Sandy Shores Part 1: The Manor

A brief description of the facility: The compact structure with it's dirt-and-weed based lawn, broken mud-room window, murky lampless exterior, useless swaths of semi-detached door screening and frequent refuse-heaps is largely hidden behind a bulging row of sinister conifers which, to their credit, have not to-date assaulted or harassed anyone. There is a lovely generous back yard locked off; forbidden to tenants but not to refuse-heaps or creeping, window-devouring vines.

Inside we have the off-limits mud room with semi-functioning door locks, a little hallway which almost always reeks of cigarette smoke despite the "no smoking" clause in all resident contracts which, much like the no-drugs, no messes, and noise and visitor limitation clauses, were apparently all penned just for shits and for giggles. We have a little kitchen with a generous supply of implements and crusty cookware, cupboards falling off their hinges, fruit flies, mice, the occasional rat, coffee-sugar-and-sauce-encrusted countertops and a fridge brimming with putrefaction experiments.

We have a grey and jaundice bathroom with inoperative window and four bedrooms each of distinct qualities, each intended to serve as bedchamber, dining room, office and living room for it's lucky tenant. Oh yes! Almost forgot. Also stored within the facility are four assets known as "tenants" who are constructed from flesh and blood and who might even, by some theoretical enlightened beings, be considered "people," with actual lives and emotions and human rights and all that crazy stuff.

Well, frankly, dear imaginary reader, I'm exhausted already. God knows how YOU must feel. Let's recess until tomorrow. And by tomorrow we of course mean: "the unspecified future."