Encountering Evil

Crawling out of the woodwork like a termite,

his toxicity, like tentacles slither out, poison

to the sweet sapling that must be moistened,

protected only by the tamarin and her vicious bite.

Damaged walls let the poisoned gases in,

inhabitant unsuspecting of incoming damage

or even the glaring lack of proper bandage

over wounds never healed; they easily reopen.

Small, innocent soul, unknowingly tortured by

the confusion and disruption: betrayed by him,

a most trusted companion she held above all sin,

in the highest esteem; surely, he was unable to lie.

Confusion and chaos abound in her mind,

put to rest only by motherly affection and love,

protected, held close within Mama’s glove,

so, to the demonic manipulation, she is blind.

Discomfort seeps in, touching everyone with infection;

social constructs do the best to make it squirm.

One can find comparison to it with the worm,

an apt comparison in terms of lacking verbal inflection.

It’s enabled and encouraged by a female so vile,

her vitriol, never-ending, just sprays and spews

to those she cannot control with her narrow views

and manipulation tactics that only provoke bile.

Nausea, rocking, churning, bubbling like a hot sea,

a physical response to psychological stress

unnecessarily exacerbated in times of distress,

appetites turned as sour as a lost, forgotten pea.

I knew what it was when I laid eyes on it at first,

a hideous, disgusting energy, vile as vomit,

disguising itself with the success of a large comet

shooting through a night only described as the worst.

As I watched, the shape transformed, a mask

seeping over the visage I’d glimpsed but quickly;

my soul knew the evil as I do now as its sickly

energy could be drunk like liquid from a flask.

But then I allowed it to slip on its mask before

I knew what was even happening before my eyes.

He gave meaning to the phrase, “time flies,”

and I became lost within its darkness, craving more.

Tinted Glasses

You perceive of me only what you wish to see,

but I’m a human with flaws, like you.

Like him, you’re quick to say, “It’s not me;

it’s you, you’re wrong,” but I can see through

it now; things will play how they must be.

At the end of the day, see, I have my crew.

How many close relationships does he keep?

Tones would change if you knew what I knew.

But you could never be wrong.

I recognize when I’m wrong, I write it down,

take note to make the needed change

and work on it every single day, through the frowns

that come when I’m feeling a little strange.

I’m learning every single day, yet like a clown

you recognize nothing of import, set a stage

to paint me as a villain all the way around.

To think I’d wanted to chalk ignorance up to age.

But you could never be wrong.

If this were a movie, we could flip; we could switch

perspectives, and maybe then you would see

the truth instead of calling me a rude bitch.

 Unfortunately, I can tell when it comes to me,

there’s nothing you want to see but that which

makes you pretty and helps you feel free.

So, then, like a disease, you pull at every last stitch

on my heart, doing your best to unravel me.

But you could never be wrong.

The meaning behind your words is so devoid,

I can practically feel your desperation

to control everything and monitor the noise

coming out of every radio station.

Your eyes glaze over, all you care for are coins,

ears plugged while you make accusations.

Your masks are so thin, it’s no wonder your boys

are so easily discovered, peeled like crustaceans.

But you could never be wrong.

Heaven forbid you see things through the eyes

of any person other than yourself,

but I won’t join in your pity-party or lies

or enable the bullshit to come back off the shelf.

I’m done with you and your slithering spies.

But you could never be wrong.

Efforts in Futility

Nothing hurts me more than disrespect from someone who has asked for my help and accepted my extended hand. Nothing disappoints me more than someone who has requested help yet refuses to help themselves.

            My hand extends to every person who deserves it. I do not always know who deserves it and who doesn’t, and so my default reaction to a request for help is to respond in as helpful a way as I know how. Sometimes, my response is to ignore the request either because I do not have the resources, or because my resources are limited and I must care for myself, my family, and my household first.

            My assistance is not free, but I do not charge money for the service I provide. I charge resources. Guests—extended guests, more specifically—and couch surfers are charged in the form of food and other items consumed. Usually, these people also pay us back monetarily, but this is not required except by those who board here.

            We have four boarders and one applicant to our lease and things in the house tend to run smoothly. Two of these boarders will be moving out in the very near future, but we refused to let them get into paying rent at another hotel because it is unsustainable in every sense of the word. These people are our friends. We do not invite strangers into our home. Ours is a family home, first and foremost and always. Even when Persephone is gone, this remains a family home, no matter what amazing acts of sexual exploration occur.

            Recently, we paid for one of my friends to fly from her location to our state. We picked her up at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport baggage claim carousel. We brought her into our home, explaining in the car on the way that our primary expectation was for her to listen to us and do what we say as well as keep to her own word and do what she says she will. She agreed on all fronts. She met Stacie, our boarders, and our new swinging partners. She is a male-to-female transgendered individual with severe psychological issues, so, I promised to get her to the Department of State and Health Services and the Social Security Administration in order to get her started with food stamps and Medicaid. She failed to get her food card because she failed to tell the truth of her homelessness—after all, she was to board at my house and give back by cleaning. We were providing literally everything for her. So, she didn’t get her card, but she ravaged our food supplies and ate foods that had been planned for meals.

            There’s more. She disrespected every single person in my home. She disrespected the space of every person in my home and she disrespected my belongings and the belongings of every person in my home, whether staying or visiting. I told her to stop touching things that don’t belong to her. She continued to move things around that weren’t hers, such as my books and Pat’s bong, and she would take drinks that weren’t hers and drink them, such as Pat’s Rockstar and Marie’s can of coffee. She was absolutely insufferable and she did not understand the mere concept of personal space or boundaries. We told her multiple times to give us space and not to touch us, yet she continued to hover over people, stare at people uncomfortably, and invade their space by standing mere inches from them and touching or leaning on their shoulders.

            I went so far as to write a contract for her as a boarder in my home. I itemized basic respect and consideration, yet she spat on it. She basically said, without speaking, “Fuck you and everything you are trying to do for me.” After all, we took her to DSHS and the Social Security office. We took her to Goodwill and Value Village, because we do not have the incomes we had recently, and we purchased ladies’ clothes for her so that she would feel more comfortable in her own body and feel as though she was moving forward in her life. I gave her space in my study to keep her things and to sleep, yet she disrespected the space by spreading her belongings all over the place, taking over space on my desk and taking my books off of my shelves and failing to put them away properly.

            Four days. That was all. She didn’t last a day past the fourth, as she broke her contract the moment she signed it and did so repeatedly—lashing out for attention like a neglected two-year-old. She is 28. She made everyone so uncomfortable that every single person who had any means or future means of income was offering to pay to get her out of our house. Randy purchased a Greyhound ticket for her to go back to her home in Tennessee. He spent nearly $300 on this ticket, after spending nearly $200 on her flight here from Montana, and after spending at least $100 on clothes, food, weed, and drinks for her. That’s a conservative estimate.

            She checked in at the Greyhound station, then ripped up her tickets and ditched the station in favor of a bar on 4^th Ave. We heard this from her girlfriend, who called the house phone (since Becca had been using it to call her girlfriend) and told Randy what was going on. Somehow, Randy ended up speaking to Becca’s mother, who begged Randy to ensure that Becca get on a train to Tennessee. I understand Randy having empathy for Becca’s mom, as a parent, but the fact of the matter is, at this point, we simply cannot and will not support Becca in any way any longer. She is no longer our responsibility, plain and simple. Point blank. The way I see it, there are two options, because Becca’s mother offered to reimburse Randy for the cost of a ticket. Becca’s mom can either reimburse us for the ticket we already bought, or she can buy a new ticket for Becca and Randy can track the bitch down and make sure she gets on it. Either way, we are not about to buy another ticket for her.

            I cannot believe the level of disregard she had. I did not expect it in any way. When I had spoken to her online, she had come across as level-headed and sane, for the most part. When she got here, she could not actually adjust or settle in with the group. She could not stop focusing on whatever obsession she had and when she got high, it was an exacerbated problem. So, we cut her off, but she didn’t improve…

            The effort I put into this person has been reciprocated to me by all of the people in my home. Pat, Nikki, Stacie, Leo, Kayla—everyone who has either visited or stayed in my home and witnessed what happened with Becca has been highly supportive and helpful, taking all of the stress that they can off of Randy and me. My house is being cleaned right now without my or Randy lifting a finger, because we have an internal inspection tomorrow and we have a lot of people here but we are overwhelmed, personally.

            Becca was one example of many people I have attempted to help. There are other friends I’ve lost through much the same way, including Mary and Alex. I simply cannot tolerate someone asking for help and then shitting on the help that is offered, nor can I tolerate someone failing to uphold their word to help me. Now, I feel as though I am at a crossroads, in a way, though I’m not sure that’s the right euphemism. Now, I am working to help someone who is not really a friend, but who has reached out to me for help due to a mutual friend.

            This person believes people hate her when they do not. Her anxiety and depression push people away and she recognizes it yet fails continuously to take action to correct it. That’s okay, except that she simply ignores advice that is given to her—or, she has, so far. The one time she took my advice, things went well. We went out and had a social outing at a café, where we got coffee and tea and played chess. It was a good time and I told her how good it was. Now, I’m telling her that she needs to take care of herself and she’s telling me she doesn’t know how, but when I tell her what she can do to help herself, she makes excuses for why she can’t do it.

            She says her excuses are legitimate reasons, but the fact of the matter is that she is allowing her depression to run her life completely. I’m telling her what she can do and she is not doing it, she’s claiming that she is “trying.” And so I said as Yoda said.

            “Do or do not. There is no try.” And I said what Gizmo says. “Trying is dying.”

            I am tired. Those who energize me are the ones I keep because I am sick of putting effort into futile endeavors. It was an effort in futility and it had a pretty steep cost to help Becca. I do not want to think it is an effort in futility to help this severely depressed woman in Tacoma, but frankly, I’m seeing all the same red flags. I cannot help those who cannot or will not help themselves. It is that simple.

Questions Concerning Humanity and Utility

Humans are an interesting lot. It seems at once like yesterday and like forever ago that I wrote my blog entry, “Humans Are Actually Terrifying.” It seemed a popular enough piece at the time, but I think it’s good to spark some dialogue about the human condition and our habits as we live our lives.

            A classmate of mine asked, regarding architecture, “At what point does development become meaningless?” This made me think of some other things I have thought about, other questions I have asked: At what point do we realize that not every single human needs to ‘make a living’ in order to be valued and loved? What is the true purpose of cancer and why are we so intent on and obsessed with curing it in all its forms? What further studies can we do that might tell us the reason cancers appear? Isn’t cancer simply the evolutionary process taking place? Why do we grieve those who die? Is death not merely a part of life that we should all accept? Should we not honor the dead for who they were in life, rather than bemoaning the fact that they no longer breathe our same air?

            We should celebrate the lives of those who have passed. Take, for example, the late, great, Alan Rickman. Or, perhaps, the wonderful Carrie Fisher. Yes, it is sad that they are gone because they were wonderful to see on screen. Has it crossed no one’s mind, though, that perhaps it was their time to go? It may seem premature to us, as we expected Carrie Fisher to finish the Star Wars movies and Alan Rickman to tell his great-grandchildren about Harry Potter, but since when has the world cared about what humans think should happen? Life happens on its own terms and we simply need to grab on, hold on tight, and figure it out as we plunge forward with the persistent march of time. I was particularly devastated with the passing of Robin Williams. He was like the cool uncle I knew and loved but had never actually met. I felt an intimate connection with him that I would like to mention before anyone tries to tell me I simply don’t understand because I was never a true fan. It felt as though a family member and a true friend had passed when Robin Williams took his own life and I cannot fathom why he did it. All I know is that he was found to have hung himself on the day I gave birth to my daughter. Coincidence? I don’t believe in coincidences. For a while, I mourned Robin Williams, but I realize now that the best thing for me to do is to continue his legacy by ensuring that my wonderful daughter knows all of his movies, so that she can see what a wonderful soul we had with us for some time. I want her to know Robin Williams as I knew him, to feel him as intimately as I felt him, even and especially when he discussed mental illness. Robin Williams can help teach my child compassion and wherewithal, even if there is no longer a chance of my meeting him in person. I hope we can all think of our favorite late celebrities in this way.

            What is cancer, really? I always imagine one of two things. The first is to imagine feeling lumps multiplying within my body at an exponential rate, so that each time I poke a particular part of my body, it feels like more and more little balls are forming within. The other is to imagine what cells look like as they multiply… and multiply, continuously. Why do cells become cancerous? What purpose could cancer serve that humans are blind to due to our “divine spiritual and intellectual development”? People like to share things on social media that condemn cancer for the suffering it induces in those who become sick with it. People like to do things like participate in Relay for Life and purchase items from the Susan G. Komen Foundation for Breast Cancer Awareness (a scam if I’ve ever seen one). “Cancer is horrible!” “Fuck cancer!” “Rest in Peace Grandpa, Grandma, Auntie Susie, and Uncle John, all cancer victims…” I do not seek to belittle the emotional implications behind the suffering endured by cancer patients. I do, however, seek to belittle the way in which we approach the topic. Why do we think it is so vital to save every single life that comes into this world? Why are we the only species on the planet that coddles the weak and unfit? Is it so that we can flash our Good Guy Badges in one another’s faces and claim we’re such excellent citizens because we have compassion? What is true compassion? At what point does compassion turn from strength to weakness?

            I believe death is a part of life. I believe that we need to accept the inevitability of bodily death and focus less on what happens afterwards and more on what happens beforehand. The religious are, in many cases, entirely too focused on what seems to be the end of the journey that is life. I believe wholeheartedly in living in the moment as much as possible. Of course, it is important to plan for the future. After all, we do have an average life span depending on demographic and geography, so that virtually every person on this planet could plan as if to live up to that point. In this way, people could be prepared for the future even if they weren’t to reach as far into it as they’ve planned. We also need to learn from the history we are taught and presented, as well as do our own historical research in order to develop well-rounded ideas of what has happened over time and what mistakes were made, so that we do not continue to repeat that which has been detrimental to our livelihoods. It has been said that the smart man learns from his mistakes while the wise man learns from the mistakes of others. I believe this is true and I strive to learn from the mistakes of others so that I can push forward and hopefully contribute to human evolution in a positive manner. This leads me to a connecting point…

            In coddling the weak and unfit and by supporting those who would otherwise die in nature’s survival of the fittest, do we waste resources on those who do not contribute to our futures? In what way are the severely handicapped useful to our lives aside from teaching us a level of compassion that is virtually useless? At what point will our habit of coddling the weak come back to bite us in the ass due to overextension of resources? We are already an overpopulated species on this planet and we continue to fuck up the environment by transporting wildlife from place to place, disturbing local ecosystems and forcing species after species into extinction not only from the transport of species to new lands but also from such abhorrent activities as shark finning and bottom trawling our oceans. We worry about sustainability but who will we be sustaining for? At what point will we need to prioritize human lives based on people’s merit? At what point do we stop demonizing eugenics due to the Holocaust of World War II and instead look at it as a viable possibility for improving the human race and reducing our impact on the planet?

            I encourage feedback to every blog entry, but this particular entry is one on which I very much wish to see dialogue sparked. I would especially like to see what some thoughts are as far as the question regarding architectural development, as that is the question posed that sparked this entry and all the questions I’ve presented herein.

A Letter to A Self-Victimizing Braggart

Dear AJ,

                There are many things you said while under my roof that will never be forgotten, and others that may never be forgiven. Before your behavior took a nosedive, you were happy-go-lucky and social. You didn’t have a problem with any of us… but you couldn’t stop talking about your dick.

                Every woman knows that a man who never shuts up about his penis clearly doesn’t know how to use it and this was finally confirmed about you today, when my friend, who used to also be your friend, admitted to me that she slept with you once… and you lasted all of 30 seconds, tops. You useless, pathetic fuck. When you’re in a good mood, you sit around and brag about this and that—how you can last hours in bed (where are the hours? You couldn’t last a whole minute), how you learned all of these martial arts and you can kick anyone’s ass, how you’re a master swordsman… Oh, and then I find out you’ve tried telling some chick you have a fucking degree in psychology when you’ve never taken college courses to earn any kind of credit. Then, when I put you on blast, you tried to defend your lies by saying, “Oh, I never said it was a legit degree.” You are fucking stupid.

                You deserve to be put on blast for every lie you tell and every shitty thing you’ve done. So, I’ll put you on blast, here.

                Boy, let me tell you, it made me euphoric as hell to watch you approach every friend I introduced you to—and then approach a friend I didn’t introduce you to—and try to slander me to the people with whom I surround myself. Do you honestly think I’d have introduced you to two-faced bitches? Do you think that just because I let you into my home, I make it a habit of forming relationships with psychic vampires or people who will turn on me at the drop of a hat—or the unwelcome knock on their door as you beg them to let you move into their home?

                Oh, yeah, bitch, Dusty told me what you did. You slunk your pathetic, lying, two-faced little ass over to my neighbor Dusty’s house, across the street from my house, and you proceeded to say bad things to him about Randy and me, even though he had told you previously that Randy and I are his friends and he didn’t want to hear you fucking slandering us. He also told us that even if you weren’t a steaming pile of bird shit, he would never have let you move in because he likes to walk around the house naked and you would have ruined that for him. That was amusing, but not as heartwarming as knowing for a fact that you will never turn any of my friends against me. My friends are loyal. That’s why they’re my friends.

                Now, I’ve started school and I’m waiting for February to roll around so I can see those nice, fat housing checks appear in my account each month, while you bum around on the streets, hooking up to library WiFi, continuously spewing your lackluster sob story to whatever poor sap takes two minutes to pay attention to your sorry ass.

                I don’t believe in holding grudges, but nor do I believe in forgetting how someone has treated me and you, dumbass, have treated me exceptionally poorly. You were fucking lucky that Randy wanted to play nice with you because I would have had you out of my home the minute you started throwing your belongings down my stairs. That’s right, bitch. You may have been staying in the upstairs space in my home, but that space is still mine. The house is still mine. I am the lease holder, along with Randy, and it is only Randy’s name on the lease that allowed him to have any say in how long you were allowed under my roof, you sorry sack of unapologetic sewage.

                Your mother tried defending you. I’m not sure if you saw it since you blocked Pat and probably can’t see his status anymore. She came along trying to claim that I let you and Pat move in so I’d have a couple of fresh dicks to ride on. What a fucking joke. I messaged her promptly to correct her on that point and even managed to have a decent back-and-forth with her for a few messages, despite her horrendous grammar and spelling. Where did she learn English? Because that place clearly doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing. At any rate, your mother may never turn her back on you, since she is your mother, but she isn’t one to make fucking excuses for you, either. I told her all about how you would sit in my house, talking about all of these alleged problems you have, and yet you never once made an effort to go out and get the medication you said you so desperately needed. Not until after you blew up, mocked, and disrespected me in my own home.

                Fuck you. Rot in the streets with hardly your mother to love you as she withers away with her sickness.

(I wish no ill will on his mother. She seems like a perfectly nice person. She is legitimately ill and "AJ" has a habit of making it sound like she's going to die.)

A Friend Without Weed...

It is a new year and it has had an interesting start. One of the housemates I’d recently taken in is no longer with us, while the other remains. Here’s the story…

            My Halloween party was a raging success, in my opinion. An old friend with whom I’d scarcely even conversed in our six years of friendship, Pat, showed up to the party and brought two friends, AJ and Curt. Pat and AJ were staying with Curt; Curt was the driver. I had other guests, as well: My best friend Jessica, recently separated from the Air Force; my friend Joanne from high school, recently out of the Army, with her husband and son; my friend Rose, with her daughter and sister; my mom, brother, nephew, and two little boys my mom occasionally cares for… Overall, I definitely had a full and happy house for the party and I feel good for throwing it.

            When Thanksgiving rolled around, I received a message from Pat indicating that he wanted to talk about something. He insinuated that it was important but that he didn’t want to stress me out, so I wasn’t obligated to respond immediately. Immediately curious, though, of course, I had to ask what was up, and so Pat told me that he and AJ were being kicked out of Curt’s place by Black Friday when they’d thought they’d have longer to find a new place to go. He wanted to know if he and AJ could stay with Randy, Persephone, and me. Remembering their demeanour during my party and taking Pat’s word for AJ’s character, I acquiesced easily. I enjoy having people in my home, helping them move forward and get back on their feet. This looked like my next opportunity to do so.

            So, on Black Friday, Curt drove AJ and Pat to my house with the vast majority of their belongings, and they essentially moved into my upstairs art room. It started out great. AJ and Pat were both really cool, really chill guys. We would smoke throughout the day and retain the buzz we’d get and it would be wonderful. Then, Randy started helping AJ out quite a bit, because AJ was more eager to accept the help offered than Pat. Pat would rather work for himself to get what he needs. Already, I saw this difference in character and knew that it could cause problems if AJ, who I knew had been addicted to methamphetamines, were to act like the typical tweaker.

            Well, much to my chagrin, and the chagrin of Pat as well as Randy, AJ did act like the typical tweaker. He started out grateful—ever so grateful, graciously thanking us for everything, from the meals we’d feed him to washing his laundry to taking him somewhere to get something he needed. He was thanking us left and right. Then, he started thanking us less, substituting “Thank you,” for, “I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I’m just so not used to it…” I wanted to ignore his behaviour and write it off as holiday blues or a seasonal issue. I spoke with him frequently, took him away from Pat with increasing frequency because he showed so much envy toward his friend. I gave him advice and gave him activities to do to keep himself in a positive mood, as well as what to do if he couldn’t get his mood to lighten.

            Christmas started to roll around. On the 23^rd, Pat invited his friend Mr Hat to hang out and Mr Hat paid for us to go to laser tag. After the first game, AJ acted like a little bitch and stormed away, saying he wasn’t going to play anymore because he wasn’t having any fun because he didn’t score as many points as he wanted to. Mr Hat had already paid for AJ to play 3 games and there was no one in the place other than those currently working there who could have taken his place on our team for the games AJ said he didn’t want to play. As it turned out, Mr Hat was okay with cutting his losses on the money spent on AJ’s ungrateful ass; we played one more game with him and he only joined us because we went against a team of equal numbers as ours. He still didn’t have any fun and thus didn’t join us for the third game, which advantageously put us with even numbers and we split into veterans against civilians and had a blast. Later that night, I broke out some magic mushrooms I’d bought from a friend. I thought AJ may have managed to get into a more positive head space since the laser tag, and if not, perhaps the mushrooms would help. I was mistaken.

            At first, as the mushrooms kicked in, AJ got into a really great mood. He let off great vibes that were really positive and I had hope. Then, suddenly, after we’d moved upstairs and were kind of waiting for the shrooms to really take effect, AJ suddenly got up and left the room in a huff, as if he were angry. He entered not long afterwards and filled the room with the vilest, most violent, most vitriolic vibes one could imagine coming from a person. It was horrendous. It made my heart sick. It made me want him out of my home because I didn’t want that kind of energy permeating the environment in which I am raising my child. He left the room shortly and I felt relief, which I expressed to Pat, who asserted that he felt the same way. It was a long night, during which Pat and I essentially took turns babysitting AJ during his tumultuous trip. It was not nearly as pleasant as it could have been—my own high was absolutely magnificent; Pat’s high was great as well; only AJ had the problems, but his problems extended onto Pat and me. I wish I could have just sat back and enjoyed my trip like the stereotypical hippie I represent when I eat shrooms.

Randy and I took Persephone to my grandparents’ house in Roy for Christmas Dinner on Christmas Eve; she opened all her presents from my dad’s side of the family. We went home that night. AJ had recently received a great many presents from his grandparents, who were quite nice people and got on with me rather well. He had a large bag full of nice socks, a new pair of shoes, and a nice button-down shirt, as well as a new pair of jeans. He acted as grateful as could be when he opened the gifts, but soon it was as though he’d never received them and had absolutely nothing.

Pat and I couldn’t smoke with AJ without feeling him harsh the vibe. Even when AJ thought he was chill, he was far from it. His chill factor didn’t exist. It had, at first, existed, but it had evaporated like water under the springtime sun the longer he stayed with us. I took Pat’s sister, Nick, with me to Walmart so I could spend the $50 gift card my mother got me for Christmas. I got a handful of colouring books, gel pens, colour markers, and a 100-pack of Crayola coloured pencils (they turned out to be a rip-off; nearly half the colours have twins, so there aren’t even 100 different colours). AJ wanted to use the gel pens, which I was generously allowing Nick to use with me while we coloured. I declined him permission to use anything other than my old coloured pencils that reside within old pencil boxes that are in immaculate shape, as are the pencils themselves. He wasn’t happy with that. He was ungrateful to use only the pencils; he wanted full access like Nick had, even though, as Gizmo himself pointed out, I wouldn’t even have let my best friend use the pencils I’d offered AJ until I’d bought those new colours.

I pondered for a while. Finally, before Nick and Mr Hat went home after the new year weekend, I approached AJ in the living room, which had been designated his space since no one was using it and he needed to be by himself for a while because no one wanted to be around him. I sat down and talked to him and let him know that he needed to get his attitude and behaviour straightened out that day, or he would be put out. If he could get his attitude and behaviour under control, then I would give him until the first of February to find a job and have a start date, to have everything lined up for school including having applied for and been accepted and thus have a starting class date, or both. He wanted to know why I was giving him a push but not Pat. I told him that Pat was proving that he was doing what he wanted to do to make money, and Pat was grateful for everything, while AJ really needed to get something going for himself as soon as possible or else I didn’t think his behaviour would get better. I forgot to mention it at the time, but I also wanted to tell him that I would no longer be supplying him any weed, due to what my dad told me about it not helping him get over his addiction or his addict mind-set.

After Nick and Mr Hat had gone home, I took Pat into my study to smoke a bowl because I didn’t want AJ walking in on us while we smoked and I knew he would if we were to do it upstairs. I wanted to have a peaceful smoke session without the guy there to harsh it. Randy came in while we were smoking and said that AJ had asked if we were smoking because he felt left out and alienated. I told Randy I’d talk to AJ later that night or the next day, but that I’d forgotten to mention that I wouldn’t be smoking with him anymore when I’d spoken to him in the living room. Randy left the study and, unbeknownst to Pat or I, told AJ that Pat and I had something to tell him later that night or the next day. AJ proceeded to come to the study, tell us Randy had sent him to us with words of how Pat and I had something to talk to him about. So, I had him sit down, thinking that Randy had sent him and that I was getting pushed into something at the wrong time and knowing that it would blow up badly—all the while, hoping it wouldn’t…

I didn’t even finish my first sentence when AJ tried to cut me off. Pat wouldn’t let him. AJ stormed out of the room. It went a little like this:

I began along the lines of, “So, I talked to my dad, and he said that for you to be doing any mind-altering substances, it isn’t good for your recovery as an addict and I feel like I’m not helping you by supplying you with weed—”

AJ interjected: “So, I’m going to stop you right there,” and Pat stopped him with, “No, you’re not. She wasn’t even halfway through her sentence and you cut her off.”

I sat quietly. The interaction between AJ and Pat was brief.

AJ: “If I can’t smoke here, I won’t stay.”

Pat: “That’s on you. Seriously, dude, this was my last ditch effort to help you. I’m done!”

AJ: “Good. I’m done, too!”

With that, both of them left my study. I followed because I heard the sounds of AJ throwing his belongings around the room upstairs as well as throwing them down the stairs as he prepared to leave. I let it happen. Where he ended up from here was his responsibility, not mine. I had done everything in my power to help him and he hadn’t actually taken any of my advice. He hadn’t listened to me at all. Pat and I came back to my study to finish smoking the bowl we’d started in my Rasta-coloured elephant pipe. Then, I heard AJ’s voice directed at Randy and I knew that Persephone was on Randy’s lap. AJ did not sound calm or collected; he did not sound in any way the way that one should sound when speaking to another. I certainly didn’t want my daughter near it, so I mentioned to Pat what was going on and we agreed to kill the elephant upstairs. I took Persephone with me when I went and closed the door to get her away from the negativity. I knew it wouldn’t last, but the conversation between Randy and AJ did.

Soon after I’d taken Persephone upstairs, I heard AJ blatantly mocking me to Randy, disrespecting me to his face, and I went downstairs to confront him, ready with the words on my lips to tell him that he had exactly two minutes to get the fuck out of my house with all his shit or I’d call the police. Randy stopped me, cut me off, and sent me back upstairs so he could try and play nice with AJ, although at that point I was 1000% done with the guy and I wanted him out of my house as soon as possible.

He stayed that night, went out the next day and caught the bus to wherever and bought a gram of weed. He brought the weed home and said it was an olive branch, a peace offering. He had made no apologies to me. He had made no amends. I wanted nothing to do with the plant he’d brought back, as though he hadn’t heard me at all when I’d said I wouldn’t smoke with him anymore. He stayed that night, too, but he was gone the next morning. Tuesday, January 3^rd, I was rid of AJ and it was as though a rainbow shone on my house the day he left. It was glorious.

I’m glad Pat stayed around. I’m happy to help him and he’s happy to have help. He is grateful for all that he has and all that he is given and it is extremely refreshing.

Asshole

You’re an asshole.

            You try to save face and say that you’re just an “ass,” and that it isn’t a bad thing because you’re not a bad guy, but you’re a liar. You are a fucking liar and you don’t even know it. You think you’re doing all right because you defeated addiction and continue to defeat it every day. Good for you! You got clean! That’s not the end of the journey and I know you know it, but here you are, acting like a fucking child, avoiding your daughter.

            You post things to social media that are transphobic, homophobic, and otherwise rude and insensitive. You don’t think that your daughter actually cares about these issues and if it ever did cross your mind that she might, you don’t care. You think, “She can get over it,” or, “It’s not a big deal, it’s not serious.” But it is serious. It is fucking serious because I have a friend to this day who is shamed, hated, and abused just for being who she is, because she has a man’s body.

            It’s a big fucking deal because hate crimes still happen. You think that whatever you post is your business. It’s your Facebook, right? Sure. It’s yours. You can post whatever you want and you can think it’s funny, but maybe it should cross your mind that what you put into the world actually affects other people. Those who see your Facebook posts react to it in one way or another.

            Your “mind your own business” attitude is loveless. I don’t know who you are anymore. I thought you were my dad. I thought you were someone who had turned over a new page in his life and would actually be there for his family, but you’re proving once again that you’re not there for me.

            You never really were.