The First Step is the Most Difficult Step

If I told you every reason why you should be performing push-ups instead of reading this, would you start doing push-ups right now?
If I took the time to explain how drinking any caffeinated beverage will cause you to die before your parents/children/husband/wife/dog/cat, would you stop drinking caffeine forever?
If a doctor told you that driving in a car would cause your heart to fail, would you stop immediately?
If a dentist told you that only a $15,000 toothbrush would prevent your teeth from falling out, would you buy it and brush daily?
If a psychiatrist said you need to take 4 medications 3x per day to prevent yourself from killing everyone you love, would you take them as instructed?
If I reasonably explained in every way possible that the only thing you can do to go to heaven is stick out your tongue right now, would you do it?
Would you take the first step?
Would you refuse what I explained you need?
Would you require what I explained you don't?
Would you question what I already answered?
Would you doubt what you've already experienced through others?
Doubt their experience? Doubt your thoughts? Doubt your perception?
Because it tells you to do something. Fucking it.
To take the first step. To do push-ups, right now. To brush your teeth, now. To stop drinking "unhealthy" things, forever. To go to heaven, eventually. To not doubt, not explain, not question. Just it. The immediate and eternal reason for the first step. It.

(I hate everything I just wrote, that whole train of thought. It's fucking disgusting. This truly is my online journal.)

Back Alley Musings - St Helen

Two weeks ago an elderly woman asked me for a cigarette. She was hunched-over, frowningly out of air, and clearly struggling for the courage to place the request. Perhaps I was too intimidating while smoking on my backyard porch, perching in reflective fascination with "color" and "thought", but she asked me anyway and I gave her a smoke. We talked then, quite briefly as one should allow, about names, places, things, weather observations, and general awkward stupidity of herp derp narf crap. Her name was Helen and she had just moved into a garage-studio apartment in my San Diego alley from Pittsburgh.
Tonight she asked me for another cigarette, but the conversation lasted four hours. I can honestly say I have never met a more fascinating, compassionate, experienced, happy, or wise person in my entire life. I mean no disrespect towards anyone, not even my parents, but fuckall if a conversation with Helen didn't make me appreciate being a person smaller than the stars during daylight.

So... Helen: At the age of 18, Helen left home to join a convent and became a nun. She was celibate, single, and devoted to Catholicism for the next 15 years. At the age of 33, she left the convent and enrolled in graduate courses. She earned her Bachelors, Masters, and Ph.D in Religious Studies by her 37th birthday (that's 4 years later, folks). After she completed her doctorate, she served under a Catholic bishop ("who was constantly drunk at mass and horny for boys") to further her experience. At 40 she wrote a letter to the Vatican requesting a dismissal from her vows. After a lengthy appeal process, she finally received a "retirement" of her vows. For the next 32 years, Helen was a professor and chair of Religious Studies at USD (University of San Diego), a private prestigious university that costs well over $30,000 in tuition per year to attend. Two years ago, Helen sold her two houses and moved into my alley, at the ripe retirement age of 74. So, to recap, Helen asked me for a second cigarette tonight and we talked.

After 30 minutes of venting my overly-personal current list of depressionist reflection of the usual life of me, I, thinking, we, self, stress, blah blah bullshit of crap if in an else otherwise while negotiable what the fuck are you reading? Helen didn't even blink. Ever realize that you've just over-exposed yourself to someone? That things, the conversation you've just been monologuing, have gone way too far beyond personal? I interrupted myself and asked Helen to tell me her story. The next three hours could be summed up as follows:

Me: "But Helen, were you happy?"
Helen: "Ohh.. YES!!! Absolutely."

You've lived for 74 years, never married, no kids, never had sex, but you're okay with that?
I'm thrilled, never been better.
But when you left the convent, you must've had some life-changing rebellion of faith/identity?
Yeah, that's why I went to school.
Do you still believe in God?
Yes, absolutely.
Why?
Because everyone either needs or wants a reason to exist.
Why didn't you ever get married?
I didn't find the right person.
Are you SURE that you've been happy?
Yes, Ben, I'm sure.

...I could fill in the details, but there's really no point unless I publish a book of the conversation. The bottom line is... you should start smoking so awesome old people will ask you for cigarettes, or something. Helen was convinced that I was lying when I told her what I've done since I was 18. Education, Africa, church intern, Asia, military, teacher... she really thought I was a liar. I'm proud of the doubt I created in an ex-nun.

Meh, I'll probably forget this entire conversation soon, like tomorrow or the day after.

Whatever random that look this like those in who what where?

I hate the past because of the harbors it holds. I think alcoholics are fucked defined, treatment is their cage and faith is their crime. I think drug addicts are free, treatment is their shame and doctors are their dealers. I think medical professionals determine the fucked from the free, but never tell a soul about their power. I think people generally obey those they believe are superior to themselves.

I think fat people need to move, not move as in "exercise", but move as in "relocate to another society." Any tribe in the Brazil rainforests will do, as will nearly any African subculture. Most of the billions of people in the world believe that fat is healthy. Muscle-toned people don't get chased by lions or sharks because even dumbfucktarded animals know those people have an incurable disease. You don't know this, because you are still listening to those who live with electric dishwashers, HEPA filters, and memberships to places called "gyms" with lifty things that are heavy.

I think everyone is quite normal. But anyone who thinks everyone should be equal is insane. The only way everyone can be equal is if all of us get completely fucked up by taking EQUAL amounts of shrooms, meth, alcohol, and heroin while we dance to the same historically classical music. If we're all fucked up, then no one has any reason to complain about anything. Not doctors. Not lawyers. Not religious moralists. Not siblings. Not graders, teachers, or any other authority. In fact, we might all have a lot of fun. Anyone who wouldn't have fun in that situation is, in my opinion, severe insane.

The Pot

If you don't want to read the whole thing, the punchline of this post is that my mom would routinely throw pots and pans at my dad.

Last week I decided to short-circuit a parental visit to my home in San Diego by randomly driving four hours to my parents' house in Tehachapi. It was my dad's birthday, but more importantly, it was mother's day. When I spoke to my dad on the phone before my visit, he said they were coming to visit me because "it isn't good for you to isolate yourself from your mom" and "your mom really needs to see you." This is the nature of my parents' relationship with each other and my dad with me. Men serve, women demand. I decided, packed, and started driving at 8:00am on Thursday, with four packs of cigarettes and a plastic red cup full of rum-coke in the cup holder of my car. Sue me. I drove with an open container, and no, I wasn't drunk. I arrived 1/6th of a day later with 1/2 an empty cup.

One of the keynote events of my childhood occurred when I was 12 years old. I had just arrived home from soccer practice after school when my mom burst through the door and announced that she was leaving. She packed a suitcase, grabbed my sister (who she instructed to also pack a suitcase), and left as quickly as she appeared. I didn't know what had happened. The last I saw of my mom and my sister was at the door when my dad walked in with obviously bowed grief. As my mom and sister were at the door walking out, my dad was summarily slapped in the face by my 13 year old sister with the explanation: "How could you!!!!!" And suddenly, without a word otherwise, the door slammed shut.

My mom and sister were gone for two days, staying in a vacation hotel. Throughout their leave, my dad was on the phone constantly, taking days off of work, buying things, not speaking to me, grieving. Just prior to their return, my dad called my school to say I was sick. He instructed me to the clean the entire house, paying special attention to my sister's room and my parents' bedroom. I was thrilled to get out of school, so I cleaned vigorously as instructed. When my dad came home from work, he had purchased two dozen roses for my mom and a bouquet of flowers for my sister. We set them up at strategic locations and my mom and sister arrived home shortly thereafter. Two weeks later, my mom was happy to tell me what happened that day to force her to leave. To this day, my dad hasn't spoken of it and I haven't asked.

According to my mom, here's what happened: My parents had driven to the grocery store to buy food for dinner. During that time, my mom had told my dad of the money she had spent shopping for new outfits, furniture, decorations, etc. My dad became upset because the balance in the checking account was now a negative, and they couldn't buy groceries without bouncing a check. They parked in the grocery store parking lot and continued to argue about money. At some point, my mom had enough and told my dad to "screw off" whilst leaving the car to go buy groceries. It was at this point that my dad grabbed my mom's wrist and said, "No, Karen, we need to talk about this more." In response, my mom said "Marty, let go of me," took the car keys and drove home. My dad walked. I saw the rest. Again, this is her side of the story.


Domestic violence is a prevalent talking-point amongst my youthful college student peers, political leaders, and feminists. It's particularly a feminist protest-worthy problem, which is completely fucking funny to me. Did you know that " Domestic Violence Awareness Month" is a female-only event in October according to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV)? The October picture of abuse according to the NCADV is of a woman bowing her head in hurt shame. That is a tax-dollar government website. My dad grabbed my mom's wrist, let go at her request, and as a result she took her daughter to a hotel for two days. He should've been jailed, fired (since he was law-enforcement), and forcibly removed from our house.

When I arrived at my parents' house last week, I noticed a few pots and pans sitting scattered in the garage. It gave me the idea to cook dinner before they came home from work. I went to the grocery, bought a few whole chickens, potatoes, lemons, spices, veggies, etc., and set them on so my parents would arrive home with a cooked dinner and me. They arrived in perfect timing two hours after I started cooking, and we ate in festive surprise at our stories and changes over the past few months. They were thrilled.


Now, if you don't know my childhood history of being raised like Mogali amongst women, then you won't get how completely shocked my mother was at my cooking that day. My mother fought nearly every day of her "stay-at-home-mom" time with both me and my dad. She daily found it atrociously absurd that she had to make us (my sister and I) shop for groceries, clean the house, and cook dinner while my dad was at work. It was painful and abusive for her, a violence perpetrated by my dad. I remember this line being yelled repeatedly at my dad during my childhood: "You know, raising two kids and three home-cooked meals a day for [# of married years at the time] gets a little old." I remember this line first being spoken when I was 8 years old, just after I had made scrambled eggs and bacon for my family for breakfast. I didn't understand it, since I had just made breakfast without my mom's help. My sister and I never had lunch or "lunch money" during school days. My dad worked weekends and holidays, and he never packed a lunch. My mom almost never cooked. If I add the times my sister and I made meals "with" my mom, then I think my mom only cooked during holidays and extended family gatherings.

While my parents were eating the dinner I cooked them last week, I received some great feedback. My dad exclaimed, "This is the best, most moist chicken I have ever had in my life." My mom questioned, "Ben, where did you learn how to cook?!" I thanked them for their compliments, said I was glad they were enjoying it, and told them the recipe and technique. My mom told me about the old pots and pans she put in the garage since buying an entirely new set of kitchenware. She said I could have some of them if I wanted, but most were reserved for my cousin Tracy (female type), and others needed to be saved for "sentimental value." When I asked why she wanted to save some, she told me that she wanted to save the pots and pans that she had thrown at my dad's head throughout the years, which had bent and warped upon impact. It was one of those sigh-laugh-"ah marriage!"-laugh-sigh moments of comment.

Did you now that women are more likely than men to stalk, attack and psychologically abuse their partners? Did you know that the majority of all domestic violence cases involving physical harm and assault are initiated by women? Did you know that Harvard Med School found 70% of domestic violence is committed by women against men? Do you know that abuse against men is commonly accepted by the legal professions and even celebrated by women in society? Do you remember when I told you that my dad should've been jailed, fired, and removed from our house for grabbing my mom's wrist? If that should've happened to my dad, what should've happened to my mom?

"Oh yeah!"-sigh-laugh-hamarriageha-laugh-sigh, "I remember when you hit dad in the head with a frying pan! You kept the pan?!?" I said with a humored poker face. "Yes! I love it!" My dad was stone silent, eating his vegetables. Nothing happened. I didn't know what to say, so I quickly switched looking between my parents' faces and humorously scanning the room. Suddenly, out of nowhere, nothing continued to happen. Then I remembered why.

I think my dad dipped his heart into a boiling vat of acid and lye when he was 18 years old, the year he went to prom with my mom. He's been numb to all emotional and physical pain, including pots/pans to the head, ever since. He killed all emotional contact with humanity after my mom told him she was just using him so she would have a prom date and broke up with him shortly thereafter. To this day, my mom still tells the story of how "abusive" and "violent" he reacted after she told him how she just used him for a prom date. He showed up to her door and said "I never want to speak to you again", then walked away. According to my mom, she "saved the relationship" by apologizing to him and throwing herself at him as a provider, resulting in a marriage two years later and my sister two years after that. At 22, my dad began working 60 hours a week for the next 34 years. He avoided most everything else, including pots and pans.

Remember when my mom came home and escaped her wrist-grabbing husband, saving her only daughter in the process? What would a 12 year old boy learn by watching his mom rescue his sister and completely ignore him alone with an "abusive" dad? What would a boy learn from watching his 13 year old sister hit his dad in the face, and then watch dad buying her a bouquet of flowers in response? What should a pre-teen boy learn about manhood from watching his dad dodge and get hit in the head with (potentially lethal) steel pots and pans from his mother? What should I have said, now that I'm 30 years old, about my mom nearly leaving with my sister over a wrist-grab and leaving me behind, while she laughs about bending steel with a force she meant for my dad's head? Fucking nothing, suddenly absolutely nothing.

Keep those pots, mom, and go ahead and give them to extended female family and your non-sons.
I learned how to cook during my childhood, even though somehow you cooked three meals per day for my dad. I love you and I'll always cook for you, anytime you wish.

Doc, Let Me Be Blunt

Every time I walk into the VA for a psychiatry appointment I have to fill out a depression/anxiety survey. Before I was called into my last appointment in February, I didn't fill out the stupid fucking form. I wasn't in the mood, neither for the survey nor for any other bullshit conversation. So, my psychiatrist was "troubled" by my behavior and asked me to fill out the form so he could gauge my depression/anxiety levels on some mathematical psycho-formula scale. I leapt out on a no-bullshit-leftover rant.

Doc, I'm not going to fill out your stupid fucking form because the only reason I am here is so you can type into your computer and eventually the VA will mail me some medication. That's it, that's the only reason I'm here and that's the only reason you're here too. You read the fucking form, ask me some scripted follow-up questions that a PhD from Harvard wrote, feign some empathy to pave the way for some more fucking stupid scripted questions from another PhD who's never been to war or in the military, then you type on your computer and click some boxes and I leave. I say "Thanks", you say "You're welcome", and I'll get medication in the mail for the next three months. So don't pretend like I'm violating some mysterious rule of the VA production process. You get a paycheck, I get medication. That's it. So click and stamp your fucking form and I'll be on my way.
....
No, Doc, I haven't given you a filled-out form since 2009. This is normal, it's even normal that you don't remember. Yes, Doc, I know that I can "talk to somebody" by following the brochure instructions and simply calling 1-800-PLEASE-HOLD. You've given me this same brochure every three months for the past two years. Do you really want me to feign ignorance again like I always do? "Oh, wow, I didn't know these 'talk therapy' programs existed! Free of charge! Wow!!!" Stamp that damn form, click on your computer, and I'll be on my way.
...
You're right, Doc, in fact I don't think you or anyone in this office gives a shit about me. Do I give a shit about you? Are we friends? Would you know my name if you saw me on the street? Fuck no, no you wouldn't. Yet, you want me to fill out your stupid fucking form. You don't know me, you'll never know me, just as I don't know you and I'll never know you. How many hours of solid REM sleep did you get last night? (Here's a brochure) Have you smoked anything, including a cigarette, in the past 12 months? (Here's a pamphlet) Have you drank alcohol in the past 12 months? Have you drank more than three drinks in 24 hours? (Here's an addiction center you can check into, for free!!!) In the past 12 months, has anyone told you they're concerned about you? (Brochure for social support) Do you think someone loves you? (Pamphlet of local charities) Doc?... Are you there...? We're having a safe, intimate, trusted conversation here, right? Just tell me what type of food you eat every day. How many conversations do have per day? Doc? Stamp your fucking form, click your computer, and I'll be on my way.
...
Yes, Doc, I understand you have a medical professional responsibility in prescribing these medications. I further understand that you have no clue whether or not I swallow them or burn them alive on my BBQ as a party to some sociopathic fetish for torturing chemicals. Your responsibility ends when you stamp the fucking form and click that goddamn computer. Do I have a responsibility to monitor your aspirin intake? No, I don't, you know why? Because we're not friends. We're not intimate persons. We're not even honest strangers. You don't tell me shit about your life, especially regarding your social skills and vitamin supplements, so this is nothing new. It hasn't been new for two years. You still don't know my first name after two years, and to be honest, I don't know yours either. So stamp the fucking form, click your computer and I'll be on my way.
...
"Thanks, Doc."
"You're welcome."

Guns: The Retardation of Californians

If I wanted to persuade you to agree with me concerning gun control, I would attempt to do so with threaded parallels of gun control to Hitler and Nazi Germany (thanks for the tip, James!!!!). For example, I would tell you that one of the first laws the Nazi party passed in early-1900s Germany was forbidding and controlling the ownership of all handguns/rifles by any German prior to their other invasive population control policies (concentration camps, anyone?). But I don't care about persuading you, nor do I care to incite emotion by tempestuously referring to events that happened in Europe over 100 years ago. I want to tell you a very, very stupid and personal story.

A gun is a mechanical device, much like a pen and paper. It is stupid, as is this. I learned this very early on in my youth. When I was 12 years old my dad and my grandfather bought me a spring-loaded Red Ryder BB-gun and told me the following: "What you do with this cannot be erased. Once you pull the trigger, you're going to live with the consequences of everything that happens after that." This was a warning, but more importantly, it was a truthful story. I have lived with the consequences of each and every single trigger pull since that moment. One of my proudest moments was tracking two moving pigs I shot off the cuff at >275 yards, using my pocket knife to skin and gut them, then cooking the fresh bacon and pork sausage as a meal for the next two weeks. It was the feast of a harvest.

It took me just a few years to learn that what my father and grandfather were trying to teach me was not a warning, was not a promise, was not fear; they taught me, right then and there, that I was living a life of choice, choice of responsibility, responsibility of consequences, consequences of my life choices, and that loop was permanent. They stood by me after giving me the BB-gun by immediately taking me to a remote section of Utah during winter for a two-week tented hunting trip. Their targets were deer and elk. My targets were soda cans, chucker birds, and gray tree squirrels. Whether or not we killed our targets was a moot point. Our goal was a direct interaction with the natural world, of choice and responsibility and consequence for life. I starved and froze my ass off for two-weeks, despite two layers of thermal underwear, many thick coats and gloves, a constant spring of soup and crackers, a space blanket, a toilet seat built from a used walker, and dirt and leaves that I buried myself in as a daily ritual for warmth. Today, as I am writing this on February 21 2011, I would give anything, anything at all, any part of my life experience since or any vital organ of my body now, to relive those two weeks all over again.

So I have an advantage over most people in that my first experience with a gun was not one of fear, but of permission. "You CAN do this, but do you WANT to do this?" It was a choice of mechanical utility, of command decision. You decide and you act and the thing responds. The modern theory that your "pseudo-choice" resulted in "pseudo-consequences," was for me a given undeniable and literal fact. If you triggered a cause, then you did its effects, no excuses for not seeing this fact before and after. A gun did this, or at least, was the mode of communication. A trigger, a bullet, a lethal combination of mechanics taught me more about life than anything else I've touched since. Let me give you an example.

The most shockingly shameful moment of my life occurred when I was 15 years old. I made a choice, by myself responsible, and the consequences were dire ("IS THAT REASONING EVEN POSSIBLE?!" - Simon Says, PhD., Humanitarian College Professor). Yes, a gun did this, or at least, was the mode of communication. A trigger, a bullet, a lethal combination of mechanics taught me more about life than anything else I've touched since. Deja vu? No, you just re-read what I learned, that a choice can result in good and evil action. Literal, real, full, and fuck you undeniable. A gun did this to me. At 15 years old I nearly shot a bullet into the head of another man, and while on the same trip, I received a shot that left me partially deaf in my right ear.

At this point I believe it is necessary to alleviate your worries as the reader because responsibility necessitates the existence of danger. No offense, but it's incredibly likely that you've been brainwashed into fearing guns as weapons of violence, not mechanics of choice. You're probably either afraid of guns and/or you think guns are primarily used for an ugly sort of anger, vengeance, or upset; you might even think war is the result of a social version of these terms. Unfortunately for ignorance and congressmen, this is fucking bullshit. I know this, and I know where you're coming from, but stay with me, I was 15 years old. My dad thought it best to have me hunt squirrels with him and other hunters who were responsible to eliminate the rabies/rot carried by squirrels onto the various cattle ranches near our home. In my 18+ years of hunting experience since, this is ridiculously rare. No hunter kills an animal just to kill it. The only exception is when there is a threat of overpopulation and/or disease to the natural habitat of the wildlife. In this case, the threat was to cows and horses by a disease which was passed on via the fur of squirrels, but to which squirrels themselves were immune. This trip was an important step for me, since I had never before killed an animal without harvesting it for edible food. I had never before killed an animal for the sake of other animals, nor even for killing to limit disease, and especially not for "sport".

So me, my dad, my uncle Rod, and his friend (let's call him "Jack") were out shooting squirrels for this exact reason. Due to my 15 years of age, I carried a .22 rifle and scope, while everyone else carried much larger rifles with high-powered scopes. We had found a great spot on a cattle ranch, a rock outcropping on the edge of a ravine that looked out across an opposing hillside. The hillside range was perfect, anywhere between 100 and 400 yards, and it was crawling with scores of rabies-infested squirrels that had dug so many holes that the land looked like a broken-down golf range. You find amazingly peaceful beauty in this spot, such natural beauty and colors you cannot describe except with silence. We were having a blast, challenging each other to distance shots, giving verbal awards for "Best stick explosion" and "Most elusive dirt mounds". While we were all lined up sitting side-by-side, I made a fatal error. While tracking a running squirrel as a moving target from right to left through my scope, I had unknowingly swung my rifle barrel directly behind Jack's head. A rifle scope is mounted roughly two inches above the barrel, so despite the fact that my barrel was pointed directly at the base of Jack's skull, I couldn't see him through my scope focused on a target 200 yards away. I saw crosshairs and a running target, that is, until my rifle was ripped up from my hands, my head was bashed into a rock, and I pulled the trigger as though nothing and everything had happened at once.

My dad had no pity for tackling me unconscious. Instead I awoke with my narrowed eyes squinting at the temper of a man who was treating me as if I were an attempted assassin. If you're experience with guns, then I don't need to tell you how completely fucked up my muzzle awareness was that day, nor do I need to tell how right my dad was to knock me out at that precise moment. In you're not experience with guns (a.k.a. you gun-retarded Californian), then just know that if my 15 year old finger had pulled a further 1/8th of an inch on the trigger, a man with a wife and two children would be dead today. Gun use is choice of responsibility, responsibility of consequences, consequences of life choices. A gun is a mechanical device, obeying with full reverence the commands of its operator. Your fingers do this. Your mouth does this. Your car does this. A pen and paper does this. You cannot take it back.

For the rest of the day, per my dad's instruction, I was allowed to shoot only if I was "in front" (greater than 90 degree angle) past any other shooter. I was front-most, foremost, and had an additional responsibility of avoiding being shot by trusting in the awareness of those behind me and my ability to communicate with others mid-fun. Once we moved to a new location, Jack was behind me and shot at a squirrel with the end of his .300 Win. Mag. barrel right next to my ear. The concussion rapidly brushed the side of my face, nearly knocked me over, and left me dazed and confused for a good 30 seconds of my first experience of drunkenness at 15. After I rediscovered my legs, I calmly signaled to those shooters behind me of my intent to move. I picked up my rifle and walked behind the group, stumbling like a dog on rollerskates. The beginning scene in Saving Private Ryan is quite appropriate here. My ears were ringing like numbed screaming birds in chorus, as if I were wearing noise-canceling headphones at a organ orchestra. (On side note, this experience prepared me directly for combat conditions as an Army soldier).

If you've made it this far, and read all above micro-stories and notes, then you deserve to recognize and realize this fact: When I was 15 years old I learned, without even realizing it, that I was capable of shooting the President of the United States in the head from a minimal distance of 500 yards under extreme battlefield conditions. I shot a 2" by 6" target (a squirrel) at 350yds with a low-powered rifle and scope. That was me 16 years ago. Currently, using my California-purchased-legal hunting rifle, I can kill the President or any person at well over 800 yards distance. Most ignorant fucks, upon "discovering" this stupid fact of mechanical utility, respond in avocation of more gun control opinions, but I do not. I bought my rifle legally, bought my scope legally, reloaded my own ammunition legally, and made legal customizations to it merely for my own comfort. I only use this weapon to legally hunt game in California. But, surprisingly to gun-retarded Californians, I could make the President's head explode with this weapon from more than twice the Secret Service's standard cordon. Remember that ballistic glass present at President Obama's inauguration? Yup, my bullets would've penetrated those and killed him where he stood, even if I would've shot beyond the length of the pool. To be honest, I've never either thought of this fact, or even using this fact to promote awareness of guns, to anyone. Why would I? Don't people know that guns kill people from a distance? But, in order to educate you gun retarded Californians of ballistics' ethics, I guess you need to know the simple science behind mechanics.

Despite being law-enforcement personnel, both my dad and I are legally prevented from buying any weapon that is sub-par to the .308 I already own that can take off the President's head. You fucking fucktarded Californians listened to politicians that said "assault weapons" should be illegal. S, you gave money to mainstream-media so you could listen to more anti-gun rhetoric, and you now receive countless statistics and polls on "gun violence" in society. Congrats. You agreed that Columbine kids were" gun victims", so you passed laws that forbade adults from teaching their children with guns. Congrats. You gave over your rights to the state of California to own any gun you purchase by requiring registration of your name, address, phone number, social security number, psychological exam, mental and medical history, gun bolt/slide/grip serial number, and a personality test of 30 multiple-choice questions. Congrats. You told the government that you don't want anyone to ever have the freedom to buy a gun in California, without waiting for 10 days after they've paid a multi-thousand dollar bill and passed the above registration requirements. Congrats. Furthermore, you fucking fucktarded Californian ignorant asshole gun-fearing tits, any rifle that is totally "black" in color is illegal, any gun that shoots more than 8 rounds before a reload is illegal, any rifle that has a manual magazine release is illegal, any gun carried in any car is illegal, any gun manufacturer that does not go through a rigorous California government gun approval testing and procedure is banned from selling guns in California. Guess what manufacturer of guns is carried by over 90% of law-enforcement agencies in California? Answer: Glock. Guess what manufacturer is no longer allow to sell new guns in California? Answer: Glock. Why, why, why? You, you fucking fucktarded Californian, made it illegal for them to do so.

I can kill you at over 800 yards, anywhere day or night, in an instant death without you ever realizing what hit you. You'll never even hear the shot before your head explodes. I can do the same to any congresswoman, President, furniture mover, or father. This can be done by any gun owner. I'll never do this, but I am capable, because a gun is capable. A shot by gun is a life choice, a choice of consequence, consequence of responsibility, responsibility of life choice.

Who will be in charge if the Second Amendment is revoked or Martial Law is declared by your elected leaders? Me. Me, motherfuckers, me and my .308 at 800 yards. The Army, of which I am a part, in California. Cherish your guns fuckers, because the only reason your government hasn't forced upon you what they consider "in your best interest" is due to the fact that you might shoot them with your gun in revolt. I know this, because this is the only threat I would oppose if you try to do this, you fucking fucktarded Californian.

It took me this long to realize this... ???

Revelation: My ex-fiance's mother signed up for a "suicide hotline" over five years ago so that she could subvert and derail our engagement. I learned of this seemingly insignificant fact of her volunteering for a suicide hotline through my fiance. I didn't think it was significant at the time, even though my fiance's mother specifically requested my fiance to be her "debrief support channel" after the calls during midnight hours. I honestly didn't care, didn't think it was significant, didn't even respond when my fiance told me about it other than "Oh, that sounds awesome. Very cool of your mother to volunteer". But, holy shit, how stupid do I feel after five years of reflection? Consider these facts:

-My fiance's mother did not want her daughter to ever get married.
-My fiance's mother did not want her daughter to ever get married due to the fact that she was afraid my fiance might actually form a family of her own with another and neglect the enabling responsibilities her mother required for codependency.
-My fiance's mother did not want her daughter to specifically marry me due to the fact I was planning on starting my own family with her.
-My fiance's mother broke into my fiance's email account to read our correspondence while I was away in India. After reading a particularly troubling email containing some of my thoughts about her and her family, my fiance's mother immediately brought it up to her husband and left it up to him to confront my fiance about what he/she "randomly stumbled upon while using the computer" (fiance's mother's words, exactly) in terms of how troubling it was to their family.
-My fiance's mother confronted my fiance EVERY SINGLE DAY with reminders of why she should never leave her family to start another while I was away in India,.

Considering that context, and the fact that I wanted as much to be a part of fiance's family as she wanted of our new family, the simple subversive actions of her mother completely alluded me. How could I be so blind? How could I miss this simple fact for the past five years? I don't know.

Five years ago my fiance's mother called a "suicide hotline". She said she wanted to volunteer as a suicide hotline operator, at least, that's what my fiance told me she said. This occurred while I was in India and my fiance was living with her mother. Furthermore, my fiance's mother specifically requested the midnight-4am shift for the hotline, and asked my fiance to be her "debrief support" after every phone call during this time. It just so happens that this was the only time frame that I was able to contact my fiance during her available hours in the local time zone (since I was calling from India). Fuck me, I cannot believe I didn't realize this until now.

Since my fiance was a codependent object of her mother's emotional needs, EVERY SINGLE CALL her mother took necessitated the use of my fiance's debriefing skills. Every day, at midnight, 2am, 1:30am, 3:30am, 2:15am, etc. my fiance was woken up from sleep by her mother to debrief her on the latest suicide call. As such, when I called faithfully at 8:00am local time every day (like I promised I would), my fiance was either asleep, too tired to answer the phone, or delirious from lack of sleep. Guess who answered the phone at her house every day at 8:00am? You got it, my fiance's mother, informing me of my fiance's inability to talk on the phone.

Despite the context, I did not realize until this very day (January 16, 2011), that my fiance's mother put herself and my fiance further into a codependent relationship to prevent our relationship from ever continuing via this act. I thought volunteering for a suicide hotline operator, especially for the midnight-4am shift, was awesomely sacrificial. I didn't even suspect an anterior motive. I didn't see what she was trying, and succeeding, to do. The effect of her actions were that I could never talk to my fiance during convenient times for her while I was overseas in India calling from a telephone booth two miles walk from my residence. Good fucking Lord, I'm still figuring this shit out.

To sum up: Even five to seven years after a marriage fails, you still do not know the whole truth behind the people who made it fail. Not your fault, people are just that subversive and complicated.

How...How is it

How is it that I can accomplish SO MUCH GOOD while drunk/drinking/under the influence of alcohol, and yet, FEEL SO GUILTY for doing it because of HOW I did it? My God, I did so much good today. I repaired my car, fixed the problems of two of my soldiers by chewing out my superiors for their mistakes, resolved deeply seeded family problems that my sister had with me, exercised, went for a walk, play some games, wrote a philosophical paper on education (that a department director approved) for submission to the SD City College Dean...

I did wondrous things today, but I'm under a cloud. How fucking retarded.

Let's Just Turn This Shit Right Around

Problems with your relationship? Life getting overwhelming? Moments of trouble for you....ladies? Girls, ladies, women, do you believe in feminism? Or in equality between sexes? Want to be grown-up women? Then I'll treat you like one:

I'm not a doctor, but I'm prescribing you 500ml of cowgirl the fuck up. Awwwww... how cute, it's Pity Me Elmo in its natural habitat. You, the natural evolution of women who have killed large animals with crude spears out of their bare hands and built nations with families of offspring are afraid to approach some random sausage-swinger because a guy from the time when mobile phones were used to call people rejected you?

Boo bloody hoo. You won't get anywhere feeling sorry for your teenage self, and if you keep this shit up you'll be back in ten years saying you're a 38 year old girl who has never been in a successful relationship because once upon a time when computers weren't sentient she was told "no" by a guy who was lost in World War 4.

Tonight you're going to put on a shirt that doesn't say "twenty-three year old virgin", you're going to look up one interesting thing on Wikipedia, and then you're going to tell that interesting thing to no less than three men. Doesn't even fucking matter if you want to shag them or not, you're going to tell them that interesting thing and then you're going to see how long you can hold a conversation with them.

If you're rejected, you look that sausage-swinger dead in the eye and you say "my ancestors ate mutton with their fists", then you walk away and try it on a new one. Don't sulk away, that's expected. That's probably typical of you. You're going to sway away like this happy son of a bitch and you're going to do it with a womanly cocktail in your hand. Ooze estrogen on the ground and proudly declare yourself a sexy bitch, because if you fuck this up then I'm going to half-assedly follow you around from shop to shop yelling a crude "Pussy Bitch" in front of you whilst showing a sign of you in a fugly position having your little hairy legs broken by a monster made of vaginas.

I'll even make this easy on you so you don't boohoo any more than you already are. Erathosthenes, this ancient Greek god who was far better at being a woman than you are, drew the first accurate map of a rounded Earth and knew that we revolved around the sun. Fucking Greeks, they invented democracy when the rest of us were wallowing in our own filth.

Now it's time the boohoo caboose is derailed by Maoist rebels and a whole slew of Indians die. Anything anyone says that doesn't make you angry isn't advice you should bother with. It's going to push you further and further into the delusion that you're anything other than a little black lamb that only gets calls when the handsome lambs need help with codependent care or personal grooming advice.

You're probably highly disinteresting, like so godawfully boring that you tell your finest moment to a guy and he instantly loses any shred of respect he may have had for you. Middle-class white suburbanite who did well in high school but never really fit in with any of the cliques and who was always friends with a guy she longed for but never made any sort of advance so he never really knew you existed? Maybe traveled to Europe or Cancun once after high school and learned so many valuable things about life before returning to hopeful self-reflection and masturbating to previous boyfriends? You meet new people, have one conversation that lasts ten minutes, and then they kind of stop responding to you and you have to fight the urge to ask them if they're still at the keyboard, and when you finally do facebook says "xx is no longer online"?

Your ego is in shreds because you confuse confidence with smuttiness and have to actually justify your looks as "not hideously ugly" on a text-based website where nobody can see you. You shy away from prolonged eye contact and freeze up when making small talk with the till clerk at Subway. Your proudest social moment probably evolves alcohol, bad music, and a few friends who either don't talk with you anymore or who only talk when you initiate the conversation and then only stick to "HAHA I LIKE THE WEATHER. IT IS SUN." because they don't like you enough to learn your opinions on whatever it is you think you're passionate about.

Here's your advice, and I don't expect you'll follow it but maybe if I say "do it." you will because you're incapable of standing up for yourself.

Tomorrow you're going to call one of six guys, any of those in your phone contacts, whichever one you like the most. You're not going to sound angry, nor are you going to sound dejected. You're just going to sound like Audrey fucking Heburn because she's a better woman than you. Here's what you're going to say:

"Heeeyyyy, Audrey Heburn to cute guy. Cute guy, come in. Tonight we're doing dinner and I'll pick you up at eight. Ms Heburn, over."

Why are you going to phrase it like a super model diva voice transmission? Because it's better than "so umm... hi would yOu l..wold, HAHA WOLD I MEANT WOULD, like t-t-to go to dinner please? no? okay...", and of course that's your go-to because you've tried six different times to form a relationship and ended up as a footstool in all of them.

Now you're going to think about one thing you really like. Does he like it as well? If not, think of another thing. Don't you dare think about HAHAUNIVERSITYISFUN^{_^} or any uninteresting quip about the weather or your humanity major. Brush up on this thing, make it sound interesting in a mirror, and then read up on Audrey Heburn so you know just who you're supposed to be tonight.

That's right. You're going to dinner as Audrey Heburn. Why? Because I told you to. Do it. Wear a nice dress, take a long shower, wear flip-flops unless you're one of the few chicks who only looks good in high-heels that make your legs look longer (which you probably aren't, ms. "not hideously ugly"). Clean your house , your car, and brush your teeth twice (once in the morning and once at 19:30) followed by a proper rinse.

Take him to a restaurant that features a cuisine that isn't hollywood romantic or typically American. No chain restaurants- I swear to god I will hunt you down with a sniper rifle if you take a date to TGI Fridays just to put you out of your misery. Maybe go to a local Russian place or a nice Korean barbecue- anything that sets you apart from other girls. Hell, Ethiopian is fucking delicious and nobody even knows that Ethiopians have food.

Make eye contact, smile slyly, chew with your mouth closed, and mind your legs so you don't bump the table with them. If you're going the "proper" route, do it like it's nothing. Make jokes that you find funny, keep a good conversation pace, and say something interesting about the restaurant's cuisine. Think of yourself as Audrey Heburn, and immediately go back to that persona if you slip up and find yourself in a bout of awkward silence.

After that, take him for an adventure walk in a park if it's warm out or ask him to come watch a movie at your place if it's not. Simple, cheap, and a chance to get closer to him. From there, pace any physical contact well. No "oh hi he looked at me BEND OVER AND FACE DOVER". Be assertive but not overbearing.

If you don't get at least a kiss and an offer of "I'll treat next time" by the end of this date, go through the rest of the guys until you do. If none of them work out, you're doing something wrong and should write off men until you're as interesting as Audrey Heburn.

I just spent ten minutes writing this out. If you puss out like ALL OF THE OTHER GUYS/GIRLS IN YOUR SHOES and stay a bitch, I'm not even going to follow you around half-assedly and remind you to be a woman because quite frankly you're just not worth the effort. Houston to Audrey Heburn, godspeed. Over and out.

How's that for equality? Try that chick.

Five Years Ago

Five years ago, I was the shit. I was a man, not that I'm not now, but I was a man with fucking established determination and vision. I was a full-time student at UCSD, finishing a Bachelor's in Philosophy and Sociology. I was a full-time intern at New Hope Church in San Diego. I was taking three seminary courses per semester, as well as creating, inventing, and working at an Inner-City Community Center at least 20 hours per week that focused on education for children and adults. I lead worship, gave sermons, taught music/guitar, for the Junior High and High School programs as a part of my internship. I was reading three books a week, prayed daily, worshiped daily, and met with a mentor 2x per week on my own. And finally, I was engaged to be married.

Five years ago my future-wife left me for our college pastor. I was on a mission trip, living in India for three months as a part of my internship. The weekend I came back my fiancee and I had a conversation, in which she could not say whether or not she wanted us to be together, just that she "loved me". Ever perform an open-heart surgery and dissection on yourself? Over three hours I cut open my own heart, using her hands and words, dissected every investment she made into it, removed every tumor of falsehood and "I love you, but..." and returned them to her, then placed what was left of my heart back into my chest and closed it up. So finally, I verbally forced her into an anti-people-pleasing and pacifying corner, wherein she stated "I don't know if I want to marry you." This took hours for me to get her to say, and as abusive as I may sound, she would never express this on her own even though she had already been on multiple dates with our college pastor while I was gone.

What is this I don't even fuck I don't understand if why this... I asked for my ring back and I left her home (after just getting back in the country hours earlier). She called me one hour later, stating "I know I just made the biggest mistake of my life. I'm sorry." Keep in mind, I didn't know anything about her and the pastor, but nevertheless I told her that she made her decision to be undecided and that wasn't good enough for us to be married. I kept driving home, to my parents' house, and there I stayed for two years.

During that two years, I enrolled full time to get a teaching credential in Social Science. My father's mother, my grandma had been diagnosed with two different forms of cancer, and she had moved into my parent's house at the same time. So, my normal daily routine was to take care of her while I wasn't at school, whilst still maintaining a healthy lifestyle. My fiancee visited, mostly because I was hesitant to visit her parents' house where she lived, on rare occasion but with frequent emotionally-passive protest. She would drive up, calling me while on the road (two hour drive) completely stressed and in need of promises for attention and spoiling when she got here. I still wanted her, so I did everything to make her experiences around me pleasant and relaxing. We did this for a year.

Oh, by the way, one year prior I was fully intending to marry this girl, so upon my return from India I had already arranged a job at the USC police department (where my fiancee was intent on attending for grad school) so that she could get 50% off tuition and I could pay for her education. That, of course, fell through, took many called-in favors from my former employers to arrange, but fell through with the "I don't know, but I can't say" marriage commitment. As such, I rearranged my entire life in one full weekend. The works.

After a full year of her saying "I want to marry you, but..." I decided (funny word here, as I felt I had no other choice except to kill myself due to pain) to end it. I told her over the phone on one of our many long phone conversations. She was so upset, crying, blubbering, speechless but asking why, asking if I loved her still, etc. I was empty but felt relieved, if not a bit guilty too. I was relieved because I knew I would no longer be strung along, but felt guilty because if this girl actually loved me but didn't know how to be with me....?

Thankfully, that only lasted two weeks. You see, I called my fiancee to ask her to please remove her number from my cell phone plan, as I was paying for both of our cell phones. She sounded quite happy to do so, which surprised me. What shouldn't have surprised me was her response to my next question: So, how are you doing? "Good, I'm dating someone. Do you remember Jeremy [our college pastor]?" This was a facetious question. Of course I knew Jeremy, we hung out together on multiple occasions, as well as in a group setting with my fiancee. I squeaked out a "yes" before my heart sunk and my lower face started to go fuck itself. After she finally agreed to get off of my cell phone plan, I hung up.

Damnit if I didn't do everything right. Respectful, loving, virgin for my entire life and through two years of dating, praying, working more than full-time for a better future not just for me but for my future family, going to counseling for personality tests/profiles of compatibility prior to the engagement, continuing to go to therapy on my own to prepare for marriage... There was nothing I didn't do. No suggestion was too small, no obstacle to big for this. I did it all.

And what was the result? My fiancee's mother being a two-faced bitch and my fiancee dating our FUCKING COLLEGE PASTOR FOR A FULL YEAR that was more acceptable to her mother without telling me a god-damned thing about it. What I thought were the problems, what EVERYONE told me MIGHT be problems, I addressed with full commitment. And yet, NOT ONE PERSON imagined or advised me on what was actually the key problem: my fiancee wanted to marry someone else.

I haven't stepped back into a church since. Been to a few Sunday services, but stayed outside, so I could just socialize and connect with friends. The few times I walked through the doors, I also walked through the bullshit character of everyone I saw: my pastor who was "struggling" (FUCKING FUNNY WORD!!) with affair(s), my female friends who were engaged to other men actually telling me that they thought they would cheat on their husbands with me (FFUUU!!!), my college friends who got married early in college getting divorced and fighting against each other using "Christian" guidelines for divorce (e.g. "He was smoking pot. His body is supposed to be a temple." "She's so obsessed with her career, it's like she doesn't care about me anymore." etc). It was like my entire core belief system was resulting in people I loved becoming insane, narcissistic, vigilantes.

I left. Five years ago I cut out my own heart without anesthesia and returned it sans falsehood. I was left with a new perspective. Five years ago I was the shit. I could've gone to any country in the world amongst any people eating any food or not doing anything or not and been successful. But, I loved and lost.

All of that is to say, none of that matters now. Five years later, not one of those people or experiences is significant enough to inform my present life. Nothing I did, built, accomplished, sacrificed or love-lost is significant. Why? I am. I remain not as the sum of my past but as the sum of my present, with character and wisdom tempered by the trust of life experience. The specifics of them don't matter, I'm the product. I can still go anywhere in the world to do anything with anyone eating whatever, but I can do so today with tempered character to love that which can be and hate that which deserves it. I fucking love this shit.