Mysteries, Peeves, and Lost Opportunities

I come from a tradition, the rules of which include:  hydrate or die, sleep is not the enemy, eat or else, you can always add to but never take away from, they can't really hurt you, and pull it together when others are falling out.  Over the last few decades, I've done pretty well at observing said rules, and they've saved my life and my sanity.  Still, my origins mean I've had occasional run-ins I've thought are too bad with those (particularly medical professionals and cops) whose rules include catch, hold and release; partition (fences make good neighbors); and never let on that you hear voices.  An unfortunate friction, and a gap I've always wished I could bridge...  Ah, tristesse!

P.S.  I admit I've always felt a bit of resentment that neither the DEA, SFPD's vice division, nor other authorities inclined towards shitty, immature behavior ever created false profiles for yours truly on methy hook-up sites for the sake of defamation.  I really could have used a little edge to my goody two-shoes reputation.  Where's the love, guys?

P.P.S.  I never did figure out the point of all those pocket lasers and wide-angle, telescopic shots.  Why are you waiting for me to be ready for my close-up?

P.P.P.S.  I never did follow up on precisely what emerged when Frankie and company worked me over in order to open the gates of hell a few years back.  Let's hope it was nothing more than an exhausted Virgil towing Dante and Beatrix to an ice cream shop downtown.

P.P.P.S.  Hey Naomi, sorry about the ROSEMARY'S BABY joke.  One shouldn't make that reference to pregnant tweakers.

P.P.P.P.S.  Overall, I've got to say my verdict at this point is, "Awful program, Frankie:  nobody likes to look at splatter."

I Asked Someone For Spare Change and Was Told To Get a Job

Thank God at least one of us was using his brain.  No wonder he's where he's at and I'm where I'm at...

"It’s called Housing First, because 'You have to have a home first. It’s pretty hard to solve your personal problems when you’re living under a park bench.'"

(I can't believe this approach is revolutionary, and yet of course it is.  All these degrading and mortifying programs that society persists in implementing from San Francisco to New York, programs modeled on first "fixing" what's wrong with people, and that people in need must be forced to change their maladaptive, undesirable behavior before they've earned the privilege of housing -- a mindset many unthinkingly share and assume we should all just go along with -- these programs have always put the cart before the horse, and in addition are highly ineffective and counterproductive.  An imperfect socioeconomic system, economic inequality, and institutionalized prejudice and injustice are the main root causes of poverty.  It is pointless and monstrous to blame poor choices made by the poor.  Paternalizing, uninformed and arrogant meddling, and human inertia among those in a position to render aid cannot continue.  And by the way, homelessness is the problem of those who are homeless but would rather not be -- it is not the problem of people whose ill-considered aesthetics, inexcusably fragile sensibilities, and inability to cope with reality are offended insofar as they perceive and are aware of the homeless; the latter group has real problems that are best addressed by swift kicks in the ass.)

A Blow To Tweaker Pride

What shame!  What ignominy!  I'm not sure I can ever show my face in public or private or among hallucinated voices ever again...  There I was, so haughty and full of myself, exultant in my victory, thinking the whole time during production that I alone had been cast as the lead in the exciting, groundbreaking DARBY O'GILL AND THE LITTLE PEOPLE II:  METHPOCALYPSE!, when in fact, as I found out during the well-attended screening, that all along I was a bit player billed far down the credits as "Anonymous Terrified Hot Bitch From The 70s #5."  I was more mortified than if I had been Courtney Love turned down for the role of Nancy Spungeon, after she had seen her own lackluster acting thrown into sharp relief onscreen as a second banana she had originally esteemed herself as better than.   At least she still has her hubris, delusion, and self-righteous indignation, whereas I now find myself bereft of every comfort.

Oh, painful reality!  Oh humiliation!

Snap, I Just Now Figured It Out

After years of wondering why anyone would be angry at me for getting high on meth, I just realized how remiss I had been:  I was supposed to go out and meet my aspiring tormentors while wearing sackcloth and a beatific look on my face.  I completely failed them and myself, and I'm so ashamed.  Not only were they angry, they were probably also terribly sad and crestfallen.  I wonder if I can ever make it up to them...

It's really true what they say -- drugs will ruin your life.  They certainly put a kink or two in my planned martyrdom.  Sorry Opus Dei!  I'll do what I can to make amends...

Disillusionment and the Singles Scene

I would create a Tinder profile, but it seems my job title, "Apparent Victim With A Twist" isn't "hot," and won't get me laid.

(Of course, it's still better than the poorly paid -- except in awkward sex, regrettable drugs, showily patriotic lip service, and hollow thanks -- position of "Ex-Marine," right guys?)

Thank you, SFGate, for another display of journalistic ineptitude, the contents of which give me every reason to be appalled at humanity and the myriad ways it can fail itself...

"Why Are We Like This When You're On Drugs?"

The verdict:  Guilty by reason of faking insanity.

The sentence:  Spiritual death by humiliation and degradation.

(Ironically, it wasn't exactly a speedy trial.)

(Also, was I supposed to keep quiet because everyone else involved was ashamed of their behavior?  That is asking a bit much...)

So anyway, I'm wondering if it wouldn't have been better had my sheepish, inarticulate, and only tentatively righteously indignant accusers  just put a dunce cap on my head, placed me naked and backwards on the back of a donkey, herded me past distracted and baffled onlookers down Eddy Street, until I reached where today's American iteration of Savonarola and the weepers whined at me for a few hours about my culpability regarding their disgusting sins.  It definitely would have driven the point, if there was any, home.

And then I could go back to being a scheming, gold-digging hussy on the make for her next unintelligent psychopathic victim.

Yay San Francisco!

Six Flags Over Tragic Mountain

Admittance to my paracosm is free to the general public, but you must be at least *this* high to ride.