Raw Cuts & the Inevitable Blood Loss

Last night was really cool for me, speaking with a man that has published numerous books, had a movie made about one of them, is good friends with one of my favorite authors, Carl Hiaasen…We talked for a little over an hour, and this man who does so much for others, is telling me how important my book is and that I am  doing something that needs to be commended. Our conversation ended with him giving me his address to send him a book, and even though he gets so many, mine was one he would read. Even mentioned with my background, I could help him “co-author” a book with him…Are you kidding me?

I went to bed with a smile, a humbleness, and a reaffirmed conviction. I woke up pissed off, angry, and a little sad, which only made me more angry. Before that phone call last night, I got a bizarre text message, from my ex-, saying that the realtor got a message that my house is under police surveillance. I talked to the realtor today, we laughed, she asked if my house of prostitution was making money, that all the drugs I sell should at least make the move affordable. When she called the number back, it went to a fax machine. Oh, and 3 neighbors are also watching my house.

In reality, it is one gutless neighbor. I know him, his bullshit tricks. He is the type of guy who throws leaves that fall from our tree from his yard back into ours. He is a miserable human being, a gossiping shill, and I know anytime a friend stops by if they are in the area, he assumes it is some shady drug deal. I know the ex-, when she read the email, thought, super, he’s fucked up again and the house is a dope shack now. I know this because we talked today, for the first time in a few months.I also hate that I used the word ours a few sentences ago.

I really love sitting back and watching people, who don’t know the first thing about me, judge me on a rumor, or a perception. Sorry buddy, everyone with tattoos isn’t a drug dealer, they can in fact, just be a friend. Never once have they offered the smallest shred of kindness, they don’t speak to me, just leer at my presence. Yes, this is me, I am whatever you want me to be, but I stay true to who I am today. I really had the urge to jump over his fence today, as he sat outside listening to my phone conversation. Complete fucking judgmental tool. Hey, a blade of grass in your yard is higher than the rest.

While the thought of beating him into a bloody pulp seems so appealing right now, I back off, and laugh at the sheer mechanical nature of his existence. I feel bad for him. That is not living life. A manicured yard is about number 867 on my list of priorities, just behind branding myself with a letter J. What I focus on though is that stigma, the one dogging me no matter how many people are behind me, a wayward opinion, not so much his, but the ex-‘s assumption that police were indeed staking out my house, just grates on me.

She is a stranger to me. I hate that. I despise the fact that no matter all the good I am doing, all the strides and groundwork being laid to further the cause, all of it disappears in a few lines of an email. You want to know what’s going on, fucking ask me! I do get it, however much I don’t, and something I have said to her a million times, needs said to my own ears. You will never change everyone’s opinions of you. It stings though when that person is someone I have spent so much of my recent life with. Maybe I want to impress her most of all, to list my achievements as a way to say, I told you so! Or maybe I just want to hear the words, I forgive you, from her lips. I don’t need that validation, but it would be nice to hear. I told her I saw she has moved on, in another relationship. The next words from my lips were like trying to shove boulders from mountain tops.

“You know, I just want you to be happy.”

“I am”

“Promise me you are.”

“I am Michael.”

I sit back, replaying the conversations of the past two days. Fragments smile, slivers cut. I am fatigued. The past 30 days have been an incredible storm, and all the financial crap teeters my sanity at times. When I wobble, I think of all the friends, true friends, that have helped get me through the mess. I have debts to repay, and it is humbling for my debtors to not make a single collection call. The future sunrises sometimes seemed to get trapped behind the gray, and I want to curl up, spend some time inside my head. I don’t, and as a result, the voice of sabotage fades into the background, crushed by an email telling me how my book helped some stranger out.

So, please tell me, just who am I? The man who stole his way to another fix, that had a torrid love affair with self-destruction? Or just maybe, however long it took, I am someone that lived a junky’s life and made it out, mostly in tact for something worth a little more. That all those miracles were meant for today, that I can be just a phone call away from just being an understanding ear, maybe dole out some helpful advice. That at my core, I am just like everyone else, a human being granted the gift of life, one I am thankful for, and am determined to use for good. Is it that painful to see me in a better light? Or that others away from the shrapnel, can see who I really am today?

How many times is the past going to repeat in your head?

“No man is so foolish but he may sometimes give another good counsel, and no man so wise that he may not easily err if he takes no other counsel than his own. He that is taught only by himself has a fool for a master.” ~ Hunter S. Thompson

Peace, we all need that! – MFJ


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