User:Beerdiva
From Voice of the Proletariat
As anyone who has been willing to listen, my ex owes me twenty grand. I plan on mentioning this as much as possible. It is an attempt to shame the shameless. I will not mention the phone number, otherwise you crazy people might call and harass him. He's threatening to sue me for defamation and libel. According to my legal council (thank you tarrant84), it's pretty much a baseless threat as long as I stick to the facts. I actually have a lawyer, but he cost $125 an hour. Carl, my lawyer in real life, says it's pretty much a slam dunk. He's left a trail of emails admitting he owes me the money. He also told his next ex that he owes me money. So I've got that going for me. Also, he owes so much in back child support that he has to keep a job. So, once I get that judgment, I have to figure out how get a garnishment.
Other than that, I'm a Leo. Short(5'2") and not a fatty Divorced I like beer, especially beer with flavor. I like wine. If you're ever in south east Missouri, ask for the guided winery tour. I work three jobs right now(that 20 large is on a credit card).
Me
Shot at 2007-07-13
I'm adding this, so I never lose it.
I like books. The characters are my friends. Almost family, really. Only, unlike my family, they won't hurt me. Unlike most of my friends, they won't lie to me.
I like things, especially new things. Things that aren't scared and broken. Things that are useful. Things that are pretty. Things that won't turn on me when I need them the most. Things that are mine and mine alone.
I guess there is some truth to the theory that your early life experiences pretty much set your course for the rest of your life. So much so that I have learned the only way not to get hurt, is to not allow yourself to feel anything. No love, no joy. No pain, no sorrow. Nothing, just being.
And to control. Control the people around me. Control my emotions, control everything.
No dreams, no plans. Plans get changed, dreams get crushed.
When my earliest memories are of trips to the emergency room, because my older brother hit me in the head with a rock. I was about two . I also remember having my aunt take my mom and myself to the emergency room, because my mom didn't drive and my father (I use that term as a formality) was in the bar, like he was every night.
I can remember visitors' day at the county workhouse. Back in the 1970's, people didn't do time in jail for drinking and driving, except my father.
I remember that when my little brother was born, Grandpa picked up my mom and brother from the hospital. This time my father was having open heart surgery for the first of many times.
The only happy memory I have of my father is when he took me to my first baseball game. The home team won. I got to eat ice cream from a plastic baseball cap. I got to eat popcorn and cotton candy. Any my father drank, and drank, and drank. Of course, being me, this day is overshadowed by the fact Elvis died the same day.
Then the next trip to the emergency room. Mom is right about not running in the house. I almost cut off my earlobe. The neighbor took us to the emergency room, because my father was nowhere to be seen.
By this time, my mom got tired of calling around to the bars trying to track him down. That's when dinner started at 6:00 PM. No matter who, no matter what.
There was a whole litter of us by that point. We learned to eat fast if we wanted seconds. We shared rooms, we wore hand me downs, possessions were community property. We never had a car big enough, so we sat on laps and squeezed in the back of station wagon. My, how things have changed.
When my father lost his third or fourth job, my mom started to work. She worked long hours for minimum wage. But she worked.
I can give you myself physically, it's the only way I ever learned to love. It's how my brothers loved me. It's how my brother's friends loved me. It's how my friends bothers loved me.
I think it was at this point that I decided to be ugly. I could hide behind glasses and too big clothes. If people ignored me, then they wouldn't hurt me. Even Misti cat, my first pet taught me how tough life was. She ruled the neighborhood. She stood her ground, no matter what or who. The other cats wore her scars. The dogs had scratch marks. To this day, I have proof that violence is power.
I was about seven or eight when I realized that life was about survival, not living. My older sister was the first one to escape. She fell in “love” at fifteen. My nephew was born right before I turned ten. She married the man. And she was gone.
By this time, my father had stumbled upon anther job that took him, and the rest of us to another state.
I had a new beginning. I made a couple of friends, but did everything I could to hide in plain sight. That's when I discovered music. And books. Nice neat little stories. Stories about pain. Stories about love. Storied that usually had happy endings. I wanted a happy ending.
Then my father was drinking again. He always quit when we were broke, but started again when the money rolled in again. He decided to buy a home. Then promptly lost his job. Funny thing about employers, not only do they expect you to show up for work, the expect you to do it everyday.
The new state had new welfare laws, and since my parents were still married, the only benefit we received were food stamps. I can remember buying a candy bar or pack of gum to get change. Then watching my father buy cigarettes and whiskey with the change.
If it were not for the generosity of strangers, I think we might have starved. If not for my aunts, Christmas would have been bleak that year. I got my first “grown-up” purse. It was brown canvas. I didn't have anything to put in it, but it was mine.
It was about this time I learned to self medicate. Twelve may seem a little young to drink, but if you use enough orange juice, you really don't taste the sloe gin and it eases the pain.
My oldest brother escaped when the judge offered him the option to join the service. The other option a stint in jail for aiding and abetting. The Marines were happy to have him. And he was gone.
And my other older brother fell in “love” with an older woman with three kids. They got married either the day he turned eighteen or right after her fourth divorce was final. And he was gone.
All this time, my mom worked, low skilled jobs, but she worked. Somehow, my father managed to stay sober enough to get another job. So this time when we move, I'm somehow the oldest. This time we're moving to a big city.
When I started school, it was the first time I had ever interacted with black people. They seemed normal. Just like all the white people I know, only darker. My lab partner in biology use to borrow my eyeliner to draw on a mustache. It seemed so cool back then. I also, discovered the Brontë sisters. I'm still looking for my Heathcliff.
The funny thing about moving from the sticks to the city, I was never given any boundaries. No curfew. I would disappear for days. Sometimes I would call, more often, I didn't. It was on one of those adventures that I learned not to mix milk and beer.
On a trip home to see my Grandpa, I was shocked. He was suffering from bronchitis, emphysema, and cancer. I can still see him turn off his oxygen tank, unhook the hose from his trach tube, walk out on the porch, smoke a cigarette, and then hook himself back up. Addiction is a biatch. I still don't smoke.
This job didn't last for my father. My mom, of course, worked. Sometimes two jobs, but she worked.
When the landlord evicted us, the only choice we had was public housing. It's tough being the white kids in the ghetto, but I survived. We were all bussed to one of the really nice suburban schools.
I continued to try to convince my mom to divorce my father. All she did was work. All he did was drink. He would try to work, but it never lasted long. After a few heart attacks and a second stint in prison for drunk driving, it's hard to find work
My last two years of school were uneventful. I missed my junior prom to go to a concert.
My senior year, consisted of the normal round of keggers and harry Buffalo parties.
I graduated. I got checks from the aunts and uncles. One aunt sent me diamond earrings. My dad bought me a case of beer. My recruiter got me a one way ticket to Parris Island. And I was gone.
