Or, why the sun isn't purple
Hello, dear reader, it's been awhile. That's been entirely my fault and I accept full responsibility for the lack of my own. I noticed I haven't kept in touch in about seven months and that isn't good. I've missed my catharsis, my release, my joy at creating something of my own doing. I've needed that, especially these past months, believe me. I promise not to shirk my responsibilty to my vast audience of readers, many of whom have been on pins and needles since my departure in early spring, I'm sure. I'm not making excuses, but I've lost some motivation, but am slowly gaining it back in order to share my warped and demented views on us and the world in general.
Let us start at the beginning, shall we? November of the last year my father was admitted to the hospital for kidney and bladder problems. Come to find out he had bladder cancer and it was swiftly removed. I saw my father Thanksgiving weekend in the hospital and he looked bad. I won't give any more detail for fear of going more insane. It reinforced why I chose to be a loner. I tend to feel too much and I don't want to. I personally thank Anheuser-Busch for aiding me in that aspect. December wasn't bad, other than that damned holiday celebrated by the only two Christians left not afraid to celebrate. January, I seem to recall from my drunken fog, didn't seem to be very bad other than we lost one of the cornerstones of my job, a friend I've worked with for nine years. That shifted the burden of his job to me and my shoulders aren't nearly as broad as the mostly female audience I know I have, pictures them. February passed by casually, quite nonchalantly. March and April, meek little lambs. May began the downward spiral into the hell that I know and adore.
May began quietly enough. My wife had surgery on her girlie parts, a surgical removal of cysts that had built up on her ovaries. It was a relatively quick operation, in a sort of medical sense. Recuperation was supposed to be approximately as long as a C-section, give or take. I'm a man, so forgive me. Now that you know that, let me backtrack a bit please. I told you March and April were quiet and they were, mostly. My wife bought a new computer with her Valentine's Day earnings (she was a florist) and I was relegated to the Paleolithic corpse of our first computer, a PII, 450mhz monster I used for recording my music and the inevitable collection of porn. Quite soon after the purchase of her new shiny hotrod she found Paltalk and made many friends, most of whom were part of a fan room for a certain pair of morning radio personalities to remain anonymous, because I believe the Indians when they say there is power in a name. She made friends with one person in particular, a boyish man about four years her junior. I heard much about him upon my arrival home each day. I even met and talked to this fellow on occasion while on the computer with my wife. He seemed to be a very nice guy, had his act together, a decent man. Oh yeah, he was single, not sure if I mentioned that. I had to tell you that to tell you this. He was on the list of people to call after my wife got out of her surgery.
I'm not jealous. Well, I wasn't until a few months ago. While my wife was resting and recuperating in a hospital I was combing her computer. I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I was looking. I've always been curious, but you know that. I found that she had been posting on an adult finder site, along with some revealing photos. I read the profiles of most of the men she had had contact with and most were local, within 50 miles. I confronted her in her hospital bed, because I am an asshole, and she denied any physical contact. But the seed was planted.
She turned 30 the middle of June. About the same time (understand I try to stay in a drunken fog as often as I can), she had scheduled a visit with a girlfriend from college. A few days, we hadn't seen her for awhile, she was having marital problems with a husband who left. My wife left for the trip on a Wednesday or a Thursday, can't, don't really remember. That evening, on a hunch (call it women's intuition, I'll hit you), I checked her computer. I found a short little reply to her little Paltalk friend saying she'd meet him in a little town in Pennsylvania and that she loved him. Instantly I grabbed my rifle, checked it was loaded, and finished the scan of her computer. I debated for nearly a half hour on driving up there and ruining that hotel's mattress with their brain matter but decided against it. I called her girlfriend first but got no answer. I found a number to her girlfriend's mom, who answered and told me my wife wasn't there. I called her friend again, no answer. I called my wife's grandmother, let her know what was going on and told her to expect her since she wasn't coming back here. I then proceeded to call everyone we knew or were related to to let them know the happy news.
About halfway through the second conversation with her grandmother my wife called. Through the miracle of the internent and some program called Skype, my wife was calling me through her girlfriend's phone. I quashed that quickly, because she had told me a couple weeks ago of this program. I called her every name in the book, including the names she didn't like. I banned her from ever coming back and told her to go to her grandparents. Then I went and purchased two cases of beer and barricaded myself in. I passed out some time shortly before daybreak behind the front door, rifle cradled in my arms, waiting for my "wife" and her "friend" to show themselves. I spent four days in a drunken stupor, waiting to get shot by some internet freak determined to take my wife and my life from me.
My wife called Saturday and asked to come home to get her stuff and I stupidly allowed her. She arrived and I stupidly allowed her to stay. We talked, I shouted, she cried and we came to some sort of agreement. I took the computer away for nearly a month, taking the power cords to work with me every day. We worked on getting back to some semblance of normality. Oh, yeah, I made her apologize to everybody that I had called and informed. The situation had angered her grandfather so much when he heard it that he banned her from his house. If she were to go home she would have had to stay with her mother or brother, a slight victory for me I guess.
The rest of June passed quietly and July showed up. My father took a turn for the worse in July. He had a stroke and was hospitalized. I went and saw him and I can only describe it as seeing a living skeleton who resembled my father. It killed me, but my mother fell apart. She couldn't see him for more than a couple minutes. That hurt me. I never liked to see my mother cry , but watching my mom cry for my dad was the worst thing I ever felt. I can't describe the feelings because I can't see the keys on this keyboard through my tears but you have an idea. We hoped and prayed he'd make it, but knew better.
He died a month later, about two weeks before his 66th birthday, my 33rd birthday.
I was born a day before his birthday, about 8 hours shy. I was his fifth child, first to his third marriage. I loved my dad, but was scared to death of him. I still love him, just to set the record straight. He always seemed larger than life, gone most of the first five years of my life. He still does. Seeing him that last time, in the hospital bed, a shell of what he was haunts me everyday. My dad was invincible, he was an ironman. He survived Vietnam, the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, three wives, six children, the isolation and solitude of a farm in the middle of nowhere, learning how to survive and having to provide for three others at the same time. I miss him dearly, we were just at that point where we changed from father and son to friends. He had stories, faint in my memory now, that I would gladly give my left hand to hear again. He had stories I've never heard. And I never will.
Found out a week or so ago my wife has been checking up on her "friend". I've been about as sane as I've ever been since the first incident. I'm beginning to feel like Stretch Armstrong. I'm drinking just as much if not more than I have ever been. I don't do drugs, legal or otherwise, so alcohol is all I've got. It's the second thing I kiss when I get home. It's usually the last thing I kiss goodnight. I don't know any other way. I can't wait for this year to end. I hope the next is kinder. If it isn't, I'm afraid you'll hear about me on your evening news. I don't want that. Job has nothing on me, in my opinion, 'cause I can be patient. I can be patient.
I don't know where I go from here, dear reader, I just don't know. I'm not religious, but I believe a man's (or woman's) word is gold. I've lost at least one friend to that belief, almost lost my wife to the same. I may still, but that's not up to me. I still believe a handshake means what it used to and a vow means the same. I despise ceremony and hoopla but my word is my vow, and I expect the same from the people I know.