I've had plenty of time to work on this post, considering it's been over a month since I've written anything, And before I even start I want to say that it'll be a bit of a departure. Normally I write about whatever dumbass movie I just watched, or pander shamelessly about whatever actresses' tits happen to be arousing me at the moment.
I can be topical.
Bad puns aside, I also feel the need to apologize for my last post. I kinda went off there, and I'm sorry. Thank you for accepting my apology. I felt the need to post something, anything, and had nothing I really wanted to say. So I took the easy way out and blamed others for my shortcomings. Looking your way Pat. With that aside, let's get on with what I normally don't do but for some reason feel the need to do now.
I'm really worried you won't like what I'm about
to write.
I was born, I grew up... sort of. Meaning that I've technically reached maturity, post pubescence, I've got hair on my nuts. As an unemployed 22 year old still living with my mother, I'd say that I still had some growing to do, psychologically, not physically, can't stress this enough. My penis is not large, but I would say that it is an adequate length for an adult male, I can vote, though chose not to. I spend most of my time playing video games, reading comics, and cruising the Internet for porn.
If it isn't quite obvious yet, I tend to shun the outside world. I'm not agoraphobic or anything, I just have an intense disgust for people. I can't pinpoint any time in my development that caused my aversion to the sloven huddled masses. I've never been the victim of a random crime, I've never been publicly humiliated, I've never even been molested by a street performer, under the bridge that one summer when I was thirteen, who later turned out to be my uncle. Never happened, that's what I tell myself.
I'm not a shut in. Couldn't be one if I wanted. That lazy bitch I call "Mother" makes me run errands for her all the time. I have to do the grocery shopping, pick up the laundry, all the while taking the bus wherever I need to go 'cause she "needs" the car to go back and forth to her two jobs. I wish dad hadn't killed himself, mom complained a lot less when he was around. It was on one of these excursions that my life was forever altered.
A typical fall day, the leaves hadn't changed, but there was a slight nip in the air, causing me to wear my new plaid scarf. I don't usually sport neck wear so early into the fall but I'd recently noticed a sniffle upon waking, and was going to be damned if was going to catch cold. A cold is a virus, there is no stopping that shit, all you can do is wait it out.
I had taken the number 29 bus, as I was want to do on days I needed to go to the grocer, and had arrived at McMillan street without event. I prefer to shop at the Try-N-Save on McMillan as opposed to the Big Buy over on Landry, it's usually less crowded and I like the clerks there better, less judgmental. I suppose that's what you get when you pay them above minimum wage, sure the cost is pushed back on the consumer, but I'm willing to pay and extra five cents for kiwi's if it means that I'm not going to be ogled by some high school dropout who's dreams ended when her boyfriend said "Just let me put the tip in." Mother doesn't like when I shop there because it puts us "over budget," but seeing as how I'm picking up her necessities, like Vodka, I have a little bit of room for my indulgences.
At check out, while the potentially attractive register jockey avoided eye contact, is it that her eye shadow was smeared from crying on her lunch break or the greasy, lazy ponytail that gave the impression that she is in a long term relationship and just stopped caring, I bet she cleans up nice, if she tried, a man came up from behind and struck me with his cart. I don't mean he bumped into me, or just clipped my foot. The fucker hit me with his cart, in the back, hard enough to cause my head to snap backwards, like if this would have happened in a vehicle, I'd need to go to the hospital to be treated for whiplash, which we all know is just a bullshit ailment, but it looks good when the insurance companies offer up a settlement, that's how I got my PlayStation 3. Quickly assessing the lack of insurance in this situation, I turned around to confront my attacker.
With an indignant, "What the fuck?" I apparently crossed a line. The man standing before me was some sort of hulking mongoloid, saying that he had obvious pituitary issues would be an understatement. A quick assessment of his appearance led me to believe that he had spent some time in prison, it might have been the dead look in his eyes, or the WHITE POWER tattoo where his eyebrows should have been, there was something there that read recently caged.
He offered nothing in the way of an apology, in fact he never spoke, the cold, dead, prison glare never changed not even as he beat me unmerciful. Something snapped inside this mountain of a man, and something snapped inside of me, from the pain I believe it to be a rib. Not having the wherewithal, or ability, to defend myself from the nonstop barrage of swastika covered fists, I looked in vain at my once pretty check out girl, rendered incapacitated by the sure terror of the beating I was receiving, or perhaps enchanted by the slow motion arc one of my teeth took as it flew threw the air and danced across the red lights emitted by the scanner.
While the beating continued ad infinitum, I kept praying to the God I claim in agreeable times doesn't exist, hoping for the sweet release of unconsciousness, but I remained surprisingly lucid. My left eye swelled shut almost instantaneously, preventing me from seeing the canned hams my assailant calls fists come crashing down upon my shattered skull, the only indication that I was alert enough to receive was a tugging on my neck from my scarf as he raised my head for a better leveraged punch.
Then it stopped. As inexplicably as it started, he stopped, no one tried to intervene on my behalf, no threats of possible impending police intervention were shouted, I'm not entirely sure if the police were even called until after he left. I like to think that somewhere around punch thirty, he happened to catch a glimpse of his watch and said "Shit, Roadhouse starts on TNT in five minutes, I better go." Whatever the reason, he lifted his knee off my chest and paused to admire the Pollockesque painting he'd created across the filthy grocery store tile with my teeth and blood, then walked away, leaving his cart full of beef jerky, Molsen light, and the latest issue of mini trucker magazine, which he had just grabbed at the check out, probably while trying to shove the cart up my ass.
Here is where the spectacular shows up. A little background about the area I live in first; we have a nuclear site about thirty miles from here. Recently, a large group of unemployed were hired by a outside contractor to clean up old waste that had been buried. This created employment for three years for a certain few. Not me however, my mother forced me to apply but I got so nervous during the interview that when they asked me my name I threw up, needless to say, I failed to get the job. This was three years ago, and a couple of months ago, all these young men, who'd been exposed to radiation for forty hours a week, were unceremoniously let go. We all know that unemployment doesn't pay worth a damn, so some of these virile young men, started to sell blood.
When the paramedics finally arrived, it became painfully obvious that I was in need of lots of blood. So much so that it preceded the attachment of the neck brace, after all, what does it matter if I'm paralyzed, if I die from blood loss. Gathering up all the pieces that had been so spectacularly beaten off of me, I was hurriedly rushed to the local hospital where I was put back together just a pretty as before, which isn't saying much, and given the correct amount of that life giving tonic that I hereby refer to as blood.
Let me introduce you to one Mr. Robert Williamson. He was the twenty fifth person out of twenty five hired to aid in the cleanup of buried toxic waste, I like to think that he got the job that would've been mine had I not had such a nervous stomach. This is where we blur the lines of the comic books that I'm so fond of. I've often read about the venomous spider bite, or the occasional Gamma Ray accident, but never a superhero created through a blood transfusion. I received no less than five pints of blood that once belonged to Mr. Williamson. Three years of radiation cleanup had quite the effect upon him, and on me.
It turns out that all that steady employment fed his heroin addiction, and when he was laid off, he took to selling his blood to feed the dragon, blood that later went into my veins. Now I spend everyday fighting supervillians, such as staphylococcus, pneumonia, and the common cold virus. The motherfucker gave me AIDS.
I don't leave the house anymore, I don't want anything to do with your outside world. Although, now, I always wear my scarf.
