Rambling Man

Hunter S. Thompson lives on in all of us.
The keys on this computer are unresponsive at times.
It causes me to type, and retype.
Edit forward and back, backward and forth.
A line I lifted from an old WCW speech.
Like Woody Guthrie says, "I really love that line."

Ataxia.
I think I have ataxia.
It causes memory loss a dazed perspective, and a drunken kind of stagger.
Dizziness.
Sort of two steps forward and one step back.
Not all the time, but on occation.
And knee jerk.
Not the reactions, but more of a tremor.
I wake up, drive to work, and don't even remember.

Zombies ARE real.
We walk the Earth in a stupor of unknown.
Eating, sleeping, doing things.
Watch tv all day and not remember the plot of anything I've seen.

If you exploit an idea you got from a movie, buy a man that says he got the idea from a book, does it mean you should read more, or watch more movies.

I've got to stop.
The editing is killing me, and I'm too out of it (totally sober) to handle myself.

I just needed to tell somebody I'm having difficulty keeping myself together at times.
When everything blends together, I feel like I've done somethingI should regret, but can't tell what year it happened.
Maybe when I was a child.

25 to Life

"Thaddius Gie in the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you plead?"

"Guilty."
"Do you have anything to say to the court regarding this offence?"
"I did exactly what I wanted to do. I meant to do it, I do not regret it, and I would do it again and again if I ever got the chance."
"Mr. Gie, due to your admission of guilt, I was going to take some pity on you, but in light of this statement and lack of remorse for human life, it appears I have some thinking to do. Take the defendant in to custody. I'm going to retire to my chamber to decide the sentencing."

When I arrived in prison, I got exactly what I expected. Good thing I didn't expect much. The phrase, "Three hots and a cot." wasn't an understatement, but it wasn't entirely truthful either. The 'hots' are usually swill, things I wouldn't feed a caged animal, and the 'cot' is a little better than that. A thin piece of foam on a slab of steel. That slab is cold in the summer to help keep body heat down, and colder in the winter... probably to help keep body heat down. The two sheets have a thread count of 50 a piece, and the blanket is thin wool. The kind that's both itchy and scratchy anywhere it touches you. It's especially useful in the winter when you try to stay warm and inhale the wool fibers, drying up your nasal cavity and making your nose bleed in the middle of the night. The first good,cold night when you wake up in the dark, with just the low haze from the red light, and blow your nose on a rag, thinking it's just the flu running down your face, and see the dark colored splotch on your rag... It's almost enough to cause a stroke. Nearly knocking yourself back to unconscious oblivion on the upper rack trying to get up in an effort to investigate your melting face, hitting the light, and stumbling back in terror at what must have been the last drop of blood in your body, running down your chin and dripping into the sink with a deafening 'drip.'
The barely audible echo of your new best friend shouting at you, "Hey. HEY! *snap-snap* IT'S JUST A NOSE BLEED! IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE AT FIRST! UNTIL YOU GET USED TO THE WOOL!"
"What!?" The ringing as your mind blurs and your ears clear the path for new sound.
He speaks again, "I said it's the wool. The joke is, the prison only uses sheep cursed by the Gods. It's what gives the wool it's incense itch."
"You mean incessant?"
"Yeah, that's what I said."
Figures. Not only are you in prison with bedding like this, but you're cell-mate is a dumb truck.

Every day is new excitement. Cell searches, fights, rumors about what you did, and everyone asking you, "Hey you! What did you do?"
Like it's really their business. Some people point and whisper. Some of the smaller guys make a wide path for you. As they pass you hear them start to whisper, "... a family at dinner."
"I heard it was a bus full of nuns."
"No! I'm telling you it was a school for the blind!"
Finally you get sick of the rumors. Just another thing to blur together. Like the long monotonous days, all passing by as a whiz of sunrises and sunsets, till finally, all you can recall is a long period of time that resembles high-noon.
"So..." The dumb truck finally asks, "What're you in for, buddy?"
"I killed a family of blind nuns on their way to dinner school."
"I heard you were in for murder but that's the COOLEST THING I'VE EVER HEARD!!"
"It's not true."
"Oh. OH! AWW! *groan* I didn't do anything cool either. All I did was"
"I didn't ask. And for the record, I don't care."
"Yeah but"
"Don't care."
"But I"
"I... DON'T... CARE."

Eventually, it all gets to you. The rumors circulate. The pressure builds. Till one day you, yourself, begin to wonder what you did to land this cherry gig. Then it eats at you. It gnaws at your brain, and claws the walls of your mind until the blood from your nose has less and less to do with the cursed sheep and more and more to do with what you've distorted from the life you left behind. You spend your time sitting, alone in your cell, racking your brain, watching the sun rise and set at high-noon, forgetting to eat, disregarding sleep, till one day you crack.

"So," I ask him. "What did you do to get in here."
"Robbed a little old lady."
"Kill her?"
"Nope. Got thirty-eight dollars. I get out in a few months."
"... *grunt* ..."
"What about you? Finally 'member what you did? Rob somebody too?"
"Murder."
"I thought you said it wasn't true?"
"No. I said that story wasn't true. But I did murder someone."
"Yeah!? Who? Someone important? Someone rich I bet!"
"Neither."
"Nobody rich OR important?"
"Nope."
"Everybody's important to somebody."
"Not this guy."
"Well who was it then?"
"... Me."
"Shit, man. You're never getting out."
"..."
"You'll be here for-ever."