GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1010: THE AGREED UPON FACTS

 As much as I love history, there's an unfortunate side to the beast. It's plagued me since I discovered how interesting history really is, but it wasn't until Gore Vidal that I discovered the perfect phrase for the problem. History is the "agreed upon facts."

The nature of history is kind of dubious. We have all sorts of records, from newspaper articles to journals kept by historical figures. We have a treasure trove of this stuff. But the problem is, what if these primary and secondary sources lied? What if they had skin in the game and decided that history should remember this version of events over another version of the events. To say nothing of the problems of the relativity of perception . . .

I hate to do this, but Mark Twain is just such an instance. A lot of his stories were actually news articles. He just lied to sell more papers. And that really is how newspapers began, more as tabloids than anything else. Twain wasn't the only one playing fast and loose with truth, so how can we trust any of these documents in said treasure trove?

Thankfully there are corroborating sources, but more or less we have to figure out which of these things we can agree upon as facts. That bothers me a great deal. Memories of college return to me. Ghastly things creeping through my head. "What is truth?" it asks through a sewer of a mouth. "What is Truth?" it answers itself. The horror.

It also means a lot of history gets swept under the rug as unimportant to the big picture. So I'm going to put a few quotes here you most certainly never heard during your school years. I'm pretty sure any teacher who dared tell you about it would have been tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail. Let's start with John Adams. If you'll recall I mentioned that a few of the Founding Fathers were Deists, a euphemism for atheists. John Adams was not one of them, but he had some interesting words in regards to religion. For those who believe this is a Christian Country(TM), you may want to avert your eyes.

“This would be the best of all possible worlds, if there were no religion in it.”
– John Adams

We discussed Benjamin Franklin a little bit in GF #1000, but here's a deeper look at his opinion of the Constitution that you never read in a textbook.

In these sentiments, Sir, I agree to this Constitution with all its faults, if they are such; because I think a general Government necessary for us, and there is no form of Government but what may be a blessing to the people if well administered, and believe farther that this is likely to be well administered for a course of years, and can only end in Despotism, as other forms have done before it, when the people shall become so corrupted as to need despotic Government, being incapable of any other. I doubt too whether any other Convention we can obtain may be able to make a better Constitution. For when you assemble a number of men to have the advantage of their joint wisdom, you inevitably assemble with those men, all their prejudices, their passions, their errors of opinion, their local interests, and their selfish views. From such an Assembly can a perfect production be expected? It therefore astonishes me, Sir, to find this system approaching so near to perfection as it does; and I think it will astonish our enemies, who are waiting with confidence to hear that our councils are confounded like those of the Builders of Babel; and that our States are on the point of separation, only to meet hereafter for the purpose of cutting one another's throats. Thus I consent, Sir, to this Constitution because I expect no better, and because I am not sure, that it is not the best.

How do I know that these men said these things? I don't. Not to a certainty. And a lot of people wish they hadn't said anything of the sort. But enough people agreed on these facts. I'm sure most would call it revisionist history (a phrase I dislike), but to be fair, a lot of people worked really hard to make sure we didn't encounter these quotes in the course of our regular lives.

The root of the problem is lying. I forget the movie's name, but there was a flick about a world where people were incapable of lying, not even little white lies like, "I'm fine," or "You look great," or etc. I don't advocate for that kind of world, but to quote Metallica, "When a man lies, he murders some part of the world." But, since you come here for class, I'll dig back further into the vaults. I'll leave you with a quote from Montaigne:

Lying is a hateful and accursed vice. We have no other tie upon one another, but our word. If we did but discover the horror and consequences of it, we should pursue it with fire and sword, and more justly than other crimes.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1009: JOLIET

 

For the past few months I've lived in Joliet, IL, much to my amusement considering the shit that I've talked about this place over the years. I'll be moving to DeKalb soon, and I'm surprised to discover there are a few things I'll miss about Joliet.

It's kind of a nexus. I currently live in an area that makes it feel like the suburbs, almost like Elmhurst, where I'd lived most of my life. But when I'm on my way somewhere, when I turn out of the neighborhood, I find myself looking out across a gorgeous marsh. I'm going to miss that view most of all, especially in the morning when the sun has yet to burn off the mists of the night before.

But then I can make another turn and find myself in a rundown part of town, some of it pretty bad. This is the part of town that gets Joliet its reputation. Aided, of course, by the movie referenced in the image above.

Take yet another turn, and holy shit, you're in an industrial park, billowing smoke stacks and all. Here's where Joliet gets most of its smell.

And another turn will bring you out into farmland, where the crop stands tall already.

That's all within the city limits. What other city can you say that covers that much diverse territory? And yes, I've driven past the prison. It looks oddly . . . pleasant.

From what I understand, DeKalb is mostly a college town. Technically Elmhurst was a college town, but these two aren't quite the same thing. The college is the only thing in DeKalb. Otherwise we're surrounded by farmland. Technically it's in Central Illinois. I'm moving to a different region. Weird.

That commute is going to fucking blow. The gas. Oh Jesus fuck, the gas.

It will be worth it in other ways.

MAIL ORDER BRIDE excerpt

 

“Poor bastard.”

Jake Ellis looked up from the blanket he planned to buy. Brett Hartford, the shopkeeper, stood so stiff he could have been held up by a post like a scarecrow. Brett polished his spectacles with a handkerchief as his gray eyes peered through the front window.

When Jake didn’t reply, Brett turned to look at him. “Felton Reeves. Poor bastard’s got a new bride on the way.”

The blanket fell from Jake’s hands, forgotten. “How many does that make? Five?”

Brett shook his head and returned his attention to the window. “This one makes his seventh.”

Jake joined the shopkeeper in his vigil. “Hell, that can’t be. You think he killed the others?”

Brett recoiled. “Jesus, Jake! That’s a hell of a thing to say.”

“I don’t know. Seems unnatural.”

Both men stared through the sun-waved glass for a while in silence. Brett cleared his throat and speared his spectacles back onto his face. “Anyone else, you’d probably be right, but not that fella. He couldn’t even kill the proverbial fly.”

They watched Felton’s stationary form dawdle outside the stage office. He was a short, skinny rail of a man, and he wore a bowler hat too small for his head. A nest of hair stuck out at all angles from beneath the brim. His child-like blue eyes twinkled in the morning sun, but anyone looking casually would have missed them. His large, goofy button of a nose distracted from them too much, to say nothing of his .45-sized Adam’s apple. A slow, nervous smile twitched between these attention-grabbers, just as the rest of his body ticked and shuddered. It wouldn’t have been so noticeable if his Sunday’s best weren’t so starched and tight.

No, Jake thought Felton couldn’t have killed them. The simp didn’t even carry a gun. How in hell did he live out in the middle of nowhere without a gun?

-

Joe Ridgway couldn’t believe his eyes. At first he thought he’d made a mistake—that maybe he’d had a few too many after-hours shots with the customers—but Felton Reeves still stood there after Joe rubbed his eyes. Felton rested as tall as his five-seven frame allowed, and his smile twitched like a gut-shot man trying to stay conscious. A dozen flowers sprouted from his clenched fist, and Joe knew what the man had in mind.

He played it dumb, anyway. “Mornin, Fell. What’s got ye into town on a weekday? Who’s workin’ yer fields for ye?”

“Oh, hey Joe.” Felton’s voice was almost high enough to be a woman’s. “No, I took the day off. I’m here to pick up Tessa.”

“Tessa?”

Felton’s baby-face lit up like a lamp. “Yeah, Tessa! She’s my new wife.”

Joe nodded. “Well, damn. Glad to hear it, Fell. ‘Bout time ye moved on. It gets lonely out there.”

Felton pursed his lips. “Yeah, it does.”

“Tell ye what. The Lucky Lou’s gonna open up again in a hour. Ye want, bring the new Mrs. Reeves along, and I’ll give ye a few drinks. Onna house.”

“Thank you, Joe. I appreciate it, but I don’t drink. Neither does Tessa.”

“Aw hell. That’s right. Forgot. Well, stop by anyway. Ah’d like to meet her.”

“Sure.”

Right, Joe thought. Tessa would be another mail order deal, but knowing Fell, he wouldn’t bring her by. He’d think her too much of a lady.

He tipped his hat and went on his way. When he got a block from Felton, he looked back to see the poor bastard still standing at the stage office, waiting. Joe thought about Fell’s backyard with six gravestones poking out of the ground and hoped this one didn’t die on him.

-

The scarf across his mouth didn’t keep much of the dust out, but it did a decent job as a safeguard. Matt coughed the grit out of his throat, and he could feel it caking the inside of the rag.

There was only one passenger in the stagecoach. Normally Matt would gripe and moan. He didn’t even have any deliveries to make. But at least Tessa Reeves had great beauty, and he liked looking at her. She had a back-east figure, nothing like these western gals who tended to be built like bricks. No, you could tell this one was a lady, and a proper one at that.

Too bad she had to be wasted on Fell Reeves.

There he stood, straight as a streetlight in front of the stage office. If Matt knew him at all, the poor bastard had been standing there for at least an hour. The dust already settled on Fell’s suit and bowler hat.

“Whoa!” Matt pulled at the reins, and the horses reared back to a jittering halt. A murky cloud kicked up from under the coach, and Fell coughed. He waved his free hand in front of his face.

Matt tied the straps to the brake and reached for Mrs. Reeves’ luggage. He handed it down to Hank, the sweaty bald clerk. Subconsciously he kept up some small talk patter with Hank, but he only found interest in Fell. The skinny bastard cautiously approached the stagecoach as if he expected some kind of trap. Then it was like he was a match, and God had struck him aflame. Fell’s face exploded into a smile, and he opened the door for his new bride.

Matt wanted to wish him luck with this one. He didn’t have high hopes, though. Mrs. Reeves didn’t look like she had the fortitude to survive in this forsaken land.

__________________________________________________________

If you like what you've read so far, you can read the rest here.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1008: THE SLIDING PAIN

 For the last week or so, I've been in worse pain than usual in my bad leg. It sucks because I have to put weight on it when going up or down stairs, so I can't exactly ignore it. But I had a suspicion as to why the pain is so pronounced there.

I have a skin infection. I was worried about a bone infection, because if that happened, I'd have to lose my leg from the knee down. But that's not what's causing the pain.

No, one of my pins is loose, and my leg, at about calf level, is sliding back and forth on that rod.

That's right, a rod that goes through my leg. Impaled. And the hole in my flesh keeps sliding back and forth whenever I stand or use the walker.

The podiatrist said it looks good, but then she said, "How would you feel about wearing this thing for another two months?"

Abso-fucking-lutely not. She said she figured, but she wasn't convinced that the bone she worked on previously had fused, so she wants me in a cast for a full month after this cage is removed. She added that the risk of bone infection did increase the longer this thing is on, so yeah, I don't want to wait any fucking longer for that. I do, after all, eventually have to return to work.

I'm just glad the tests came back negative for a bone infection. That would be just what I needed during this horrid fucking period of my life.

15 more days to go before this fucking thing comes off. I can't wait.

Also, the podiatrist said that this is when patients start to experience Cage Rage, where they scream to have the cage removed, and they keep kicking the cage against walls and such. I have not done any of this, no matter how eager I am to get this cage off my foot. Screaming about it won't help, anyway.

15 more days. Just 15. The countdown continues.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1007: RELEASE IT

 [To give you a heads up, this one is about Epstein. I don't like to use the word "pedophile" because it sanitizes the person it describes, implying the problem is a sickness, and not pure evil. As such, I refer to these guys as CRs.* If that bothers you, maybe skip this one.]

Back in 2016 I was horrified by something. For the majority of my life the world has more or less agreed that Nazis were bad, and all of a sudden, very much like HYDRA reemerging in the MCU, Nazis were crawling out of the woodwork. American Nazis. And I know history. I know America had a healthy Nazi party going during WWII, so something like that shouldn't have surprised me.

But it did.

I'm currently being horrified by something else. I think a majority of us are, and I'm including a good portion of MAGA in that "us." Because I remember a time when we all agreed, more or less, that raping children was bad. And I know history. America used to be totally OK with an adult marrying a child (in particular south of the Mason-Dixon). The word "underage" has certainly been flexible over the years. Not that long ago the age of consent in Idaho was 14.

But, as with all things, it's only wrong if you don't have money. The rich, on the other hand, can do as they please.

Hold that thought.

One of the main reasons I love Printers Row are the weirdos we get. Yeah, yeah, I know. That's a relative term, as we advertise ourselves as weirdos. But there's always someone who rants at us for about 45 minutes about a conspiracy theory (the good kind, but something utterly brand new to me) before moving on to the next table. I love those rants, most times.

But one year we got this guy who claimed to have worked for Fox News. This guy told me all sorts of things, starting with the real footage of Waco. He said that the government was playing down the level of violence they'd been responsible for and flat out told me that he saw video of tanks firing into the Koresh compound. Since then I've watched a couple of documentaries about it, and I believe this guy was telling the truth.

So he was probably telling the truth about this billionaire child rapist with his own private island where he hosted the most powerful people in the world. More importantly, the guy told me that he had seen this motherfucker's client list. He rattled a lot of names off, names anyone would recognize. He mentioned Matt Groening, at which point I thought he was out of his mind. The guy who created The Simpsons went to a child rapist island for billionaires? Pull the other one. But he mentioned a lot of people. Rock stars and politicians. I smiled when he said that Bill Clinton and Donald Trump were on the list. Of course they were. This sort of thing sounds right up their alley.

I forgot about this guy for a while until the Epstein story broke. Holy shit, that crazy dude was maybe not that crazy. And I did find court transcripts. Groening did, per the files, visit the island, but per testimony only got a foot massage on the plane.

And then it all nearly went away when Jeffrey Epstein died with a rope around his neck in a jail cell (he said cagily). But it didn't go away, did it? He was arrested in 2019, so the FBI most certainly got its hands on his client list. If they didn't, how did my Fox News guy know about it? Which reminds me, who was in the Oval Office in 2019?

One would think that a list supposedly composed by Democrats to attack Trump would have been exposed then and there. 2020 was an election year, after all. But the client list suddenly became hard to pin down. Then Biden took office, and in standing with other Democrats, he sat on the list. Why? Bill Clinton's name comes to mind. So yes, I believe Biden suppressed the list. I don't think he's on it, but I think Clinton might not be the only pal mentioned. All the same, if Trump's name wasn't on that list, it would have surely been a slam dunk to release it and go after the people who *are* on it.

MAGA has been salivating over the list for ages because they fully expect their enemies to all be arrested and tried for raping children. (Remember Pizzagate?) Which, I might remind you now, is no longer such a taboo thing if the people in charge of our government are trying to cover it up. Mike Johnson is panicking so badly he threatened to shut down Congress until September if people don't shut their fucking mouths about Epstein.

But now I'm sure that we'll never see that list, and MAGA will fall back into line. Or if we do see the list, it will be severely altered. We should have pressed this shit immediately. We shouldn't have let so much time pass. It's a clusterfuck.

But lost in the clusterfuck is an even more unpleasant thought. The Fox News guy got one thing wrong. He told me that Epstein sank his island to destroy all the evidence. The island is still there. (Technically he had two islands, but the star of the show is Little St. James.) In fact, the US Virgin Islands sued Epstein's estate for $105M because Epstein allegedly used the government to hide his illicit activities. The DA was successful and went on to say, and this makes me wonder a little, "[Epstein was never] a respected member of the community. It was public knowledge that he was a registered sex offender." Hmmm. Not bad for "a terrific guy" according to his longtime friend, Donald J. Trump.

So who owns that island now?

Hoho. Who, indeed?

First, if you were in the market to buy an island, and you came upon Epstein's, which was listed for $125M, would you be interested? I know people who wouldn't move into a house if someone died there, so who would want to buy an island that is probably the child rape capital of the world?

Stephen Deckhoff, actually. Black Diamond Capital Management, a private equity firm. You mean to tell me that a private equity scumbag (and that's pretty oxymoronic, but I stand by the assessment) bought the most fucked up island in American history? Yes, and he got a deal for it. He also bought the island next door. He bundled his island purchase for a mere $60M.

So a billionaire assumed possession of the billionaire child rape island. He plans to turn it into a five-star resort, I'm assuming for fellow billionaires. I wonder what's on their room service menu.

Release the fucking list. Before we go through all this shit a second time.

____________________________________________________

*CR stands for child rapist.

PS: I'm not seeing anyone else say it, so I guess I will. I don't think Virginia Giuffre committed suicide, either.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1006: AN INSUFFERABLE DELAY

 Of all the things I've suffered over the course of this year, the insult to injury was my reading list. I know this will interest only a few of you (possibly none), but I keep to a strict reading list. Unfortunately I am perpetually 10 years behind on everything. I make exceptions every once in a while, but they don't entirely jump the line. I read it at the same time as the one I'm supposed to be reading.

Many years back I inherited a shit-ton of F/SF books. It took a long time for me to catalog them all in my records. They're at the back of the second notebook and the front of the third notebook (yes, I have a reading list longer than a mere single notebook).

When my brother and I got the notice to vacate our childhood home, I was just approaching that part of my reading list. AND THOSE FUCKING BOOKS HAVE BEEN PACKED SINCE 2022. I kept as many books aside as I could for my reading list (I couldn't find three, so I'll have to circle back), but I knew even back then that there was no way we'd still be there by the time I reached the inheritance. Sure enough, I was right.

July 30 is when I get to move into my apartment. All my books will finally be removed from Public Storage and will be at my fingertips once more. I am going to unpack all those glorious books, and I'm going to find those three and read those. And then . . . the inheritance.

I'll finally be back on track with my reading list. Considering the chaos of my life, that's no small thing.

And then, a week later, the cage comes off my foot. At long last.

Just pretend I'm Scrooge McDuck jumping into my vault of gold. Except instead of gold, it's books. Am I wearing pants? I don't know. Maybe? It's your fantasy.

Very well. Our. Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Goodnight, Fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1005: A NEW PLAN (POLITICAL EDITION)

 I didn't really expect GF #1000 to make any big waves. It's good to see a couple other people talking about the need to invoke Article 5, but what are the odds of that happening? And now we have Elon Musk creating the Nationalist-Social--er, I mean, whatever the hell he's calling his third party. Which, by the way, doesn't stand a chance. But it will serve its purpose, which is stealing the midterms from the Democrats. Some asshole said that Musk will hurt the Republicans worse, and I can't believe they had the gall to say that. [I'm still waiting, by the way, for an executive order to come through to put Trump's face on Mt. Rushmore.]

If we can't get enough people together to update the Constitution, then we're going to have to change the way elections are run. Not that I expect anyone to listen to me. I think Gore Vidal's ideas are perfect in a case like this.

First and foremost, elections must be limited to four weeks. It's insane that these motherfuckers can run for office for years. The incumbent usually starts campaigning almost immediately after they're elected. That's insane to me. If you're not familiar with the issues after listening to these jagoffs lie to you for four weeks, then the problem might not be with the system. Listening to them for years, on the other hand, gives them the chance to repeat themselves so often you might think they're telling the truth.

But secondly, and this is key, we need to make it illegal for politicians to buy ad space on TV, in print or anywhere else. In exchange for this, the networks and publications will be required by law to give these politicians equal time on their platforms. This will change EVERYTHING. These pieces of shit will no longer need huge donations because advertising is where nearly all of that money goes to. Now it will be possible for ANYONE to run for office. The unhoused could afford to run. It levels the playing field, as the politicians might say. It will muscle a lot of our corporate overlords out of the business, too. What would the candidates spend that money on? I'm sure they have lots of things they'd buy, but it would be very difficult to do that with transparency. The campaign laws we have now pretend to value transparency, but they don't. I forget the comedian who said this, but these fuckers should be forced to wear their sponsors on their suits, like NASCAR racers. Even then I would doubt their entire veracity.

I'll let Vidal have the final word tonight:

"Since Watergate, no one can say that we don't know where we are or who we are or what sort of people we have chosen to govern us. Now it remains to be seen if we have the power, the will to restore to the people a country which--to tell the truth--has never belonged to the ninety-five point six percent but certainly ought to, as we begin our third--and let us hope not, terminal--century."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1004: THANK YOU FOR HELPING SAVE JOHN BRUNI'S LIFE

 I didn't think my GoFundMe would work despite the fact that I didn't believe it would work the first time, either, and that time was wildly successful anyway. If you haven't seen my GFM, it's here. I needed one thousand to save my life, and I got it. And people are still contributing! I am so grateful for you all. The extra money I get is going to good use. I said last night I thought I'd be eating cheese sandwiches for every meal going forward for the foreseeable future. The extra is going toward feeding me actual food, at least for as long as it lasts. Again, thank you all for your help.

This is the second time I'm writing a GF out of gratitude for help with a GFM (heh). In case you missed it last time, here it is. TLDR: In 2020, when I was unemployed, I'd just run out of Paxil. And all my other prescriptions, too, but Paxil was the one I needed the most. I couldn't afford the pills without insurance. I mentioned it on Twitter (back when it was still Twitter!). Shortly after that, I watched the final episode of Locke & Key on Netflix, and I said a lot of great things about the show and the comic book it was based on. Joe Hill saw my post. I'm pretty sure he wanted to vet me to make sure he wasn't retweeting a Nazi or some such, so he looked at my other posts and saw the one about Paxil. He recommended that I start a GFM, and if I did, he would pitch in. And he did! A considerable amount, too. I was able to get my meds, and I got a new job soon thereafter, and thus I got insurance again.

I bring up the previous GFM because I was acutely aware that I didn't have Joe Hill on my side this time. I was afraid that very few people would contribute. But I was desperate, and I'm so happy it worked. I am constantly surprised by the kindness of my friends. The fact that I have so many friends also surprises me. I didn't have many when I was in high school. Thank you so much for your help, everyone. Thank you from the very bottom of my heart.

I'm grateful that it worked for me, so it's time for the next thing, and that is paying it forward. I've been a fan of Wrath James White ever since I first came across him in an issue of Cthulhu Sex Magazine that I was in. It still irritates me that I didn't get a chance to meet him at AuthorCon in St. Louis. Whenever I looked over at his table, he had a big line, and I couldn't abandon my own table. His daughter is in a rough spot right now, and if you have a few spare bucks, please consider checking out his GoFundMe here.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1003: FROM

 

The only thing I got myself for Prime Day (Week?) was a 99-cent subscription to MGM+ so I could watch season 2 and 3 of FROM, one of the best horror shows I've seen in a long time. Oh yeah, and also season 2 of Billy the Kid, and it looks like there's a Stephen King show on there now I'll check out. But FROM was the impetus.

The idea is, a family on a road trip gets stopped by a tree across the road. This brings them to a small town in the middle of nowhere, where no one can ever leave, and there are horrible monsters roaming the streets at night. These creatures can't be killed. CAN'T. The people only have talismans for protection, but they don't work all the time. They have to be in an enclosed space with this talisman hanging in a window or door or something. If you hold up the talisman at an approaching creature, it will kill you in a very gruesome fashion. At first I figured they'd be vampires, but they're . . . something else. The people of this town must fight for survival every night, and this family is learning there is a terrible price to live in this place even in the day. Every time they score a victory? Something even worse happens to them to take it away from them.

There's a lot more to it than that, but at its bare bones, that's FROM. And the longer I watch the show, the more I realize why I enjoy it. These people are stuck in a horrible place they can never leave while a malevolent force with god-like powers is trying to kill them. I can relate. My life has been such a shitstorm that I watch this show, and there is an entire cast of characters who have it much, much worse than I do. I'm stuck in this terrible place I can never leave while vile bullshit keeps piling up on top of me.

I used to say I'd die at 46.* I only have nine days if I'm going to die on time, and it seems that the universe is bent on me being punctual. I scored a grand victory yesterday. It was immediately taken away from me this morning by something worse than I could have imagined. Hence the GoFundMe I set up earlier today. Holy shit! It looks like I got what I needed and more! The thousand will save my life. Anything more than that will help in other ways. I figured I'd be eating cheese sandwiches for the rest of my life. The good news: I love cheese sandwiches. The bad news: not for every meal forever. Additional funds will go toward food for as long as it will last, so I'll keep the page up a little while longer just in case.

I got off into the weeds a little. Seriously, go watch FROM. It will make you feel better about whatever situation you're in. And it will give you a mystery to think about. A good one, I think. The kind that answers your questions with more questions. And unlike a lot of shows like this, the creators actually have a plan. They're not just asking questions to confuse us so they can figure out why they asked the question. For example.

_______________________________________________________________________________

*That's the original number. I then lowered it to 40 to make people nervous. But 46 is the number I believed all along. I'm going to try to not be a soothsayer, but at this point, I can't make promises.

I thought I was a great and terrible god to my characters, but the FROM writers make me look like I'm writing Curious George. They are ruthless to their characters. Every time I see the characters deal with a new problem, I can't help but think, What fucking now?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!! Which is pretty much how I react to everything that pops up in my life, usually because that thing is going to be bad, no matter what it is.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1002: 3 YEARS

 It's been three years since my last drink. Not bad for a guy who, if he put in the effort, could down a handle a night. More often than not he left an inch at the bottom for hair-of-the-dog purposes, because a sober moment was not a good thing for me back then. I thought I'd been sober during the days, but I was wrong about that. The booze still lived in me from the prodigious amount of drinking committed during the previous night.

The last drink I had was from my whiskey barrel. It was high proof. And it was great. It didn't get me drunk as I was hoping because by that point booze couldn't get me drunk. My body, sure, but not my mind. That's where I needed it.

I firmly believed that would be my last drink, and so far it has been, but while I was at detox, beating the physical addiction, I decided I couldn't wait to get out and drink just in time for my birthday. I moved the heavens and got out in the correct timeframe. And for some reason I didn't stop at Williams Liquor that day, as I'd been planning for at least a week. I just drove past.

So it's been ever since. I don't think about alcohol often, but when I do it's pretty heavy. The addiction is still lurking inside me somewhere, looking for an excuse, but I've been able to keep on top of it. All the same, there are a few times a month when I think, Goddam! I could sure use a drink! And maybe someday I'll give in to that urge, but it's not going to be anytime soon.

Three fucking years. I'm sure a lot of people I knew in my drinking days would find that unthinkable. Hell, my friends now probably think that. A lot of them were around for Booze Bruni. Whoo-boy. The folks over at the Corner Cottage probably think I'm dead. I'd have said the same of the guy at York Liquors, but that place just went out of business. It just occurred to me, writing this now, that the only way that guy would give up his shop was if he was dead. Did he die? I hope not. He was a friendly guy.

The weird thing is, I almost missed my anniversary. I've been drowned in shit and bad luck and horrors and hell for so long that if I hadn't checked my calendar, I would have forgotten it. The only reason I checked my calendar was because something good happened today.

All right, enough celebration. Time to make it to three years and a day.

I'm going to bed early. As you can imagine, I did not get much sleep last night. I hope to fuck I don't get sick tomorrow morning. 

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1001: AH SHIT, IT'S THIS GUY AGAIN

 *sigh* Right. Of course I couldn't quit this. The reason I entertained the idea of ending GF was because I no longer had the time to write it at night. But I've been on medical leave, and I have a lot of time, which I'm using wisely because holy fucking shit, since the last time we met at this hour? My life has somehow--SOMEHOW!!!!!--gotten way fucking worse. I'm doing my best to unfuck this horrid mess, but I won't get too much into that.

One of the things that is causing me misery is the mystery illness. It has plagued me for three days running. I can only assume that tomorrow will be day four of this madness. Through a series of events I'd rather not go into, I discovered that if I suffer a low blood sugar incident while going through a bout of my mystery illness, the mystery illness will stop.

So for the last two days, when I got up and first started feeling the symptoms, I purposely overdosed myself on insulin. Unfortunately it doesn't work right away, so I spend the next few hours trying not to go to the bathroom to puke. I often fail at this, and it ends in either puke (glorious relief for the next fifteen minutes!) or dry heaves (cursed to another trip to the bathroom in the very near--maybe even by forty-five seconds!--future). But then the low blood sugar attack comes, and I fight back because I had the foresight to have Tang or Coke nearby. Then, after my heart beats like crazy and my body slicks over with a sheen of sweat, the low blood sugar attack goes away. And so does my mystery illness.

Until the next fucking day. This solution only delays the mystery illness.

I *do* realize how insane that sounds, by the way. Some kinda Flatliners shit, just about. But the mystery illness has *made me* insane. I would do just about anything to get this fucking thing to permanently go away.

In case you're new, the mystery illness makes me puke and dry heave every 15 minutes for 3-5 days in a row, oftentimes causing me to lose significant amounts of sleep. It causes a terrible pain in my belly. It feels like pancreatitis. I know because I've suffered from that a few times in my drinking days. It feels like someone is pushing a sword through my belly and out my back. It is the worst fucking pain I've ever experienced in my life. By the time a bout is done, I've begged for death at least a dozen-dozen times. And I'll have also lost a lot of weight. Last year, for example, I cumulatively lost nearly seventy pounds because of this goddammed motherfucking mystery illness. And, as one time proved to me, there is also the risk of rupturing my esophagus from puking too hard.

So in breaking with tradition I'm not going to bed tonight. Because the ERs down in the Joliet area suck, I'm going to drive to the Elmhurst ER. They also know me better there. I also know that, if they put an IV in, it won't just fall out like it did down here. It's Monday, so I wanted to wait until later. Give the ER crowd a chance to die down. I can't have this happen to me again tomorrow morning. I have a shit-ton of very important things to do. I hope to get the treatment needed to ensure the attack does not continue. If things go well, I'll get an hour of sleep at the ER. I'll also get a couple of hours when I get home. And then I'll be ready to knock tomorrow out of the park.

If tomorrow does *not* go well, I can expect my misery to continue for the foreseeable future. So I'm focusing everything on making it go well. If I must beat reality into a much more pleasing shape, then so be it.

Wish me luck. The good kind, I mean. The bad just sorta . . . lives wherever I do, I guess.