Tuesday, January 11, 2011

A woman loves me, a woman scoffs at me, a woman gyrates on me

There is a customer at my store who is love with me.  She asked her mother to ask me out on a date, because she is too shy to ask me herself.  Before she asked her mother to ask me out -she inquired to some of my co-workers if I was single. I bet she would like it if I asked her out for some coffee.

I don't have a car, and I don't like coffee.

Her mother showed me a picture of the woman before she asked me if I would like to get her daughter's phone number.  Her daughter had short blond hair that flipped up at the ends. She looked to be in her late thirties and was slightly overweight.

Her mother told me that she was aware that I was single and "since her daughter was single, would I like to get her number?"

I don't want your daughter's number.  She is not my type.

"I like them pretty."  I told the co-worker.  "I can't help myself."

I jotted down the phone number the old woman gave me.  I had to ask her to repeat the number twice.  I'm not sure why it was so important to me to get the number correct as I never intended to call her.

I told my ex-girlfriend about the woman.  She seemed unruffled.  She asked when I was going to go on the date with the girl.  I said, "never."

The ex-girlfriend called me her friend.  "Sometimes I go a long time without seeing my friends."

I don't want to be your friend.  I have way too many friends.  I don't like most of them.  Those I do like come over too often, or they ask me to do things for them.  Then they tell me things that are supposed to make me care about them.  And all this makes me uneasy.  It makes me guilty.  It fills me with fear.

There is something I don't like about the woman that loves me. She is a regular customer.  We have short discussions when I check her groceries out.  She is always smiling at me.  There is some twinkle in her eyes.  She seems grotesque to me now.  So happy.  So jovial.  I am the answer to all her problems.

I'm at Rocky Point Catina.  A woman is gyrating towards me at me.

She is petite, under 5 feet tall. A Mexican, she is wearing a skirt so short that it barely conceals her tiny panties.

She is overtly sexual.  Strong, thick black hair down to her waist. Amazing eyes that are wide with youth and vigor.

"Are you here alone?"  She asks.

"I am."

"I am with a friend." I also try and tell her.  But it is loud and my words do not work well when I am sober and being grinded into by a sexual beast.

She had been dancing by herself.  A practice of art that the ethnic woman of today has mastered.  They shake their booty.  They decide which man to rub against. It is a feminist dream come true.  A dream or a nightmare.  The woman are all about sex, display, and power.

The men are just happy to watch, to be chosen, to know we have fooled them into playing our game of casual sex with no feelings.  The men sit back because they know they have won.

Stephanie has been ignored all night by the men.  Despite the fact that she is one of the best dancers at the club.  Perhaps the men (all negro) have no interest in Mexicans.  She is a nice looking woman though child like in size.

"How old are you?" She asks  She pauses her ass shaking to look up at me.   Her eyes are ablaze.  She has mastered the turn and stare.  Her hair flares out magnificently.  She looks like she knows she is being filmed for MTV.

I told her I was 39.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was at the bar."  I tell her.

She goes back to humping me.  A few minutes later I am high fived by a brother.  He winks at me.  I wink back and high five him.  I shove my hands in the air.  I am confounded by all the movement my partner is making on my genitals.  I am slightly aroused, but know instinctively that too much arousal is bad, (but that some  is good.)

Stephanie finds my penis and squishes it back an forth between her butt cheeks.  She uses me a stripper pole.  She writhes up an down on my body.  She is showing off for all the other men.

Her friend has a hold of her arm.  Her friend has had enough of Stephanie showing me a good time.  But for some reason Stephanie is stubborn.  She has wanted to dance with a man.  She has wanted to grind.  She has wanted to hump.  And I am content to let her.  So she rewards my patience.

A few minutes later and Stephanie decides she will attempt to attract a younger man.  I wander off to the bathroom.  The restroom is strangely empty despite the fact that the club part of the bar is packed with sweaty black men and woman.

None of them are in the restroom which smells heavily of pot smoke.  The amount of smoke is obnoxious.  It is patently obvious what everyone is doing.  They are all smoking week.  I make the racist observation aloud that "this would not be allowed in a white bar."  In a white club.

If you are white you smoke weed in your car, or at your house.  Everyone knows that at the club you snort coke.  You don't smoke weed in a club. It's lower class. But maybe pot is why everyone here is so relaxed.  I am my usual clumsy self and I bump into a number of large African-American men.  None of them get angry at me.  None of the show even the slightest hint of resentment or annoyance towards me.  Some of them apologize for my mistake.

On my way back from the restroom I notice Stephanie is alone again.  She has her rear end pointed out.  She is waiting for a man again.  I think about going over to her.  I think about getting behind her and mounting her.  I think about telling her I am sorry for not having a car.  That I live just a few blocks away.  That we can walk there.  That I will offer a cab ride home after we are done.

"I am 21."  She tells me.  But I don't see one of those paper bands they place around your wrist when you can drink.  I think she is 18.  She must be at least 18 I tell myself.  They check ID's here very carefully.

But I don't tell her anything else.  I just walk out the door.  I leave the club to go get a pizza and a coke.  When I am done I walk home alone.

Tuesday, January 04, 2011

I am still Awesome.

I am all kinds of awesome.  I am chowing down on bite-sized snickers bars.  The candy is wrapped like Christmas presents.  The shiny, silver packages are reminiscent of New Year's Eve celebrations.  I feel all glitzy every time I eat one.

So I ate like 50 of them today, and I am feeling glamorous as fuck.  I guess you could say that I feel like a gay man does every day.

I am tired of customers.

I have decided that customers are like pigeons.  They are capable of learning things, but only if we put them in Skinner boxes and jolt them with electric current until we see the behavioral outcomes we desire.

I had two days off from work and I did not do shit.

It is cold as fuck in Tempe.  Cold as fuck in Tempe means something like 35 degrees.  Which to some of you is sunbathing weather.  But whatever.  For people like me it is time to stay indoors.

Of course being indoors does not help me as much as you might think, I don't have central heat in my apartment.  Instead I have two portable heaters.  One of the portables stays in my roommates room.  He keeps the damn thing plugged in all day, and I can hear it churn on and off even after he has left the house.

If I plug my heater in at the same time it will pop a fuse.  So I go without heat, because that's just the kind of sociopath/serial killer I am.  The kind that makes sure his roommate is comfortable.  I always think about other people, it's my downfall.

I haven't discussed my recent anxiety over all things electric, but I guess now is a good a time as ever.

I was nearly electrocuted when my landlord tried installing the hot water heater himself.  I was checking out the A/C gauge (located on the opposite side of the wall from the hot water heater-about 1 meter away) when the landlord switched on the power from the main switch outside.

I got a loud pop and a fireball that rocked me into the wall and had me freaking out and jumping out of the hallway.  I waited in living room feeling dazed and confused as nearly being killed caused quite a bit of consternation on my end, though my landlord had no problem touching 240 volts of electricity, he continued to short out heating elements over the coarse of the next few days before finally getting the heater to stay on and function properly.

Note: I did not say that he grounded the wiring properly.  Just that we have hot water.  Hot water is nice, but I fear walking down my hallway out of my room. I am certain I will be electrocuted from some improper grounding of the hot water elements.  If not that I expect to awaken to the smell of sulfur and flames from the electric fire in my hallway.

Do not worry about me.

I have begun work on tying several bed sheets together in hopes that I can make an escape from my second story apartment before the flames engulf me.

I am certain that my anxiety stems from this VERY real situation.  I am not certain how REAL the following account is however.

A few days after the electrical explosion I was sitting on my bed and smelled something burning.  It smelled like rubber being burned, or perhaps sulfur.  After the smell I noticed a head rush, and a pins and needles tingling in my head.  I began to panic assuming the hot water heater was discharging electricity or was catching on fire.

I got up and rushed out of my room into the hallway.  As I got close to the heater to check on it I began to feel pounded.  I screamed and fell to the ground.  My knee began to shake and  it pummeled back and forth striking the ground at a high velocity and rate. I could not stand up.  My first thought was that I was being electrocuted.  It was all I could do to scream out for my roommate to run out the house.

I managed to hop into the living room from the hallway.  I recall being quite frighted.  I was unable to get my barrings.  My roommate kept asking me questions, "What's going on?  What's wrong?"  But I could not seem to respond.  My head was cloudy.  My knee was in pain.  And my only impulse was to get the hell out of the living room and some place safe from the live wire in the hot water heater.

I must have made a terrible racket as I left the apartment.  My downstairs neighbor heard the commotion and opened his door just as I made my way down the stairs.  I was discombobulated.  In my frantic state my worried neighbor offered me his cell phone so that I could dial 911.

I offered him and the operator my story and fire personal were dispatched to my place immediately.  The fireman once there were understandably confused, and in my disoriented state I was unable to give much of an explanation.

I did tell them I smelled something, was shocked, felt a seizure like jolt in my brain and leg, and was now worried that the electric power might be still live.

The fireman offered to check my vitals but did not push for it.  Despite the fact that I was clearly in disoriented, had difficulty with train of thought, and had just offered up details that sound a lot like a mild seizure.

They informed me that I had no burns, so they did not think that I was in any danger.  Further after inspection they found nothing alarming about the hot water heater.  The water worked and they were not shocked going upstairs.

I thanked them for their due diligence, apologized for bringing them out, and took them up on their offer to cut the power from the main fuse board.

Over the course of the next few days I began to have panic attacks.  Anxiety as high as I have ever experienced.  I began to have moments of depersonalization.  I could stare into the mirror and forget that I was staring at myself.  I would begin to punch myself in the face.  I would show my penis to my mirror image.  Masturbate. While masturbating I would get  the idea to cut off my testicles.  I took clippers and pressed into my skin until blood began to stream from them.  Luckily I would climax at that point which would bring me back to reality and put and end to my desire to harm myself.

As one might expect I began to become alarmed by my behavior. I went to the emergency room where I was informed by the attending physician that I should stop doing ecstasy.

He further noted that my vitals were stable.  And that he would in, "no way add to the soup of chemicals in my brain by giving me anything."

I described to him my possible seizure.  My stereotypic behaviors, along with my firm contention that I was suffering from "more that a mild case of Serotonin syndrome." He concurred that it was highly probable that I was suffering from Serotonin syndrome, but he reiterated that would not treat Serotonin Syndrome at the ER level.

My physician let me know that his belief was that I was having  panic/anxiety attacks.  "I don't think you are suffering a panic attack, ---You ARE!"  With that casual dismissal he had had enough of me.  He suggested that I seek behavioral health therapy from an affiliated hospital.

My retort was that psychotherapy was of little help at this point, and that I did not need a 12 step program to give of the party drug E.

"It's not heroin, sir.  I am not addicted."

My doctor then explained that he thought that I sounded quite intelligent, and that I should take the time to seek some mental therapy as "it's not just psychotherapy" that he was offering.

I recall thinking that the doctor was impressed by knowledge of stereotypic behavior and Serotonin Syndrome.

Eventually I relented to his pressure to see a psychologist and to get some referrals to his affiliated mental hospital, but after waiting an additional hour or so with no show from the behavioral side, I decided to leave the ER.  I made my way past the receptionist who whisked me along with a simple "you are free to go."

It's been 2 weeks since then.  I've been very ill, though it was just a cold.  Mentally, I have been gradually coming back to normal.  I smell the burning rubber less frequently.  I can look for quite some time in the mirror without problems.

My masturbating to rape, chocking, rough sex, and strangulation videos is waning.  I no longer feel the amphetamine like high when women stare at me, or when woman moan in pain on porn sites.  I orgasm normally.  The intensity is now like one would expect from a 40 year old male.  Masturbating today is hardly worth the effort if I do not wait a few days in between tugs.

I am still anxious about electric appliances.  I refuse to plug in my portable heater because soon after I see the red warning sticker light up.  In addition, as I have said,  I have had the fuse pop several time when I have plugged in the heater which has caused my quite some consternation.

I was not feeling anxious today....

That is until I came home and all the lights in the house were off.  The living room lamp had burned out.  The dining room track lighting had burned out.  The kitchen florescent light would not come on.

I took charge of the situation.  Bravery not always my strong point I still felt I had to do something.

I changed the light bulb in the living room.  I went from one of those good for the Earth CFL's to the old fashioned incandescent.  The bulb burns strong and produced 50% more light than the ecologically sound bulb.  The florescent bulb in the kitchen spontaneously started working again.  Though it flickers eerily.  I assume some kind of reminder that it wants me dead.

The dining room light stopped working after a bit, I assume the incandescent bulb does not fit or work with track lighting.  I hope.  The bulbs in the bathroom also flicker eerily even after being replaced.

I find my home to no longer be a place of comfort.  I think it a death trap.  I am positive we need to have the place rewired.  I will die in a fire.

But perhaps not.  I am a light sleeper.  Hopefully I will smell smoke, or feel the discharge of electricity and make my way out before thousands of volts surge coarse their way through to stop my beating heart.

At least I pray that it will go that way.