Crime Scene Down the Hallway

I'm a bit disturbed right now, which ain't helping a headache already in progress.

I just found out about something that happened right here last night.

Someone got hurt, someone I know.

He was beaten, then shot.

All in less than two minutes.

He's alive but in a hospital's intensive care unit with a bullet lodged in his spine. Doctors say taking the bullet out will paralyze him from the chest down. Right now he's paralyzed from the waist down. He's 27 years old.

My intuition tells me he will be OK. Let's hope this is one of the nine times out of 10 that I'm right.

The sickest part of this story is why this happened to him.

This man's life is on the line because of a thug, a sick fuck and his sick fuck friends, who showed up to "get him" because--are you ready?--he's dating the thug's ex-wife.

Yup. That's it. I'm not fucking kidding you.

Even worse is that he had just started dating this girl. A two-week relationship led to an event that will most likely forever be the most terrifying moment of his life and one that might have just derailed his future.

Ironically, I had gone to see him earlier--which I never do because I never have to--to give him something related to his job here. I stood with him outside the room where the violent incident took place an hour or two before hell was unleashed on him.

I should've known better. My dog started barking at the curtain last night, which is not like her. She only barks during the day when the glass windows are wide open and she can see people and other dogs outside. I also heard a strange noise and thought it might be a car speeding, a couple arguing or people getting in and out of cars, which is what was happening, but I just never imagined someone's life was in danger. Later, when I took the dog out before turning in, I saw police cars and yellow crime-scene tape around the area where I had last seen him.

That tape is never a good sign.

I knew they wouldn't tell me, so I didn't ask the cops what happened. I figured I would find out sooner or later.

I totally forgot about it until just now, when I again took the dog outside and bumped into the manager here. I asked, he hesitated, said he's not supposed to tell anyone, I told him I saw the cops, I saw the tape, I heard something...

--"Did something bad happen?"
--Yes, he told me with his head.
--"Something really bad?"
--Yes, he nodded again.
--"Did someone get hurt...don't tell me someone got hurt."
--Yes.

And I was told the story I just told you, except in more detail, which I can't include here because I'm not supposed to know anything, much less tell anyone about it.

Shock led to deep concern, which led to anger. This motherfuckers showed up here to terrorize this gentle man--because that's what he is, gentle. They came to torture him--three on one, or five if we include the cunts (sorry, I'm too tired to think of another word and too pissed to care) who came along--and to kill him for the stupidest reason imaginable, just one step above shooting someone for not returning a pen.

Anger gave way to vivid fantasies of what I would've done if I had know what was happening five doors down from me and I had a gun--something I've been wanting for a while.

It is true what they say about the overwhelming feeling of helplessness that takes over when something like this happens and you can't do a thing about it. I can't prevent what already happened, I can't cure him, I can't go out with the cops to hunt these thugs, I can't shoot them in the balls, I can't comfort the victim, not at least until he's out of the ICU, I can't do anything.

I can't do anything about something that needs so much to be done about it. Yes, I feel helpless.

Maybe it is a good thing I don't have a gun.


Copyright © 2009
All Rights Reserved
This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Photo source: "Rockie Told To Ease Off On Crime-Scene Tape" by The Onion

To Pick or Not to Pick

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who pick and those who don't.

My entire life I've tried to be among the elite--among those with either the extraordinary discipline or lack of passion necessary to not pick.

But I'm a picker. I pick my skin. I pick and pick and pick until I make my skin much worse than it was and would've been if I just picked at it. But I keep picking. Why?

I used to think I simply couldn't help myself, that I suffered from a compulsion or addiction...perhaps even a control issue--and this could still be the case. But then I discovered that whenever I have little or nothing to pick, I don't pick at all. I don't seek for something to peek. So my problem is not necessarily that I pick; my problem is that I have something to pick to begin with and that I feel compelled to pick it once I spot it.

I've also come to grips with the fact that picking my skin is a source of great pleasure hard to turn down. There is such as thing as a pick-orgasm, I swear! Ironically, the climax is followed by feelings of guilt, emptiness and low self-esteem not unlike those commonly experienced by addicts after giving into their addictions or after alcohol-induced one-night stands.

To remove something out of where it either shouldn't be (a myth, because if it shouldn't be there it wouldn't be there) or out of where we don't want it to be can give a person a deep sense of accomplishment, control and satisfaction, one that, in my opinion, can be topped only by a total loss of consciousness under the effects of anesthesia, a remarkably good night sleep with no tossing or turning, or a smooth, effortless dump.

The problem is...well...the bigger problem is when the skin starts taking longer and longer to heal after a night or day of total abandon to this habit. Not only the skin looks like crap but one feels like crap because of it. What to do?

While not anywhere near as gratifying, nose picking can serve as a substitute during skin-picking withdrawal--you know, kind of what like methadone does for heroin addicts in rehab--as it allows the subject to pick something without causing significant damage to the skin or tissues.

However--and must there always be a however?--nose picking comes with its own risks: viral and bacterial infections, some mild and some severe, that spread from person to person via touch and that gain access to our innards though nose picking or finger licking.

The hands, particularly the nails and fingertips, are said to be loaded with microorganisms that can spread disease. So, when we pick our noses we risk introducing some nasty shit in our bodies hardly worth (and this is debatable) the harmless snots we get to peel out of our nasal cavities. Yet, I must admit I find picking out the thick crusty ones extremely satisfying.

In conclusion: picking of any kind is not rational nor beneficial past the initial high seconds after the picking (therapeutically, picking has a very short half-life) and can be dangerous to our health.

But so is smoking and street drugs and pills and driving fast and eating junk food and eating too much or not enough and drinking and having unprotected sex and making shady deals and giving the finger to a bandanna-wearing dude driving an old Chevy pickup truck in the highway with a riffle hooked on the back windshield and walking alone down a dark alley late a night on a low-cut tight sleeveless shirt, micro miniskirt and fuck-me shoes.

Given the choices, I think I'd rather pick.


Copyright © 2009
All Rights Reserved
This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Photo by needmedonto