BabyHeadCrab
The Freeman
- Joined
- Dec 2, 2003
- Messages
- 23
- Reaction score
- 602
Bitterness in 2010
Since he was a child. High pitched voice and skin and bones, he waddled and spoke often--silly jokes and we listened. I defended him when he got bullied, but I wasn't always there. Two younger brothers to resent and a constant barrage of harassment from Elementary School to High School, they called him fag and imitated his voice. Once they threw a banana peel at his face.
As a teenager he grew resentful, still squeaky, late bloomer, enthusiast. He became paintball obsessed, and maybe it was the aggressiveness. Or the fact that he realized, and we all realized that he was incredible with his hands, would make a fantastic engineer already. We would smoke l-joints on the curb outside his house and ride bikes to girls' houses boozed up. I remember throwing candy at strangers, I remember putting a ping-pong ball in the Bobcat construction vehicle's exhaust pipe, I remember his bitterness.
As a young adult he built computers and lines of blow. Not too out of control, not a loud junkie. You grew up quick with a deep, deep voice, this time not faked, you became resentful and grew an ugly mustache. A beautiful mind that spent most of it's time in cs_office, we'd go to his house and admire his custom crafted computer cases and beautifully self-threaded cables and enthusiast equipment. Worked full time--working class family. His mom had breast cancer, we thought his youngest brother to say "cooter" around the house--thought it was absolutely hilarious.
As a man addicted and angry, five years in jail, relapsing, dying again and I feel useless, tired and rejoin the "people don't change" train of thought. The other day he sent me an instant message "Just did some blow"--
I said "What the ****?"
He said "It was free." I suppose the 80mg of Oxycotton I saw was free as well.
Thinking...
Five years in jail not enough? and we're ****ing twenty-one. I'll see you in another few , dude. I love you but in an odd way, I can't stand you. Sometimes I'm glad I live miles away at school. You're brilliant and twisted and self-loathing--a hyperbolic version of me, always high, we were always high. Maybe it's just our family differences that kept me from that edge, maybe it's the "youngest child" attention I got, but I never got my nose that dirty.
This time you'll die or I won't see you until we're really older men. Hometown behind us, behind me. I'll think of you and call your family, because you'll have changed, or will not possess a phone. More likely you'll be back in prison, parole officers take more kindly to opiate-free piss in drug cases. You liar, you thief. You cunnt. Contagious bitterness.
Perhaps not so productive.
Since he was a child. High pitched voice and skin and bones, he waddled and spoke often--silly jokes and we listened. I defended him when he got bullied, but I wasn't always there. Two younger brothers to resent and a constant barrage of harassment from Elementary School to High School, they called him fag and imitated his voice. Once they threw a banana peel at his face.
As a teenager he grew resentful, still squeaky, late bloomer, enthusiast. He became paintball obsessed, and maybe it was the aggressiveness. Or the fact that he realized, and we all realized that he was incredible with his hands, would make a fantastic engineer already. We would smoke l-joints on the curb outside his house and ride bikes to girls' houses boozed up. I remember throwing candy at strangers, I remember putting a ping-pong ball in the Bobcat construction vehicle's exhaust pipe, I remember his bitterness.
As a young adult he built computers and lines of blow. Not too out of control, not a loud junkie. You grew up quick with a deep, deep voice, this time not faked, you became resentful and grew an ugly mustache. A beautiful mind that spent most of it's time in cs_office, we'd go to his house and admire his custom crafted computer cases and beautifully self-threaded cables and enthusiast equipment. Worked full time--working class family. His mom had breast cancer, we thought his youngest brother to say "cooter" around the house--thought it was absolutely hilarious.
As a man addicted and angry, five years in jail, relapsing, dying again and I feel useless, tired and rejoin the "people don't change" train of thought. The other day he sent me an instant message "Just did some blow"--
I said "What the ****?"
He said "It was free." I suppose the 80mg of Oxycotton I saw was free as well.
Thinking...
Five years in jail not enough? and we're ****ing twenty-one. I'll see you in another few , dude. I love you but in an odd way, I can't stand you. Sometimes I'm glad I live miles away at school. You're brilliant and twisted and self-loathing--a hyperbolic version of me, always high, we were always high. Maybe it's just our family differences that kept me from that edge, maybe it's the "youngest child" attention I got, but I never got my nose that dirty.
This time you'll die or I won't see you until we're really older men. Hometown behind us, behind me. I'll think of you and call your family, because you'll have changed, or will not possess a phone. More likely you'll be back in prison, parole officers take more kindly to opiate-free piss in drug cases. You liar, you thief. You cunnt. Contagious bitterness.
Perhaps not so productive.
