AtomicWorkshop

Not futbol. And not even good old fashioned blue-blooded American Football where the lust for violence and competition outweighs commercial interest and helmets can be folded up and shoved into back pockets during time-outs. I’m talking about Football. Yes, that football—the kind we’ve come to know and love, where padding is now officially thicker than biceps, where commercial breaks are longer than possessions, where quarterbacks can’t be touched because it’s not profitable for franchises to spend fifty million dollars on a star so he can be Joe Theisman’d into oblivion or Stan Humphrie’d into early retirement.

I had the good fortune to watch this year’s Superbowl from The Netherlands (Go SBS6 Go!!!) and I was absolutely floored by one aspect of the broadcast. I guess I’m just American enough to associate major sporting events with corporate sponsorship, but I expected at least the international companies to get their spots broadcast overseas. But it wasn’t just that they didn’t show the newest million dollar Budweiser, Pepsi, and ING ads, but there was an absolute lack of commercial breaks.

Maybe that was hard to wrap your goal-oriented, corporatized, privatized, economized, ‘truth, justice and the American way’ tainted brains around so I will repeat– an absolute lack of commercial breaks. Instead, changes of possession and time outs were marked by interesting camera angles on the field, interviews with players, even introspectives on the Amsterdam Admirals and other European football teams. Maybe you’d call it stupid or naïve to ignore the obvious opportunity to offer thirty second spots for obscene amounts of money to sell more Crest White Strips and mutual fund opportunities that the Dutch neither want nor need, but I for one applauded the decision. For once, one network, in one nation, decided to focus on what was important—the game (remember the game? The shots of large men shifting around in-between Doritos spots? Yeah, that game.)

If nothing else it was refreshing to see a society with its head not quite so far up the dress of opportunity, its mirror-paneled shoes struggling to catch a glimpse of that sweet slit of profit. Granted, the Dutch don’t ordinarily give a shit about American sporting events, but enough so in this case that it was broadcast live on a major network. (FOX and NBC don’t cover Six Nations Rugby or Hurling, do they?)

Maybe it’s for the best though that no money changed hands in exchange for Gatorade ads because from what I understand it was a rather unexciting Super Bowl. I wouldn’t exactly know— the sign on the wall said “TV must be turned off at 1:00” and indeed it was, by a switch locked in a box somewhere behind a counter that no one had access to. I did see the first field goal, but in true showboating fashion the first 40 minutes of Super Bowl XL was consumed with spectacle and bullshit and Aaron Neville singing bad renditions of songs that stopped mattering years ago. Juxtaposed with no commercial breaks, it was just enough to seem really out of place and gaudy.

“What IS this shit?” One Danish girl asked me in perfect English.

“That’s the sweet stench of American excess, coming soon to a town near you.” I replied. She just sneered at me, snagging her box of Pall Mall’s and exiting the room. I guess sarcasm is the one true universal language.

Promoting love and tolerance (and corporate sponsorship) wherever and however I can (BUY A LEXUS, BITCHES!!!),

Adam

There is naïveté in everything we do in this life. As simple beings there are endless obstacles that block our path to enlightenment—trust or mistrust, good or bad memories, false hope, apathy, faith, fear. We prepare for nothing new, content to deconstruct and rehash the old under sad auspices of curiosity and perfectionism. These are the drives that make us crazy— that keep us on long, lonely drives in the middle of the night while rain assaults the windshield. One day I woke up and realized I had become attuned to psychiatrists who refuse to stop their own bad habits– empathetic, but only as empathetic as you would imagine a person to be when they don’t give a shit. I dug for so long that my hands hurt, constantly being dragged down by spite, malice, and sloth. Growing wings was a saving grace. The hole is shallower today, but a hole nonetheless.

So why was I fool enough to I think it was a good idea to start anew with something old? Why is everyone getting married or burying their hurt, pretending need away because change is harder than sleeping pills, sex, or ice cream? How did “can’t wait to see you” become “can’t see you” and “miss you” become “sorry I missed you”? Why am I going to lunch with long-distance lovers I’ll never have at arms length and coffee shops with women whose break-up etiquette is more atrocious than the Enola Gay’s? Why do I hide all day, ducking an intensity that pelts with me rocks whether I ignore or confront it? We misplace our anger and throw malfeasance at certain accents, certain archetypes, certain symbols of our own decay. We fear loss and danger and confusion. We speak of a need for clarity and truth without a desire for honesty. Truth is nothing but an affirmation of what we already know, and meanwhile days are collapsing into desktops and pillowcases. Meanwhile our chances are dissolving in the rain and we resign ourselves to wealthy architects, meaningless sex or bitter silence because love is the new four letter word— the emotional slur that keeps us disconnected and sitting on the feet of women we could have married if we weren’t raised to believe that everything in this world is for sale—even foresight.

We shouldn’t feel this way in the presence of so-called loved ones, constantly denigrated and exasperated, resentful to the point where our forks shake and our daughters hide in the church cellar because even animals know that doorways are safer than windowsills when the hurricane comes. This is the reality we flee for a few weeks at a time to tiny, faraway towns where our days are absorbed in contemplation and disbelief that it’s so much simpler to be on the road, not writing make up poems for missed birthdays, not straining silences where words existed 8,000 miles before. In a sign of our perpetual naïveté we actually believed that everything would be better when we returned, too sedated to see that ‘better’ comes from inside, if it comes at all, and until the entire city disperses for a season or two, the maelstrom will remain. You get better at ducking, but you never escape.

I love you all but you’re fucking insane, and you make me insane too.

Adam

Thanks to the DigitalBicycle there are some high quality, full-length films available for download via bittorrent:

The Long Brown Coat.torrent

Gasoline.torrent

It was something I could only express with my eyes and posture– this inimitable yearning, the indecipherable need to walk foreign avenues alone. The white panel van in front of me featured a waving American flag and the words ‘Love It Or Leave’ emblazoned on the side, and for as cavalier and ridiculous as that sentiment remains, there is an element of truth there. (my car only featured a crude linedrawing of Bush playing the fiddle and the phrase ‘Rome Is Burning– What Are You Going To Do About It?’)

Over the past few months I’ve seen the faces under fluorsecent lights– harsh and unflattering. I’ve lost my patience, my temper, my resolve. I’ve become restless in this situtation, cynical about my nation, resentful of family and friends, bitter about my relationships– the feeling of falling further out of touch with everything I knew I was. I became short with my friends, mute with my parents, ignorant of my siblings, resentful of the women I loved and spiteful towards those who loved me.

I haven’t slept at all this November.

I finish almost nothing that I start.

Just being in that country with those people; with the pianos and computers, video games and parties, the exhausting routine of regularity, and the volume of my own thoughts kept my hands hanging slack at my sides, powerless. I couldn’t breathe. Physically, morally, emotionally, artistically and spiritually I was dying, and only my eyes and posture betrayed that fact.

I have brought ghosts with me that I will leave all over this god damn continent.

The difference was not anyone but me. I have become too complacent and comfortable in my idiotic routines. This has been a process a long time coming and true to form, I was ready to leave long before I did. Having simply completed the task of coming here, I feel better already.

I believe we don’t do nearly enough things that frighten us.

Ask yourself: when was the last time you were truly terrified?

I know the answer to that question, and the last thing to terrify me was the prospect of being alone. But once again marvelous distraction and apathy swept much of that fear away in time, robbing me of the lesson.

I’m learning it again here– learning that it truly is what you make of it.
I’m talking with strangers.
I’m drinking coffee.
I’m dealing with the cold and making up for lost time.

I’m terrified and I love it.

Adam

So… it would appear that everyone has stopped reading or just stopped bothering to comment. It’s puzzling, but maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I’m getting too personal with my pieces, telling stories in poetry and prose that don’t elicit a response. Or maybe the editorial style has gotten old and no one cares anymore. I hear of more and more people who read the occasional piece, yet the comment boards remain blank. So I think I’ll change gears a little and talk politics—nothing too serious, just some thoughts I have this morning while reading up on Scooter Libby’s resignation. Hopefully, someone out there will react and we can kick start some sort of god damn discourse around here. This site could be so much more than me shouting into the anus of cyberspace wondering if anyone is still listening.

It’s not a pretty day to be a Republican. What was hailed as a golden age of conservative ideology after 8 years of redneck sex-fiend rule has recently become a quagmire of scandal, partisanship and confusion. In just the past couple weeks we’ve seen Cheney’s top aide resign over the CIA leak investigation, Bush’s handpicked out-of-left-field Supreme Court nominee withdraw suddenly, the House Majority Leader step down, at least temporarily, to battle money laundering and conspiracy charges, and more possible indictments on the horizon as puppet master Karl Rove faces increasing scrutiny from all sectors. Bush’s biggest domestic platform—social security reform—has gone nowhere fast and his cornerstone foreign platform— the war on terror— is just as vague and impossible to win as ever. And though it means nothing for him personally as a second-term president, Bush’s plummeting approval rating is indicative of America’s general attitude towards their leadership. When even the most virulent conservative congressmen begin distancing themselves from the President and demanding an exit-strategy from Iraq, it’s obvious the afterglow of re-election has faded. I’ll bet the tension is palpable in those White House briefing rooms each morning when the Joint Chiefs gather to discuss the PR Nightmare-Of-The-Day that resident douche bag Scott McClellan will spend the morning telling the Associated Press is not really that big of a deal. I wonder—does he even believe it anymore? Is he a paid actor, knowing full well that Miers’ withdrawal WILL hurt the President and Libby’s indictment WILL have a serious affect on America’s perception of this administration? Or is he a party-line yes-man, blind to a fault, truly believing that everything is ship shape in the oval office?

Meanwhile, Iraq is the same bombed-out WMD-less sharply divided crater of a nation-state that it was this time last year, but the body count on both sides still creeps steadily. Of course, 2,000 dead is a ridiculously arbitrary milestone, but could it have come at worse time for this administration? At the same time, Iran can shoot of its mouth with impunity and continue developing nuclear technology knowing full well America can’t do shit because Bush used up our faith, patience and war chest leveling a country that didn’t have nuclear, biological or chemical weapons in the first place. The whole situation is just fucked up enough to make you wonder ‘is there any possible way for this to end well?’ The truly frightening part is comparing speeches about ‘the march of democracy’ and ‘perseverance in the face of adversity’ to speeches given by politicians in the Vietnam era to justify the endless body bags of that particular struggle. I don’t make that comparison lightly, but if you took a few speeches from 1969 and inserted ‘Iraq’, ‘Al Qaeda’ and ‘terrorists’ in the appropriate places, you’d have Bush’s speeches for the next month written.

It’s no secret that I’m not a fan of this entire administration, especially Bush, but I gotta be honest: I feel bad for the mother fucker! What should have been smooth sailing with the strong Republican majority in every branch of government has quickly turned into a shit storm of scandal and allegations. The real question is: how will all of this affect the conservative majority in ’06? Don’t forget folks, we’ve got mid-term elections coming up in one year and unless Bush can pull Osama Bin Laden out his warmongering top hat, I’m predicting a thorough trouncing for the religious right come this time next year.

I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

Adam

I think it’s time to send a clear and resounding message to the elite armed forces of the good ol’ US of A. This applies mainly to Marines in my experience, though I doubt any branch of the military is exempt from this charge, that being: you’re fucking up. I’m not referring to anything you are doing abroad—I could give a fuck about your conduct overseas— and I’m not worried (for the moment) whether your continued presence in the planet’s biggest sandbox is right or wrong. No, I’m referring to the way you treat the women you leave at home.

I feel I need to tackle this subject in the context of something that happened recently—a girl that I’d known for some time called me out of the blue one night, obviously drunk, telling me all about her new Marine boyfriend and how happy she was. To be fair, I was probably drunk too, but I had the foresight to tell her how great that was, that I was really glad for her, and that we should have lunch sometime— lies and more lies, of course, but I know how these things go and knew exactly what to say. About two weeks later I got the text message—my asshole boyfriend and I broke up… (insert sad face). I rolled my eyes and wrote back ‘sorry… what are you doing?’ and she immediately responded with ‘getting drunk at my friends house… you should come over!’ Being that it was 1 in the AM and I had just poured a beautiful glass of whiskey on the rocks I politely declined, until she called and begged me to come see her. I mentally juggled the options, attempting to rank my addictions in some way meaningful enough to choose between the alcohol and the girl. The compromise was simple: go to the party, take care of business, and hopefully be back before the ice in my drink completely melted. Besides, I rationalized, if she’s getting drunk at a friends house there should be plenty of alcohol there.

I should have thought harder about that second thing. My mistake was not remembering who her friends were—a white trash cluster-fuck of underage girls, each with their own military boyfriend. A good rule of thumb: you know you’re at a party with military fucks and underage girls when the only alcohol in sight is Coors Light. For Christ’s sake, even rednecks know better than to touch that shit—at least they drink Bud. Now I may be a thrifty drunk and a downright whore to alcohol on occasion, but NEVER have I been so desperate to get drunk that I was willing to guzzle a dozen aluminum cans full of Rocky Mountain Moose Piss. But I digress—

I was greeted at the door by a very tall and naked man with his bottomless girlfriend in tow, parading around a living room lit only by a black light, shitty techno pumping out the speakers. I found my ‘friend’— who was far more sober than I had been promised, by the way— and we retreated to a quiet room where she relayed the details of the breakup, me hardly listening and not really caring, knowing the plot but not the script. I’ve heard the story a dozen times and it’s always the same— alluring at first because of his uniform and cocky attitude, before long he became overbearing and selfish, controlling and manipulative and after a few weeks of constant fighting he found an easier target and moved on. An argument could be made that it’s an important aspect of male military culture; those feelings of misogyny and superiority, the emotional detachment and almost complete disregard for the psychological well-being of female companions. Maybe the military is like the Dark Ages-era Catholic Church, preaching that fealty to a woman brings you away from your true human purpose (obedience to God or Donald Rumsfeld) and relationships should strictly be sexual within arbitrarily appropriate parameters. After all, effective killing machines aren’t generally in touch with their emotions.

If such is the case, then so be it. Or if you actually care and it’s just general malaise that keeps you so despondent, maybe you should take heed because when you treat your ladies like shit it only makes it easier for guys like me to bang them with my tongue. Either directly after the breakup or while you are overseas, ‘consoling’ your lovely (or not so lovely) young ladies is an all too easy pursuit. You should really do better by them considering that, despite all logic and reason, they’ve accepted the mantle of kicking around their hometowns, uneducated, working minimum wage jobs, just waiting desperately for you to return, fuck them, and leave them with a child while your military command sends you somewhere else you couldn’t find on a map to kill people you’ve never heard of. I’m sure the idea of a free, warm piece when you get back home is comforting, plus sharing pictures and dirty stories with your fellow Marines probably passes for entertainment in the desert. The bottom line is this: if you don’t want guys like me manipulating girls like that into a quick blowjob on the bathroom floor and a hearty laugh at your expense: be a little fucking nicer, please!

That being said, nothing really happened on this occasion. We awkwardly made out for a few minutes before she asked a very strange question considering how far we hadn’t gone and how bored I was— “did you bring a condom?”. I off-handedly said no, and then she got angry. “What? The fuck is wrong with you? Why wouldn’t you bring a fucking condom?” It was at this point I had to burst her bubble by laughing in her face and saying ‘you actually thought I was going to fuck you?’ The look in her eyes was a priceless mix of confusion and anger as she pushed me away and disappeared into the bathroom. Say what you will about me (everyone else has) but when it comes to coitus I’m pretty choosy— no way in hell was I going to dip my stick in the well of a recently broken up military wench. I would have let her give me head, of course, but realizing that wasn’t going to happen I packed up my shit and left— but not before spitting in the pockets of her coat.

Okay, maybe I’m just as big a fucking asshole as all you jarheads playing grab-ass in the desert, but I’ve got the endless supply of girls on my side of the ocean.

Enjoying the freedoms I’m told you’re fighting to defend,

Adam

P.S. Go see Jarhead, in theaters November 4th or better yet, read the fucking book.

We’ve established that prostitution is an immutable part of human society and will exist regardless of the social atmosphere, but let’s face it: whores don’t hold public office. Whores don’t (typically) have the knowledge to do much more than whore around, and no matter how good they are at that, should their computers break or taxes need filing or they need creative ways to expand their enterprises, they’re (metaphorically) screwed. Nay, though prostitutes are destined to reap the benefits of inevitable social change, they will not lead that brave new world. Nor will career politicians, religious leaders, car salesmen, cowboys, hired goons, poets, pirates, movie stars, musicians or hack internet writers. Not the biggest or strongest, most eloquent or attractive, but this guy–

Read the rest of this post…

Drowsy morning invades our narrow apartment, the pop song on the radio an alarming reminder that this generation has no voice. All I know is that winter is fast approaching and we can’t have sex here— better move south and hope for warmer days. The weather gets me down some, as does traffic and the continuity of message; tenement classrooms and medication; draft riots and the implications of arms outstretched. We could head east and visit Mecca, or farther to New York and hear Billy Collins shred our expectations with a furtive glance sideways. We could wander wide avenues looking for lost royalty amongst the street urchins, these vapor trails of acceptance the lascivious reminder of avenues abandoned, but the permanency of constant movement frightens you and I know it’s time to leave—the Queen waits for nothing, and I, it seems, do nothing but wait. The ocean could be my home, or the mossy coast of another continent; lakes and mountain monasteries, towers and graveyards, dry desserts; restless steppes and more immutable water, but the islands in my eyes recede as quickly as they crept from the ocean floor and suddenly we’re back at the death of endeavor, fitting stone together with no mortar, floating face down in the bay or losing ourselves inside the moon on a long drive, praying for a nice clean cut. From this window I envision the Bay eating the coast just as fog eats the city just as I starve in pious silence from the center of a record store in the intestine of history; tied to the umbilical cord of libidinous memory wishing Dylan had never gotten so young or that John Calvin had been drowned as a child. The skulking specters of rage I once imagined have been replaced by gentler images: vandalized bathrooms, uneven streets, oddly smiling faces, smells that make you remember, pills that make you forget. Dreams become diminished— downgraded then finally abandoned with the ease of disillusionment. Example: I could see myself twelve beers down doing dirty things to Alli, but it’s enough that she kissed me once, out in the street under that same stale moon, which reminds me that I need to write a letter to Giada asking why she wants me to want her but can’t manage to summon up a similar feeling. There are far too many things to accomplish before we die and she was right all along to think solely of the memories, consciously preparing for that inevitable moment when only memory remains. The birds are waking up all over the world and traffic is calling out in its grinding lilt, so we take our medicine like children that never knew better and spill out into the world, steeled to the limitless possibilities of being. When we meet the Queen our heads will be clear, and Ginsberg will be on the tip of our hearts.

Adam

It starts with blurs and shifting lights—sounds that invade until your stomach rolls and you awake in a panic, mind spinning with confusion and fear as you slowly reach consciousness and the hammer blows of pain strike at your temples, exerting enough pressure just behind your eyes to force them closed. ‘Oh god’ your mind repeats over and over as you force yourself to once more open your eyes. Flashes of sickening white heat; pianos and posters blur lazily in front of dilated pupils. It’s about then the adrenaline hits long enough to take stock of the situation.

It’s day— the light creeping through venetian blinds is evidence of that—but the hour is a mystery. Mentally you go through the familiar list. Hands and feet? Check. Fingers and toes? Check. All your piercings? Check. Are you in a familiar place? Yes. Are you in imminent danger? No. The questions come one by one in the singularity of established routine, forcing themselves through ruptured neural pathways until the question that hangs awkwardly, coming only at deliberate length with the quiet shame of a guilty child.

…What happened?

That answer is easy to construct, or at least the outline: you were drunk. Not a happy social drunk with light-hearted banter and flirting, nor a wild party drunk that found you dancing on tables or shacking up in a closet with a psychotic admirer. No, this was the blackout kind of drunk— the insidiously dark drunk that smashes your resolve and your sanity, leaving you bed-ridden for 2 days, waking only to lay on the shower floor and vomit into the drain, shitting stomach acid and loose bits of intestinal walls burned off by cheap vodka and bile— the kind of drunk that blanks your memory and you awake the next morning to find your vomit-drenched clothes laying on the floor and an unconscious woman across the bed. As she stirs you grimace and think hard, trying to reconstruct the kaleidoscope images of the evening previous. The memories permeate and you begin to recall basic events, though fuzzy and unreliable, appearing to you through the thick gauze of indirect recollection. You remember her coming over. You remember drinks with co-workers. You remember the two forties of Country Club afterward. You remember the grocery store and the bottle of generic vodka. You remember taking shots from a baby food jar and suddenly your brain hits that fourth wall and you simply can’t remember any more.

‘Are you asleep?’ she asks, bringing you around to meet a pair of piercing blue eyes. For all your confusion and pain she looks absolutely beautiful in the honesty of late-morning light as you force a weak smile and make small talk. She asks if you remember shooting pool, going outside, getting punched in the stomach, falling down in the hallway. You answer ‘no’ over and over, searching for the knowledge, wanting it to exist somewhere, but wretched weakness has robbed you once again as you struggle to dredge up those memories– mind bursting with unrelated vignettes; pictures of a world you created but can’t seem to recall. The force of confusion and anger begins to build up inside, layered like carpet squares, until your mind reels and the nausea sets in. You claim a need to urinate and escape to the bathroom where you slump against the wall sullenly and try to slow the beating of your heart, wondering if she can tell. A classic trait of any alcoholic: the overwhelming need to pretend it’s not a problem; that you’re not so sick, that it wasn’t too much, that it’s okay. You laugh it off each and every time but in a very real way you understand it’s not okay as you choke back a wave of nausea, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. You try drinking water from the faucet but bile immediately fills your mouth and you spit violently, sliding back against the wall, turning off the light to make the spinning stop. Too dehydrated to sweat, you lay briefly on cool tile, building up the courage to reenter that bedroom and lay down beside her.

From the floor the badness comes. Not the physical damage, but the emotional toll such episodes inevitably take— the shame, the fear, the guilt of knowing that you’re out of control, that you lack the ability to say ‘no’ to the haunting demons of possession that whisper ‘more… more… more!’ as you raise the bottle to your lips once again, drowning your identity, resolve, and self-respect in the process. Long after she’s gone and forgotten, long after the headache subsides and your stomach finally heals from the incessant purging, the shame is still there, burning worse than vodka or cigarette; punching through your abdomen at the thought of everyone you’ve loved or hurt and every evening you’ve lost to this weakness. The shame comes in expanding waves: the fear of facing friends and family knowing that you don’t know what was said or done; wondering who is looking at you sideways and shaking their heads in disapproval; knowing that the encounter was coerced, that she finally gave in because it was easier than saying no for the thousandth time. The shame recedes and builds again for another battering: the guilt of hearing her voice on the phone and knowing that she’s ashamed, worried, concerned, frustrated; knowing they all are; knowing that you know better, but knowing that it’s only a matter of time until it all happens again.

It’s always just a matter of time.

You return to the bedroom one deliberate step at a time, eyeballs twitching from movement on movement on movement until you crumple safely to the bed and begin steeling yourself for the deluge. She speaks again but you’ve stopped listening. Thoughts flit inside your head but you only catch glimpses of content and color—your Uncle’s kitchen floor, a Broken Spindles song, your brothers voice from another room— and you laugh a sad, sickened laugh at the broken shards of promises made and devoured as easily as any bottle of liquor.

Yet you stubbornly make that promise again— silently, as willfully as you can with the full force of sickness, shame and exhaustion bending your desire— and you plunge forward endlessly, keeping this morning enigmatic as a vague reminder of why the future must be different while always looking forward to tomorrow because ‘One Day At A Time’ is the mantra, and one day is always better than zero.

Back on the wagon,

Adam

Working Special Ed. is challenging and exciting—but so is escaping from a hurricane…

Fuck FEMA. Fuck 24/7 television news coverage. Fuck the middle aged-man in his too-small Cub Scout Troop leader shirt and neckerchief who gives me disapproving looks every morning for not dropping money into his ‘Hurricane Katrina Relief Fund’ bucket. I’m not giving a god damn nickel to that relief fund—EVER. Since Tuesday I’ve been helping out in my own ‘special’ way, which is helluva lot more difficult than writing a check, or giving a nation-wide television address to assure everyone that since my vacation is finally over, I can get around to helping too!

I got a new retard.

I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill retard with a couple physical quirks and a large learning disability. I’m talking about a Satan-spawned hellion from the Louisiana bayou, recently displaced and relocated to San Diego thanks to God and the Federal Government’s hatred of the poor. All I can say is— this child is a beast who’s internal switch is set to ‘on’, and apparently she has no other settings. From the second she arrives at school until the second she leaves my day is a non-stop carnival of screams, kicks, temper tantrums and wanton destruction, and thanks to the wonderful phrase ‘least restrictive environment’ I can’t strap her little ass to a chair, insert my trusty ear plugs and wait out 3:30pm. Not that her habit of spitting all over her hands and then rubbing them on everything isn’t just darling, but I think you understand.

To make matters worse, she drives the other children crazy. Okay, crazier. She steals toys, shoves liberally, screams at them in a language no one else on this planet speaks, and sets about disrupting the room in every way imaginable. I know some of you will say ‘that poor thing must be so scared and confused… she’s gone through so much’ but fuck that. I guarantee you she hasn’t even noticed the change in scenery, except for the plethora of shiny new things to destroy.

But here’s the best part: I don’t know what’s wrong with her!!! She came with no paperwork (being that it’s currently under 12 feet of water) and mom seems to be of absolutely no help. So, already understaffed, we have an extra child that requires constant attention and we are in no way equipped to deal with her. To top it all off, the never-ending parade of Program Specialists, Psychologists, Speech Therapists, Autism Specialists, District Administrators, OT’s and PT’s ensures that we get absolutely nothing done each day.

Thank fucking Christ I quit in nine weeks because that first day when the volume was deafening, kids were running amok, and random adults were stepping on our toes to gawk at the newest sideshow attraction, the same thought crossed all of our minds. “They don’t pay me enough to deal with this shit.” But the truth is: if I was just in it for the money I would have sold out and started doing porn a long time ago.

Though I’m not retard-crazy I can’t be totally sane because in spite of everything, I do enjoy my job– but I’m ready as shit for quitting time!!! 263 hours, but who’s counting? Until then, bring on the retards! Or better yet, send a few to Crawford, Texas and let that fucking redneck take a spit-covered finger in the eye…. you know, for America!

Doin’ my part,

Adam