Borrowed Faith

A Short Story by Andrew Sharp

2018-08-03T16:53:00.001-07:00

I have nightmares that I am an infant trapped in a cellophane bread bag, like what Wonder bread comes in. I can’t breath and I am covered in blood. I punch and tear at the cellophane yet I have no strength. The harder I fight the more the cellophane sticks to my face, choking the life out of me.

When I was born my mother threw me in a dumpster like a piece of trash. Someone heard my cries and took me from the garbage to the Star of the Sea orphanage in Seoul South Korea. There I was taken care of by a nurse that 12 years later would tell me this story of my birth, abandonment and growing up in an orphanage.

I always wanted to be held, she said. I always cried and tried to climb out of my crib to be held by the nurse. When Westerners would come and look through the big windows at all the cute and serene babies, all swaddled in white cloths sucking their thumbs and gooing and drooling, there I was crying and trying to climb out of my crib. All those other babies one by one and sometimes by two were adopted and taken to the promise land; America, heaven. With loving parents living happily ever after. I grew up in that orphanage seeing all of them go.

In Korea back in the seventies they had a policy that no child age five or above could be adopted. Instead they would be raised in an orphanage and released at age eighteen. Due to the strict social norms and folkways most orphans releases at age eighteen would find it impossible to gain a job or social stats. Instead most became thieves, criminals, homeless or the majority would commit suicide.

In 1980 my adoptive parents petitioned through the Holt International adoption agency for an infant Korean boy. They had already adopted a two year old Korean girl three years earlier and were delighted with their purchase. Without every seeing their infant merchandise they paid the five thousand dollars, bought two tickets to Seoul and three return flights back to America.

When they arrived in Seoul they were surprised as the infant boy of their dreams was actually a five year old boy. The orphanage said that I was the only kid left on the shelf and if they didn’t take me they would have to return home with no child in hand and out the five thousand dollars plus the airfare. Reluctantly they took their purchase home.

Immediately they were disappointed with their purchase. Not only did the ugly bastard have a huge scar on its face, but it had ear infections, skin problems, allergies and a horrible affliction to crying. It was needy. Clinging and scared to sleep because of nightmares. It was obvious that the orphanage didn’t want to deal with this child’s problems until it turned eighteen. So they duped those Westerners to take their problem off their hands. The orphanage finally had peace and my adoptive parents had their piece.

Since I didn’t speak English my adoptive mother decided the best way to teach me was to beat it into me. Ironic, as she was a special education teacher that helped elementary students learn English in our small country town in central California. She would point or put an object in my face and say slowly and drawn out what it was in English. When I excitedly called out what it was in Hangul (Korean), I would receive a swift slap in the face. Soon the slap became punches and punches into beatings. Then I would be beat with the object as my adoptive mother would scream the name of the item. I think my first words in English were wooden spoon. That was her favorites! She would often take me to the store and have me stand in front of all the spoons and ladles and force me to pick one out. Then once we arrive home she would beat me with them until they broke. I think my first sentence I learned in English was, “I bought you for $5000 dollars you better learn or I will send you back for a refund!”

The best part about being adopted was that I didn’t have much time for nightmares. My adoptive mother would wake me up in the middle of the night to force me to vacuum or clean dishes. Just as I was about to fall asleep she would wake me up for a beating or other times she would just sit on the side of the bed and rub my penis. I liked it when she did that. It helped me fall asleep and I never had nightmares when she did that.

All I ate was pickles. They are salty and cured like Korean kimchi. I would wake up early and go to the refrigerator and just eat the whole jar. I didn’t like all the German food, the goulashes and liver and boiled sausages my adoptive parents ate. Of course they forced me to eat it. Anything I didn’t eat or finishes eating my adoptive mother would save them for me. Even if it was for days. Even if it got mold on it. I would see it on my plate for breakfast, lunch and dinner, until i ate it. Often I would go days without eating. Trying to be defiant. But I had to learn to eat western food. So she taught me. When I was finally starving I would eat the moldy food she left for me and throw up. She made me eat the chunks. Some days I would see the rest of the family eating a fresh new meal while I was sitting on the floor with my plate of old moldy sausage, with chunks of throw up from last night’s dinner. She was so gracious to save it for me. “When you finish that you can eat at the table with us.” I ate on the floor staring at everyone’s legs while their cocker spaniel laid next to me starring. I would try and sneak her food sometimes but even she wouldn’t eat it.

Not everyone got treated like me. My adoptive parents had a biological son that they just loved. He was born with some kind of syndrome and was completely dumb but he was their trophy kid. The first night I came to their home my adoptive dad had gotten me a big wheel. I rode it around the pool table in our family room. My adoptive parents held hands, laughed and after the pictures of their new yellow baby on his first big wheel was done, they left the room. That is when my adoptive brother pounced on me and beat the shit out of me. When he was done I hid under the pool table between two big bean bags and cried. I wished I was back at the orphanage in Korea. Growing up I would take weakly beatings from my adoptive brother. His favorite was to choke me with ropes until I almost passed out and then do it over again. Over and over until his parents came home. He would tell me if I tattled he would kill me. He meant it. As soon as he was gone I would climb under the pool table in between those big bean bags and just cry. After a while I stopped crying and started getting angry. I felt anger and hate was more comforting than crying. I still do today.

When I was around ten my adopted brother was sixteen and having parties at the house. My adoptive parents told him to watch me so he would give me a beer and sit me in front of the television to watch pornography as he partied with his friends. When they would get bored they would come mess with me. Feeding me more beer and making fun of me that I had an erection. They belittled me and told me all Asians had small penises and then have the girls come rub up on me and tease me. Honestly I liked the attention and I loved the taste of beer. I still do. Even when the older guys would come and slap my boner that made a tent in my corduroy pants, I enjoyed that too. I was ten years old. I thought my older brother and is friends was so cool.

One day him and I were in our back yard. He said, “Hey!” and I turned around quickly to see what he wanted. Next thing I knew I was looking at the sky seeing crows fly between our cotton wood trees. He had hit me with a piece of lumber with nails sticking out of the end. I stood up and the lumber hung from my face as a nail held it staples to my skull just above my eye. I asked him why he did that and he calmly said, “I was trying to kill you.

I grabbed the lumber with both my hands and pulled it from my skull. Immediately the blood poured out of my face. It scared me. So much blood. I ran inside the house and to our dining room when my adoptive parents were having a dinner party. Both my parents quickly took my to my room as they quietly argued if I should be taken to the hospital or if it would interrupt their dinner party and make them look bad among their friends. My adoptive father pressed a cloth against my head. He found some butterfly bandages and closed the wound. I was light headed and laid down, quickly falling asleep. They opted not to be embarrassed and left me to sleep bleeding in my bed. I still have that scar today. I look at it every morning I wake up and wonder what love is.

Later that night once all the guest were gone my adoptive mother came in to my room, woke me up and then beat me for a half an hour screaming that I had ruined her prestige and that I had bleed on her dining room carpet. To this day my adoptive parents never asked how it happened.

When I was fifteen my adoptive brother was going to community college and lived about an hour away from our home. My adoptive parents were going on vacation as they always liked to travel. So I stayed with him for a week. I remember it was the same year Sinead O’Conner came out with her hit song, Nothing Compared 2 U. They played it on the radio every fifteen minutes. My adoptive brother took me to a keg party. There were lots of drugs like marijuana and other stuff people were smoking. I just stood around with an empty red plastic cup in my hand trying to act like I wasn’t a freshman in high school at a college party. I remember that Sinead O’Conner song came on the radio and all the guys were like, awe naw! But the girls were like, I love this song. Someone turned up the stereo and it was like I was in a music video on mtv. Half way through the song my brother grabs me and says he need to get more beer for the party. He had to do it because he had a car and was twenty one. Most others were under age or didn’t have a ride. So we went from the back yard through the house and as I opens the front door two men were arguing on the front lawn in front of me. They were between me and my brother’s car so I walk towards them. As I got about ten feet from them the man on the right grabbed something from the other guy’s hands and turned to run. He tried to run. He was in the motion of running, like legs bent, toes digging into the earth and torso leaning forward and down like an Olympic sprinter looks. But he never ran anywhere because the guy on the left pulled out a gun and shot him in the back. I froze. The guy fell and thrashed on the ground. The next thing I remember is being dragged by the back of my shirt to my brother’s car. We drove off. That was the first time I witnessed a drug deal and a person getting shot right in front of me. It wasn’t the last for either.

High School was awkward for me. Not adolescent awkward, but it was the first time I found out I was really Asian or a gook, or a chink or a slant eye. I was basically raised white. White was beat into me and in my head I actually thought I was. But high school changed all that for me. Everyone had to let me know my place, how bad I drove, how small my penis was, how I can only see in wide screed.... I used to look at all the white people and envy them. I still do. I still wish I was white. Everything is catered to them. Our vocabulary, our social labeling. If you say let’s get some food it is automatically white food everyone is referencing and understanding. Hamburgers and hot dogs. If you want to get tacos with your buddies you have to say you want Mexican food or if you want noodles you have to say you want to eat at the place where they serve cats and dogs. Laughs. You know the Chinese place? Even if it is Filipino food you say Chinese food or if it is Japanese you say Chinese food or if it is Korean... well there were no Korean restaurants in small town Amerikkka back in 1990. Or if you say I got a car. People will ask if it is a Ford, Dodge or Chevy. Tell ‘em it’s a Honda and they are like, oh you bought a rice burner, a rice rocket, a jap-mobile... Buy made in the USA you fucking trader! ‘Murcia!

My high school friends dad’s didn’t allow gooks over because they or their grandfather had killed ‘em back in the Korean War and they might get a flash back. Even though historically we were fighting the Chinese and defending the Koreans. But we all look alike. Same same.

“You gooks would’t even be alive if it wasn’t for your god and savior Douglas McCarthur! We should have just bombed you all like we the Japs!”

Being one of three Koreans in the entire city, county and maybe the entire San Joaquin Valley is a hard row to hoe. And everybody has to remind you about it, everyday.

Growing up a Banana is hard. White on the inside and yellow on the outside. Although getting girls was easy in high school. They just wanted to piss of their dads or do something “different” or just be able to justify their racism by saying they had at least dated an Asian guy once. This was before dating black guys was cool. White girls only went a half shade toward the minority section in the early nineties. Not like now where it is the standard. You know, brand name purse, small tea cup dog and a black guy with a huge cock you have to just tell all your friends about.

But of course none of the white girls I ever dated in high school ever wanted to touch me or make out. They just wanted the status and title, they didn’t want to get jaundice on them.

It was nice having girlfriends and just friends because I would sleep at their house, since I stopped really living with my adoptive parents. The first time I ran away I was thirteen. Of course my adoptive mother called the cops and they found me a few blocks away, hiding half-ass in a slew. And of course I caught a beating. They were standard issue by then. I didn’t even care. While getting beat my adoptive mother asked where I would go? No one wanted me. No one loved me. No one cared. I screamed out to her that I was going to run away and join the Marines!

At the time I didn’t know why I screamed out I wanted to be a Marine. But looking back at it, it is because deep down I really loved my adoptive father growing up. He took me fishing. It was quiet and peaceful and mom wasn’t around when we fished. I caught fish instead of catching beatings. He spoke gentle to me. He would come in my room when he was told by my adoptive mom to give me a beating and he would just sit there in my room and be still. I could hear everything they said in the kitchen because the air and heat duct in my room connected directly to the kitchen. I would hear her yelling at him and scold him. And he would just come in my room and sit there while I laid in bed expecting him to beat me. He never did. I suppose I still love him now but I have so much resentment that he never did anything about my adoptive mom beating me, torturing me. I just wish that he would have stood up to her one time and said that’s enough. He never did.

What he did do was watch a lot of TV. Man it was good stuff. Law and Order, China Beach, Tour of Duty. Man I loved climbing up on his big Lazy Boy chair and staying up late and watching old war movies. We even watched the movie Platoon together. He would just lay there all reclined and I would curl up like a cat by his side. I could hear his heart beat, faster when the show would climax and slower during the boring old commercials. I even remember him shedding a tear once or twice watching those old war movies. He was a navy man for four years. His father believed every man should serve their country. I agreed but he wanted me to go to college and be a math teacher like he was. But I just wanted to be like the guys in those shows that made my dad so proud. I still do.

So there I am, thirteen getting a beating from my adoptive mother and I scream out that was going to run away and join the Marines! The next day she drove me to the Marines to embarrass and punish me. I went in and those men of men towered above me. Giants in blue and red. A rainbow of ribbons and thick bold chevrons. I was in awe.

My amazement was quickly ended as my mother pushed me in the door and told the Recruiters to straighten me out. I went in the back room with someone that was obviously the boss and told him I wanted to run away and be a Marine, like Jack Lucas! Of course he asked why and I told him that my mom beats me all the time. I cried. Right there in front of the most masculine person I had ever met up to that point in my life, I cried. I cried like the helpless child I was. He just sat there and let me cry myself out. Stone faced. Never even moved from behind his desk. When he saw I was done he told me to stay in school, stay out of trouble and when I turned eighteen and graduated high school I could come back and see if I had what it takes to be a Marine. Even at age thirteen I was surprised he only said I could see if I had what it takes. Like I wasn’t good enough. Like I had to earn it.

A few weeks later I got a letter in the mail from the Commanding Officer of the Recruiting Station. It had an official letter head and a blue seal of the Marine Corps emblem embossed on it. It said they were happy to hear I was interested but since I was thirteen I had to wait. It also reminded me that I had to do good in school, stay out of trouble and earn the title. Enclosed was and iron on emblem of the Marine Corps eagle, globe and anchor. I immediately ironed it on the pocket of a white shirt I had. I wore that shirt all summer. I wore it so much the iron on faded and flaked away leaving just a shadow and a few bits of black. But I still wore that shirt.

I don’t have that shirt anymore. But the letter that was sent to me hung in my office when I became a Marine and eventually a Recruiter of Marines. I would read it every morning and think of how it changed my life and how I owed that back to every kid that had the nerve to talk to me about earning the title Marine. After retiring from the Marines I still have that letter framed.

So my adoptive mother came up with new thing to do to me. Eat bars of soap, pour Joy soap in my mouth and make me puke up my food in a bucket to punish me. Her beatings became more and more violent. Once we were in the car and she held down the lock button down with on hand while she cut into my face and arms with her nails she had filed like razors. I was bleeding from the face, neck, arms and body. I still have scars on my arms and marks on my face from her. The more bad days she had the more aggressive and cruel her tourture became. She taught me how to look both ways my wrapping my entire body in ace bandages so tight it cut of my circulation. From head to toe I was wrapped in heavy bandages for days. She even got a cane and said she was going to wheel chair me to my friend’s birthday party just to teach me how it feels if I don’t look both was before crossing a street. Now I look both ways twice before crossing any street.

For one birthday I got sick and she said she wouldn’t cancel the party so I had to watch through the living room picture window as my friends busted my piñata, ate my birthday cake and opened my presents. When they all left she beat me so badly I had to go to the hospital telling me I ruing the party she had planned for me.

My adoptive mother was skilled at verbal abuse. She often told me I was bought for $5000 and I had to earn it back by cleaning. On Christmas Eve she made me rake the leave in the dark while they sipped coco and opened presents. For Christmas that year I got luggage because she told me she wanted me to move out. Another Christmas she wrapped up a computer box and stuffed it with old clothes. When I tore open the paper I was so excited to get a computer! When I opened the box to find old, dirty clothes she laughed at me and called me stupid. I got beat and spent the rest of Christmas Day locked in my closet.

I could go on and on but the last time she hit me I was thirteen, almost fourteen. She was yelling at me and I knew an epic beating was coming on. I think I had my old white shirt with the faded Marine emblem on it from the previous summer. But she called me a son of a bitch and I said, “you know what Carolyn? You are right. I am your son and you are a fucking bitch.”

I stood there like a man and took all that she had. I didn’t budge. I was stone faced and still just like that Marine behind the desk. When she realized I wasn’t going to cry or scream from the beating, she went to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a heavy wooden rolling pin. I yelled, “STOP!!!” I told her that if she ever touches me again I would fucking kill here. She froze. She knew I would. She never touched me again.

I had never called her by her first name before then, and I had never spoken back. She stood there frozen in rage. I walked out the door and stayed the night at my friends house. For three weeks I was gone. She didn’t call the cops. I bounced from friend to friend. Sometimes I slept at the park or hung out at the donut shop or bowling alley until they would kick me out. When I returned home she never said anything. I would come and go as I please. Sometimes I would go to school and they would lock me out of the house and I would just spend a couple days at my friends house and then come back. They never said anything. But it was the last time my adoptive mother ever laid a finger on me.

So being Korean and part time homeless was hard on me in high school. I never had money for food or lunches because my adoptive mother would play shit games with me since she couldn’t beat me. But none of my friends really knew and if they did they really care about it much. They had their own problems. We all had problems growing up. But I never let if affect my grades. Straight A’s in high school, 4.2 GPA with all honors classes.

Education wasn’t a problem for me. In fact I was a genius or a savant. I was a actually a really good kid. Really good until my parents found beer cans and cigarette butts floating in their jacuzzi. Of course it was my adoptive brother’s leftovers for one of his parties. He blamed it on my and they flipped. She had me drug tested and went through all my stuff looking for contraband. They found some weight lifting supplements I was using and they had the college lab test it for drugs. They even had this correctional officer come and hand cuff me and try to scare me straight. I laughed at him and called him a pussy. He was. He wasn’t even a real corrections officer. He was like an admin clerk or some slack desk job for wash outs.

I have this stupid habit that if I get punished for something then I figure, if I did the time I might as well do the crime.

So once things calmed down I threw my own party at the house. Had some friends over and we got a bottle of Bacardi Light from the parent’s liquor cabinet. We passed it around and then they dared me to chug the bottle which was about half full. I did. I told them I didn’t feel anything and then went to stand up. I blacked out for about two hours. When I woke up I had a lighter in my hand and was flicking it on and watching the flame. My head kept bobbing toward the flame as I sat on the floor, my back against the couch. I just bobbed my head and flicking the lighter. Then I blacked out again.

When I woke up the next morning all my friends were gone and my forehead hurt bad. Not like hung over, headache bad, but like burning bad. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I had burned a happy face from the light on my forehead. At some point my head bobbed down and pressed against the lighter leaving a perfect happy face on the center of my forehead.

That was a weird time explaining that. I just told everyone I did it on purpose. Then all my friends started heating up lighters and burning happy faces on their shoulder or arms. That’s when I started biting myself. Pushing racks into my thighs. And eventually cutting. Sometimes I still do. The pain makes me feel alive instead of wanting to be dead all the time.

Since that day, I was probably fifteen I have drank almost daily. The longest I have been sober since then is 92 Days. When I went to recruit training for the Marines. Since recruit training I have drank every day possible. It stops the voices in my head that tell me I’m not good enough. It stops the memories of my childhood. I stood the pain.

I used to blame my brother for my drinking and being an alcoholic. Feeding me beers as a kid and then blaming me for his party trash left in the jacuzzi. But at some point in my life I have come to realize that it is all my fault. The abandonment, the adoption, the abuse, the alcohol, the drugs, the dropping out of college. Not my fault like, hey everyone feel sorry for me, but like i wasn’t good enough or strong enough to stop it.

That is the only way I can rationalize my biological parents leaving me. I wasn’t good enough to be loved. If I had just been better. Stronger. Not such a piece of shit.

Everyday of my life I hear people and advertisements about moms. And everyday I am reminded I was never good enough to have a mother.

Everyday I hear or see jokes about being adopted. And everyday I am reminded that I am the butt of every joke.

Everyday I hear or see how Asians are belittled and ridiculed. And everyday I am reminded I am not good enough to be white.

I am a social failure. I was born that way. But you would think after time it would hurt less. I would get numb to it all. But everyday hurts just like the first day I was born. Just like the first day I was abandoned. The first day I wasn’t good enough.

I have the same dream every night as an adult. I am standing in line for heaven. And in front of the pearly gates is a pit. And in that pit is hell. And hell is where you have to face your greatest fear. Only one person can be in hell at a time but someone always has to be in there. So each person in line moves past the pit, leaving one person, Jesus, in hell, while everyone enters heaven. And then I say, “Why doesn’t everyone take their turn in hell, face their fear and then be replaced by the next person? Then we would all earn our place in heaven by facing our greatest fear! And God smiles on me. Jesus smiles on me. And all the people in line nod and agree. They cheer for me and so each man takes a place in Hell. Face their fear and thanks me for my revelation as they move into eternal salvation and glory. Then it is my turn and I look back at the person behind me and they smile, nod, put a hand on my shoulder and say it is all okay. They will replace me.

I jump into the pit and nothing happens. There is no pain. No fire or burning. Nothing happens for a long time. And then I look up and I see the silhouettes of people looking down on me. As I look closer and pull them into focus I see my biological parents, my adoptive family, my own family, everyone I ever loved and Jesus. Jesus and God. And they all look down and laugh at me. They laugh hard and long and then move on to heaven. And there I am forever alone in the pit of emptiness. Looking up. No one is there. They have all gone. They have all abandoned me.

This is the end

2017-11-02T18:11:00.000-07:00

My website is no longer listed. I didn't renew it. I don't exist on the internet. I am so okay with that.

When I hear love songs I think of death. I love the solitude. The not knowing. The nothingness.

I was born a mistake. My parents didn't want me. Threw me away. You don't know what it is like looking in to the faces of strangers. Wondering if they are your mom or dad. Brother or sister. Maybe someone that might know them.

I grew up an orphan till i was five. orphan.

I think of every love song being about my parents.

I hate living. I can't wait to die.

I'm so fucking worthless. A nothing. An afterbirth that lived.

Every moment of my life is pain. I can't shut down my mind. my thoughts.

They are so mad at me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Being Adopted

2017-04-06T20:54:00.000-07:00

Hey mom. wish you were here. I am lost. alone. afraid.

Hey dad. I want to be like you but I don't even know you.

My skin is cold. I would miss the warmth of your touch but then again I don't know what it even feels like. I would miss your voice but I don't know what it sounds like. When I close my eyes and try and imagine what you look like, I can't. Nothing comes to mind. Emptiness. blank. just like me. I would give up the rest of my life to know you for just one day. I would give up heaven to just know why.

doesn't matter. nothing does. i should just get over it.

So I am doing well in life. yet none of that matters. you will never know.

do you every think about me?

If there is a heaven and we are going to meet there I hope I am sent to hell and you never get to see me. You get to spend eternity wondering why I would give up the opportunity to meet you. be with you. I hope that you are so fucking depressed that you fucking think of dying in heaven every fucking day. That you search the stars for me but never find me. I hope you rot with sorrow. drown in loneliness and spend sleepless nights in futile dreams searching for my face. I want you to know what it feels like to be abandoned. I want you to feel empty with all that heaven around you. I want you to suffer. forever.

but I am weak. I will probably forgive you after I die. but what good does any of that do.

when i look at the clouds I think of you. when I see the ocean I think of you. when i breathe in air I think of you. when i take a shit i think of you. when i live i think of you.

have you ever had a thought of me?

god i wish you were here so I could drop kick you if your fucking mouth. rip out your organs with my bare hands. fucking murder you countless times a second.

and then just ask if I could come home.

mom. I am cold.
dad. I am alone.

can I come home? Please let me come home.

please.

THE CURE

2017-04-06T20:35:00.000-07:00

If I just say I am okay, if I say everything is fine and walk around with a half hearted smile on my face than people will leave me alone. They don't treat me like I am a disease. My wife is happy. My children laugh and play.

If I just pretend to be okay then they won't commit me. They won't ignore me. They won't try and send me away.

But if they only knew how I really feel. How the depression is eating me up inside. How everyday I just want to die.

No one wants to hear that. No one likes the truth.

Fact is I am buried deep inside myself. Further into the abyss.

It isn't that I don't want to be happy. It isn't that I don't want to be okay.

It is that I am not.

I hurt all the time.

People just get tired of me being me. So I have to be what they want me to be.

CHAPTER 219: Bicycle Built For Two

2017-02-24T20:11:00.001-08:00

If you just tell everyone that you are okay they will leave you alone.

The real cause of my loneliness is that I have no one that shares a common interest with me in talent, hobbies or athletics. No one that is adventurous. No one that wants to conquer the valleys and climb to the top of the mountain. Just because it is there.

Fact is people only care about their stupid phones and social media.

And without anyone to share a common interest with, there is no meaning in anything I do.

What is the point of painting a picture if no one cares to see it?

What is the point of creating music if no one cares to listen to it?

I want someone that rides bicycles with me.

No one I love rides a bicycle.

This is what makes me feel alone.

CHAPTER 218: Phone Calls

2017-02-21T12:36:00.002-08:00

Today I was so desperate I called the VA suicide hotline.

I received an automated message:

We are sorry but all representatives are busy at this time. Please leave your phone number and someone will get back to you as soon as possible. Or dial 911.

Today I was so desperate to talk to anyone that I answered junk phone calls and actually listened to what they had to offer. I was polite and listened to their pitch. It was good to hear talk to someone about something other than their life problems. A true friend is often a true stranger. Thanks Carl from Lending Mortgage Center.

CHAPTER 217: Suicide Note

2017-02-21T12:29:00.002-08:00

I have successfully isolated myself from everyone else.
I have said my goodbyes without anyone even noticing.

No one listens to me anymore anyway.

If you say you are going to kill yourself often enough then people get desensitized by it.
They get annoyed and start wishing you actually would so you will stop talking about it.

I am ensuring my family will be taken care of financially.
All my plans are coming into place.

I can hardly wait.

For insurance purposes I am going to write a note and leave it in my truck.
It will read:

I did not kill myself. I accidentally drove off the edge of this cliff and died. Please ensure my family gets my life insurance.

Q: If you want to kill yourself then why don't you just do it.

A: It's my death. It's my timeline. There are somethings I need to do first.

Q: Why do you write about suicide all the time? Don't talk about it. Be about it.

A: I am trying to organize my thoughts. I am trying to leave something behind. Not for others to read about. But just to leave a little piece of me left back here in time for when I am gone. You want a headstone and a funeral. I just want this for myself.

Q: Why don't you just shoot yourself.

A: There are people that want to see me suffer forever and have banned guns from being around me. I have thought about going to the shooting range and just renting a gun and killing myself. But I don't want to ruin other people's day. It would be rude. Besides, guns don't always kill people. Worse would be being a vegetable and failing at my own death.

Q: Is there anything that will stop you from killing yourself?

A: Nope. Unless I die before I am ready to end it all.

Q: Why are you asking and answering these questions to yourself?

A: Because I have no one else to talk to that actually cares about me personally. I have no friends, just people I used to work with. And every time we hand out it is just them telling me how shitty their job is, divorce is, life is, them, them, them, them. I don't need your problems added up on top of my life. I have been through a lot of shit (oh I have too). Okay. You win.

Q: Do you really want to be alone in the finally of your life?

A: No. But I was born alone, I grew up alone, all I know is how to be alone. No one ever took the time to actually be interested in me. Who I am. My entire life I have been serving others. Doing for others. And people just expect more and more from me. I never asked for a thank you, or a favor in return. I never asked for someone to be there for me. I just figured people would be decent. They are not. They are selfish. And yet they tell me I am selfish. Okay. You win. My entire life I have been taken advantage of. I blame and hate myself for that. I am not killing myself because of other people. I am doing it because I have failed myself and failed at life. All I ever wanted was for others not to have to feel or endure the pain I have had in my life. Yet all that has ever happened is people have put their pain on me. And I swallowed it. I swallowed it all. And now I am full. I am finished.

Q: Is there anything I can say or do to help you?

A: Why do you think I need help? Why do you think you are always part of the equation? What made you the center of attention? Fuck. Can you just stop for a fucking second and let me have my peace?

CHAPTER 216: Waiting To Die

2017-02-21T09:12:00.001-08:00

All the talent in the world
No one to share it with.

All the love in the world
No one wants any of it.

I am just waiting to die
Or waiting for a miracle.

People hang my wife and kids
Over my head like a guilt trip.

It is unfair to leave them.

It is unfair that I have to live this way.

It has nothing to do with them.

I am broken. Always have been.

Get up. Go do something. Get over it.

I don't enjoy being this way.
Sorry I am such a burden on your perfect life.

Today I killed myself a thousand times in my mind.

What scares me the most about my own death
Is that there is something after it.

Heaven. Hell. Eternal awareness.

I will never rest in peace
until there is nothing left.

No memories. Nothing.

I am just waiting to die
Or waiting for a miracle.

CHAPTER 215: Flowers For My Funeral

2017-02-05T12:44:00.001-08:00

There are a billion ways for a flower to die before it blooms.

Some flowers bloom no matter how many odds are stacked against them. They fight.
And then they bloom. Brilliant. Bright. And full of life. The get to live forever in the Garden of Eden. Basking in the glory of life.

Some flowers get trampled, drown or wither up in the heat.

Some flowers wake up just on time. Face full to the sun. Soaking up the salt of the Earth. And some flowers get up too late. They miss all the glory. The sun, the rain the earth. They are just barely alive. And when they finally poke their head up to catch a dying day's sun; they are picked.

A picked flower gets more attention then flowers that just grow in a garden.

A picked flower gets held. Chosen. A picked flower gets to be the center piece on a girl's ear. A picked flower gets to come home. To come home. And maybe gets a vase and water of its own. A picked flower is better than all the rest of the flowers. A picked flower is loved.

A picked flower starts to die as soon as it is picked.

It's vase a coffin and water, a death that drowns it away.

A picked flower doesn't get the face of god to shine on it during the day. A picked flower doesn't get cool pillows of clouds to sleep on at night. Or the moon as a night light. Stars looking over you.

A picked flower is fucked.

But it was special for a moment.

For a brief moment: A Picked Flower was somebody that was loved.

Thanks babe for picking me. Sorry I have to go.

CHAPTER 214: Just A Few More Moments Please

2017-02-05T11:33:00.002-08:00

I just want to hear some music before I go. I always loved music.

Figure I would listen to some if nobody minds. Maybe you can just forget that I am here, while I listen. I will try not to bother you. I will try so hard to be quiet and away. I don't want to ruin your day.

I don't want to ruin your day.

I'm not crying because I am going to die.

I am crying because I am remembering the good memories for the last time.

There were some good times. Great people. Great places.

I won't miss them. They are the reason I am trying to escape.

No one even knows I am here right now.

No one would even know If I was gone.

I am so tired mom. I am just so tired. I want to come home. Please.

CHAPTER 213: Living Hurts More Than Dying

2017-02-03T16:54:00.001-08:00

My son is getting ready for baseball. He told me he doesn't want me to go because I made it awkward for him at his last practice. I should have just kept my mouth shut.

My daughter is ashamed of me when I drop her off or pick her up from school. She doesn't want me around her when her friends could see her and me together.

Being alive is causing more damage to the ones I love then being dead ever would.

Maybe I can just hide away. Everyone will forget about me. And I can just slip off the road.

My son is getting ready for baseball. I am in my bedroom hiding, because my son doesn't want me to go to his baseball practices or games.

****

I have a mental illness. I can't control my behavior or actions. I can't even remember them at times. But I am always alive and alert for when they hurt other people. That is the only thing I can remember and I can't take it back.

CHAPTER 212: This Is Just A Story

2017-02-02T17:58:00.001-08:00

I think people believe that this book is about me. No.

This is a living book. A story about a boy that falls in love with a girl and they have two children.

That is it.

Nothing but fiction.

I am nothing but fiction.

CHAPTER 211: The Banana Chronicles -Featuring Banana Jones

2017-02-02T16:51:00.000-08:00

I am stupid and I make bad decision.

I am emotional and reckless.

I can't stop sabotaging myself.

I can't stop being selfish and hurt.

I can't stop ruining every person's life that comes in contact with.

I am inadequate.

When I was a kid I cut myself. Punched myself in the stomach. I would even bang my head hard on walls to the point of blacking out. I know modern psychology would say I did it for the release of pain from an abandonment complex or child abuse. Not me. I did it because people will care about you for a short while when you hurt yourself. They want to help you. They want to fix you. The want to rescue me. Save me.

That feeling of concern is as close to feeling a mother's unconditional love for me as I could imagine. Because I never felt it. I had to make it up. Can you blame a 5 year old child that was never held? Who grew up in a crib?

But people get desensitized from constant bumps and bruises. You have to push it further and further to get more attention, with diminishing returns as the intensity goes up.

Then one day you find yourself, killing yourself. To the point of extinction. But then you realize that if you are dead you can't be alive to soak up all the compassion and love for the loss of your own life. So attempted suicide works much better for a narcissist than actual death.

I could have done whatever I wanted to in life. I am a fucking genius. But getting great at something and then just before the climax, where everyone goes home and the lights shut down on the track and no one cares how many high school medals you got... if you sabotage yourself, well then you are immortal. You will always be remember as the great one with so much potential but he got ruined by drugs or alcohol or money or women or whatever.

But they will remember.

I have never competed anything important in my life; Relationships. Promises. Books. College. The Marine Corps. Life.

It just works out better for us that way. They won't love me but they will remember me.

CHAPTER 210: They Call Me Short Round -Featuring Banana Jones

2017-02-02T00:53:00.001-08:00

[NSFW] Another stupid story I made up, called: Hello from Mars. Calling all Stars! Calling all Star!

----Sub Reddit----

Staring Starring. Banana Jones in, "They Call Me Short Round!"

Eh-hm [clears throat]

[Banana Jones speaks in teeth sucking accent: i.e. A Christmas Story "Far ra ra ra rah, rah rah rah rah!"] [START AUDIO:]

When I was a kid I wanted to be an astronaut. Only because I couldn't run for President since I was not born in the United States.

That's right y'all! This banana is from the Mother Land. Japan.

Okay, I'm actually Korean but Japan rhymed with land and most people say I look like a chink, I mean Chinese because my head is big and my face is round. Not Chinese you silly really real big eye American! Just a fat faced Korean. Like it matters.

North or South, Nip?! What every white picket fence corn cob and potato asks me. Like if I say, "North" they are going to jump on me with some division 1 wrestling move aka Monday Night Raw and yell out, "I got Charlie! I got this fucking won ton fortune cookie eating, bowl hair cut having, squinting all the time because you are plotting on the white man, we dropped the bomb on you twice bitch, I'm about to drop two more called left and right." look on their face and stance in their body. The same look they give their abused spouse when they get home from a bad day.

Let me just clarify. I was put on earth by a stork below the 38th parallel. General MacArthur is my real father. He came to Korea and fucked some kim chee eating whore and out I popped, pooped? Plopped out having A red, white and blue birth mark on my butt cheeks instead of a nasty green mongoloid spot. [that really does exist. we mongoloids are born with green butt cheeks]

It is like winning the Lotto being adopted. Who wants to win an all expense paid citizenship to fabulous America. Where you will enjoy years of physical and mental abuse! But That is not all. You will always be picked last for any sport and, wait for it, and, wait for it, AND... fucking jackpot you will get to see a man get shot right in front of you at age 15? Hooray. me.

That shit is not like the moves. It is actually very boring and ordinary.

Loud Pop.
He turns to run.
Pop.
He lays down. falls down.

That is it. No music. No backstory. No blood or guns shooting fire. No grabbing of the chest or back, no last words. No nothing. I just stood there. Less than 10 feet away. It really isn't that big of a deal. I didn't feel anything. It was just a blip in a moment. A ripple in time. A human being blinks out of existence and nothing special, amazing, magical or anything happens. I just get in a car and ride away.

I am looking out the window and there is just a shadow laying on the ground. It isn't even human anymore. It is just a memory like everything else.

Did that really happen, bro-ham?

Fuck yes it did. I wish the guy would have shot me instead.

CHAPTER 209: When People Ask Me How I'm Doing

2017-02-02T00:01:00.002-08:00

Sometimes I think I made up my entire life. Like my brain is creating its own memories. It happens at night when I am asleep.

It is like my truth is all a lie just to get attention from you.

I am an orphan who grew up in a crib. My own prison. Society's prison. I am still a child crying for a mother and father that abandoned me. I am still a child crying out for a touch, a whisper, a fucking any body that would get me out of this five year prison sentence I was given just for being born. I didn't ask for this shit. I didn't ask for two poor chink eyed, bucktooth, yellow fucking filth to rub pubic hair together because their dicks are too small, and let their slime somehow create an unwanted thing. An item to be thrown away.

That reminds me...

Dear Anissa,
I am taking three different SSRIs. Two of them intentional create temporary and long term memory loss. I am forgetting who I am. Or why I exist. All I know is that the meds make me look calm as a Hindu cow while on the inside I am back in an orphanage which is my body, in a cage again.

[brain zap!!!]

Better example; people in a coma look like they are peacefully asleep. But in their mind there are fireworks! They are trapped in their own body, their own mind, their own prison.

Help. I am stuck in my cage!

Everyone that I have met at some point asks me how I got this scar on my face. I sarcastically reply from a knife fight, laugh, giggle and then say I don't know. I was too young to know and I was adopted.

[Tangent: at least three times a day I hear being adopted as the butt of a joke, usually in reference to a horrible habit. That habit being evolutionism. Evolutionism of the universe, our galaxy, our solar system, our fucking planet, that evolved over 13.8 billion light years to create out of cosmic glue two gooks that put the entire weight of the universe's suffering on a slant eyed jaundice having piece of shit baby. I would rather believe that some creationism god shooting marbles with the cosmos created me like Job. For amusement and a silly bet. Because! Because!! If I don't kill myself then god loses the bet and then some how that gets me in to super duper heaven. That is a way cooler story than evolutionism.]

The truth is I got this scar on my face from trying to climb out of my crib and escape the orphanage. I would go to a little fountain in the backyard and listen to the water. It sounded like the ocean to me.

That is the earliest memory I have of my life.

In 1987 I went to the Star Of The Sea Orphanage in Seoul, South Korea and I saw the same crib with my really real eyeballs. The same windows and doors in my earliest memory. I heard water. The roar of it. Out back just as I remembered the fountain. The oldest woman there remembered me and said I always climbed out of my crib to go out back to the grass. I would sleep near the fountain. One time I got caught on the crib and cut my face on a metal rod holding the crib together. That is how I got the scar on my face.

I was in that crib for five years.

That is a true story.

I have no recollection or memory of my existence for 13.8 billion years before April 15th, 1975. I really don't mind not having any memories for the next 13.8 trillion more.

YOU: Dude. I just asked how you are doing?!

GOD: dear drew,

I was just about to have a giant blue whale swallow your ass up next time you were at the beach. But after reading your lame bitchy post I have decided to not do that. That changes the over under odds on your life to age 47. Come on drew we can do it! We will slit the cosmic gold man! I got 40 billion parcels on you. Thats alien currency for a lot. Peace in the middle east and I'm out. [mic drop]

CHAPTER 208: You Want To See Girl Power

2017-01-25T16:34:00.002-08:00

You want to see girl power?

Suzy Davis was an orphan and adopted. She got pregnant in college and still managed to work full time, attend college full time and be a mother full time without any financial support but her own. Her daughter recently graduated from UC Riverside and is seeking higher education in the medical field. My sister has managed her own business, had a phenomenal career in sales and rentals and now works from home as an uber successful recruiter for top companies. All this while surviving an abusive relationship. She has two beautiful daughters that are talented, strong and independent woman. Which she raised as a single mother. What an example not just for women yet all people to inspire to. There are many others. See Amy and Christy.

CHAPTER 207: You Want To See A Feminist

2017-01-25T16:33:00.001-08:00

You want to see a feminist?

Anissa is the child of farm laborers. She graduated UC Davis with a degree in Chicana studies. She is about to achieve here second degree in gemology from the world's leading institute while working full time as a gemologist. Her husband is a stay at home dad that manages all of the duties society would say are for women. She never complains of a glass ceiling or being oppressed. In fact she never complains. She is an amazing mother, wife and person. We need mor examples like her and less women dressed like genitalia.

CHAPTER 206: Women Protesting In America

2017-01-23T12:12:00.001-08:00

Yesterday, around the World people marched for women power. I was surprised to see that all the protestors I saw on the news were white, middle aged, middle class or above. Holding their clever sign in one hand a daughter in the other.

If you think it is tough being a woman in the United States I have two knee-jerk thoughts about you.

1. You are completely without first hand knowledge about the status of women in almost every other country in the world. Their for you are ignorant and privileged and have no rights demanding anything more than you already have. I would drown you in personal eye witnesses accounts and in country briefs about torture, abuse, rape, murder, trafficking, etc. I could fill you with mountains of factual knowledge that I have read, in a book and researched.

But none of it would do you any good. It would be like trying to describe what the ocean sounds like to a deaf person; or with a person holding their hands over their ears.

2. You should try being Asian in America. Any gender. You probably haven't heard of the overwhelming superiority complex of whites, blacks and browns that all openly and publicly ridicule Asians whenever they want. You haven't heard about it because you never shut the fuck up and listen to people. Have you ever heard white people at restaurants? Or blacks anywhere? Or browns anywhere? Fuck people, we got it. No one wants to hear about you and your bullshit drama. And if you would shut up for a minute then you would hear us whisper and speak to you without eye contact because that is our fucking culture. We tolerate yours and respect yours, shit most of us speak your language better than you, and Spanish and Puerto Rican and are more gangster than all these CD selling gangsters. Our gangsters own all of your buildings in all major cities. -Tangent.

Either you stopped reading or maybe now we can talk more rationally. There is a show where white people dub over Asian television shows and say the most racist shit ever in jokes. If is like American Ninja Warrior but comical and in fun. Now if there was a show with African people with spears and shields and they dubbed white voices saying, "Yo, Leroy. Get yo ass away from that lion boy! Damn nigga must of fell of the slave ship or something." The would be riots in the street.

I can name every Asian that has had a television show. And it isn't because I am smarter than you. Well I am smarter than you.

So we are the silent majority. There are still racial laws against asian in our government. Asians we not even considered Americans, even if born here until 1979. That was not that long ago.

So whats my point? Feel sorry for me? No. Because than some Native American Indian will write on his website that if you think Asian is being hard try being an Indian.

The point is that you live in America. Yes it is fucked up but it is less fucked up then any other country in the world. And if you have never been to the world, then collect you tax exemptions and shut the fuck up. And not just to women. But to every American. Shut the fuck up. Be proud of who we are as a nation.

Be happy that you can drive you your protest as a vegan in a car with leather seats and your American Eagle Outfitter cloths and your $8 latte and your nice flashy jewelry but not the really nice stuff incase people of color show up. Get your Gymboree clothed kids or maybe your Old Navy clothed kids because 'times are tuff after the holidays' and bitch about not getting more free shit from the government.

I said be happy that you can. Not actually do it.

No. Instead show some respect to others who don't have it as good as you. You want to see inequality? See that homeless person. That is fucked up. And it is right there in front of you. Don't give me this, 'they deserve it or they made their bad decisions' bullshit. I am sure you wouldn't say that when the housing market crashed and you had to live with family and friends. Lucky you have someone to bail you out. Wait the government bailed out all those homeowners.

I love women. I am a feminist. I support equality. But that is so low on the priority list of shit that needs to get done. Sorry, if you have an electronic device and you are reading this you are not underprivileged or oppressed. You are right where you need to be in life because you deserve what you have because those are the choices you made in live.

There is only one country in the world that ever use a weapon of mass destruction targeted directly at civilians killing millions of innocent lives. They did it twice. And I live in that Country.

CHAPTER 205: Write Your Own Obituary

2017-01-21T12:36:00.002-08:00

Andrew Sharp, 41, devoted husband, father and Marine died today of natural causes while sleeping at home in Oceanside, Ca. His body was taken to Camp Pendleton Naval Hospital where he was pronounced DOA. Mr. Sharp was survived by his wife and best friend, Anissa Jackson and their two children; Jae-Alex (12) and Sofia-Dae (9).

Mr. Sharp was born in Seoul South Korea, abandoned at birth he grew up at the Star Of The Sea Orphanage in Seoul until age 5. Mr. Sharp was a proud Naturalized American Citizen and joined the United States Marine Corps in March of 1996. Two weeks later on March 28th, Recruit Sharp arrived for recruit training at MCRD San Diego, become a United States Marine. A calling he had since the age of 13. During his faithful service with the U.S. Marines, Mr. Sharp served as a UH-1N Helicopter Crew Chief with HMLA-369, the World Famous GUNFIGHTERS. Master Sergeant Sharp is an Iraq Combat Veteran with 66 successful combat missions and honorably retired in December of 2014.

As per Mr. Sharp's request there will be no services held. His remains along with; two (2) gold rings, one (1) flight suit, one (1) pilot helmet, one (1) Mr. Fretty stuffed guitar and two (2) bags of human hair will be cremated and thrown away. At his request there will be no head stones or grave marker.

Andrew Robert Sharp, Jung Jae Dong, Ho Chi- will be remembered as a philanthropist and always saying with a smile, "I just love helping other people!"

[I AM NOT DEAD. I WROTE THIS AS IF I WAS. PLEASE DO NOT FREAK OUT.]

As a creative writing self assignment I typed out my own obituary. Easy, right? -fucking grueling. Challenge yourself. Write you own obituary for today. Does it sum you up? Is there something or a lot of things missing that you need to get in before someone else writes your obituary?!

CHAPTER 204: Every Day Is Mother's Day When You don't Have A Mother

2017-01-21T08:12:00.002-08:00

I have loved and still love every woman that has every been kind to me. A smile. A glance.

I just want her to love me. I just want her to smile at me and say it is okay. I want to feel the softness of her skin, taste the salt from her soul.

I just want her to notice me when I am not around.

I want her to weep for me in my absence. I want her to be flooded with elation when we see each other. I want her to know how alone I have been. I want her.

I just want someone to love me unconditionally like a mother loves her child. Like you were suppose to do.

Not my mother. She left me. I am so alone.

You maybe a shitty parent, a fucked up father, an abusive mother. But at least you are present.

I just want to open my presents and have you here. Telling me it is all okay.

I want to tell you about my day. How much I miss you. But all I an do is cry.

I want to hear that it wasn't my fault.

What did I do? Just tell me please? Can I make it right? Can I get you to ever love me?

I am a 41 year old child. I just want to feel the warm of your skin. Hold me. Feed me.

I swear I will be good. I will make everything okay. Just come back! Please don't leave me again. Please just come back.

I am sorry.

I am so alone. So afraid.

CHAPTER 203: Every Minute Of My Life

2017-01-20T13:49:00.000-08:00

Every moment that I wake up from sleeping the first thought in my head is-

Why did she abandon me?

the next thought-

What the fuck did I do at the moment of my birth to be breached by dead, hating hands and left in the dirt of the earth against my face. Like an egg yolk sprinkled in salt and pepper, I was baptized by bits of asphalt and broken glass. I wonder if our umbilical cord stretched between us as she ran away. I was abandoned at birth. Thrown away.

[Visualizing that for the next few moments]

What the fuck.

My body aches. Old age and a decade of bad posture flying in Hueys. I visualize that for a moment. Damn those memories are like watching a blockbuster movie. They don't make Marines like that anymore. -fuck I miss those guys. -fuck. Not all of us made it back from that movie. Some never even made it to the movie, or if they did they came back and didn't make it back here at home. Everyone I know and love is dying around me. I don't talk to anyone any more. No-one ever remembers the bad times. But even now the bad times seem to hurt so good.

Drew. Drew! DREW! FUCKING HO CHI- dude, you got to get up. Get the fuck out of bed or you will just drown yourself in thoughts. Go fucking take a shower, clean the house, make breakfast, make music, write, draw, play the guitar the piano the ukulele -fucking go masturbate if you have to but don't you for one second let your mind stop doing something or you will get lost in that shit pit memory bank. None of that is real. None of that matters. GET THE FUCK UP AND GO GET YOUR MEDS RIGHT NOW! FUCKING WAKE UP ANISSA AND THE KIDS. GO PET THE DOG OR rabbit BUT WHAT EVER YOU DO DON'T START THINKING ABOUT THAT SHIT.

Everyday that I can out run my memories is a good day. On good days I take showers with my wife in the morning, make breakfast for the kids, be productive. On bad days I lay in bed under my covers like I did when I was a child. Deep under the mountain of blankets in my fortress of solitude. In here I am safe.

My adoptive brother who is six years older than me, and I were in the backyard. I was probably seven or eight. I had been in America for only a few years. My adoptive parents were having a dinner party with guests. I turned away from the sun because it was too bright outside. Everything became black. My brother hit me with a huge and heavy stick, like a baseball bat. It had a nails in the end resembling a medieval weapon. I know, because I had to pull the nail out of my skull when I regained consciousness. Screaming why did you hit me with that??? His reply was very cool, short and precise-

I was trying to kill you.

A hole in my skull above my right eye and my skin split to the bone, blood gushed from my head. I ran in the house crying in Korean, Appa! Appa! My father came to me with a towel in hand. He was always prepared and knew exactly what to do in these situations. He calmed me down and applied pressure to my head. Guests were quiet in judgement of a father’s concern for his orphan bastard of a son. Then she came into the dining room. Her eyes rolled, nostrils puffed and her lips turned into red lines across her sour face.

Take him to his room!

I am taking him to the hospital to get stitches.

[Person's Name] let me talk to you!

I lay sitting on the dinning room floor. One arm holding me up and the other holding a kitchen towel to my open skull. I cocked my head up looking at all the white faces looking down at me. They are not concerned. They just look and whisper about one of only three Korean children in this city of theirs. I can tell they are looking at my bowl hair cut, slanted eyes and my dirty yellow skin. Our cocker spaniel is allowed in the house when guest are over. The fucking Chinese kid can go outside and fucking play until everyone leaves.

My father comes back and picks me up. He takes me to the room they let me sleep in. He puts butterfly bandaids on my wound. They hurt like real kisses. He doesn’t say anything but I know he is mad. Not at me. At her. He says he loves me and then whistles funny. He always does that when he has to show emotion. I feel like everything is okay for now.

GET THE FUCK OUT HERE YOU PIECE OF SHIT! How fucking dare you almost ruin my dinner party you little son of a bitch!

[Son of a bitch was my name until I was 13. When I finally told her she was right, that I was a son and she was my mom so that makes her the bitch. I got beat so hard I was black and blue in the face. I told her she would never hit me again or I would kill her. I ran away from home and tried to join the Marines [I have the letter to prove it, I kept it on my desk at work]. She never hit me again after she had to have the cops bring me back after a few weeks.

All the guests left the dinner party. My adoptive mother yelled, screamed, cursed and hit me for a good solid 20 minutes. No big deal. I have had worse from her. When she would drive me to the store to pick out the next wooden spoon or paddle she was going to break over my ass, that usually turned in to a full body beating, was the worst. It was that anticipation driving home from the store that got me.

So once the verbal, physical and psychological abuse was over I had to clean up all the dishes, pots, pans, kitchen, dinning room, vacuum and in the end I had to wash the carpet where I had spilled my blood. Three times with hot soapy water. She was nice enough to get the water for me from our laundry faucet. My hands were white and skin pealing from how hot the water was. She stood over me, hands on hips, telling me to keep my bastard hands in the fucking water.

Nothing happened to my brother. In fact he tortured me more than she did. When he had to baby sit me he would make me drink beer and watch pornography. I was about 8 or 9 when this started. He would get me drunk and then his friends and him would make fun of the dumb Jap. When they got bored with me they would tie me up. Always around my neck, my hands and feet. This way if I relaxed I would choke myself. Very clever. Then he would put me in his walk in closet, shut off the lights and close the door. He never left me tied up for more than eight hours. I use to have to beg him to use the bathroom before he tied me up so I didn't piss myself. In Hawaii some tourists made if open the windows of our rental car because he was doing 'magic' and tied me up in there. After a couple of years I learned to get out of knots. I became fascinated with Houdini. I started do magic. I still do card tricks to this day. Payed off. At age 15 he took me to a party in Bakersfield where he went to college and I saw a man get shot and killed in front of me no less than five feet away. I became numb that day. Started drinking bottles of Bacardi Light from my parents liquor cabinet that next weekend. Been drunk ever since.

THIS WAS MY LIFE EVERY DAY FROM AGE 5 UNTIL 19.

Everyday there was a new way to torture me. Punish me. Humiliate me.

Do you know what it is like to be in a full body cast for two days? Having the bandages cut off your blood to your hands and feet? Be told that you were going to be dropped off at Tammy Melvin’s birthday party at the roller rink in this homemade body cast? That she put on you just to teach you to look both ways before you cross the street? DO YOU EVEN FUCKING KNOW?

I do.

Do you know what it is like to have to eat food ofF the floor, or in a bowl like a dog? Do you know what it is like to have to eat and swallow chunks of soap because your sister said you said the F word?

I do.

Do you know what it is like to look outside a picture window at your friends eating your birthday cake, opening your presents and hitting your piñata because you got sick? But she put too much work into this birthday party to cancel it just because you got chickenpox? Weak green spotted ass son of a bitch!

I do.

Have you ever been told that you were bought for $5000 and you can be sold back? Or that you have to work of that money in chores? In fucking chores??? So you are raking leaves on Christmas eve to earn the money that you borrowed from her to get my father a christmas gift. They are all listening to music by the fire and drinking coco. You can see them through the picture window. I FUCKING HATE THAT PICTURE WINDOW. Why are you raking leaves on a dark and cold Christmas Eve? Because you didn’t buy HER a gift but you bought him one. Bitch didn’t even put the christmas lights on so you can see what you am raking. Ever spent a Christmas Eve like that?

I have.

Have you ever had your back pack checked for food before going to school and then coming home and having to puke in a bucket to make sure you didn't eat because no food is your punishment for getting your first B in math ever, when you already have a 4.1 GPA?

I have.

Have I ever told you about when those guys pinned down the Gook and shoved a stick up his ass? And how he though that made him gay for a long time? Or about how I got this scar on my face when I grew up in the orphanage? Or have I ever told you about when...

[2:38 am]

Fuck. It's only three a.m.

CHAPTER 202: A Meme About Memes

2017-01-19T15:37:00.004-08:00

The other 10% is nihilism and war.

CHAPTER 201: A2 Walks

2017-01-16T14:29:00.001-08:00

My son made this today... as; walks

CHAPTER 200: The Best My Life Will Ever Get

2017-01-16T11:48:00.001-08:00

I hope you are not reading this right now.
I just need to know that I said this out loud.

I would say I am sorry but that wouldn't change anything.

In junior high someone said the same abusive things to me to someone else. I lost it. The only selfless thing I have ever done in my life.

>>>fast forward

Diving board

>>>fast forward

I lied. I never had sex with anyone.

>>>fast forward

I am sitting naked smoking a cigarette out a second story window. I look up at the stars. I realize this is the best that my life will ever get. I decided to kill myself. I stop recreational drugs and decide to liquidate every thing I own into cash to buy weed, meth, coke, LSD, crack, whipets, cigarettes, alcohol and what ever pills I could get. I borrow $300. I fail to kill myself.

>>>fast forward

Not a day goes by I don't feel deep shame, embarrassment and guilt for everything I have done. I try to remember the good but there is too much bad. Then this song comes on and I wish you were speaking these words to me:

Andrew, baby - don't get crazy
Detours, fences...I get defensive

I know you've heard it all before
So I don't say it anymore
I just stand by and let you
Fight your secret war
And though I used to wonder why
I used to cry till I was dry
Still sometimes I get a strange pain inside
Oh, Andrew, if you're hurting so am I

Andrew, honey - I got some money
All is forgiven. Listen, listen

But if I seem to be confused
I didn't mean to be with you
And when you said I scared you
Well I guess you scared me too
But we got lucky once before
And I don't want to close the door
And if you're somewhere out there
Passed out on the floor
Oh Andrew, I'm not angry anymore

And if…

I lose it. The pain I feel is nothing compare to the pain I dealt. And knowing that is the greatest of pains. So here I am. Where I am suppose to be now. I just feel myself sliding back down that road. I keep thinking this is the best life will ever get and I need to preserve it.

<<<Rewind

The Marine Corps is either going to medically retire me or early retirement me. This is the best that my life can get. So I tried to kill myself. I don't know why I do the things I do. I only know that I regret them entirely.

---Present Day

I couldn't sleep last night. When I did I have nightmares. I talk to my wife in the shower about when I was a helicopter crew chief. Flying was the best my life could ever get.

~~~Future

My wife, my kids... this is the best my life will ever get.

Sorry everybody.

Concrete Blonde Joey

sorry

CHAPTER 199: Original Music

2017-01-15T05:26:00.000-08:00

First three original songs from Borrowed Faith. Click on the link below to hear some of the best beats and dance on planet earth.

Ten Thousand Pounds Of Bass

Digital Eggroll

That Sweet Slumber