Hello, Boys and Girls! Gather 'round, gather 'round! 'Tis story time and Uncle James has a grand story to tell. Let me tell you about a boy and his fucked up existence…
Yes, a new blog. This will be somewhere around my 11th blog that I've created. For a long time, I had three that I maintained quite religiously for 5 to 6 years straight. But those became empty of any meaning to me. You see, one was an outlet for my "inner poet" (shut the hell up! I know it sounds lame!). The next was an outlet for my sexual wants, needs, desires, successes and pleasures. I felt the need for anonymity, for I was over concerned with how people viewed me and the kinky things I thought up of or experienced with girlfriends, lovers, fuck buddies or one-night stands. The last blog, was my attempt in reconciling the different sides of myself.
You see, the "poet" had a small fan base that viewed me as a romantic and a gentleman. He had ideals and morals. His thoughts were sometimes viewed as cultured and philosophical. Hell, they oftentimes were of an everyday guy that happened not to fuck people over. The sexual freak had a following that thought I was a strong, manly man that was that asshole-type of guy that girls seem to love, these days.
I never lied. I never mislead anyone. But for some reason, I separated myself. And that combo-blog was my attempt at bringing them together, while allowing my readers to continue to follow along with me. But all that did was make me pander myself to the audience. So about two years ago, I stopped. And I think I've kind of missed that venting that blog gave me. It was a nice, cathartic outlet for me to voice my thoughts.
And so, I submit to you, a new blog. A new blog that I hope will not cater to anyone else but me. I warn you, those of you who choose to follow. I warn you that there will be random and odd subjects. I warn you that there will be half-completed thoughts, since I'll know what I'm talking about and probably won't need to make full references for me to know what I'm saying.
So how about we take a little walk into the earlier chapters? I'm a puzzle already enough. How about I provide a little back story to try and help you understand me a little? How about we talk about my "family". You'll understand why I put that in quotations, later.
From the earliest that I can remember (around 5 years old or so) until I graduated from college, my mother made my life hell. Actually, to be accurate, she made our whole family's lives a living hell. Nobody was free from her wrath. My sister and my dad were in as much danger from her as I was. The only difference is that she openly said how much she hated me. Yes, I know, all of you are saying, "Oh, he's being over-dramatic." Nope.
Instead of just grounding me for not getting an A in 4th grade, she'd yell at me and say how worthless I was… And then tell me to go get the bamboo stick. Oh, how I hated that fucking stick. If you didn't know, bamboo is one of the strongest plants in the world. That fucking stick never broke. So she'd use it on me over and over. I don't want to exaggerate, but I think I was beat with it on average of every three days. But if I was lonesome of the beatings, I ALWAYS had the yelling to keep me company.
When I was in high school, I lost myself in books. One of my former teachers in Germany (oh, did I forget to mention that my father was in the military and we lived in Germany for 7 years? Forgive me), introduced me into the world of fantasy in the 5th grade. It first started with a Dungeons and Dragons book (which I didn't much care for). But then I read a book called Sojourn by R.A. Salvatore. I was hooked. I got lost in a J.R.R. Tolkien-like world. Except, unlike Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, the story was more about morality, sense of self and character. When Drizzt Do'Urden turned his back on his people and tried to live in a world of the just and innocent, his persecution due to his race spoke to me. I didn't have any racial problems. But nobody understood me at home or at school. I was an outcast trying to gain acceptance.
Yes, ANY kid can say that. And I can't lay claim to that any more than someone else. But I do know that the combination of just moving back to the US, while going through the transition of elementary school to junior high, in addition to my body keeping constant company with that fucking bamboo stick was not an easy thing for me.
In addition to those books, I lost myself in music. I was a bit confused at first, but I found my way. Metallica was my savior. To this day, it makes me move. Indirectly, Metallica made me find punk and alternative music. To this day, music is something that I need every day. I played in a cover band for a couple years, due to how I could lose myself in the music. I even got a tattoo of one of my favorite bands. More on the music I love in the near future…
Where was I? How about the social life? Nope. I had to beg to go to dances. And because I was such a fucking pathetic loser due to my mother not letting me have a social life, it was hard to get dates to those dances. Right up until I graduated, I only got to hang out with my school friends on average of about once a quarter. No exaggeration.
When I graduated high school, my father had just retired and got a job with the INS. He was in school in Georgia (ever federal agent or law enforcement officer has to go through a basic training there). I stood up to my mother late one night. I was talking on the phone to a girl that I wanted to ask out, when my mother barged in and started yelling that I didn't do anything that day. I snapped. So much anger and resentment from so many years boiled up to the surface.
She screamed at me and asked me what I had to say for myself. I started to speak, but she just started yelling again. When she reared her hand back to punch me (the fucking stick was downstairs) and I said in a quiet voice, "Go ahead and hit me. You don't know how to talk to me, anyway. You may as well hit me, since I can't talk to you." She just stood there. I think my sister would've been proud of me, if she were there (she'd escaped years before, by going to college and getting a good job).
I snapped inside. I stormed down the stairs and got that fucking bamboo stick and brought it back upstairs where I'd left her. She must've though I was going to hit her. Oh, one thing, the funny thing is that due to the fact that we were a semi-Asian family (Asian in biology, but as white as can be in regular life), the customs made her safe. You see, I was a black belt in two different martial arts. However, she knew I'd never hit her back.
Well, at that moment, she probably thought I was going to. But, what I actually did was start hitting myself. Yes, I went crazy. I hit my own arm, my legs, my stomach. Over and over. Hard as I could. Each hit, I'd scream something like, "Satisfied? Is this what you want?" And, like a fucking dramatic movie scene, one blow, I broke that fucking stick when I hit my forearm after so many self-inflicted blows to myself. After 10 plus years of that stick being swung at me from my mother, it broke when I hit myself.
Go fucking figure.
My mother just stood there through it all, looking at me as if I were a psycho kid (not that I blame her). I was breathing heavily, the adrenaline numbed any pain in my limbs. I finally turned around and went back into my room.
My mother never hit me again.
But it's not all bad like this, I swear. I'm capable of love and fun. Due to how fucked up my family is, I hold my friend's families even more dearly. They've become my family. And, surprisingly, every girlfriend I've ever had has told me that their parents love me to death. I still get emails or phone calls from some of their mothers every once in a while.
Anyway, stay with me. Fun and odd posts will come in time. I'm just reminiscing. I had iTunes running and The Call of Ktulu, an instrumental by Metallica, came on and it made me think of my beginnings.
So I beg you, don't think of me too much of a loser yet. Judge me by the things that amuse me and the things that make me an idiot. Those posts will come. Stay with me.
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