Spirit of Aquai

I was so disappointed when the Mohegan Sun casino in Uncasville, Connecticut changed their website to make their job offerings more accessible, because I had planned to blog about it. Before, they made people who wanted to look at their job listings go through a seven step process. You would have to click a button that said “Can you continue the Spirit of Aquai Continue” after each step. What was funny is that they never explained who or what Aquai is;

Thanks to the Internet Archive’s WaybackMachine I was able to find a copy of the old version of Mohegan Sun’s site so that I could write about it.

My second favorite step is step 4, “Grooming Standards,” where they asked you to agree to “bathe” and “brush teeth daily” and “use an effective deodorant.” (And, remember, this is just to look at their job listings.)

Now, I can understand why the Mohegans might want to insult the white man, as I’m sure the white man has fucked them over pretty well, but my family came off the the damn boat at Ellis Island. My family was way too busy being fucked over by gentile white men to fuck over a Mohegan. There is no reason to insult me like this personally; my family never did anything to fuck over a Native American. (It is arguable that my being here is an invasion of their turf; however, I have been trying desperately to get out of this asshole country for my whole life and have not been able to afford to do so, so, again, I am not responsible for fucking Native Americans – I cannot help that I was born here.) Furthermore, the Mohegan tribe has profited off of me by taking 10% of my poker winnings and from collecting the many two dollar blinds I have posted in order to immediately get into poker ring games. They were not just insulting a potential employee, they were insulting a customer whom they have made money from. It’s just not cool.

My favorite step is step 6, “Your On-Boarding Journey Begins…”

They said in this step:

“If selected, the map below represents what your on-boarding journey will be. It outlines the steps you will travel through, from the time an offer is presented, to your 90 day follow-up orientation.”

They showed you the map below:

Notice in this map how you start in Northwest Connecticut and must make a long, arduous, non-linear journey to Southeast Connecticut.

Do you see what this is? This is an allusion to the Trail of Tears. They are symbolically telling us that they want to make us pay, just as we made them and their Native American brothers and sisters pay.

In step 2, “Core Values,” the first core value they listed was “Blowing Away the Customer.” I don’t think this is a good value to strive for. As a customer, I never want to be blown away. It makes me nervous when people are too enthusiastic about pleasing me. I just want to get what I paid for and have people act courteously and professionally, that’s all. I’m pretty sure that this is what most people want.

After you had agreed to all seven steps, they gave you a few crappy job listings and did not post salaries or benefits. In the current version of their website you no longer have to go through the seven step process in order to get to the job listings, but they still don’t list pay or benefits. There is no mention of the Spirit of Aquai either. I guess that didn’t go over very well.

I don’t recommend working at Mohegan Sun or its neighboring casino, Foxwoods, because, although they have finally instituted no-smoking sections, you’re still inhaling a lot of the second hand smoke from the smoking sections, which are not properly sealed off. You’re just getting less smoke. I would put my money on both places being toxic from second-hand smoke, and you don’t want to spend thousands of hours of your life in places like these. Maybe they are good employers. Who knows? But whatever they pay is not worth the physical suffering and monetary costs of emphysema and lung cancer.

I never play against the house, so can’t really judge Mohegan Sun as a casino, other than it being smoky and tremendously tacky, as the building is designed to look like a giant wigwam. If you’re interested in poker, Mohegan Sun actually has a superb poker room with very professional dealers. The problem there is finding a full-ring table. I think the reason why this is is because they operate too many tables at once. If you are like me and you hate playing short-handed games, you are better off playing poker at crappy, zooy Foxwoods, with its abominable dealers, tasteless large-breasted waitresses with breasts hanging out all over the place (while you don’t see any nipple, there is more breast to be seen from these women, then three completely naked breasted women combined – it’s simply garish), and gimmicky, waste-of-hard-earned-money Bad Beat Jackpot (which also encourages idiot players to be river rats in hopes of hitting that asinine Bad Beat Jackpot, which nobody ever really wins because you probably have a better chance of being struck by lightning.) At least you’re pretty guaranteed to get good action at Foxwoods.

The dreaded i93 and how I became a supporter of the Republican cause

My shrink – my cognitive behavioral guy, wants me to take things slower with my highway driving phobia – but he is not the one hemorrhaging his life savings on $3.50 gallon gas. I need this money for my lofty retirement in the trailer park of my nightmares. I need to try newer and harder targets. I don’t have time to keep hitting the same targets to reduce anxiety, which is really very minimally effective. My shrink tries to impress upon me that while driving on the highway I am safe – that I am creating the fear. But this is pure bullshit. It’s very unsafe. I drive a fucking 2000 Toyata Corrolla. It handles like shit. It is made for durability, not driving. A strong gust of wind will make that car wobble at 55 m.p.h. It’s disconcerting. Very. You have to either be a better driver than I  (and perhaps I am a shitty driver) or a fool to drive that thing much over 65 m.p.h. And then there are the fucking maniacs – especially the truck drivers who get two feet behind you, literally, to bully you into getting into the slow lane, but you can’t because you can’t even see out of your rear view mirror because they are so close that all you see is truck! I am afraid that if I ever meet one of these sociopathic, aggressive motherfuckers face-to-face, that someone is going to get very hurt, and I am going to end up very in prison.

The Connecticut drive was far less scary than I thought. i385, which runs down the state from Massachusetts is a wussy interstate with only two lanes. A joke. Yes, you must drive on a major highway -- the MassPike to get to i385, but it’s only 35 miles, and considerably less scary than i95.

Taking i95 to Providence provided a lot of fodder for driving terror, with its Route 128/i95 bottleneck and, as soon as I hit Pawtucket, Rhode Island (you, know, Pawtucket Ale – “Family Guy”) it got zooy, and increasingly zooier as I hit downtown Providence. The plan was to turn around farther down in the Providence suburb of Cranston, but my feeling was, fuck this, I’ve gone far enough, let me get the fuck out of this madhouse before I wig.

This weekend I attempted i93 North. There was the i95/i93 intersection, where the lanes go from four to three that always freaks me out, but this time, instead of staying on i95 I went on i93. While the trip to New Hampshire was 20 miles less than the Providence trip, this drive was scarier because it entailed going from one interstate to the other.

I managed to keep it together for the last 5 or ten miles of the trip. When I got off at the exit at Salem, NH, that’s when I really started getting nervous. This was New Hampshire – there was not supposed to be many people in this state, but there was a huge traffic jam on the road taking me to Walmart. I had plotted Walmart into the GPS as a piss stop before I went back. There was so much traffic. That’s when I started to get that get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here feeling. I kept going though. It took me ten minutes to drive one and half miles to Walmart.

I don’t shop at Walmart. To do so is to donate to the Republican cause. But this was tax free New Hampshire. I needed some cheap beer. I was too freaked out to go fishing around for liquor stores. Walmart was selling 30 can cases of Budweiser for $17.00. It was insanely cheap. And, since this was the “Live Free or Die” state – its motto is written right on its license plate, I didn’t even need to return the empties. It was an alcoholic’s paradise. (Beer isn’t even allowed to be sold in Massachusetts outside of liquor stores because the liquor store lobby successfully persuaded the moron voters to preserve their monopoly in a ballot initiative.) The only reason why I didn’t buy ten cases of beer instead of only one was because I knew that I would drink myself into oblivion. Then I saw a case of Dasani water for only $4.00. Holy fuck I had to have that. I bought two. One more than I needed or probably will be able to drink in my remaining time in Boston. And then I saw these teeny Dannon Greek yogurts for only a dollar and put it in my wagon, and then I saw a whole shitload of cheap Gatorade, and I said to myself, fuck my boycott of Walmart, let someone who actually has money boycott Walmart. I need the savings. Fuck this. I wanted to buy a bathing suit. I wanted to stuff my car with as much tax-free crap from China that as I could get my greedy little mitts on, but the need to get the fuck out of that state before I completely freaked out was more powerful.

It took me a long time to get back on the highway due to all the traffic. Salem, NH is really a shopping Mecca. All the big stores are there, including Macy’s. This is all probably to cater to people in Massachusetts who don’t want to pay their 6.25 sales tax. Who can blame them? Massachusetts once had a ballot initiative to go from a flat income tax to a graduated income tax. Had the moron voters voted for it, we probably could’ve gotten rid of the regressive sales tax, which hemorrhages a lot of our money to New Hampshire and the Internet and lived off the fat of the multitude of rich assholes in Massachusetts – the same rich assholes who have our asses kicked from nine to five each week, if we are lucky enough to have a job. But, this is the U.S. – we do things backwards, even in Massachusetts, one of its most progressive states (technically a Commonwealth.)

Coming back is always ten times easier. I deliberately took a harder route coming back: i93 to 495 to 3 to i95. Four major highways in a row. It was easy coming back, but the shit had been sufficiently scared out of me going there. I needed to do some heavy drinking with my New Hampshire beer when I got back, though I did it at night, after more driving. The thought occurred to me that I should clean the empty beer bottles, but then I thought – why? – you don’t need to store them because they don’t need to be redeemed, because where I bought them, in New Hampshire, you “Live Free or Die.” So I just threw them out. What freedom! What a state!

The next target will be the i93 going into Boston from the South – the SouthEast expressway, a really scary highway. Ten miles of this is a lot harder than 40 miles on the interstate to New Hampshire. If I do not need to be scraped off the SouthEast expressway, there will not be much else to do after that, and I will probably push for graduation from therapy soon after, probably against the protests of my therapist. Fuck him. Had I listed to him I’d have spent half my life savings on gas and gone a fraction of the distance.

The MBTA gets back to me

Commentary about this e-mail sent to me by the MBTA is below. Keep reading…

MBTA Reference # 02720524

March 17, 2011

Dear Dickie Richards,

Thank you for contacting the MBTA. We appreciate your business and value your feedback. 

We appreciate you taking the time to write and sincerely apologize for the Operator’s dangerous actions while driving Bus Route 60.

With the information you provided, the Operator was identified, interviewed, and reinstructed on safe driving.  Any further infractions may result in more severe disciplinary action.  The MBTA has a progressive disciplinary policy, up to and including termination.

We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you.

Should you have additional questions or concerns regarding this issue, please contact the MBTA’s Customer Communications Department at 617-222-3200 or 800-392-6100, Monday through Friday, 6:30 AM to 8:00 PM and Saturday and Sunday from 7:30 AM to 6:00 PM or visit our website at www.mbta.com.

Thank you again.

Sincerely,

Flora

Customer Communications Department

This email/electronic message, including any attached files, is being sent by the MBTA. It is solely intended for the recipient(s) and may contain information that is proprietary, confidential, legally privileged, and/or exempt from disclosure pursuant to state and federal law. If you have received this message in error or are not the intended recipient(s), please notify the sender immediately by reply, and delete all copies of this email/electronic message and any attached files from your computer. If you are the intended recipient(s), you may use the information contained in this email/electronic message and any attached files only as authorized by the MBTA. Any unauthorized use, dissemination, or disclosure of this email/electronic message and/or its attached files is strictly prohibited.
Please consider the environment before printing this e-mail.

This was sent a month and a half after I reported the incident. Here is my bitching and moaning about their not responding to me the first time.

First of all, there is a serious grammatical error in the MBTA’s response. The MBTA says:

We appreciate you taking the time to write

This is wrong because you need to use possessive pronouns in front of gerunds. So it should be:

We appreciate your taking the time to write

You could argue that President Obama makes this very same error, so what’s the big deal? Obama’s job is to bomb babies and children in Asia and Africa, take away people’s subsidized heating oil, fuck federal employees, and raise the taxes of the poor while keeping taxation of the rich unsustainably low. Obama should know proper English to set a good example, but, as an executive officer, he is really not in the field of customer service.

Because the MBTA failed to provide me with any evidence that they reprimanded this individual, there is absolutely no reason to believe that they actually did. I think that what I am receiving from them is a load of sugar-coated crap, but even if they did reprimand this individual, it would not have done anything to correct the undesired behavior. The driver does not remember what happened a month and a half ago. In order for punishment to be effective, it must be unambiguously and immediately paired with the undesired behavior. You learn this in any introductory psychology course in behaviorism. We’ve known this fact for about 70 years. It is not revolutionary or earth-shaking.

Furthermore, the MBTA completely failed to address my demand for the videotape of the incident. This is not a private bus company; this is a public bus company being paid for by your state and federal tax dollars. Any videotape that was made of the incident should be public domain. I have a right to it, and I would’ve put it on YouTube had they met my demand, so that the entire world could see the psychotic assholes at work on the MBTA. You have a right to see this! It’s your tax dollars at work on your public property!

They left me no e-mail address to respond to. What I think is funny is all the legal mumbo-jumbo at the bottom of their correspondence. I love how they say:

Any unauthorized use, dissemination, or disclosure of this email/electronic message and/or its attached files is strictly prohibited.

They are a public agency. By definition, any record that they create should be freely made available to anyone. What they sent me is PUBLIC DOMAIN -- it is not their fucking intellectual property. What the MBTA doesn’t understand is that this is not North Korea. We, supposedly, live in a free and open democracy, where the public has a right to know what its government is paying for.

All I can say is that the MBTA sucks elongated and discharging gonad.

Jam your lousy senior discount up your ass, Dunkin’ Donuts

Walking out of Dunkin’ Donuts, something seemed wrong to me as I looked at the receipt. Why was the small coffee I had bought so cheap?

In horror, I saw that the Dunkin’ Donuts cashier, Lasiah C, who was probably about 18 years old, had unilaterally decided that I was a Senior Citizen and therefore eligible for a 10% Senior discount. At first I thought that I must have been given some other customer’s receipt by accident. But this was sort of like believing that fairies exist, or that when you die you will remain alive through an afterlife, or that if you think positively enough, good thinks will happen to you.

I always knew this day would come, but I thought that the universe would at least hold off for another ten years before it deemed me old. I mean, I’m a young 45. I’m slightly encrusted, yet considerably less encrusted than men my age. I have at least some sex appeal left, don’t I? Certainly, I could not possibly be categorized as a Senior Citizen. The reality is that that is what happened, and the reality is that I need to live in reality.

This prompted me to make the decision to apply for the EFL course in Hungary before every fertile woman on the planet believes that I’m a Senior Citizen -- and for all I know, they might already. I was heavily leaning towards this decision anyway. This was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. This will mean that all the money I had saved up and planned to use to live in some glorified trailer park in this asshole country will be used on a course to give me certification to work as an EFL teacher in God-forsaken third-world countries, where I will probably be exploited and still live a life of shit.

What was I thinking to think that I could get a crappy job in some place like Dunkin’ Donuts and persuade some woman to gestate my brood? Maybe my age will be too great a hurdle in a poor country overseas too, but I have at least an opportunity there to not live the total life of fucking shit that I fully suspect I would live here, taking shit jobs.

I don’t have to commit myself to working overseas yet. I can take the lousy course overseas and make my decision about working overseas later. It is the middle road decision. It will give me a taste of what it will be like without having to take the complete plunge. The decision is costly -- it will be a lot of savings hemorrhaged, but I don’t want to live in this asshole country if I can help it. I believe I have slightly more to offer this world than serving up donuts in Dunkin’ Donuts or towels as a cabana boy. I think it’s better to live in China and help them speak English so that I can enable them to sell their cheap crap full of lead and God knows what than to be on the front-lines here, wearing a blue fucking apron, stocking Walmart’s shelves with China’s leaded merchandize.

And fuck my asshole father who says I need to see a shrink because I refuse to submit to a life of shit here. He thinks there are better options in this country for a middle aged guy (now, apparently a Senior Citizen) without a fucking resume, yet when I ask him to name one, he can’t. What homeless shelters has he ever lived in? What cars has he ever slept in? What cockroach infested rooms in bad neighborhoods has he ever endured? He has no clue how mean this countries’ streets are. It’s my life. It is not his! Even if I were to find a shrink who actually gave a fuck, he or she wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to help me. I know this because I’ve literally seen a hundred of these depraved motherfuckers.

If I fail I fail; let me fail on my terms!

Scintillating!

I reopened my OkayCupid account. I’m not really dating though; I’m primarily interested in sex. I make this clear. I’m sure I’ll disable the account, soon, once I feel I’ve embarrassed myself enough.

As a writing exercise, I wrote a college professor who said that she didn’t want someone who was "easy-going" or "laid-back. This is what I wrote her:

Look, there is nothing wrong with "easy-going" or "laid-back." I am the most laid-back person in the world up until the point where I have a wig out.

I'm writing to you because I just can't resist sexy college professors, not that I've ever had one. Also, I saw that photo of you by the beach, and I know you must know the butterfly stroke. I know that you can help me!

(Okay, running a little long for a personal ad intro -- can't write too much or I will look desperate, and I am only moderately desperate.) You look really sweet. I hope you find someone, whomever that might be.

I wrote this off the cuff. I am a good fuckin’ writer. Had I lived a life of gainful employment, I am sure that I would have gotten a lot of nookie from smart and horny women.

I don’t’ feel any loss that this woman never wrote back. She said in her profile that she wanted “scintillating conversation” and “international adventure.” I’m not sure what “scintillating” conversation is, but I’m pretty sure I’m not interested in this type of convo. As for international adventure, I can’t afford it. Brainy women like her, I think, want their cake and want to eat it too. They are perpetual losers like Heather.

I took the interstate, mofo!

I took the (MassPike) Massachusetts Turnpike to Interstate 395 to Mohegan Sun. The MassPicke is a major highway. The irony is that i395 is a pissy little two lane highway. Could you image all the time and aggravation spent avoiding i395, all the fear involved in the thought of accidently getting on this road when I would take alternative routes. It was three and four lane highways that gave me major panic, not two lane highways.

I ate the MassPike and i395 for breakfast today. Tears came to my eyes while I was driving because I realized that I was not as fucking hopeless as I thought I was. I had to stop the emotional outburst, as I needed to be able to see the road.

Maybe, I thought, other things were possible. Maybe I didn’t have to be a pool boy and/or a lifeguard and/or a Walmart worker. Maybe I didn’t have to listen to the negative of people like Heather or my father, who told me that I couldn’t do certain things. I begin to seriously think about going overseas again. Maybe if I can drive out of state on the interstate and also obtain a CPR/AED certificate – maybe I can do more. Maybe I can take the EFL course run by the EFL fascists in Hungary or Boston. Maybe if I can do that I can carve out an existence somewhere in China or Vietnam or some other God-awful place. It will suck major cock, but maybe it will be lesser cock than my bleak future as a member of the working poor here.

I busted Heather’s ovaries too much

I went too far with Heather in my last post. What you saw was an angry, immature, slightly mad person. I’m not going to edit or delete what I wrote, for that’s how I feel. I’m a bitter and ugly person. It’s just the way it is. It’s not pretty, but that is who I am. Psychiatric professionals tell you that you should love yourself, but it’s really quite impossible to have self-love for a person as ugly as I am. I have a grudging respect for myself. That is all. And that came only after nearly 40 years of self-hatred.

I wish I were more of a man. I wish I could say to Heather that there are no hard feelings and that I wish her the best of luck. I really do wish that I could say these things, but I don’t entirely believe them, so can’t. Maybe in the future I will be man enough to do this.

I can fly, Heather. You can’t!

I am no longer friends with Heather; however, she may still be reading this blog. One of the myriad of horseshit excuses Heather gave me for why I was not good enough to create children with her or anyone was that I could not drive on a highway. “You want to have a child, and you can’t even drive on a highway,” she said.

I would like the opportunity to tell Heather that I can drive on the highway now. I am seeing a cognitive/behavioral shrink in order to get over the phobia. I am still working on it. Getting rid of phobias is a long hard process, but I am succeeding.

It was such an utterly stupid excuse that you gave, Heather. The inability to drive on a highway does not preclude one from being a good parent. Ironically, Heather could not fly. I have always been able to fly. So now I can drive. I can drive anywhere on the the entire continent, and if I want to visit Budepest or China, I can do this, and might be doing this soon. Unlike Heather’s, my fate is not yet sealed. I am still free, still vibrant, and my world, unlike Heather’s is not closing in on me.

Why couldn’t you have had the ovaries – Heather, to just tell me right away that the reason you would not like to be with me is that you are one of the myriad of excruciatingly boring, bourgeois assholes, that money is your God and whore. You have no vision. That it your problem. At least an opportunistic bloodsucker like Nancy had vision. Yes, money was her God, but it was a means to end, which was to create children. She at least was preoccupied with creating something greater than herself. She was on a mission. You might even call it a spiritual mission.

Now, I understand that you have economic concerns. You have your family to take care of, but, really, there are ways of letting people whom you are already friends with know that they are not right for you without fucking forcing them to bare their soul to you over skype, because you are too freaked out by the fact that a poor man might like you. You could have extended me the courtesy of speaking to me in person. It was really not a lot to ask. In addition, you didn’t need to get all wiggy when I arrived at your house, still out of breath, after having a panic attack on the highway. You did not need to disrespect me by so diligently impressing upon me the importance of my leaving your household, because of your need to do work. Certainly this could have waited until I caught my breath. (I mean shit, you were planning to see a movie with me – so you had a few hours to spare.) You would actually have been slightly less of an asshole had you suggested a nice hotel for me to drive to in order to catch my breath in order to recover from my highway terror. You didn’t need to be such an asshole. I knew you had a deadline. But you didn’t need to be so motherfucking rude. I have never shown you that level of disrespect.

Of course, you dismissed my having a panic attack. And, because you said I didn’t have one, it must not have happened. You are superior to me, aren’t you? It is ironic that you always accused me of having Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and one of the hallmarks of this disorder is a lack of empathy. It is you who seems to lack the ability to put yourself into other people’s shoes. It is not I who said, nonchalantly, “you’ll get over me.” You also lack affect. There is something wrong with you. I am not a shrink and, unlike you, I don’t give armchair psychiatric diagnoses of friends’ psychiatric disorders, unless of course they are ex-friends, and I am trying to impress upon them what a fucking loser I think they are, in a final fuck you farewell.

I can honestly say that I say these words to you not because I am angry at you (which I am), but because I truly mean them: You are a loser. I am a loser. I may continue to lose, but at least I think like a winner and play to win. I’m not interested in you. I fell in love with your sweetness. But now I finally realize that you are not really sweet, that you have nothing whatsoever to offer me. You have no vision. Perhaps you have passion in your area of expertise, but I have not seen a lot of passion from you. While you are vastly more intelligent than most, you seem to lack the ability to formulate cohesive arguments. (I lack this as well, but I’m not the one with the Ph.D.) I was impressed by how someone with your knowledge and brainpower could use such a pathetic argument to defend your war-mongering, poor-bashing, Republican wannabe president. But, I guess, your love of Obama is only natural. You are defending your class, of which I was born into but find, as I have mentioned, obscenely and excruciatingly boring. But, hey, as Robert Gibbs said, I wouldn’t be satisfied if Dennis Kucinich were president. (But, unlike Gibbs, I understand the subjunctive and have at least some grasp of the rules of English, unlike Secretary Clinton, Obama himself, and the other fuckwads in Obama’s cabinet.)

Let me get back on point. You always used to nonchalantly say to me, “I’ll get over you.” It was your way of writing off my pain and/or discrediting your own importance. Well, you’re right. I have gotten over you, finally. In fact, I’m forgetting you already. So there’s no need to get all bothered about some heavy-breather like me wanting to move in with you, eat your food, hog your bed, and create embryos that stick to your uterus. I can find better women. Women who want to fuck (me), who have emotion, who feel and who love and laugh and cry. I want a woman who has vision. Passion. Who sees the beauty of children. Who is not deceived by the bourgeois mirage.

I have a nice penis. I have never mentioned this before. The few woman whom I’ve been with have complimented my penis and asked to either suck it or get it inside them. I don’t blame them. It is, after all, a pretty nice penis. I have never asked a woman to suck my penis. I don’t really enjoy it because felatio is way too toothy for my comfort. What I’m into is licking vulva. I am good lover, not just because I enjoy giving a good lick, but because I am sensuous and truly enjoy making love, not just shooting my load into a vagina, which I have a freakish capacity to do many times without even losing my erection. You are and were deserving of none of the good love that I can give -- sexual or otherwise, nor my DNA. My sister had a niece. My niece is cute as fucking hell. My sister’s baby kicks any baby’s ass that you’ll ever see in movies. My sister and I share virtually identical DNA. I know that I have the ability to create a baby as cute as my sister did. I am however looking for a winner to have a baby with. There will be no lick and no penis for you! If you are still reading, you are probably thinking how you have no desire to be licked and fucked and impregnated by someone who is as immature and Narcissist-Personality-Disordered as I am, and that is exactly why I don’t want you. My penis is yum and I am a fun and lovable and loyal as fucking hell. My penis, my lovemaking, my DNA, and my soul will be saved for a more deserving woman.

I’m sorry, but I am not quite done with you. I must attack you some more, because you were such a fucking insensitive asshole to me. Your days of soft and tight skin are numbered, Heather. Your DNA is breaking down as you read this. Evolution no longer sees you as a breeder, but as a caregiver of someone who has already bred. Your hold-out for your fantasy bourgeois breeding partner and mate has and will continue to fail. You offer nothing at this point. Yes, you are smart, but, newsfash – most men don’t give a flying fuck about intelligence. You certainly aren’t sweet. Ironically, one of the excuses you gave me why you weren’t good enough for me, which I believe you actually believed, was that your breasts were too small for me. Like all of your hair-brained excuses for why we wouldn’t work out, this one was quite wrong. Your breasts were perky and felt quite heavenly when I hugged you. You have – or at least you had nice breasts. Your breasts made me hard. If they haven’t already, your tight breasts are going to lose their shape sooner or later, as you begin your inexorable menopausal decline. You are stuck in your little asshole town with your not-able-to-take-care-of-themselves family. I, on the other hand am free. I can move out of state. Unlike you, I can fly out out the country. I plan to do one of these things soon. The world is still mine for the taking. Your world is closing in on you. You live in a world of shrinking possibilities. I am still aging gracefully. Unlike you, I still have time.

Have I gone too far? Have I been really mean? Absolutely. But you had it coming, Heather. You really had it fucking coming. You disgust me. I regret having not told you to fuck yourself that day when I visited you when I had the panic attack on the highway and you got all wiggy. When you asked me where I was going to change my clothing, did you expect me to just get naked right in the middle of your living room? What did you expect me to say? Had I ever acted inappropriately with you before? Was there anything that I did or had said to deserve that insulting fucking question? So don’t be insulted by anything that I’ve said today. You’re an insensitive fucking asshole, and I’m just putting your ass in its place, though knowing you with your affective disorder, it probably won’t even phase you. It is one thing being a bourgeois asshole – I’ve dated hundreds of them -- it’s wholly another thing to FREAK out when someone who is not a bourgeois asshole says he desires you. You didn’t have to wig. You didn’t have to make inane excuses. There was no need to embarrass me like that. All you had to do was just say no, and I would have understand and not wigged myself. Had you just been honest we me, you would not have told me anything that I hadn’t heard a hundred times before. It would not have been a big deal. It was all the fucking bullshit that was the insult. So don’t be hurt by anything I say now. Take it like an adult. And don’t fucking call me, don’t skype me, don’t e-mail me. Piss the fuck off. I am writing this to get you out of my system. I never want to think about you again. I have found another person to help me with my English. I can do my own hack proofreading for now on, so I won’t be needing any of your services or need to contact you again for any reason.

Do you know why I saw you after our first date? – I felt guilty. After our first date – the Christmas date, when I got home and you sent me a photo of your little spider-like dog, I cried. You seemed so lonely, so needy. I know what this loneliness is like. Against my better judgment, because of guilt, I went on a second date with you. After that I knew I just couldn’t do it anymore and weaseled out of calling you as I said I would when I got back from Florida. A year later you complained about my lack of wanting to walk through all the dog shit on the ground during that second date. You reasoned that because of my lack of wanting to walk through your town (Beverly, MA), which is literally full of shit, I was somehow unqualified to father children. Prima donna maybe. Unfit to father children because I dislike shit on my sneaker? Just another of your myriad of offensive excuses for why I was unfit to father children. And then there was more talk of Narcissist Personality Disorder. Jam the fucking Narcissist Personality Disorder up your ass, Heather. I mean, jam it. Jam it good. What the fuck would you know about empathy. You have about as much empathy as one would expect an extra terrestrial to display, who has no concept of empathy.

Yes, this all is payback; I am saying all this in anger, yet in truth. Take it like an adult, Heather. Don’t cry. Don’t become indignant. I’m just paying you back for all the shit treatment you gave me. You have it coming. Just take it.

I’m not hopeless, Heather. You may have given up on me, but I never did. I am not inferior to you, Heather. Even if I weren’t able to drive on the highway, you would still not be better than I. So please fuck yourself, Heather. Your little bourgeois prying eyes are not wanted on my blog. Please piss the fuck off.

By the way, I hope your little dog is alive and well. I don’t dislike your dog; I dislike you.

Put the damn Christian in the YMCA, will you?

Those assholes at the YMCA want $36 a month for a scholarship membership on top of their $50 annual membership fee. They wanted my financial information. So I gave it to them. I can’t talk about money here, but it is beyond pathetic how little I make. Without the help of the remnants of LBJ’s moribund War on Poverty I would be out on the street. I tried to tell the YMCA that I already plunked $350 (full price, non-member) for their lifeguard course. (I recently failed their swimming test though did obtain their CPR/AED certification. I nearly needed a lifeguard to save me after attempting to swim 500 yards.) I tried to tell them that I just need to use their pool for five hours a week for two months in order to pass their lifeguard certification. But they just don't fucking listen. My mother offered to pay, but I want the goddamned YMCA (Young Man's Christian Association) to honor their Christian mission of helping the poor to help themselves. Who knows, maybe I’d find Christ if they actually fucking helped me to help myself. It is their fucking job to help me find Christ -- they are at heart a Christian organization, and I am a poor Jew badly in need of a fucking savior! I might just demand my money back for the course. The Aquatics Director did tell me in writing that I could get a refund minus the Red Cross handbook in the event that I couldn't complete the swimming requirement.

But that's not really why I would abort the lifeguard course. I'm having second thoughts about the Walmart Strategy. There is no more money coming in, and for the first time in five years I'm feeling that cold hard bite of poverty. I had forgotten how painful it is to buy gas and to buy even the simplest things. And you know what? I fucking HATE poverty. I think I have a better chance of not living in poverty as a hack EFL teacher. And you know what? --fuck my father who thinks I should see a shrink because I feel the only real escape from abject poverty is overseas. I would like to see him try to get a job as a middle-aged man with a severe fucking learning disability, with no marketable skills, and no resume. I would like to see him make it as a $9 dollar an hour life guard or pool boy and moonlighting 30 hours a week as a $8 dollar an hour Walmart worker. What a shit fucking life. And I’m living in a dreamland to think that I could find a woman who would be interested in creating a child with a grunt like me. In the miracle event that I find a woman to impregnate, how in the fuck could I afford to provide a life for this child that is not complete shit? The answer is that I can’t! Love is not the answer. Love is not enough in this asshole world. You need cold hard cash.

I don't fucking have to listen to my asshole father. I am my own man. I don’t have to listen to anyone who I feel has his or her head up his or her ass. The only person I really need to listen to is myself. I think overseas EFL may be a better option. I'm going to play three thousand more hands in poker rooms. I can do that in the next month while I continue my medical treatment here and possibly work on trying to pass the lifeguard course. If I can't reliably make at least minimum wage at 2/4 poker, I think that I may seriously reconsider teaching EFL overseas, despite what a tortuous job and shit life this looks to be. I need a safety net, even a small, shit one, if I am going to condemn myself to the life of the working poor. As unqualified as I am to teach English, my English is better than President Obama’s. At least I know to use a possessive pronoun in front of a gerund. It is also better than Secretary of State Clinton’s English. She mixes singular and plural pronouns, and it’s really pathetic and embarrassing. I think I’ll probably be able to at least fake being an EFL teacher who knows what he is talking about. I’m no longer thinking about teaching in Central/Eastern Europe. I’m thinking about teaching in Vietnam. They pay a lot more, and their language is a lot easier than Russian and Hungarian!

MBTA ignores me of course, so I waste more time by writing the gonad suckers again

On February 4, 2011, I reported to the MBTA via this web form a driver acting inappropriately and endangering my safety as well as the safety of other drivers. The bus route number was #60. The date of the incident was February 3, 2011. The time was approximately 6:15 p.m.

I'm puzzled why no effort was made to contact me. I am curious how many complaints the MBTA ignores before bus drivers like John McCarthy are fired. (John McCarthy was an MBTA bus driver who was recently fired by the MBTA after being charged with being drunk on the job.)

Let me reiterate my demand for a copy of any electronic recording of the incident I reported on February 4. Also, I would like to know if there was any attempt by the MBTA to investigate this incident.

I have a right to this information, and I am exercising my right. I hope that we can resolve this issue amicably without my having to bring in a third party. You have two days to respond.

I will continue to keep the public informed, using my blog, of the MBTA’s lack of effort to ensure the public’s safety.