"War. War never changes..." - Ron Pearlman voiceover in Fallout game series intros.
So just last week, Linda became the newest Long Lost Friend to contact me via the internet. She says she misses me so much and thinks about me everyday. She still has and frequently dotes over the few paintings I'd done for her in the '80s including a Christmas/Theatrical painted vintage wooden sled named "Rosebud". (I'd forgotten about this.)
Apparently the Facebook account she had set up a couple years ago as a marketing tool to some Radio Shack promo is purring to life as she's gathering friends and family, sharing photos and posting about good times. She's learned how to use it as a social media device and, now here, she's hooked.
But I've had enough of the recent Facebook connections which prove to be messages of love and hopes of repatriation in one burst of enthusiastic glee, reaching out to someone they knew as Michael, a fun-loving, optimistic, talented son-of-a-gun from Rhode Island.
I greet them back appreciative of their efforts but remind them of several nascent issues in my life which have frankly spiraled out of control here in Florida over the last 20 years.
They also obtained information about accessing the blog, if they haven't already found it through other means. Koyaanisqatsi's a blog-zilla but a determined individual using simple search words could easily get to all the juicy parts about them. After all these years, I'm certain everyone has a juicy part.
So soon after reaching out to the ghost of Michael Past, they become aware of the morbidity of my current state and politely, albeit clumsily, retreat back to their white picket fences and quietly ensure the gate is securely locked behind them.
And they hunker back to their respective shelters for they regained the memory that in essence, war still exists between us. A long, dark and cold war.
These people though they say they love me see the sign upon the gate of the metaphorical city in which I dwell and it says the name "SODOM".
At work, the Junta and Fascists are in all out conflagration. Only by sneaky tactics and blatant lies have I avoided become en-raveled with this mess, Katherine has fallen, all eyes are bugging out to see who next will be on the copping block.
My body is in a slow-burn revolution. My circaidian rhythms are in chaos. I can't even think about sleeping with out Ambien and unless I take a double dose, I still get restless sleep with frequent bathroom visits only to be followed by a jump to awareness 4 or 5 hours later, sans cortizol cascade. Despite huge quantities of caffeine soda, I'm exhausted and achy by 3am, tortuously watching the clock tick down as slowly as molasses.
My peaceful building simulation games are being pushed out by the new bullies in the Steam library, Rage, GTA IV, and of course Skyrim. More heads have rolled on my video monitor than ever before.
It's late now and I have lost yet another battle to Ambien. It's as if strange voices told me to take it lest I turn into a member of the walking dead.
Yes, Mr. Pearlman, you know your shit. I think it's over then it sprouts its perverse head again, only to be slain by my swift sword of vengeance again and again.
That is, until one day, when it finally gets to me. Then it's all over, my friend. Via Con Dios!
So just last week, Linda became the newest Long Lost Friend to contact me via the internet. She says she misses me so much and thinks about me everyday. She still has and frequently dotes over the few paintings I'd done for her in the '80s including a Christmas/Theatrical painted vintage wooden sled named "Rosebud". (I'd forgotten about this.)
Apparently the Facebook account she had set up a couple years ago as a marketing tool to some Radio Shack promo is purring to life as she's gathering friends and family, sharing photos and posting about good times. She's learned how to use it as a social media device and, now here, she's hooked.
But I've had enough of the recent Facebook connections which prove to be messages of love and hopes of repatriation in one burst of enthusiastic glee, reaching out to someone they knew as Michael, a fun-loving, optimistic, talented son-of-a-gun from Rhode Island.
I greet them back appreciative of their efforts but remind them of several nascent issues in my life which have frankly spiraled out of control here in Florida over the last 20 years.
They also obtained information about accessing the blog, if they haven't already found it through other means. Koyaanisqatsi's a blog-zilla but a determined individual using simple search words could easily get to all the juicy parts about them. After all these years, I'm certain everyone has a juicy part.
So soon after reaching out to the ghost of Michael Past, they become aware of the morbidity of my current state and politely, albeit clumsily, retreat back to their white picket fences and quietly ensure the gate is securely locked behind them.
And they hunker back to their respective shelters for they regained the memory that in essence, war still exists between us. A long, dark and cold war.
These people though they say they love me see the sign upon the gate of the metaphorical city in which I dwell and it says the name "SODOM".
At work, the Junta and Fascists are in all out conflagration. Only by sneaky tactics and blatant lies have I avoided become en-raveled with this mess, Katherine has fallen, all eyes are bugging out to see who next will be on the copping block.
My body is in a slow-burn revolution. My circaidian rhythms are in chaos. I can't even think about sleeping with out Ambien and unless I take a double dose, I still get restless sleep with frequent bathroom visits only to be followed by a jump to awareness 4 or 5 hours later, sans cortizol cascade. Despite huge quantities of caffeine soda, I'm exhausted and achy by 3am, tortuously watching the clock tick down as slowly as molasses.
My peaceful building simulation games are being pushed out by the new bullies in the Steam library, Rage, GTA IV, and of course Skyrim. More heads have rolled on my video monitor than ever before.
It's late now and I have lost yet another battle to Ambien. It's as if strange voices told me to take it lest I turn into a member of the walking dead.
Yes, Mr. Pearlman, you know your shit. I think it's over then it sprouts its perverse head again, only to be slain by my swift sword of vengeance again and again.
That is, until one day, when it finally gets to me. Then it's all over, my friend. Via Con Dios!