Memoirs »
PICKLE JUICE – Chapter 5
Chapter 12345678910

“To know a person in his home is not to know him at all:
To meet him on a country road with only his baggage is to
at last contact the core, the inner cell of his personality.”

– John Tibbetts

Condoms have broken on rare occasion during sex. What may not be OK by them is I didn’t stop having sex to change it and ejaculated on their stomach. I was riding my motorcycle one day, popped a quick wheelie, and the front tire had a quick pressure loss. I didn’t realize until I was on the highway, and rode it for a couple miles until I got to surface streets. Turning to go back home and not having a big truck, the tire slipped and cracked the wheel. I drove it home anyway, making the whole wheel unusable.

I dated a girl briefly. We hung out a few times but I don’t remember if we kissed. One night, we went out to dinner at a habachi restaurant, had some saki (I stole the cups), and drove 45 minutes back to my house. Along the way, the road became distracting cause we were aroused, so she pulled over. She got on top of me and we made out for several minutes. It was rather exciting but seemed dangerous as we had both been drinking. When we got back to my house, we got naked and things progressed as you would expect. She went down on me and then began to straddle me; but I said I wanted to wait. We fooled around for almost an hour. She spent the night. We were both naked all night. I woke up the next morning, roughly 6-7 hours later, and we were in the spoon position and she was waking up too, but I don’t know if she was totally aware. I pressed my body against hers, with my penis between her legs. In a reverse from the night before, I was now ready. That’s the position I was in when I woke. I looked up at her face. She nudged back signifying to me non-verbally that she was awake. I placed my hand on my penis, and I was inside her. I did not ask her to have sex and I did not ask if she was awake. I looked again at her face and I have a picture in my head of her eyes open, but I can’t say for certain. I wondered if what happened was wrong anyway, and the thought crossed my mind that it didn’t matter if it was wrong because it felt good. I thought I was being romantic. I thought it was a good morning way to wake up. I thought she WAS awake. I had been pressing my body against hers, reaching around and rubbing her breasts to wake her up. The only thing I didn’t do is verbally ask. I asked her where she wanted me to cum, and she said she didn’t care. I got on top of her and finished on her stomach. I didn’t make efforts to see her again; and I came home from work one day and found she had come by while I was at work and left the saki cups from our date and a black rose on my doorstep, meaning death or farewell (I don’t know which she meant). We smiled at each other at the bar, and even exchanged conversation over a drink while she was sitting at the bar and I was getting quarters for the pool table; but we never had sex together again. She began a serious relationship with someone else. My left testicle began to ache.

A dentist showed me one tooth with slight discoloration in the valley, and then drilled five teeth–for reasons he kept calling, “curious.”

One girl dumped me, and I convinced her to let me come over and talk about it. We opened a bottle of wine, and she opened up to me about it. We had a nice talk and she let me spend the night. I jammed my cock into her back while we lay in bed, hoping to consummate the frank discussion. It was over.

I had a partner, who routinely pressed up against me naked in the spoon position, where she often times navigated our naked privates close to each other when we had only used condoms. I found myself wearing clothes to bed for the sole purpose of avoiding that from happening. A condom later broke and I made the decision again not to stop. Then I slipped beside her. She rolled on top; and I proceeded to pass out. We had been together long enough to know we would want to have sex, even though one or both of us were verging incapacitation.

A pair of girls began seducing me one night. They giggled while they gave me a massage. But when the cuter one left, I pretended to be tired.

There was a dating book. It talked about how to act for women to get and stay interested. It worked. A girl pursued me and I enjoyed the attention. We had a lot of great times together. I stayed distant emotionally and wouldn’t say I loved her, and she pursued me harder. She wouldn’t get upset and I was testing her to find out what got her upset. After about 7 months, I was moving within town and she wanted to move in together. I didn’t. We vacationed in the city for my birthday, and I decided we would meet up with a girl with whom I had been writing on the side. The girl I was dating left me.

I was hurt and frustrated because I had seen people break up and then get back together stronger because of it. I thought that was a good way to grow together–it’s not. I also wasn’t ready to commit with someone who I didn’t know well enough, and I was looking for other pastures. She was rumored to have said, “I’m gonna teach him a lesson he’ll never forget,” calling me “the walking wounded.” I emailed her a lot at the onset of the break up and for many months after, while I was hoping to talk about our differences and open up about my feelings, eager to get back together in a town with few participants. I would force myself not to write. Her friend would tell me she still wanted to be with me, but then I would initiate with an email, she did not let on. It was over a year later and she was about to get married. I told her I thought that was a mistake, but I knew little about the guy. I thought it was a mistake because she was rumored to still have feelings for me, even as my own were finally fading. When I got home from work that night, he approached me as I got off my bike and started kicking at me and punching at me and swearing at me. I got some distance between us and he was like, “do you know why I’m here?” I said, no. I did. “The email.” “Oh, I don’t think you’re right for her,” I replied. He wound up and punched me in the cheek. I didn’t even attempt to block it, but I got scared and pulled away as he opened my skin. He said, “well that’s not for you to decide.” I agreed. “let it be,” he said. I said ok and he left.

I didn’t seat comfort and stability in her mind, often teasing instead of complimenting; and then when I lost the convenience, crying and pouting and proclaiming my love, and shaming her instead of supporting her decision to move on. It was a big lesson in not being able to control a situation, and a gross example of selfishness when she would put me on a pedestal. He married her and put HER on one.

I put on a girlfriend’s sorority jock shirt for no good reason. She then put mine on in playful banter. I raced over to take it off of her. My arm touched her head as I moved her into an uncomfortable position to take it off her, which could be considered violence against women–hitting.

There was a fire at the dining room table and some people got burned. Since there was little ice, one girl went up to the bathroom tub to cool off her thighs. I went in to check on her, and she was sitting in the tub wearing only a religious garment. I think we were both glad she was wearing it.

A guy at a party pushed me for no reason as I walked by. He had a big smile on his face. I wasn’t amused. He pushed me again. I put up my finger and said, “wait,” then squared off and head butted him. He got angry and came after me. I cowered and the fight was broken up.

I was drinking at a bar for hours, minding my own business, when I was approached by four men I went to high school with as I walked out of the bathroom. They told me how the didn’t like me and wanted me to leave. I laughed at them, even taking the back of one guy’s head and pressing it towards the ground. He stood up and decked me. I got angry and I got kicked out of the bar for the night, but was too drunk to go home. I tried to get back in and they were like, not tonight man.

I was at a bar and a guy was mocking me. I walked away while he was continuing to mock me, even for walking away. He called me names. I pretty much ignored him. He picked a fight and I walked away, being called a weakling and other names. I saw him again at the bar another time, while I was playing pool. A he was throwing pieces of rolled up straw paper on the dance floor, and one piece landed on the pool table. I picked it up and handed it to him. “keep it off the table, k?” He responded with an expletive. I began to walk away and he threw a piece directly at me. I called him out. He didn’t want to go outside. Later he was sitting in another booth and looked at me. I looked back and pointed to the back door, telling him that I was ready. When he went outside, I followed, and reminded him that I was looking for an apology for the expletive and the litter. When he refused, I told him that we were going to fight now. “All you have to do is say you’re sorry.” So when the fight was announced, I initiated it with a head butt. I then rammed his face into a brick wall. We went to the ground and the fight was called. He was upset at me. The consensus was, “all [he] had to do was say you’re sorry.” I agreed. I saw him later on and he was non-threatening. The taunting started up again.

A group of guys walked into the bar and sat next to me. I was wearing a shirt that says “supfucker,” and I tried to initiate a conversation but said something foolish. The first thing out of my mouth was, “sup fucker?”. He was provoked. I tried to ease the situation; but he continued to taunt. He said he was 9-0 in bar fights. I offered to make it right. I meant buy him a beer. He meant, go outside. He grabbed my shirt and pulled me towards the door. I put my hand on his arm and said, “don’t do that.” He released me. we walked towards the door and as soon as he opened it, he turned and began punching. I reacted by forcing both of us outside, blocking his attack, bringing him to the ground and covering his face in snow. I let him up and kneed him in the cheek as he stood up. Ready for another attack, none came. We both went back in the bar. Two weeks later, he later started working there.

I was visiting friends with a cat. I had read that dogs under 12 weeks should be exposed to various stimuli to prevent fear, and when someone turned on the vacuum cleaner, I thought I’d show the cat that it was fine. The cat froze in my arms, then began to pull away as I walked towards the sound. I hung on tighter, until it snarled and burst out of my arms. It recovered from the trauma and hung out on my lap again. In 2011, a pair of kittens showed up at my doorstep, wailing. I picked them up to bring them to a safer place to eat, and one jumped out of my arms landing on her head. I called animal control for shots and they took them away to a home where the would be welcome inside. Hoping they would be returned to live free outside, I never heard of or saw them again. I never called animal control on other ferrules again.

I was driving friends in a Boston suburb and saw a squirrel begin to run across the street. I veered towards it, “I’m gonna get that fucker.” I didn’t believe it would actually hit, but the back wheel crushed it. People weren’t happy.

In a failed attempt to learn my lesson, in one of my apartments, there was an air vent in my kitchen closet, which was cut off inside the closet. When I moved in, there was a plastic bag taped to the vent as it went to the roof. One day, I heard scratches; then a thud. I looked in the closet to see a pile of dust and bones, and a squirrel was sitting on the shelf. It alluded capture in order to be released, and started running around my apartment. I isolated it in my bedroom, set up a trash can for it to run into, and it jumped clear over it. Finally, I opened the exterior door and was able to herd the squirrel outside. I then duct taped a cardboard cover on the vent. I heard scratches periodically after that and moved out that year. I left them isolated amongst rotting remains to die and did little to prevent it. When I moved out, I left the bones I had collected when the bag had fallen. I’m sorry squirrels. It’s a pretty bad way to die.

I got interested in stereo systems early. One stereo kept breaking, and I used the generous retailer’s warrantee several times in 1999, until they sent an expert to find that the speakers were of the wrong resistance. I threw them out a third floor window. Then one night in December 2008, an animal sprinted in front of me driving at about 65mph and I killed it instantly. I am sorry to say that I left it in the road. The proper thing to do would have been to call for help, or at least pull it off the roadway. I even picked up the broken pieces from my car when I fled. Insurance covered the cosmetic repairs, but when I experienced lasting damage, no warrantee was respected as they refused to believe anything was wrong with the car. In 2010, someone backed up their car and broke my mirror. A bystander destroyed the evidence.

I had worked at a motel, and it was common to take the license plates of everyone. After my car was hit, living with my father, who rented out an apartment; I took pictures of every car parked outside. A tenant saw me doing it and got creeped out, never mentioning it but moving out the following month.

One house I lived in had rats. I would shoot blow gun darts at one that was on the floor by the wall in my bedroom, but never connected. We poisoned them and then I saw a mouse on my bookcase, with eyes all cloudy. I looked closely at it and it leaped towards my face. Barely getting out of the way, yelped and took a metal bar and rammed it as it hid in the corner until it was dead.

About 14, a group of us were visiting a tree fort city, with bridges and rooms and ladders 30 feet in the air. I bumped into a loose board and watched it fall. Then I knocked another one on purpose, then stopped when I saw it popularized and I realized escalation of damage was poor judgment. A girl later slipped and fell to the ground right in front of me, fracturing her pelvis, and not once having a hard word for me.

“Once the tugboat takes you out to the ocean liner, you got to get all the way on board. Can’t straddle both decks.”
― Katherine Patterson

After an attempt on his life and losing his job for real, he began wearing a six inch blade when he went out. The first time, someone picked a fight as Justin was leaving a bar. “I just want to punch somebody.” Justin immediately engaged him. He faced the guy and got punched. Right away arms came in from all directions to put a stop to it. Justin complained to the person pushing him away that if somebody hits him, he should have the right to hit back. The stranger said he would arrest Justin if he did. He would conceal the knife many times after that without incident.

He went on a motorcycle ride and only half the road was paved, then the paving stopped in the middle of a turn. Justin crashed at over 65mph. He went to a library, and his motorcycle was knocked over by an SUV. He was driving down a local street and a utility vehicle stopped quickly and started backing up. Not having a reverse on the motorcycle, Justin nearly missed getting run over. One time he found two quarts of oil had been siphoned out of the engine, and the front wheel axle nut had been loosened considerably. A media card went missing.

An eight year old boy knocked on the door one afternoon, after I had drank about two-thirds of a forty ounce beer. His family had just moved and the bus dropped him off at his old house, alone, anyway. I put him on the back of the motorcycle and drove him into town where he said he now lived, but the street was wrong. I decided to bring him to the police station but he refused, saying he was close enough right where we were. I left him in the center of town nearest the street he gave me.

Transfixed in news reports, sitcoms and the entertainment industry shackled from naming him (few agencies could agree); Justin was smitten with the attention from scholarly newshounds, and especially disarmed from the study by the beautiful ones. As soon as he told a friend he was in the news, there was a mass shooting at fort hood. As soon as he mentioned a way to reduce the oil flow by using the exposed pipe, the usable pipe was cut off. His shoulder blade began to burn and a dark raised mark appeared. He combated it with ammonia, aloe vera, and contact lens cleaner. Against doctors recommendations, it worked to remove the blemish.

He saw people talking to a bartender about her body, so when Justin ordered a drink, he told her a story of how he lived in small towns, and moving to a big city made him focus on what’s inside. But what the tactful dork said was, “pretty girls here are a dime a dozen, so they have to show their mind.” “That’s an interesting perspective,” probably not surprised Justin was there by himself.

He was at a bar and saw an empty seat, so he sat at it next to a pretty girl. A few minutes later, a guy came over to reclaim his seat, and Justin said no. He had learned bar etiquette in a different climate, which is everyone for themselves. He knew people who peed on the bar just to keep their seat. When groups went to the bar, they would have special techniques to overtake bar space, and he never unlearned the primal encroachment. It didn’t make him well-liked in a town of courtesy and light drinking, and it made him a poor candidate to chastise Israeli settlement construction; but it didn’t stop him.

He tried handing out business cards to draw attention to the scientific concept, with little interest. He couldn’t give the things away. He began putting cards on cars in a parking lot, but was run out by maintenance crew. He saw a girl in a parked car, they met eyes as he reached for a business card to give her, and she quickly locked the door and shook her head, no.

The loose cannon went to a military pass point in 2010 to protest the gaza protest the Gaza blockade, where civilians were isolated and without access to food and building supplies. “What do you want me to do about it?” said on the phone. Justin retorted, “I thought you were the United States NAVY!” He was made to sit on a curb. The admiral eventually passed along the word that he would not see Justin because he rode a sport touring motorcycle, instead of a Harley. Nails were spread all over Justin’s neighborhood streets–allegedly an ill-advised counter-terrorism application to show displeasure in Justin’s sexual exploits. There are better ways to carry out street justice and warn the informed public, without compromising the safety of even more people–like a plastic fork.

I met someone one night and she was interested. She asked me what I do and I used my physics insight to lure her in, telling her about how stars are fireballs of electricity and we kissed. I tried to take it slow with her but my infection spread anyway, most likely from showering together during our rendezvous.

Not only did he proudly sell an average of 4 ounces of weed per week for years, even though he already had a well-paying job; he suggests making it selectively legal and limiting the number of businesses and growers violates anti-trust protection from monopolies. It was hard to admit, but he was walking one day and thought of that period. He tried to ignore it and got about a half a block when he saw a bumble bee lying on its back on the sidewalk. It was waving its arm, “go back.” He righted the bee and did just that, confessing his criminal activity to thin air. One time Justin was drinking before a trip, and had asked the person he was lifting to drive. They stopped to pick up some marijuana, and he was apprehensive about driving. He crashed the car leaving the parking spot, so Justin drove the trip with pot in the trunk while intoxicated. He shouldn’t have tried to involved him.

I would go to the beach to tan and take in the air, and a lifeguard yelled over the tower, “no dogs at the beach until after 4,” informing me that the waters were safely under control, and warning the beach goers that knew, to be aware of a wreched adult horndog nearby. Authority of popular public spaces is a hallmark of the fight against terror, and these examples show that it can be managed by intelligence.

Unhappy with his home living conditions, he complained in a diary. That night, his dwelling was broken into. There were loud footsteps walking quickly around the living room, but the scared boy assumed it might just be his dad. He grabbed the knife and layed in bed with it anyway. The bedroom door opened. “Can I help you?” justin inquired of the stranger, who took off running. Justin reached for the knife and pursued to the front door. “Hey!” They both stopped and the perpetrator faced him. “what are you doing in this house?” “I’m here for him,” pointing to his dad’s bedroom, fast asleep. “No you’re not.” The guy strafed across the room and backed into a corner. Justin looked down at his knife. “Just get the fuck out of here.” He began to leave. Justin saw two bags on the floor, “don’t forget your stuff.” The guy stopped. “Oh, that’s not your stuff at all, is it?” “nope.”

The detective tried for fingerprints and took a report. Justin asked if he had the right to kill somebody who breaks into the house. “I don’t want to answer that,” the cop evaded. Justin went out and bought a handgun, kept it locked in transport or at the ready, and brought it with him where he went. He would keep it in his waistband as he walked around the house, prepared to disable anyone suspicious who came to the door. His eyes pulsed with a white rim around his vision as he heard treacherous things and he would hold the gun at the ready. He drank every day, and practiced cleaning and loading the weapon while intoxicated–one night falling asleep on the floor with the un-chambered weapon next to him. He woke up in his bed without the gun, and asked his father, who had found him like that and secured the gun in a tool box. “Get a holster.”

He went to a party that was full of double agents. They mentioned having a place nearby and that this place was a hiding spot. Knowing that nobody knew he was even in that city, Justin felt he might not leave alive. He chambered his gun and kept it in his back pack and nearby in case they made a move on him. Everyone played like everything was normal, but he knew what had been tried in the past and what they were capable of. The line between friend and foe was drawing awfully thin.

The incorporated details that emerged of his personal life had been shifting to his political leanings, with one world leader after another courting him–winning elections and garnering support from seats in various parliaments; resulting in great global reverberations on societies who followed and benefited from those leaders, like the Arab Spring in Egypt in early 2011. People he would tell dismissed him, dissuading him from even bringing it up and even destroying evidence. Long after the initial hospital in 2008 had asked straightaway if he was in the news, it had come true–solidifying the psychiatric notion that the poor boy was very ill. Because they had asked specifically off a checklist, he feared reproach from future medicators; so he kept the existence of these events deeply guarded. The news (and him in it) continued regardless, and the isolated leader learned his own views from arguing with onslaught of detrimental ones. He learned that keystrokes were handy to communicate his ideas; and knowing the importance of unity in the only world any of us know, he participated in global impact discussions continuing to Benghazi Libya–fighting with those violently quelling peaceful protests, with anarchists hell bent on removing any government that got in the way of their family values of passing on family reign, and with imperialistic invaders alike. Entrapment was the word of the year.

It happened like this: Protesters surrounding a government building were mirroring Justin’s keystrokes in their complaints, and the people in the building opened fire. Justin suggested the building be taken. It was, however instead of arresting, they killed “anything that moved.” Afterwards, there was instantaneous calls to spread to the rest of the country, even places where no protesters were being killed, and Justin suggested that the action required was already taken, and to purposefully retreat and evacuate. Arguments ensued. They spread west anyway. The Libyan army spread east from Tripoli, bombarding Misrata. There was a security council resolution for Libyan troops to not approach cities with tanks. They did anyway. Justin allowed Misrata to be taken by force from the east to protect the city’s starving and barricaded inhabitants. Heroes took Misrata and killed the smothering army unit. Not everyone made it out alive or unscathed. They spread so far as to protect an electrical station that feeds Benghazi’s 1.3 Million people, and Justin demanded they hold position there. A large army unit approached again from Tripoli, violating the security council resolution. Scouts were threatened, and Justin nodded his head to take out the violators. 800 military men died a fiery death. Instead of burying the dead, their bones were moved two or three times to cover up the event. What an onerous moral conflict experienced by those involved. The Libyan government was demoralized at the news. Benghazi was saved…for a time, instigating terror’s reason for an attack 16 months later on September 11, 2012. The media could finally talk about the event’s of Benghazi.

Comedian and actor Jim Carrey would later joke about it, mentioning a band named after the event and saying: “If you can’t laugh at yourself–” Justin’s involvement as a goat was complete–supposing a sick justice for once asking someone to drive his car with drugs in it. The poor United States was tongue tied. Carrey and others had the courage to break beyond and speak their minds. Nothing is forbidden from satire.

Justin learned that however more organized and deliberate, even keystrokes were not necessary to absorb passing thoughts and ideas. They could read his mind. A psychological term called thought broadcasting was becoming commonplace. Mentally ill liability or a man hooked on focus; this nut was cracked.

By mid April 2011 the Justin had spent months drudging and wandering around aimlessly talking with animals, communicating with insects. He once peed into a plastic cup found on the train, after going the wrong way and winding up over an hour between pee breaks post drinking–but with that kind of urgency; it doesn’t matter. Stupidly, he left the cup on the train stairs. On those walks afterwards, he saw dozens of empty or half-empty plastic cups left in his path.

Justin wrote on his personal computer a map ceding areas east of the Gaza strip to the Palestinians for agriculture, instead of growing flowers while people next door starve (6 April 2011). The next day, a rocket was launched [from gaza] killing an israeli school child in a bus in the same area–a precision strike on a rural road between two fields. “We will not tolerate this attack,” Defense Minister Ehud Barak said during a visit to Gaza Division headquarters. “Our response will continue as long as necessary to make it clear to the other side that these types of attacks will not be tolerated. We hold Hamas responsible for everything that comes out of Gaza and expect that Hamas understands what is permitted and what is forbidden.” –Jerusalem Post 8 April 2011 This masked-man fallacy seems true if they were actually talking about an attack; but not very supportable when referring to ceding land for farming to the Gaza strip. “It is important for the world to recognize who is the true face of terror in the battle. Hint: they target school buses and children.” – Dwane Lester 18 April 2011, News Real Blog

I was trying to communicate with animals in a wooded area. I heard a noise, and went to it to listen closely. A rustling startled me and a bird nearby started laughing.

I heard a tasteless joke in 2003, and repeated it numerous times. A man and a 8 year old girl are walking through the woods. The girl says, “Mister, mister. I’m scared of the dark and I’m scared of the woods.” He replied, “How do you think I feel, little girl; I gotta walk out of here by myself.” Years later, during a walk at night, I was walking in a field between roads, with a wooded patch ahead of me. I saw a bird fly up into the air, do a couple wide circles, and chirp in Morse code, “M.I.S.T.E.R. M.I.S.T.E.R.” then took off due North. I continued walking past the wooded area, then thought of the joke and immediately looked back at the woods I had just passed. “Relax,” a male voice whispered. I was petrified. I did not investigate. I even saw a mall security guard just after and didn’t tell him what I had heard. Three days later, the fear of silence wasn’t going away, as a inflated balloon drifted into the backyard, so I called the police to tell them the story of that night by the woods. They asked me why I turned around in the first place, and I cowardly didn’t admit what the little bird had told me. “I don’t know.” The joke got a lot less funny. The birds stopped laughing.

Also in April 2011, I was playing pick up soccer and confronted a 50/50 ball against a girl. My mind and arm were seized and it grabbed her breast as I ran by. Shocked, I apologized and spent the rest of the evening on the opposite side of the field. Late in the game, my voice was seized and it said, “pick and roll!” as I beat a defender. She spoke up, “I’m done.” The game ended. The seizures were just beginning.

He went to a military base , and they turned him around at the gate for inappropriate attire on a motorcycle. He made himself to fit the description and went back–meeting with military police who asked Justin if he wanted to join up. “I don’t know if that’s where I’m needed,” he whimpered. After a day on the beach on a 90° day, he went to a naval recruiting station wearing sandals and shorts; and when he got to the guarded gate, he saw these men in full boots and camouflage staring Justin down like they just saw a fool straddling a motorcycle with no safety gear, “I think I made a wrong turn.” The guard replied, “yeah you did.” He called a recruiter a year later but didn’t meet the exclusive GPA or weight requirements. He didn’t have the courage and exceeded the maximum enlistment age requirement. If he was to participate on the global stage, it was going to be on his own.

After getting lost on a long walk, a cabby brought him back downtown when he didn’t have enough smarts to find his own way. He stiffed him upon realizing he didn’t have enough cash. This harm nobody thing on the way to the top wasn’t going well.

He was walking one night and glanced over at a small white sedan with three people around it. As he walked on, he felt a tickle in his gut, as if he was supposed to do something. He walked back to the group, and asked them why they were there. “Something’s not right,” one man said. Justin agreed. Why else was his stomach tickling, except to finger them, or to trick him into action? He ended up walking away.

A ferule cat began leading him on the sidewalk, turning its head to check his distance. That night he flagged down a policeman to inform him of a broken transformer flickering down the street. His K-9 unit barked in Morse code, “H.I.M.” Days later, still walking, a person passed in the street, with a voice recording that sounded just like Justin saying, “we did two, why not three?” “NO, NO, NO,” Justin insisted, as the third Libyan city and home to the dictator was not a site of protest or bludgeon.

Meanwhile, he told the girl he was dating that he saw something on her privates, and she denied anything new or out of the ordinary of acne. “I understand and appreciate your concern but I have had ingrown hairs, folliculitis before, it is apart of shaving and waxing where the hair grows underneath the skin… I really think we have nothing to worry about.” He didn’t believe her.

what was unfolding, a psychiatrist would call a nervous breakdown and the police would call a form of suicide by cop.

When I was 10-12, I took a laundry basket and caged my puppy for no reason other than to see her reaction. In 2000, I taped a harness together and suspended a rat terrier to the ceiling for up to five seconds. The tape peeled off the wall before anybody could take a picture and she fell 8 feet, uninjured. We still hung out, but it wasn’t a nice thing to do. I had a dog that liked to sleep under the bed, and I would put my weight on her to make it more difficult for her to get out. The following could be considered a just punishment for these uncalled for behaviors in my youth:

Over the next few days, the scapegoat continued to walk, even leaving home with two backpacks full of stuff because he also felt assailed there. People would speak to others, which related to what Justin was seeing and typing and thinking; whether they knew it or not.

He dated some skin specimens to leave behind for record, then brought his firearm on a walk for the first time; the safest place being locked and on his person. The armed gunman–alleged terrorist insurgent–spent a night camped out. He heard a rustling in the wooded area a few meters away, and wondered if the person needed some of his bug spray. He tossed the can into the air and it landed where the sound came from. A few hours later, hearing nothing, he decided to search for the spray, and reentered the wooded area closest to the approximate location. He found a trail big enough to crawl through that went directly to where the can landed, that ended as he found the bug spray, with thick walls of brush everywhere else.

The next day was the sixth of May. He left one backpack and explored his surroundings, getting lost. He went to a convenience store to ask to wash his hands then buy something, and they threatened to call the police; so he tipped over a trash can and sat inside it for a moment, “If you’re gonna treat me like trash, I might as well live in it.” He saw some guys hanging out in their garage and he asked them to wash his hands. They refused, so he washed them in a puddle right in front of them as they protested and threatened to call the police.

He found a street called “fairview drive,” and began walking up and down it. Leaving direction out of his control, he closed his eyes and kept walking…right into the wall of a house; and he continued on–back and forth in the grassy center of the road. He had been walking all day; a person passed by him with a dog and said, “sit.” Justin sat as well

Twenty minutes later, the man walked by again with his dog and said, “come on, let’s go.” Justin stayed. something had to be done about the leadership trying to tie him as a patsy to their behavior. He decided he would test that leadership, laying down to rest. After dusk, he was arrested (earworm) during a peaceful altercation with local law enforcement–who it was revealed wouldn’t leave him alone on neutral ground. The sheriff said, you have three options: “One, you can go to jail, which is crazy; or two, you can go to a mental institution, which is retarded; or three, you can get in my car and I’ll take you anywhere in the city.” Justin asked, “Are you mental health trained?” His response was a resounding, “yes.” Justin lay there on Fairview Drive in Spring Valley, put up three fingers indicating the three options, then put them down one at a time and said, “well, I’m not crazy and I’m not retarded (leaving only his middle finger), and I don’t want to get in [a] car [with a stranger]. So I’m gonna stay right here.” “I’m gonna lose my house,” the man in blue wailed. “You can just go away. You don’t have to be here,” Justin quivered. The sheriff decided to enforce every option he gave the liberated grass lover for peaceful passive resistance: detain him, put him in his car, adjudicate him to a mental health facility, and jail him. The person who called suspicious activity approached the situation and tried to give money to Justin, which he didn’t need, in the presence of the officer. Justin starting crying uncontrollably as he declined help. During the arrest, Justin pointed out that he had a firearm securely locked in his backpack. Not only are the homeless not allowed to rest on publicly owned neutral ground, they’re also not allowed to exercise the second amendment. All because the impervious renegade wouldn’t get in the authority’s car and leave a public place; the arrestor now charged him criminally after already handcuffing and detaining him: “I’m gonna do everything in my power to make sure you never see that firearm again.” “why?” [a supplicatory petition]. A draft of this biography was found in his possession. After repeated questioning at the scene, shackled in handcuffs, unaware of any of his remaining inherent rights, and divulging only that he loves his mother; he was cited as having “significant” mental health history–although none of his history or prior behavior were disclosed. They hit every red light and railroad crossing in the car ride to jail. The second backpack he left in the woods went missing. The Libyan capital would soon fall, along with its weapons caches.

Previous ChapterHomeNext Chapter
Chapter 1234 │ 5 │678910

Comments are closed.