Memoirs »
PICKLE JUICE – Chapter 7
Chapter 12345678910

“The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche


John Gowdy, Sandcastle Competition, September 2012, San Diego, CA

During my freshman year of high school, an opposing player slide tackled my planted leg. It swelled up every time I trapped a soccer ball for the rest of the season. That year, I was rollerblading in the basement with my brother and set up some obstacles, including a clothesline to duck under. He didn’t see it and it caught him on the neck, leaving a large rope burn. In college, I had a dog who used to go for runs with. She used to go for runs without me, finding herself at my ex girlfriend’s. So because she liked running so much, we used to go rollerblading together. Well, She would run and I would roller blade behind her, with the leash tugging at her neck. I also borrowed a winch from my manager friend where I worked, asked a neighbor to tie on to their bordering tree, and hooked a 180 foot zip line through the entire back yard. I hooked a roller and a loose line to the suspended one, effectively giving her most of the back yard to play in. We were playing fetch one day and I threw a stick and instead of running directly at it, she ran around me and then at it. This induced enough force to sweep me off the ground and land on my side, leaving a marked burn and another weak spot. The interesting thing about these similar stories, is that during the incarceration, while being transferred to court, I was lined up against a wall. The officer unnecessarily pushed my shoulder against the wall, which pressed my face against the cement; and I pushed back against his hand. The officer kicked me from behind, first directly at the location of the slide tackle, then directly at the location of the swept leg; yelling, “You want some fuck ‘n’ trouble?” I spent the next ten minutes laid out on the floor of a cell before being transferred to court. An inmate walked by and said out loud, “I am supposed to thank you but I don’t know why…” It was because someone else could replace my steps and mask their identity when getting realeased prematurely in my stead. Delusion? Why does everyone’s spoken word match it? The encounter was an ESP guard’s method for introducing two visiting groups, gangs, named fuck and trouble respectively. Gangs would go places police would not, and he could have a wider reach being involved with them. He could also give them a moral compass. These had become friends and Justin wanted to allow as many groups as possible into his life; and the pain electrical signal was how that introduction was broadcast as a marker through his brain and beyond.

I was having sex with a girl and it was so sensual I got close to ejaculating really quickly, so I stopped to regain my composure. I lost my erection worrying. “Did you cum?” she asked. “Sort of,” which was less embarrassing than admitting I had just lost my erection. I would make sure in the future not to stop and start too many times when having sex, else it would happen again. At age 12, Some friends decided it would be cool to masturbate each in a corner of a tent. I had never cum and didn’t then either. I peed on my hand so I didn’t look foolish. One time in college during a one night stand, I had to pee really badly. I peed a little bit in her vagina to make it seem like I had ejaculated, but I had to pee so bad I didn’t even want to continue having sex. One time, had just ended a relationship and was having sex with a former girlfriend and I came unannounced inside her like I did with the last relationship; but also because I heard a rumor that she had once had an abortion and so I was selfishly unconcerned about pregnancy and enjoyed better orgasms without pulling out.

I friend followed me around one night when I was drinking heavily, herself not having had a drop. She wound up in my room, sitting next to me as I lay in bed. I said, “Do you want to have sex?” She said she did and I asked my roommate to leave. He reluctantly did. She was on top and then I was on top, and I got tired and fell asleep still inside her. She slipped out from under me and left the room. The next day at lunch, people were talking about it and I suggested it was a date rape. We stopped speaking to each other. I don’t know if it was rape.

A few years later, I was hanging out with a friend and we got to kissing. We went back to her place and to her bedroom. Laying in bed, I asked if she had a condom. She jumped out of bed and grabbed one, and rushed back to bed, spooning in front of me. I put on the condom and she immediately acted lethargic. I pulled away and she reached back hard and grabbed me as if to pull me closer, saying, “no,” but then said barely vocal whispers of swear words of condemnation. I didn’t know what the mixed signals meant but I continued. I don’t know if it constitutes rape.

Friends one girl told me I had sex with her, but I remember only a moment between sleeping. I would have been glad to sober.

One time, me and a girl were in bed for the first time, I went down on her, and then I moved up towards her face. It got strange and she had second thoughts. She thought that was too aggressive. We agreed that it was shallow and she didn’t want shallow. She left. The jarring between a successful encounter with an intelligent and friendly person, transitioning into a friendship-ending rejection, stays in memory forever.

I met a fun girl at the bar, and we went back to my place. We started having sex and she was like, “wrong hole!” I pulled out and put it right back in the same hole. “Wrong hole!” We laughed it off and went to sleep. She left me a nice note with her phone number when I woke up but I didn’t call. A church member called and left a message crying, but I didn’t return that call either.

At a wedding, I might have designated to an attraction that I was not interested in a serious relationship. She designated that that was not really her thing, it got strange, and the encounter ended. She actually left her own hotel room, as did I.

I met a girl at the bar, and we danced around the idea of dating. She brought me home one night and we kissed in her car before telling me she didn’t want to go any further, “please” she asked. I eventually got out of her car. We went on a date for dinner and a movie, and she came up to my apartment and we lay in bed making out; before she left. One night, she wanted to come over in the middle of the night and I said sure, but I didn’t get out of bed to greet her at the door. I just texted her to come on inside. She knocked but left and we never hung out again.

Girls have methods for teaching men boundaries. One girl kept her jeans on, but gave me a lap dance. When I would try to get inside her pants, she taught me a boundary. It hurt, but that’s a positive experience. Another girl let me feel her tits, but stopped me at her waist. First dates, and how you react to delaying gratification, are what girls use (and sometimes abuse for their own fragile safety) to separate men from boys.

A friend of a girl I dated once accused me of getting mad at the girl for not wanting to have sex with me. In fact, the issue of sex never came up. I got mad cause she couldn’t decide if she wanted to go to my place or if she wanted me to drop her off at hers and I had already driven half way between two houses about three times before I decided to just drop her off at her place, kick her out of my car, and call it a night. Her friend asked her what happened and if she was ok and she told her, “I don’t know. I don’t remember.” So the friend automatically assumed I wanted to have sex with her and assumed I got mad she didn’t want to.

A girl sitting at the bar, left for a moment, then came back and accused me of taking her 20 dollars off the bar. She said, “it’s either you or one other guy.” I said I was sorry but didn’t swipe her money. She said, “don’t say sorry if you didn’t take it.”

I met a girl at the local wing joint. She immediately took a liking to me and me to her as well. We did not wait long to exchange phone numbers. I took her for a motorcycle ride one day. She hung on so tight I couldn’t be sure if she even opened her eyes; but she liked me and that was a long welcomed feeling. It had been a very exciting couple of weeks; she kept a clean home and seemed responsible. I did notice pretty early on that she was very protective of her home. We ate a meal together, kissed a lot, and she invited me back one hot summer day to swim in her pool.

That day, we played in the pool, kissed a lot, and she wrapped her legs around me so tight I didn’t have to hold her. She was a good kisser. We went inside and dried off, contemplating a movie. None of her movies were interesting. It was almost like they were meant for first graders. I was confused. We sat on the couch and things became heated. She immediately took control of my body like reigns. I motioned to go down on her and she pulled me back to her face. I asked her if she had any condoms. She said she did not. I suggested going home to get one, and she, oddly, said in a soft voice that; she would lock the door. We continued to kiss. My penis was exposed and I was on top of her. Her hands were firmly gripped on my hips. I reached forward to kiss her and it was difficult because her arms were locked in a position that kept my pelvis from allowing me to lay on her to kiss her. We had been lying on the couch, and kissing, and I rolled on top of her to lay on her. she was wearing a skirt and underwear. Naturally, her legs spread as I rolled. but instead of resting my weight on her body, with my penis pressed between us, she braced my body up in the air. My shorts rode up and my penis was exposed. that is when she guided me. I couldn’t even reach down to kiss her. It was quite tiring actually. My penis touched her privates, and her underwear were loose. The tip of my penis was rubbing her, guided by her outstretched arms. I motioned my body towards the door, “I’m going to get a condom.” “NO!” she shouted and gripped tighter on my hips. When she locked her arms onto my hips, I then made three test motions to discover which direction she was wanting me to go. The first was to pivot down and kiss her. That was not even ergonomic due to her outstretched hands and locked arms, not even being able to lie down on top of her to kiss. The second motion was to get off of her completely, using a considerable amount of energy nearly lifting her off of the couch by her grabbing onto my hips; blocking my attempted separation and holding me close. The third motion I made was a gentle nudge with my pelvis towards hers. That was held in place, not viciously or forcefully restricted as the motion to get off of her. I could not make any motion, and forward was the path of least resistance. She would not let me off of her. So I made a second motion towards her and the tip of my penis penetrated her. I stopped, looked at her wide eyes with a face that had no anger at all. Her face made no motion that anything was wrong at all. I thrust again with little to no resistance from her, this time deeper. Slowly. And we began to have sex. I rolled onto the ground with her on top of me. She planted her knees and bounced straight up and down, looking off into the distance completely detached from a mutual encounter. She moved faster, faster. I became close to orgasm, and tried to slow her down; which was ignored. I then grabbed her hips harder and stopped her motions, narrowly avoiding ejaculation. We stopped for a few minutes and I carefully asked her how she felt about unwanted pregnancies. “If you were ever in a position where you became pregnant with someone you didn’t know, would you consider an abortion?” “no,” she calmly replied with a soft smile. “Well, what about your menstrual cycle? When was the last time you had a period?” After a few minutes, she replied that it had been nearly three weeks. I was immediately set back. I felt like I could have just fathered her baby and would have no say in the matter. Could I never have had sex with her? I required the same forceful action to stop her as she made to keep me from getting off of her. I felt set up. I tried to get off her. I asked to get a condom. There was one way I was allowed to go. I stopped as soon as I barely entered, and looked her in the eye and there was no attempt to hold me back at that point. I went very slow, and then I rolled on to the floor so she could get on top, and then SHE wouldn’t stop when I was about to ejaculate. I said, wait. I grabbed her hips to hold her. She fought me and kept bouncing and bouncing. as I got closer to ejaculate, I grabbed her harder and held her up to stop. What was I supposed to do?

At that point she complied and hovered above me with my penis barely inside her. After I recovered, I sat down next to her and we talked about how she feels about abortion. That is when she said that it felt so good. We sat for a few more moments, and decided to continue anyway. We started kissing again and I sat her on the couch and fucked her, she didn’t try to stop me, then I ejaculated on her stomach. A half hour later, there was still excitement in the air and we continued to kiss. I carried her upstairs to her bedroom, lips locked. She grabbed the back of my head and pressed my mouth hard to her vagina. It was difficult to work, not that I’m great at it to begin with, but I couldn’t maneuver my tongue very well. She seemed to be enjoying it. When I felt the time was appropriate, I began to move back towards her face. I began to position my penis in front of her and she grabbed my hips again and said, “no.” At this point I was thoroughly confused and frustrated. I got off of her quickly this time, and I said, I’m going to get a condom and she didn’t say anything. I put my pants and undershirt on, and either said I would be right back or just left. I went home, grabbed a hand full of condoms, and went back. I walked up stairs; she was still on the bed. I remember being visibly upset when I returned, placed the condoms on her dresser, and told her that if she ever decided to have sex, to use protection. Then I went home forgetting my board shorts. I didn’t enjoy my overall experience with her and I didn’t want to see her again. I was abrupt, confused, frustrated by profoundly mixed messages, unfamiliar, and did not want to be a part of the situation; one which I find haunting me continuously as the worst kind of monster in the world.

Three days later, she texted me an invite to dinner. I declined –citing abortion of all topics, she said, “you didn’t cum in me, so it’s ok.” I said that I didn’t want to see her because I couldn’t date someone that would outright refuse to abort an unwanted child and so calmly reject the conversation as almost trivial, after riding me unresponsive to an attempt to slow the proceedings. I felt and feel that bringing unwanted children from ill-prepared parents into the world would be cruel to the child and life-locking two strangers who may, after only a few weeks, turn out to be incompatible. That evening, I went home and my tail light replacement had arrived in the mail and I took my bike apart to switch lights. A vehicle drove by, and I heard, “argh, I hope you rot in hell!” I’ve been there ever since

Several months later, I was at the bar and overheard her saying, “he raped me. Thank god for DNA.” I sank. My worst fears were realized. This person is accusing me of something just terrible. None, or very few girls even looked at me after that. I was sentenced to hell and I didn’t even know if what had happened was my fault or if I deserved to be called such a name. I said nothing. I nearly bumped right into her as we both walked into the grocery store one day. She looked up at me and a shiver went down my spine–stopping me in my tracks. She made a disgusted look and continued to walk in. I waited a few seconds and then quickly got my food items and left without seeing her again.

Not long after; I was playing pool one night; minding my own business. I looked up and saw a woman undressing me with her eyes from across the room. Minutes later, she was standing next to me clearly wanting something. She brushed up against me. Hip to the non-verbal communication, I looked up at her and said, “do you want to have sex?” She nodded eagerly. I was thrilled to be desired, even though I didn’t want anything more. We stumbled to my apartment, and got hot quickly. I did not go down on her.

We had sex like we both agreed to do. I inserted my penis slowly at first, and at around half-way, I pushed harder and met more pressure. When I pulled my penis back, there was normal viscosity. We continued to have sex with me on top. I reached down to kiss her. I wore a condom. Afterwards, she got very clingy, right away. It became overbearing immediately and I asked her to give some space. She then threw herself at me harder, “I like it rough,” she demanded. It was not my intention to hurt her in any way physically, but it looked like I was going to disappoint her emotionally. After we had sex, when she kept trying to hug on me, I left the bed and walked into the living room, where she continued after me. How do you tell someone that you don’t understand attachment?

At that point I said, ok, time to go. She wouldn’t even let go of me to have a conversation. I began to demand that she leave; the poor girl wouldn’t stop. My neighbor banged on the floor overhearing the commotion. I gently escorted her against her will out of my apartment and down my stairs. What she did after that I don’t know. I saw her at the bar once or twice afterwards and neither of us talked. I feel badly that the experience happened. It was an inappropriate situation because there was no dating at all, no foreplay, and no discussion afterwards. There were no complaints at the time–yet it was uncharacteristic. It was in poor taste for both of us, lacking any degree of romance or love, which made the experience much less fun and special–supposed to be the case, even in casual sex. I certainly think twice before taking steps with a sure thing, for the very reason that I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings. And now I’ve hurt the feelings of all eyes who fall on this–just because they once thought of me as a better person. Yes Mom, your son.

I was having sex with a regular partner, and going fast. At one point, I felt what seems like a slip instead of a steady pressure, indicating air pockets or a lack of viscosity. I stopped and looked her in the eye; but she didn’t seem hurt and so I continued.

I had always been gentle with viscosity, working slowly and usually involving oral sex; since one of my first girlfriends taught me that she liked it very carefully, which I took as a standard candle. Six years later and before these past couple situations, I dated someone who taught me about some of her fetishes. I consider that a sharing relationship to make personal likes known to your partner. She asked me to pull her hair when we made love. “Harder.” She really liked it. It’s not too surprising given the strong correlation between pleasure and pain in the nervous system. Later on in the relationship, she got more comfortable and asked me to choke her. I had read about the effects on the brain relating light-headedness during arousal. It was an odd request, but I complied at her insistence. “Fuck my ass,” she asked another time. Yes ma’am. I had a hard time keeping an erection, so I put it in all the way as soon as I was hard enough.

One time, I finished with my girlfriend on top, and she did something I didn’t expect. She dropped my load back onto my stomach as she got off. Instead of enjoying the moment, that could have turned pretty kinky, I was bothered by it and didn’t call her again. I didn’t even giver her a chance.

So when one girlfriend brought up the viscosity request, I was ready. She explained that she liked that. “rape me,” she whispered in an unnatural affection.

A girl I dated and went on motorcycle rides with came home with me on a few occasions. She was very petite, and our private parts were a tight fit. She readily mentioned that she was sore afterwards, but I think it was meant to try and boost my ego. We discontinued our sexual relationship and one day she asked me if all I cared about was sex. I said, “I want everything,” and we parted.

I stole a friend’s work t-shirt to play soccer, and never returned it. Speaking of DNA, in jail I was made to believe my DNA was valuable for the purpose of stealing my identity. I took precautions to prevent the spread of DNA, sweeping the floor and eating everything from hair to lint, hiding fingernail clippings or not trimming them at all, eating snot, wiping down everything I touched or not touching things at all. One day, I had an uncontrollable sneeze and it got on my prison shirt. I displayed it on the door so people would know which cell was me, and the guards came quickly to take it. I ran over and grabbed it, having a tug of war through the door flap. “GIVE ME MY SHIRT BACK!” I demanded. “They’re trying to steal my soul!” I whined. “Are you smart?” the guard who had been holding my other arm asked. “I like to think so,” I whimpered. Could this all have been on account of the rape allegation, ‘Thank God for DNA’?

I wrote to my friend after I got out and confessed to stealing a shirt or two. “I think I had like 6 of them so it’s all good.” The t-shirt happened to be a lifeguard shirt, reminding me of when I was very young, I saw a group of people on a raft and I walked over to get on. Someone brought the raft out very far, and then tipped it over. I didn’t know how to swim and went right to the bottom. I pressed my legs against the silt and surfaced long enough to take a breath, and then sank back to the murky water. I thought I would die then, but jumped off the bottom and took another breath, waving my arms in desperation. A boy grabbed me and dragged me to shore. He was the life guard, not me.

That was the second time I escaped death by the time I was five. I’ve also provoked death. When I was in college, there was a sledding competition and the fraternity just happened to have a coffin from the morgology department. One guy painted it, while another bolted wooden beams to the bottom. I carved out boots to attach skis and we tied the thing to the roof of a truck to the competition. After a speed race, I decided I wanted to take the thing off of the freestyle jump. It was packed with pillows after all. At the bottom of the slope, one of my friends was running distraction with the risk management personnel from the college, who looked up and said, “There’s nobody in there, right?” My friend answered, “of course not; we aren’t that stupid.” Just then, I reached the peak of the jump, stuck my head out of the coffin, and had a look around. I could only see trees. So the physics major looked over the side to witness the height; instigating a roll. I landed on my side and the coffin tumbled to the bottom of the slope with me bouncing around inside. I was awake for the whole endeavor; and walked away with minor bruising, cheating my fate yet again. I ran the length of Manhattan one day, and was too cool for walk buttons. A bystander grabbed my arm as I was about to cross a busy intersection, saving my life yet again. I didn’t even see the car barreling towards me until I was firmly pulled back onto the curb.

The rebel continued to refuse to talk to his captors; though their treatment of him was dependent on the individual. One day on the way to court, he had his eyes closed and saw a full color image of a shirtless man with tattoos in the seat in front of him. The man had his art covered arm reached over the backing as if he were with a date. He looked back over his shoulder at Justin and his head bobbled like a an old low frame count movie.

In my early teens, I had my dog hold a treat on her nose for way too long before she could get the reward.

He spent all day in an empty holding cell waiting for court, meditating the whole time in very uncomfortable positions to which the aliens adjusted him, just so his encounter would be impartial. He eventually fell to the ground weeping–one safeguard where he could then leave his eyes open and uncrossed in front of people. Wetness filled his eyelids and dripped down the side of his face like a set of glasses. He dared not touch the artwork created for him on his face, as those touches were of the most sought after aliens who were the final group to enter during the longest stretches of meditation. When he got back to his cell, he looked at a newspaper from three days earlier now that he could open his eyes. On display was a photograph of a man strewn his fingers across his cheek. Justin could still feel the dried tears in the same spot, as he looked at the paper predicting it days earlier. The last photograph of the Libyan dictator Justin would see was captioned, with his fingers strung across his cheek exactly how Justin’s tears would fall three days later before seeing the paper. The dictator would be brutally murdered with widespread fanfare, despite wholesale support within his home city just three months before; and the foreigners moved on to destabilize the next country. Who would believe a word of it–if it was even heard? What country petitioned the main character’s release on diplomatic grounds from a decidedly trivial indictment? Pro-government protesters in every region didn’t even know Justin existed to calm fashionable outrage; and if they did, the lost bygone’s release was not a priority. Tied up in a game of souls, the quiet one was demonstrably out of the loop. There was talk of Patton institute for the criminally insane.

It has to be said: The headliner for the triple crown in 2014 was stepped on out of the gate, causing similar bleeding as when my dog came home from some time to herself. To any normal person, this would be considered coincidence. Justin, on the other hand, knows better. Justin has seen what spectacular things can be done to cause a desired result in sport–himself taking no credit for some of his own remarkable soccer goals. Athletes train their hearts and muscles and brain coordination, but the fine structure of the moments, immediate heart rate, oxygenation, lactic acid breakdown, respiration, and even the ball in the air can be manipulated by a higher power. Here’s the back story: In college, he learned how to shuffle cards, and learned how to poorly stack the deck, bulking suits together to increase the likelihood of a winning hand by somebody. Nobody ever noticed, but he peeked nearly every time he shuffled, and always paid attention to the cut. Money wasn’t involved, but it was a real attempt at swaying the game. Now during Justin’s endeavors later in life, he noticed sports would follow his mood. What should be discussed during his jail term with television constantly reacting to his every breath and movement. As difficult as the practice is, it occupied his alone time and made him feel part of something special. It is his psychosis and actual reality that Sporting events are equipped according to the alien’s chosen muses’ thoughts. It is important to do this for a number of reasons–not the least of which is that it makes sports more interesting; but it also helps sports reporters to use double entendres to communicate publicly about their muse’s behavior, true stalwarts in the background of the team. Maybe by a little showing off; it also teaches the muse all about telepathic capabilities as well as physical capabilities in sports, training and adjusting thought patterns, how to free oneself from getting stuck on ideas and reminding of daydreaming; in free deliberation about the quarry’s past by referring to scenes they created on the set. In this way also, Many baseball and football games were broadcast over the day room television, and Justin would find his way into a static meditation to focus on his drifting thoughts for more favorable outcomes of the games. All of this might possibly become detrimental with insider gambling ahead of the moment, hedging not on the outcome of the sport, but rather on the sabotaged failure of the muse. Also, serious injuries have occurred on unsuspecting athletes for no reason but to relay a message or a joke to those safely at home, and Justin fled his mind anticipating their pain whether or not it came true. Believe it or not; like it or not; you’ve been invited for years to classified briefings in our search for the mathematical solution. Sports mimic those pursuing that scientific venture and their own political obstacles, and political rivals verses geographic ones elsewhere, because of the alien immigrant influence in sports and politics as they test our strength in a real live battle for earth; and to pass the time while they await our enlightenment to join them on this wonderful planet we share.

In the same token, correction officer bus drivers would be forced to brake whenever the prisoner had a negative thought, and speed up when he was on the right track. They would change direction many times, in order to make the trip unreplicated. The unspoken effort was tremendous. Understand that this was the basis of the psychosis: Someone impersonating him walking the exact path, moments later, who would be mistaken for Justin and quickly released; all while the source was kept incarcerated.

A hygenist left a mound that was bumping into my opposing teeth, and then kept wearing down the filling to nothing looking for my complaint.

Sandburg developed quite a reputation being escorted around with his eyes shut and urinating all over the place. Some treated him well, commenting to his guards, “go easy on Sandburg. He’s a good guy; he just doesn’t listen too well.” One guard had him up against a wall for transport, and gently touched him right in his shoulder blade that had the malignancy, pulling the cancer away from the prisoner. A sudden calm came over Justin, knowing that he was momentarily in good hands. Yet in one move, he lost access to toilet paper for a month. In another, he was given six rolls in three-weeks and accumulated a large number; but then he was moved again into a room without any linens by a practice called deliberate indifference, while ambient temperature was reduced. He curled into a ball on the bottom bunk to direct heat to the necessary core. Guards came in one day to check on him, and one pinched Justin’s right side trap muscle between the neck and shoulder–the exact spot of the unwelcome and self-serving doctor of all things witchcraft–evidencing that they knew exactly what was going on in his mind and how to illustrate spectrum sense removal of his main detractor.

In all, he spent roughly 80 days naked or with only a sheet to wear as a toga. The jailhouse shrink went so far as to comment on record that he had a full beard, unkempt hair, and long fingernails–the obvious result of having no access to any grooming tools–great look for an impartial jury. They made sure to clothe him for transport to court, and even colluded to force him to wear (soil) his best business casual street clothes during trial to distract the jury from reality–against his wishes. The intention was to get items with Justin’s static charge, to use to impersonate him to the aliens. They took a new mugshot for court because they could no longer recognize him. A staff infection developed around his eyebrows and mustache, scabs which later migrated to his scalp. The public defender brought up the inmate’s father’s health as a reason to plead guilty.

Some friends told me that a lawyer father of one of the childhood friends helped advise them without payment. I wanted to fight some legal case, so visited him at his office. I spent about a minute talking about my dilemma, and he said he couldn’t help. After the meeting, I walked to the front door, and saw him standing by his receptionist. I think I was supposed to pay for the privilege of being told absolutely nothing, and I just walked out. I didn’t have the courage to be dismissed, and didn’t even ask if it cost anything to be told nothing. Another lawyer I tried paying by cooking for them, when they were plenty busy at work and in no need of a chef at home.

After multiple attempts to deny bail and evaluate his ability to stand trial, the alleged handgun violation resulting in months behind bars ended in a mistrial, deadlocked over a lunch hour–garnering enough not-guilty votes to deny a conviction–even though in attendance the criminal was thoroughly out-of-touch with so-called reality; holding his eyes shut through days and weeks including visits to the courthouse; listening to television reruns that were speaking directly to and about him and his thoughts 40 years in advance; and to feuding factions jockeying for television and puppeterring power; and with a sole exception, seemingly auctioning Justin off based on his every breath and movement. They would complain through pharmaceutical commercials created in perfect anticipation to Justin’s step, recounting long felt physical punishments despite instantaneous power shifts, as if their reality was from the future of changing events on the ground. He became afraid to hear conversations, agonizing over every sound due to the power swings, and petrified by being physically touched (earworm). The jury selection was torture, as he heard the members recite their full names and addresses. Didn’t they know this wasn’t a safe place? He forced himself not to look at any of them, and begged his mind not to remember the information they offered. The aliens heard it all right through his own betraying ears.

His shower allowance was reduced to once-a-month during the middle portion of his stay. By the time they let him shower, he didn’t want to. He stopped touching his own face and accumulated conjunctivitis. He held his eyes crossed non compos mentis (not of sound mind) through the entire trial proceedings to disrupt powerful personalities from infecting the minds of the judge and jury. The trial was delayed again by a regional power outage during the officer’s testimony. The wacko’s defense attorney mentioned Gabby Gifford’s attacker a half a dozen times to the jury for no particular reason during voir dire, where he dismissed the people Justin would have kept; then ignoring Justin’s specific suggestions to redirect the officer on the witness stand. The prosecution asked him what he would normally do when he approached a suspect, and he said that he would ask them if they had any weapons on them. He did not ask; but that didn’t stop the prosecution from closing that Justin lied. Technically, he did lie, but under different circumstances. The officer actually asked him his name, which he didn’t answer. The officer asked if he had anything with his name on it; an ID perhaps. Justin asked politely to reach into his jacket and pulled out something with his name on it. “What’s this?” he inquired. “I looks like some sort of book,” Justin answered conspicuously. “Anything else?” the policeman asked. Justin lied and said no. He had ID’s from multiple states in his backpack (they considered him a flight risk to deny bail), but he had thrown out the ID he had in his wallet into a wood chipper the day before. Justin offered him his credit card. When the officer arrested him, he found the ID’s and visited the address. Whether or not he was homeless was a technicality. The cop was quick to mention the bullets were hollow point, “[which cause the maximum amount of damage to the flesh.]” He didn’t mention the gun store readily sold and recommended hollow points for maximum protection. The officer didn’t mention what type of bullet he used himself. The prosecution asked him if they checked the firearm for gunshot residue, but Justin kept it clean, so the officer said he didn’t check. Besides opening and closing statements where the defense attorney admitted guilt and made frequent gun gestures–reaching into his coat and pulling out the gun as if the weapon was actually in his jacket; waving around the evidence like it wasn’t carefully secured in a backpack–the lock having been removed for trial–then objecting to a question of how many seconds it would have taken to become a threat; the public defender refused to present any defense at all or bring any witness–even being granted a request to remove the biography and timely firearm relevant comic strips from the gun case itself from discovery without prosecutorial objection–including not allowing the person who suspected suspicious behavior and informed the police in the first place to testify. At arrest, the officer cited an inability to obtain food even though the runaway had over 200 dollars in his pocket, showed him his credit card, and itemized consumption for the day. Justin was advised, against his wishes, to waive his right to testify himself. The public defender refused allowing these things, or to switch attorneys via a Marsden hearing, citing, “those hearings are very rare,” and, “it could be tough on the cross”(earworm).

The fear of losing instructive aliens and being smothered by destructive ones–knowing his inferiority competing against mind readers–caused him to abandon frozen and breathless positions thought to salvage his status, after progressing through titles yelled in the hallway. But nobody was coming, nobody was giving him any diplomatic identification cards. If he admitted it to anyone or acted at all with the authority granted him in secret, he’d be charged with a federal crime called stolen valor. He was the goat. The best they could ask for was that he end up in a mental institution, and the story is so complex that the substance would get lost in repeated, irrelevant questioning and entrapping interpretations if he did speak about it. That was the impression, anyway.

Speaking of stolen valor, I was deplaning after a trip, before jail but after the awakening, and saw a group of people with video cameras at the end of the corridor. “There he is!” they shouted. I put up my arms and mouthed, “Hey!” to the camera, so happy to be finally getting attention. Then I turned around and saw a man in US military fatigues right behind me. “ooooo,” I said and bashfully continued walking out of frame.

I once stole a support our troops bumper sticker magnet.

Justin finally banged “DONE” in Morse code on his inch thick mattress after pissing all over the floor when a television movie depicted pure disregard for any of the rules he had used to try and harness them. After his “abandonment of his post,” it only remained fair game to the illegitimate scum trying to bind, shackle, and enslave; and the valiant few willing to risk themselves for his freedom. Justin would wince at the inkling for years to come, illustrating the capacity and not relying on the breaths and the surrounding words to achieve liberation. A guard had earlier asked, “what does your drawing on the wall mean?” In a surprising moment of communication, Justin replied, “What does it mean to you?” The guard blurted, “a lot of light bulbs.”

After six months incarcerated and a mistrial, the guerrilla’s mute and static behavior relegated him to the psychiatric wing of the jail, where he was nursed back to health by guards over a three-week period, re-learning how to shower and still unwilling to touch the layers on his face. He would try to trick the aliens in his body which end was up, so he would touch food they attributed to themselves to his anus, so they would wind up pooped out quicker. One alien spit a secret remedy to his underside, and Justin would wipe some of it before every bite to disrupt the bad ones. “His hair is long, greasy, his finger nails are long dirty and he has a full grown beard.” “pt. was pulling out fort and spoon from what appeared to be his underwear.” “Scaley greasy sebaceous skin buildup on forehead, behind ears. Nostrils with crusted hairs.” Nobody asked him why.

Patient “remains selectively mute, appears internally preoccupied and suspicious… Patient’s insight/judgment is impaired,” He continued to rebuff jailhouse medical staff–pointing to them and turning his right thumb down to indicate displeasure in them. Someone feared, “it looks like a gun.” Later he declined to take benadryl–throwing the pill in the toilet. As they walked away, Justin considered the many aliens aligned with the pill, reached into the bowl and swallowed what remained of it. It was like voting for a political candidate when you only like half of their policies.

Anyway, in violation of his fifth-amendment right to remain silent, he was in return forced to take a shot of haldol–a powerful psychotropic (he had a horrifying hallucination later that evening). Nurses cackled as he was then forced onto a regular regiment of high dose anti-psychotics and a maximum dose of mood [de]stabilizers. This obviously disrupted his mood, thoughts, and digestion; causing untempered irritability and in all effectively destroying his cognitive flexibility, inhibition control, thought generation, sentence structure, motivation for proper grammar use and ability to write coherently; wiping out brain and body metabolism–right before a retrial. Diarrhea became the regular. Known side effects include many of those listed above, plus: weight gain, high blood sugar, diarrhea, temporarily stop breathing while sleeping, gynacomastia; sensitivity to the sun, light, and temperature variations; weakened artery walls, heart attack. The comorbidity of only allowing candy is mind boggling. They feared spontaneous hitting, so they filled him with fear. They didn’t want him speeding, so they slowed his thoughts. The vampires stopped at nothing to get to draw his blood. He had no strength left to protect himself, and began leaving urine in the toilet voluntarily for his luscious captors. His dad on the outside collected bail money then issued an ultimatum, “If we bail you out, will that actually be in your best interest?” and “I think if you voluntarily agree to the medication, we may be able to bail you out,” and “were concerned about your behavior, and we were not at all sure of how you might act if you were released, if you wouldn’t even accept a visitor…if you had acted normally, you would have been out months ago.”

During “rehabilitation” it can be very difficult to supplement the low calorie white bread diet devoid of minerals, and the only thing you can buy is candy. It was also difficult to add calories because he was moved to 17 cells, mostly in 24-hour lock-down, over the course of seven-months and it was tough to acquire a pencil, let alone the commissary form, before being moved into another empty room. The ravenous pig finally got access to both and ate quickly to avoid losing everything again in the next move. Sugar was the only supplement to the low calorie diet allowed, and the brain was demanding he eat everything in sight. When candy would arrive at the cell, he would eat it all right away because food had been stolen and moves were so common, later reminding him of when he stole food from sororities. His feet would swell to the point it was difficult and painful to walk from bed to the door flap. On 11/20/11, his weight was recorded at 215, and then on 11/25, it was recorded at 196. He didn’t require the mustard anymore since he had spicy candy; so he traded mustard to another collector for a sandwich. He would also trade candy bars for sandwiches–anything to satisfy the hunger.

After jail, he would find that sugar products were nearly 50% the cost as they were in jail, and he would buy and ate even more due to the reduced prices. After gaining 80 pounds from the low, he needed new pants and realized lean muscle was not going to come back from simply gaining weight–but his brain didn’t know the difference and was happy he had returned to pre-jail weight. After a year of strict diet, he lost 20 pounds to return to the same weight as pre-jail, plus about 6 inches in his waist. He gained weight, reestablished a healthy diet after his release, yet continued to grow another 50 pounds, marking an extra hundred and twenty pounds from the low point. High doses of medications made his decision making erratic; but there’s the possibility that having been hungry for so long triggered a survival instinct to gain blubber in preparation for future hunger. Does it matter?

The empty vessel makes the loudest sound…
–Plato

For the first time, he went to court from the public side of the wall. Justin’s relative nearly fainted in dramatic display while waiting. He hoped to surprise his attorney in front of the judge when asked about his client. Instead, the relative burst on to the scene as a crowd was entering the courtroom and touched the attorney to announce Justin’s presence. When Justin tried to meet with his lawyer after getting bailed out, the guy threatened him to get out of a public hallway, or else “you’ll be in deep doo doo.” Justin responded, “I don’t think you have my best interests at heart.” “well, I do,” he proclaimed. Throughout the imprisonment, all the Court and the defense attorney wanted was to entice him with release from jail as long as he waived the fourth-amendment and pleaded guilty to exercising the second-amendment–a violation of inalienable rights, which he eventually did under duress and threat, to a trumped up weapons violation; and did not continue to fight given the psychopharmaceutical instability and insufficient motivation to retain and sustain a proper defense; certifiably severely mentally ill, unable to refuse medication, and fully accountable. After already serving the maximum jail term, the conviction also sentenced him to a five-year firearm ban; but the “mental health hold”(earworm) by the officer’s whim and stroke of a pen at the time of arrest accomplished that without a trial. This is common practice as 70% of incarcerations include alleged mental instability, though they statistically comprise only 5-10% of the free population and roughly the same percentage of violent crime–denoting no correlation at all. Justin has not turned anarchist or terrorist; he didn’t give up (earworm). He stopped fighting . His friends were not informed of his incarceration at all, a bragging point of one visitor, “we didn’t tell anybody for you.”

A black guy in college that was really nice let me touch his hair. Well, I patted his head and felt his hair and he didn’t stop me. I was curious. I did it again the next time I saw him, he calmly attended to me and gave me some good advice. “Would you like someone touching your head?” No. Thank you and I’m sorry for not being considerate. One time later, I was sitting on the floor and a four year old girl I was babysitting kept tapping my head. Repeatedly. I asked her not to but eventually caught her arm in the act–more like grabbed, turned around, looked at her and said, stop. She started crying. I should have known better.

There was an encounter in 2008 with a white guy who claimed to be black. He was ranting about how he hates people who use the N word. I had read a book from WWI where the N word was used first about Indians from Eurasia. So the guy was ranting and so, believing in the first amendment to free speech, I interjected, “you wanna know where the word Nigger came from?” Intentionally, it was left without dashes because every word here was fought for. The guy was livid. My friends thought it was pretty funny. We talked it out and he calmed down.

One guy was playing me at ten cup beer pong. When discussing the cups, I used the bowling pin numbering system. He said the opposite, for no other reason than to spread the misinformation. Later, I told him I don’t think I should be not allowed to say the word nigger. The whole room went cold.

That’s not the only time I used the N-word. I heard and repeated the term “nigger rich,” not referring to black people, but anyone who can’t budget their money. People get paid weekly, bi-monthly, and monthly. Even if the dollar amounts wind up the same at the end, people who can’t handle getting paid monthly are referred to as that term. I don’t believe in taboos. I don’t believe that a word can be owned by a particular race, and shuddered elsewhere. In jail, thoughts were put in my head that were not my own, repeating the N-word over and over as some sort of punishment.

On Halloween, I wore something scandalous for years and got a lot of people angry. These guys were at the bar where I was about to get drinks. They said they didn’t like my costume. I informed them, from my vast knowledge of culture, that my costume was just like cinco de mayo. “No it is not,” they stated. We had a beer and I couldn’t help but smirk at the situation. I captioned, “I’m going to hell.”

Staying home is just as treacherous. Two kids came to my door–not wearing costumes. I asked them what they were and they said, “gangsters.” I told them to put some effort into it.


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