Problems got problems

I like to tell people that I’ve got so many problems that my problems got problems. This isn’t really a joke. As a person I’m a straight fucking mess. I have no boundaries at all and have no idea how to even begin creating them, let alone maintaining them. I hate the word no, both saying it and having it said to me, and so I am constantly putting myself in a bind because I don’t just tell people no and to fuck off. I get something out of being able to help people out and hook people up, it does something for me internally although what that is I have no idea. While I don’t really give a fuck what people think about me and the shit that I do, I do still want to be liked and to make people happy. I suck at communication. I have no idea how to express myself in a positive manner, no clue how to convey what it is that I want or need out of someone or something. While I like to think or myself as an exceptionally good listener, allowing people to tell me all kinds of deep ass shit, when it becomes my turn to share I close up tight. Even if I did know how to express myself I wouldn’t do it because truth be told I don’t trust any of you, not one. My trust issues are deep seated, probably steming from my dad and the beatings I received from him. All things considered, my father loved me probably more then anyone has or ever will, excluding my mom. There were times as a child that I didn’t believe this but hindsight is 20/20 and looking back I have no doubt. Crazy as it sounds 80% of the abuse stemmed from this love and his desire to make me the best possible version of me, at least as he saw it. The other 20% came from him being insane. It came from him not being able to get over his fucked up childhood and Vietnam, both of which caused him to become an extremely violent person. Regardless of why, the abuse caused me to trust nobody. I mean if the person who loves you more then anyone can do the things he did to me, then anyone can do them. It’s one of the reasons I don’t like to be touched or to be physically close to people. I’ve been socially distancing myself from people way before it became a thing. Next, I have no idea what self care or self love is. They say you need to love yourself, and I agree with this, but I wouldn’t know where to start. While I think I’m pretty good at loving and caring for others, finding both things enjoyable and rewarding, I can’t do it for myself. I don’t love myself, I borderline hate myself and I don’t care for myself much at all. I refuse to forgive myself for certain things that have gone on in my life which is one of the things I would need to do in order to love myself but I have no hope for a future. I used to have hopes for the future but one by one they were stolen from me leaving my hope well bone dry. These things keep me stuck. They make a happily ever after virtually impossible mainly because I refuse to allow it. I’m a long ass ways away from being anything close to ok. I’ve been in active addiction for pretty much as long as I can remember. There have been blocks of sobriety, mainly when I’m locked up but also when I’ve had my children in my life, but I’ve been faded for the most part. I’m a self-medicater. I run from my feelings and emotions, embracing only anger. In fact I am not even sure how to identify what it is that I’m actually feeling. I’m not boy-friend material, husband or father material either for that matter. I am emotionally unattainable. A lost cause. I’m on a fast ride to nowhere, nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there. I need to give a fuck about something but I’m struggling to figure out what. I crave the flash, a restart. I wish I would catch amnesia. I wish I had a time machine. I’d go back to the womb and hang myself with the umbilical cord.

A New Ship

Ever since I rolled my Jeep my vehicle situation has been touch and go. Originally, my plan had been to come back to Colorado to regroup, heal, stack some bread, get a new whip and then bounce. In and out, quick and easy. Ha. So now, like 8 months later I am finally close to completing this plan. I’m all healed up, broken bones and bruised ego no longer an issue. I’m as regrouped as I’ll ever be. As far as stacking bread, that’s a day to day thing and really I just need to worry about this the last week or two, right before I jet. The first couple months I had enough money to buy a whip 10 times and every time I pissed away the money at the casino. My circumstances aloud my priorities to get a little skewed and getting a whip took a backseat to playing captain save-a-hoe. Once I had a little reality check I managed to acquire a Ford Explorer from my homegirl. It was beat up but she had balls and with the proper attention she would have been a decent ship. Hard to say how many miles I would get out of the explorer because I never got to fix her up like I had wanted to do. One day I was on the deck smoking a cigarette and looking around I noticed that my truck was gone. My first assumption was that the property management had towed my truck for whatever reason. After a phone call and a little investigation we discovered that my truck hadn’t been towed that in fact it had been stolen right out from under my nose. The explorer was fucked. The steering column was all torn up from where my homegirl and her daughter had tried to get it started with keys missing the little chip that newer car keys have to have. Shifting it into gear required you to stick you fingers inside the column and manually move the broken lever from park to reverse/drive. It was not an easy car to steal and with it’s beat up condition and all of the much more appealing cars surrounding it, my truck made no sense to steal. Not unless you had the keys. When I first got the truck I only got the one set of keys because my homegirls daughter had the others and her dude was some kind of controlling douche so to avoid trouble I didn’t really think twice. The plates on the explorer were good for almost a full year and since I have no license and I’m apparently a cheapskate I never bothered to reregister the truck, leaving it in my homegirls daughters name instead. The girls a gangster so I didn’t imagine there being an issue. I mean not until she stole my whip. As soon as I realized that my truck hadn’t been towed I immediately knew that my homegirls daughter jacked it. I called my homegirl and before I was even able to accuse her daughter she said, “Kayla, that little bitch.” I had the title in my possession and so one idea was to hurry over to the DMV, reregister it in my chicks name and then report it stolen. I don’t call the police. Plus the truck was fucked up, it had busted wheel bearings which I had been waiting to arrive in the mail so I could replace them and it they stole it and drove it all over probably fucking up God knows what else. I foresaw more problems then it was gonna be worth to try and recover it so my plan was to find out wherever it was and go over there in the middle of the night and toss a firebomb through the window, I’m still not quite against this idea. Anyways before I could carry out my plan of fiery destruction, saving me from all kinds of trouble and avoiding the numerous consequences that were sure to arise, I stopped over by my homeboy’s place to get some money he owed me, only $60. When I walked in he handed me $40 and a pile of papers. A few weeks prior he had tried to trade me his truck for a few ounces of weed. I agreed but he got cold feet and we never made the trade. This time as I walked into his spot he said to me, “I want to give you my truck, this time I won’t renig.” Included in the papers he’d handed me were a bill of sale and the title for the truck. I’d driven my chicks car over there so I told him I’d come back the following day and get the truck, figuring I’d give him a chance to again change his mind. Showing up the following day he asked me,”Are you here to get the truck?” I’ve had it ever since. My fucking parents never gave me a vehicle. Jesse has. And it’s not just some lemon piece of shit. It’s old, granted, but it’s basically had one owner(Jesse’s grandpa) and it was well maintained. It’s a 1993 Ford F150 and it only had 144,000 miles on it. I’ve seen cars 15 years younger with more miles. It’s got a V6 which helps me on gas vs a V8 and it’s got 2 gas tanks. It’s not the prettiest truck you’ll see being red and having 30 years of bumper stickers and wear and tear, but I just so happen to be a beast when it comes to white trash auto body repair, so just wait. I’ve already put about 4000 miles on it and as far as I can tell the only problems it has are some front suspension issues which I’m fixing right now, or at least trying to. This might actually be the time to swallow my pride and just take it to a professional. Once the suspension issue is taken care of, as long as I continue to maintain fluids and filters, I can easily foresee me getting another 150000 miles out of her, easily. She will definitely get me back out to the coast, which I think is where I’m trying to go. I no longer have any friends out there but looking back I guess I didn’t really have any when I went out there the last time. That’s probably not true. I tend to overlook a lot of my blessing when I am depressed and my depression has gotten so bad it’s all I can do just to not swan dive off the top of the casino parking garage.

Fuck me right?

Having kids was the best and worst thing I’ve ever done. Prior to becoming a father I was an angry, angst filled piece. I didn’t care about anything or anyone and I was dangerous to everyone involved with me. I was so caught up with the past, a childhood best left forgotten, that I was just pissed. I was pissed about the beatings. I was pissed that nobody ever did anything to try and stop them or to try and look out for me. I was pissed about the way that I felt I was treated by 90% of the people I had come into contact with. I was just pissed. I wanted to set the world on fire. I wanted to bulldoze the rainforest’s and pave them so nothing could grow back. I wanted to chain the doors of churches and old people home’s and throw firebombs through the windows. I wanted to club baby seals and drowned pillow cases full of kittens. I wanted the world to feel the helplessness that was all I’d ever known. I wanted them to feel alone and cold and worthless, feelings I’d been born with. I didn’t know love, or hope, or security. I only knew anger and fear and the fear left me feeling weak so I changed it to anger as well. Basically I just knew rage. I craved death, I had no hope for tomorrow, no excitement for a future that as I saw it was ugly and cruel and bleak. By the time my first daughter was born I’d already been addicted to numerous drugs, things like heroin and meth, booze, cocaine. I’d already been locked up more times then I care to remember. My reputation was already fucked. During my chicks pregnancy I continued to party, she didn’t, she sobered up, but I just kept on raging. I was convinced that God was gonna let the pregnancy go full term and then kill both my girl and the baby during labor. I even told the doctor that when he fucked it up, I was going to kill him and every single person in the hospital. Everyone. And I would have. But then she was born. And as she started crying and I realized that she was gonna be ok, the Jason that I’d been for 25 years up to that point, well, he died. Dead like he’d never been there in the first place. And in his place was something new. Something that was completely alien to me, something that felt completely different, that thought completely different. It’s one of the craziest experiences I’ve ever had in all my life. Like a light switch being turned on and off. On the day that my oldest daughter Brooklyn was born, so in turn was I. It was amazing, and magical, and beautiful. It’s by far the best feeling I’ve ever had. In seconds I knew things I’d never known. I was so happy, so excited, so proud. I no longer craved death, no longer dreaded tomorrow, in fact I couldn’t wait for it. For the first time in 25 years I wasn’t filled with angst. For the first time I knew peace. I no longer asked myself why because I knew. All the pain, the struggles, the misery, it had all been building me up for this and for the first time in 25 years I knew exactly what it had all been for, I knew exactly what I wanted to be when I grew up. I can still feel the magic I felt that day, I can still feel the hope and the pride. But they feel differently now then they did then, they feel tainted, they feel bittersweet. They feel dreamed. Those first 4 years of being a father were the best days of my life. I honestly believe that that Jason was the purest version of me that will ever be. That was the closest I will ever get to being a “good man”. I miss that Jason, I mourn him all the time. Brooklyn mom bailed on us about a year after we’d gotten married. I seen it coming from a mile away and when she called me to tell me she’d cheated on me and wasn’t coming home I wasn’t surprised. When I told her that if she tried to take my daughter I would chop her fucking head off, she said, “I’m not trying to take your daughter.” And again I wasn’t surprised. Since the day Brooklyn was born, Jessica just didn’t seem to be into it. I thought she just didn’t want to be a mom. She was young and I figured she wasn’t done being young and having the baby would stop her from being able to be young, so she didn’t want to be a mom. I now think differently. I am no Dr Phil but I now think that Jessica had postpartum depression and that in my excitement to be a father I completely missed it. Fuck I didn’t even know what postpartum depression was. When Brooklyn’s mom expressed interest in finally being Brooklyn’s mom I welcomed her back no problem. I had come to realize that there was going to be things that I would never be able to teach my daughter, things like being a girl, and so I was thankful for Jessica finally wanting to be a mom. Our family was destroyed but at least it wouldn’t be completely wrecked for my daughter. When she started going with her mom for extended periods of time, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. I had so fully invested myself into being a father that I had no idea what to do with myself when she was gone. So about 30 minutes after my daughter would leave I would be on my way to the liquor store and an hour later I’d be drunk. I’m a miserable drunk. I suck at it. I like to say I’m allergic to alcohol, I break out in handcuffs and fresh charges. Of all the addictions that I’ve had, alcohol is by far the worst. It has cost me the most, it has destroyed the most, and it was the hardest for me to walk away from. I still have moments where I want to drink. The day that I “overdosed” and dhs took my kid, her mom was on her way from Texas to pick her up. She was gonna be gone for a whole month, I was gonna miss her birthday. I had tried to argue this to Jessica but she didn’t give a fuck, she told me that if I didn’t want to miss her birthday then I had better hitchhike down to Texas so I wouldn’t miss it. I was emotionally fucked. I am emotionally fucked. Brooklyn is was and always will be my very favorite person on the planet, and on the last day that I thought was gonna be with her for a month, and which turned out to be forever, on that day, instead of taking her to the park and enjoying the time that I had left with her, instead I ran as far as I could from the feelings and emotions I was experiencing and I got drunk. Then as a fail safe, I ate a handful of Xanax. When the cops showed up and told me that they were gonna take my kid, I naturally tried to fight them but with all the booze and Xanax in my system my heart had different plans and so I had a heart attack. I was dead for 3 minutes. When I woke up I was in jail which is where I learned that they had taken my daughter to foster care and that I was being charged with child abuse for putting my daughter in an unsafe environment. I had been wasted the day before. All day my mm had been trying to get me to let her take Brooklyn with her, I told her to fuck off. Right before I went to the homies house where eventually the cops would show up to do a random home inspection, I had been trying to cook my daughter some food and I had set the fucking wall on fire. I had a moment of clarity and realized I was wasted and that I was probably gonna burn the place down so I bundled Brooklyn up cause it was snowing, and barely dressed myself, I carried her over to my friends house. When the cops showed up she was sitting on the couch eating Mac and cheese and watching SpongeBob. She wasn’t in an unsafe environment, she was in the safest environment I had available. Doesn’t matter. Once the system got involved I was fucked. The way they looked at it, because they didn’t know me at all, all they knew about me was what was written on my criminal record, but they way they saw it, there was no way I could be a good father. There was no way that my daughter was safe and protected and loved and in my opinion, in the very best environment that she could be in. No way were they going to let me continue on with my happily ever after, foster care would be much better for my daughter. Living with strangers who had no feelings towards my daughter one way or the other would be better then her living with her criminal father, a place she’d been living all her life. When I got out of jail I did everything that dhs asked me to do. I hitchhiked 80 miles round trip twice a week to have 1 hour of supervised visits with my daughter. I enrolled in the classes they asked me to enroll in. I took the lie detector test they asked me to take. I went to all their court dates and put up with all their judgemental bullshit treatment all the way until they sent me to jail and then to prison. While in prison they determined that due to the fact that I wasn’t complying with their treatment plan, (aka not going to their court dates) it was best for everybody involved if they terminated my parental rights. I figured fuck dhs, who cares what they said cause I’d thought that Jessica would always let me be in Brooklyn’s life as long as I wasn’t a danger to her or something like that. I was wrong. I got a visit from my sister and that’s when I realized that shit had gotten fucked. That they terminated my rights and that Jessica was going to be a piece of shit about this whole thing. That’s the day that that pure Jason, the one that was closest to being a good man died. I buried his ass that night on a lonely Colorado prison yard. What replaced him was close to what he had replaced but worse. Uglier and more bitter. Angier and more angst filled, possibly a little evil. Anyways, this shit is getting long winded, since that day I’ve died and been reborn a few more times. The Jason I currently am, a mixture of all the Jason’s before him, not as ugly as the Jason born after Brooklyn was lost, but nowhere near as beautiful as the Jason that was born when Brooklyn was born. I had another child with another chick that I knew was no good, a beautiful daughter named Hayden who surprise, surprise I also have nothing to do with, not by my choice. I’ve been to prison 2 more times for a total of 3. I revisited old addictions and haven’t had a lot of sobriety and again I crave death, once again dreading tomorrow and feeling helpless, cold and alone. More depressed and angry then I ever was as a child.. The reason I say that having children is the best and worst thing I’ve ever done is because my children are awesome. They are smart and beautiful and magical, capable of anything they will change the world. But I won’t be there to see it. Never having known the love that I have for my children, I wouldn’t know how badly I miss them. I wouldn’t know the failure that I know from failing them. I wouldn’t know a thousand ugly things that I now know. And I wouldn’t feel the helplessness that is a thousand times stronger then the helplessness that I felt as a child. But fuck me right?

Glory Lives Forever

Unapologetically, I will stomp through this life in the only way that I know possible. People ask me why I do shit and the only thing I got is because. Or I don’t know. Its not that I don’t think things all the way through because I do. I see how bad of an idea it is. I see all of the shit that can and probably will go wrong just fine. Its not that I don’t see it, it’s that I don’t necessarily believe that that’s the way its gonna play out. I believe that I am magical and capable of anything once I wrap my mind around it and so I actually control all of the events in my life. I am completely accountable for every aspect of my life, one way or the other. This is all my doing. Sure I may have had plenty of help throughout life due to my interactions with others. Due to our worlds colliding. But ultimately the motherfucking buck stops here. I definitely didn’t think that I’d end up here when we started this whole trip. Never would of even guessed on some of the shit that’s happened to me its been so crazy at times. Never would of thought I’d think the things I now think. Or feel the ways I feel. I’ve changed a million times in a million ways, adapting and evolving, yet at the very same time, I’m exactly the same as I ever was, as I ever will be. I’ve lived a thousand lives in the span of a moment and for the most part I’ve lived as if I was all in. As if this was it, all or nothing. Say whatever the fuck you want about me but nobody will ever be able to deny that I was passionate. Nobody is gonna doubt my heart. I honestly don’t think that I chose this life, this life chose me. I was made for this shit. And so this is fate. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be, exactly who I’m supposed to be. All those things that people consider as failures I just look at as steps on my path to glory. This is the world that I live in and so I am most definitely gonna live that shit to the fullest. Never trying to look back, no regrets. No fucks given. Dirt washes off. Pain goes away. Chicks dig scars. And glory? Motherfucker, glory lives forever.

Fuck Christmas

I used to love Christmas. I still enjoy decorating for Christmas. As a glorious pirate king, my abilities to acquire Christmas lights and other assorted Christmas decorations is limitless so I am able to really deck a house out with the Christmas spirit. I still find enjoyment in that aspect of the holiday season. And I also enjoy giving people presents, which as a pirate king allows me all kinds of avenues in which to excel. But that’s it. Take those two things away and I fucking hate Christmas. Actually, even with those two things I still hate it. There is not a day, or actually a month, in which I want to kill myself more. Just the reminder of the “holiday season” makes me insanely depressed. Before I became a father I couldn’t wait for Christmas. The “holiday season” was my shit. As a child Christmas was the one day a year that I was safe from my father. It’s probably the only day in my life that I’ve never caught a beating, there maybe a few others but I wouldn’t guarantee that. I grew up in the rocky mountains of Colorado and so it was always a winter wonderland. Christmas was always a beautiful snowy dream, cold as fuck but beautiful as beautiful can get. For me Christmas is all about family, about being with those that you love and enjoying their company. Really, it’s about the children and the memories that they make. So when I became a father I was stoked for Christmas. I couldn’t wait for being able to stoke my kids out and give them the greatest memories of a day that was up to that point, my favorite day of the year. My first 3 Christmases as a father were awesome. We would have the house completely decked out, lit up so bright you could probably see that shit from the moon. There were so many presents under the Christmas tree that they pretty much consumed the living room. I still remember the smile on my daughters face when she realized that all of those presents were for her. I loved being a father. The day that my daughter was born was the first day ever that I knew what I wanted to do with my life. It was the day I learned what love was and it was the first time in 25 years that I was actually happy, that I actually felt like I was ok. The first time I ever looked forward to my future and was excited. And as quickly as all that came upon me, it was gone. The day my daughter was born was the day that the Jason I’d been for 25 years died, and a new, better, purer Jason was born. That Jason was the best version of me possible. Happy, positive, hopeful, excited. I woke up everyday vibrating from such a high frequency that it was magical. I don’t remember one day in the 3 years that I had my daughter in which I wasn’t happy, in which I wasn’t elated to be alive, which if you know me really says something. And then it was gone. The day I lost my daughter was the day that that pure Jason began to die, and as I sat in prison and realized that my baby mom was gonna be a fucking bitch and keep my daughter away from me that Jason finally died and I buried his ass in a Colorado prison yard. The Jason that replaced him was ugly. Really ugly, possibly evil. He has died as well being replaced by another Jason who has died as well. This Jason, the one I am now, he’s probably like the 5th or 6th. He’s not ugly or evil, but he’s scared as fuck and he’s nothing compared to the one I buried in prison. Anyways, I fucking hate Christmas now. I can’t stand the Christmas spirit. There are not enough drugs on the planet to numb me from the feelings and emotions that I’m suffering from right now. I can’t help but wonder about how my daughters Christmases are going, about what they’re gonna get and about the memories that they are making. Memories that I am absent from. Nothing makes me want to pull the trigger worse. I wish I could run or hide from this, but I can’t. In fact Christmas magnifies the whole situation, it brings it right in front of me and bashes me in the face with it. Fuck Christmas. Can this just be over already? Please.

ACAB all day, everyday.

Holy fuck do I hate pigs. Not just some of them, all of them. People be like not all cops are bad. Bullshit. They all swear an oath to uphold unjust policies in order to further fatten the swollen coffers of their pimp masters. I’m not saying that they are all knowingly crooked, but the ones that aren’t are that way because they’re to stupid to understand the bigger picture. Pigs are just policy enforcers. Tax collectors. Law enforcement is by far the biggest gang out there, guilty of extortion, assault, murder. They love to threaten and intimidate. They have absolutely no problem tearing families apart. They see nothing wrong with forced labor, aka slavery. The requirements to become a pig are nothing, basically all you need is an IQ of about 75 and a GED. They require more to work as a trashman or a truck driver. I feel like most pigs are former high school bullies, people who peeked during their senior year and then once they found out that their college scholarship wasn’t gonna happen and their only choices were joining the military, working for fast food, or becoming a pig. So they become pigs. I mean where else are they going to be able to threaten, bully and intimidate people whom they believe to be below themselves. So they apply for the job, which by the way has no mental evaluation, go to like 2 or 3 weeks of “training”, swear an oath to violate people and their rights, and vola, they’re pigs. The thin blue line. Blue lives matter. Ha. There is no such thing as a blue live. Fuck the police and honestly, if you support those fucks, fuck you too. Boot licking motherfuckers. ACAB all day. Take your blue lined flags and drape them over all the innocent people that those pigs have murdered. I’m not saying that we don’t need laws or some form of law enforcement, but this ain’t it. Bunch of socially supported gangbangers. Thugs in a uniform supplied by your tax paying dollars, which I’ll have you know is illegal as well but that’s for another rant.

Only as good as your word

It is pretty nuts the differences between one generation to the next. I understand that times are changing and so people will change too but what the fuck. Apparently I’m from a dying breed. A breed which knew what respect was, who weren’t completely lazy, entitled self-absorbed fucks. Not that I’m saying that everyone fits this mold but it’s damn close. I often catch myself wondering who raised these little fucks. In what time and place was it ever ok to be a piece of shit. I was raised to believe that you were only as good as your word. That if your word wasn’t shit then in turn, you weren’t shit. This doesn’t appear to be a thing anymore. Apparently you can say whatever you want, promise whatever you want and when it’s time to ante up, when it’s time to show up and do what you’d said you would do, ghosts. For me personally when I can’t do what I promised I could do, it tears me up. It makes me feel like a piece, regardless of why it is that I can’t do what I’d promised to do, no matter how legit the excuse, it still leaves me feeling bad. I hate to make excuses, regardless. It’s important to me that people know that 9 times out of 10 I am going to do exactly what I say I’m going to do. That I can be counted on to follow through with whatever I promise. I sometimes fall short, it’s inevitable but when I do I let a motherfucker know why I’m not following through and arrange for a time when I can come through. It bothers me to let people down, to leave them hanging. This is apparently not the case with most everybody else. It would appear that the majority of people out there could care less about doing what they say they’re going to do. Their word don’t mean shit to them because people don’t mean shit to them. Their interactions with me are purely self-centered, only fucking with me so they can get something that they want, which they can’t get on their own. People are quick as fuck to ask me for something, feeding me some bullshit about getting me back. Telling me shit like I’m not like those others, you can trust me, I promise. And I want to believe that they will get me back, that they aren’t like the rest of these worthless, selfish, low rent motherfuckers, that I can trust them. But time after time I’m proven to be dumb, or blind, or gullible. Time after time I’m shown that people, for the most part, are trash and they can’t be trusted to do anything but look after themselves. I’ve help more people then I can even remember, never once turning my back on one. I screw myself constantly, in order to help someone out, putting myself in a jam to pull someone out of one and what has it gotten me? Nothing. Not a God damnned thing. Actually it has gotten me something, it’s gotten me fucked over with an even shittier taste in my mouth. Further damaging my view of people and society as a whole. In the words of the band Slipknot, People=Shit.

Career Criminal

I went to court one time and asked the judge to not send me to prison, to instead give me a chance and the tools needed in order to rehabilitate myself and end this vicious cycle. She told me no. Told me that I was a career criminal and basically said that I was unrehabilitatable. The stupid bitch even told me, “Mr. Sterner, we don’t want you to think that we are just throwing you away.” Ha. Oh yeah? Cause it looks like that’s exactly what the fuck you are doing. The last time I went to prison I again asked the judge to have mercy on me and give me a second chance. I asked him to give me felony probation and have me do drug court, allowing me a chance to utilize the resources drug court offered and change my life around. Again I was denied, being told by this asshole that with my prior felonies he wasn’t even allowed to give me probation, he said the only thing he could do was send me to prison again cause I wasn’t eligible for probation. That’s a lie. I know a bunch of people who have gotten probation after having more felonies then I do. In the joint they give you numbers which indicate all kinds of aspects of who you are. The give you a drug number, a psyc number, a sex number, an intelligence number. The department of corrections categorizes every aspect of you once you catch your number and the one they pay most attention to is your recidivism number. I’m a 4D. The numbers go from 1 to 4 and the letters A to D. 4D is the worst you can get. It basically says that you can’t be rehabilitated, that you’re a lost cause. DOC thinks that there is only one thing that might be able to fix you and that’s behavior modification. Brainwashing. I think that they take all your other numbers and add them together and that’s where they get the 4D. My drug addictions, prior crimes, and my IQ all added together to determine that I’m hit. Can’t be fixed. Can’t be rehabilitated. Can’t teach this old dog new tricks. Destined to constantly fuck up and return to prison. Basically guaranteed to die in a prison cell. They look at my IQ and they think that anything I could have learned, I would have learned a long time ago and so the choices I’m making are not mistakes, they are calculated decisions. They got that part right at least but it’s not that I necessarily want to be this way, it’s just that I’ve spent the last 30 years creating all of this. I’ve bleed for it, suffered through it, invested in it, done time for it. There’s not a day that goes by where someone doesn’t ask me to sell them drugs or comment some felony and more often then not I am game. I was in the halfway house with my phone hooked up for like 5 minutes before I started getting hammered with requests for drugs. I had literally just turned on the service to my phone and just finished a post talking about how I just got out of the joint for distribution. The life I’ve built in Colorado is that of a career criminal, it’s all gas and no brakes. It’s no fucks given let’s fuck shit up, and for the life of me I can’t figure out how to fix it or change it. I’m locked in to deep. But it’s a relentless lifestyle. It’s a cold one. I can’t honestly tell whether people actually like me or if they just want what I can do for them. I’ve had a hard time figuring out it a bitch is dating me or the drug. I love Colorado more then anywhere I’ve ever been. It’s beautiful. It’s majestic. It’s home. But if I stay in Colorado, I stay this Jason, which wouldn’t be all bad because this Jason is a motherfucking gangster. He’s solid as fuck. But he’s going back to prison, time after time, and he’ll die there. He’ll never know his kids, he’ll never reach his true potential. He’ll never truly be happy. I was in rehab once and they said if you want to change your life you need to change your playground and your playmates. I agree with that for the most part. But no matter where I go, there I’m gonna be, can’t outrun myself. So I really need to change myself, and that’s never gonna happen in Colorado.

Gone fishin’

I started this little fish tank hobby with an inherited 30 gal tank, or at least that’s what I’m guessing cause I don’t know for sure. It’s at least visually a pretty good sized aquarium, but looks can be deceiving. I have like 10 fish. The 4 that I inherited with the tank and 6 Glofish Tiger Barbs that I got from petco. I did have a clown pleco as well, he was really cool, but the others in the tank didn’t like how he made them look lazy, so they killed him. When I found him the shark was acting all shady and trying to hide the body. They were actually all acting kind of shady. Motherfuckers. I kind of just want to pull the shark out of the tank and leave him on the counter. Motherfucker. You like that? Now your dead and all you had to do was leave my little clown pleco alone. But he didn’t and I didn’t. The reason I got the little clown pleco was because the tank is a fucking mess. I literally have to clean it every few days because those little fish are dirty as fuck, shitting all over the place which contributes greatly to the dirtiness of the tank. Bottom line is they don’t have enough room, or I have to many fish. I definitely don’t have to many fish because I’d actually like to add a few not remove them. So I needed a new tank. I looked on Facebook and Craigslist but never really saw any that grabbed my attention with both size and cost I was looking for. I did on the other hand see a 55 gal at Petco which was priced at $149.99. When I first seen it they were having a sale that would have cut that price in half but when I had the money to go get the tank the sale had just ended. With Black Friday sales I managed to get the tank for $88 the other day so now begins the tedious process of setting up the tank. $88 got me just the tank, no stand, no lid, no lights. Bare bones. So I have to start with the stand, which if I buy it from the store is gonna cost me probably $30 just to start and could go up to as much as $300 or $400. Or I could make my own. A few 2×4’s and Google is all I need to build a stand. Maybe a sheet or 2 of plywood or some kind of paneling and a little bit of hardware. If I care about all that which I probably will. After I build the stand I gotta get substrate and some plants. A few new decorations, maybe some lava rocks and some kind of wood for my fish to hide out in or around. Once I have all of that I need to set it up and add the water, which I need to condition. Four days after that I can move my fish from the 30 gal tank to their new spacious accommodations and then I can go shopping for a couple newcomers to add to the mix. Not sure if I’m gonna get another Clown Pleco cause if they were to kill him too, I’d be having a fish fry.

But what if…

Do you know how many times I’ve wrote something, be it a message or a post, only to just say fuck that and erase the whole thing? Hundreds. Maybe thousands. My inner feelings pour out of me easily sometimes. I don’t struggle to know how I feel, I’m sensitive as fuck and my analytical mind has no problem sorting through all the madness. But putting it out there strips me of my armor and leaves me vulnerable to being hurt, so at the very last moment, right before I press send, my protector emerges and deletes the whole thing. Saving me from the embarrassment or the pain of whatever it was I was trying to put out there. Protecting me from anything that might further scar my already damaged soul. Protecting my ego and self-image because let’s face it, those things drive me sometimes. But what if my fear of rejection and humiliation aren’t just “protecting” me, what if they are really hindering me from having all that my life can be? Maybe that message I deleted would have been received favorably and instead of bringing me embarrassment it would have brought me happiness? What if whatever it is that I’m missing in my life was right behind one of those deleted writings? Hard to say not knowing.