I am still going through your catalog when I have time to read, so apologies if this has already been asked, but have you ever wrote about or just been involved in any jail time? Maybe been in a fight? Sobriety Test? Close Calls?
Last fight I was in was my college roommate and he beat the fuck out of me. I deserved it. Little guy but he was black. Racial stereotypes are all 100% accurate. I threw the first punch and I was being an asshole. It taught me a lesson, which is: I am a dick and anyone who wants to beat my ass is probably right. Since then I’ve avoided fights because I’m a pussy. Generally, you can. You can talk your way out of anything. Dudes will get pissed at you but either they don’t really want to fight, or they do and that means they could kick your ass, so you just back down. I don’t give a shit about feeling like a pussy. I own pink underwear and I fastidiously groom my fingernails.
My last sobriety test was like 2 months ago, the cop just made me follow his finger around without moving my head. I passed.
Jail time: no, but close. I was engaged when I was 20, to my first girlfriend. She became a needle junkie when I was with her. She fucked every heroin dealer on the face of the Earth. One night we got in a fight about it; I was drunk off my ass. We kind of grappled around and I got on top of her. She told me after the fact that I beat the piss out of her. I didn’t remember that and I remembered pretty much everything else. Plus, she didn’t have a mark on her. So that seemed weird. But you have this idea that when a woman says things like that they’re to be believed. Later, when she was engaged to another guy, she told me she’d been violently raped in a parking structure and had a note left on her that said “you get what you deserve, bitch.” I stopped believing her after that. It was cribbed from some movie of the week. She said she told me because she needed someone to sit in the car with her while she drove past the scene of the crime on her way to her new fiance’s house. Really she just wanted me to have to awkwardly talk to the new guy. She made it up to torture me. Anyway, back to the fight:
I figured it was the end of the relationship and therefore the end of my life so I crawled out on the ledge of her three story building and got ready to jump. I was out there moaning and hands grabbed me from behind and pulled me in. It was the cops. They cuffed me with those cheap plastic riot cuffs and were going to arrest me for some domestic violence charge, but then told me that since I was going to off myself I could go to the mental hospital instead. I said “sign me up, I’m crazy.”
This was in Pittsburgh; they drove me to Western Psychiatric Institute in Oakland in the back of a big empty paddy wagon. I was still cuffed and the seats were fiberglass and I would slide up the bench and slam into the big metal cage every time they took a sharp turn. I got admitted for 24 hours and a nurse interviewed me. She’d say something like “talk me through a normal day,” and I’d say, “well, I wake up and think ‘what am I gonna wear this morning,’” and I would see her writing “hears voices.” So I thought they were gonna lock me up like McMurphy. But ultimately the verdict was I had a substance abuse problem, and had to go to substance abuse counseling. Then at the one group counseling session I went to, they determined that my problem was mental illness and my substance issues were merely a symptom, and I ought to just go to therapy. So, I did.
Obviously, now I’m cured.