Daily Archives: January 16, 2011

On Twittering

What is the point of  “twittering”?

Birds twitter. I don’t know how this is even an option for humans.

Oh, I see. This is a way for people to get noticed by saying something in short bursts. My semiautomatic in Iraq had a burst feature, but we never used it unless we were goofing off at a fort in the United States. Therefore, short bursts are very difficult for me to do. If you’ve seen the backlog of this disaster of a journal, then you already know that I have decided to drop the gun and unload a dictionary into a helpless bystander.

I much prefer to kill with a word, people hate it and it doesn’t go away. It’s like a shoulder shot from my aforementioned gun-you can patch it up but you will NEVER find a way to lose that scar. Believe you me, I have had my share of scars in a desert that had died a thousand years ago; regrettably, all I caught was a foodborne virus and a round of severe dehydration. Oh, I forgot, I also got my ass hit by a random SCUD while I waited in Kuwait for the Air Force and the mechanized brigades to blow the ever-loving shit out of any resistance from the Iraqis, and I can assure you that there was none. The desert was so quiet you couldn’t even hear the sand. Some people threw up, some people shit in their pants when the chemical alarm went off. Me, I held my gas mask on as tight as I could and got under my cot in the hopes that the desert wind would take the gas somewhere else. I asked myself the ultimate question:

Is this how I am going to go out?

There was something strange about the way I reacted to that mental query.

I didn’t prepare for what was going to happen next. Anyone who has had invasive surgery knows that you sure don’t want to go under, but you must in order to live. I think that’s how I looked at it. What was the gas going to do? It was going to kill me without me noticing. Oh, sure, other people would be a bit distressed at the fact that someone was seizing and writhing and tearing his body from his skin, but essentially, my brain would be in too much shock for “me” to notice. Oh, I would be dead all right, but no one would know that I was if they saw me. They would only see me die.

Which is worse? Death or seeing it?

How many of you medical folks have seen a guy go and the pronouncement is death?

I am not a medical person. I should not have seen that. I was not mentally prepared to know that death was forty feet outside my door. I did not train to see death, I was trained to pronounce it.

And now, now that I have left, oh, I have a pronouncement for all of you. But I am not an insurgent. I was a trained killer, now I am a writer, which I have always been. I have decided to inflict pain on people I know, quite a bit.

But you know people! They say “you don’t know me”.

Hah! How could I not know you? You are alive.

Heck, some of my favorites from yesteryears are still at it, kicking asses and taking names while I struggled to find enough synthetic heroin to keep up with the patient load. In a sense, we have all been kicking some ass, but I wonder how many of us are taking names, as if using a roll call to check on students.

Nope. None of you are here in history class. You will get a D until further notice. Some of you can pass.

Hmm. I wonder what I did to frighten students.

Twitter! Yes! Let’s criticize Twitter because no one else has said anything about it. This is not entirely true;  most people are saying a lot about Twitter, about how good it is. But it isn’t, because people get caught being dumb.

Someone help me here: what is the point of Twitter when Facebook exists? When people are on Twitter as well as Facebook, isn’t that double duty for the same thing? Facebook is for short, random sentences of utter bullshit, as is Twitter. People get caught up saying very bad things on Twitter, because the easiest way to look at someone’s thoughts is through their mouth, usually. Twitter is people twittering.

Why do people not get vilified for saying things on Facebook? I think I know why. Because on Facebook, your bullshit is everybody’s news. Now, follow me carefully. If you are going to post on Facebook…why would you want people you “don’t know” to see what you are up to? You say you know someone, which you have because at some point in their periphery they have seen you, but then when you know someone again, you do not want to be friends anymore.

Then you “de-friend” them in public. Alternately, you yell at them for saying something that you care about, and you say someone is ruining your thread. That is how you make an acquaintance, not a friend.

Well, what can I say? You must not know me anymore. You prefer to “hide” their posts so you do not have to see them anymore. This can be very uncomfortable, it’s like pretending you are not someone’s friend anymore. I have done this in high school already. It is bad and I am always to remember what I did to the shunned. They now shun me by not wanting to see me again.

I get my just desserts for this. It doesn’t taste good.

Basically, my point is this: stop twittering on Facebook. That is why they invented Twitter so you could do it there. Facebook, last time I checked, is for friends. Pam Spaulding reminded me of this, because she is always looking for people to put their foot in their mouths on Twitter and then showing Facebook how stupid they are. I raise a cup of tea to her for making me say this, because she likes coffee as far as blogging goes. Pam is the meanest blogger I know. I am merely the meanest person I know, because all I can ever know is how awful I am. None of you will know how bad that feels.

Music You Can’t Hear Very Well Because Your Head Is Up Your Posterior

This is from one of the most vicious bands of the 90’s. If you are unable to process what this song means, then…I guess you must be in hot water with someone. I hope for your sake you are.

Words And Numbers: Our Best Defense Against Creepy Germs

Finally, I get my keyboard back.

I lent it out to a few friends. All of you, that is. Then I slept for a little while, and I noticed that I no longer felt as violent as I normally am. Lucky you, and lucky me.

Whoever is left…I’m on the east coast of the United States, trying to type with one eye while the heat in the house catches up with the blood temperature of the humans that are sitting in it. Fortunately for me, I have a ton of blankets at my disposal, because I have moved 1600 miles to get to where I sit right now.

People are born. People are dying. Some people are celebrating something special. I’m one of them. I celebrate all of your events, whether you think so or not. I don’t much feel like reading the news or reading Facebook at ALL because I know all of you are doing something interesting. It doesn’t concern me. I’m out of the business of caring about what you think anymore, because you all suck most of the time-because you have bad temperaments and I cannot tell you to “heel” or blow a dog-whistle to get you to shut up and be quiet while I talk, which is funny, because all of you keep fucking talking about your stupid fucking lives and you blow your dog-whistle on me, as if I was the one who talked too much. That is why you have your dipshit network that has replaced your eyes and your phone called the Internet, so you can fucking talk your ass off.

See, I have a bad temperament too. It is a temperament that is worse than anyone can imagine because I left my heart in a desert. That temperament happens to belong to a monkey, and that monkey is me. Anyone who has agitated a monkey without the help of bars in a zoo knows full well that they will rip your face off. I have a brain, which keeps me from ripping your face off, I only throw words instead of shit. I get to be human, out of all of the things that I could have been. The sands of the Middle East have saved my life, in a way.

Once, while I was in my tent in my medical supply shop, I noticed that there was a drainage hose coming from one of the nearby ICU wards. It was connected to a sink where nurses would wash their hands. We would run out of gloves on a daily basis and our nurses were always sterilizing old gloves in it because our supply line had been fragmented so badly after the soldiers and policemen who we fired in Iraq decided to join what you all will remember as “the insurgency”. This was a media term that the White House invented. The Bush branch of government worked very hard to lie to you about what that insurgency was. It worked. They got to tell disgusting lies because evidently, most of us have forgotten how to do a connect-the-dots puzzle. I believed in what I was doing, because like 92% of the population, I was afraid that Iraq was supporting something gravely frightening. I had forgotten to connect dots too.

Anyway, would you believe I grew a plant out of the desert sands? In that little drainage ditch that was steadily gathering water because as you know, rocks are always getting pelted by water and then they become smaller rocks. That is a desert, tiny rocks called sand. A strong little green plant that looked like grass was fucking growing in a desert that was on a regular basis throwing 120 degrees of blasting death from the sun.

That is because the sun shines in a desert. And it is reflected off of the sand. That makes shit really hot out there. But weird little me began to tend the plant, moving the drainage hose so the water would pool. I have never tended anything, but what could possibly happen if I kill a plant in Iraq? I lived in a hospital, I knew where the real death was. As long as I moved that hose, as you are all wont to do when you make a lawn, the plant would fly out of the sand like a Holland bulb. I had to leave that plant eventually, and it upset me greatly because I knew I had the only plant in the desert for miles. We eventually moved to Baghdad, where Saddam had been keeping most of the plants for himself and his Revolutionary Guard. There, I became a pharmacist’s plant. He yelled at me the entire time I lived with him. I waited for his voice to stop blowing wind across my face. I grew. He did me a favor, spitting all over me and giving me all the carbon dioxide that he had. I shall do you a favor and end this story here.

That’s a nice thing I am doing. I am going to let you be for a bit and be me. I am a quiet little devil, sometimes. Some of you may think I haven’t been me. Heh. I’ve always been here, watching all of your moves. It’s the only way I am accustomed to putting up with you, by watching you. This way, I am allowed to watch my ass. I have been sent to war in Iraq. I have nothing to fear, because I came back. I have watched many soldiers get sick in front of me as I sat at a desk, trying to put them through a “process” which did nothing to decrease their misery. I didn’t like that job. I loved it, but no one liked the way I was doing it. So someone had me dismissed under circumstances that you would not believe if I told you.

You’ve all seen soap operas. Oh my. If you only knew what has been done to me for simply caring for others, you wouldn’t believe me.

I was in one of the first waves of the second Iraq invasion. You have spattered my fucking life across Iraq, and you will pay slowly for your crimes. And you will never know what hit you, because it will be your own fist most of the time. An apology is no longer necessary from you, because now I say you are welcome. And when I say that…

You are.

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