What sucked about this story? The one about the, uh, child molester? The one, uh, about being given away to a total stranger which made no sense as a sentence, if you were actually listening? As my mother Dr. J wrapped up a mother Angelica Leibowitz and her family in a sex scandal, that’s what that was. Okay, what sucked, was that, as some unreal tragedy, sort of, not really, hard to place, people got…affected, not totally self-aware, (I wasn’t), but then, when “shit got real,” if you would, these people were nowhere to be found. When it was a lie, people wondered, is it? When I asked that question, people said, “no no, it can’t be…” it was a goddamn nightmare.
This guru made all sorts of judgments about me based on nothing, based on an elementary if not sophomoric understanding of things. I am clear on my perspective. It might seem strange, but I just reread this article I quoted from the NYTimes, about a man who got an A.I. avatar created of himself, to leave behind for his family. I did not come from this set up. I might not have the same FEELINGS about it as YOU, meaning him, might have himself as we did not come from the same background. Sure, any showcasing of vulnerability around it, just forget it, can’t do it, because perplexingly with all this superior talking of feeling my feelings, since he concluded I was repressed? He had none. No vulnerability, no concept of it. This was “my pain,” something he enjoyed telling me, at his stupid computer the second time we hung out.
I did not have feelings of affection for my parents. Is that surprising? I felt for them, I suppose, but they mostly made my life a living hell, if you would. You know? Secret dementia mixed with possible child molestation — who knows — with a insane mother wrapping me up in a sex scandal when I was four, bringing in some other problem in some fucking woman — a Brazilian mother — into my life to question my goodness, question whether or not I would turn into my mother, a ln utter horror, so no, I might not FEEL you see, like that. A disgrace this man. I was better off being given a bat, a real bat to fend off these lunatics. You see the difference? My father acted like a guilty retarded person. I mean retarded too, and it’s not directly towards who are handicapped, it’s directed towards these assholes — my parents. Retarded.
That sex scandal was ridiculous, outrageous, a waste of time and space and even resources since my mother was the queen of taxes…skipping through meadows, ripping blades of grass like that’s money… wee…and throwing it around this hot Brazilian mother in a tennis skirt… over an abused four year old, apparently. These were fun and games to Dr. Joyce Rebhun. Let it be known—her name. Disgrace. Dr. Joyce Rebhun. And she comes with a little business/life manager, probably with something to hide, I don’t know, as he could never speak of what he did, didn’t want to go into his government affliations, (looking at Obama in my mind), claiming he works for “the government” in Paris, France which has its own goddamn government. The French one??? Which one??? And this guru, he even told me, “don’t mention the escort,” just leave it. Fuck you. A coward. Obviously, that’s where you’d put pressure, idiot, because he clearly had something to hide. He did nothing for that woman, I suppose she was able to get back to taxes, sure. I’m an adult now, so if my partner or family member was insane, I’m sorry, I would kick this asshole out of my house — first. My father acted comically, like, acting like he doesn’t KNOW what’s going on, he’s just a nice guy…
I gotta get to this part in the book, as I’m going to wake up through the experience of writing about it, which is what I did. Honestly, when I was dropped off at home like a goddamn object, I was seven l, not seventeen, and this jerk of a manager — who appeared out of nowhere — dared to introduce himself to me, imagine? Imagine if your home now has been taken over by some stranger with his mail on your goddamn step. I got up, from the master bedroom, a chilling silence. And I was as clear and calm and I walked over to her office and cut every single phone chord, I took white out and painted over every key, you see. Like, doesn’t that make sense? And then, I was playing handball, and this business manager comes roaring down the steps with this slappable woman, Dr. J, looking at me like she’s angry at me? With the Confederacy of Dunces — my father — looking sheepish and strange if not disappointed in me? Am I not LIVING IN ANOTHER HOUSE MORONS because YOU said HE was a child molester??? Now with some man from Iran erupting at me because of it? Insane. I thought, staring at these jerks, my parents, was this true? Why are you acting like this? Like nothing is going on?
Angelica Leibowitz, you see, can you imagine? Couldn’t even DROP me off because crazy shit happened, now with this third party in tow—Ghomi. His name is Ghomi. Her business manager. Obscene. This was my family. I’m reading this NYTimes article about how sad these people were because their father was dying, and they couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to ask him questions… and I’m going, not my story. I wasn’t given away… I was wrapped up in a sex scandal by THESE lunatics. And this stupid manager, he obviously saw “potential in her business” up in flames, because it might serve him in some capacity. This was my family. And my father is crying, ohhhh, so upset, Nick, so upset, thinking we’d be best friends, when best friends don’t WRAP each other up in goddamn sex scandals. This man pitied himself, complained about my to Angelica, who fell for it again, this woman just kept falling for a fucking sob routine. Ridiculous. She should have kicked my father out of her house. “Duh idiot, your wife accused you of being a child molester…and you stood at MY wide open door, idiot, and watched a spectacle… that I organized, meaning, I told your daughter, idiot, to dance like a maniac even to that song, practically, with my daughter, for years, so do you think she’s going to LIKE you? Do you think she’s going to want to spend any time with you??? Think idiot.”
This man called her house, acting like the Confederacy of Dunces, the title, not the content. The UNITED STATES of idiot. “Oooo, dee dee, no worries, my child is living with you now, but I’m a nice guy, I assure you, for no reason, and I was wondering, um, if my daughter could accompany me on vacation…” no wonder this Brazilian mother lost her mind. But “poor Nick,” what she did to him, not what she did to me, since we were on the opposite ends of the same situation. So if it was a cake walk for me, why wasn’t it for him? Gender favoritism. And, her star athlete girls, the blond in particular, as blonds are lethal, she said it, “you favor Jose!” She did. She favored males. These people. Am I suppose to whine, wallow, and give these lunatics an inch of woundedness talk? Woundedness talk. No. Judge Judy. I want Judge Judy on the bench telling my parents off.
Looking at Obama, in my mind, remembering the speech he gave about the young woman who was raped. Remember? It’s the time to get angry, not say, well you know, she wanted it to happen because it did, guru. On some “meta reality.” That’s what this guru would say — behind closed doors. It’s the time to call it a disgrace. It’s not the time for sentiment and going on some disturbing esoteric jaunt on an UBU ROI chair, man. This guru was retarded.
My classmates at St. Jerome’s — they know. There was a bat in the back of my trunk. I was in the mafia, according to them. Truth. I was so angry by these people who called themselves therapists and wisemen practically, this past decade. Absurd. There are lines of appropriateness. All mothers are not “crazy” like that. Or “gifted.” This so-called shaman called my mother “gifted,” really? Was she gifted? Did she not know how to “navigate her experience?” Thinking about this ex boyfriend of mine. Thinking about this slytherin I got involved with, “make less sense,” he said. Slow clap. This slytherin who farted on the phone at me when I got out of the hospital over all this. Disgrace, disgrace, disgrace. Even this female faciliator, what? She didn’t get the message? That I unsubscribed to her emails? She signed me up again? Maybe I didn’t hit the button correctly. I took care of it. Stay away from me. I know one woman in Hollywood who knows exactly who I am talking about. So back off. All of you.
A bat.
That’s where I am with all that. Just a giant no.
Thank you, for those reading, for making a space for my anger. I hear female rage is all the rage these days, I have to laugh, and in my case, right? I definitely have good reason to get upset. I’ll go on the journey, thank you. So that’s it. Enough, I’ll go have a really really fun time. Just a great time. I’ll find my bounty, you see, my thriving self — with a bat. One things for certain — if crazy shit happens to you or your family (I’m laughing as I write this by the way) you know who you can call. Me. I’ll be there for sure. With my bat. No crazy talk. No crazy instagram wisdom talk either. Just a point where we gotta move on regardless.