Pros and cons of drugs. Today I can be honest.
I have a connection to my God. I can walk. I have my walking stick and the only bar I will ever need.
Some people play silly games with stuff like Puff goes the Magic Dragon
who lived by the sea and that’s all well and good,
when little jackie paper grows up and goes away from the land of Honah Lee;
However, in my case particularly, I didn’t seem to grow up as fast or as much as my Dragon did.
I played high stakes games with demons, because Charlie Daniels played in Tupelo Alabama when I there traveling with Wade Shows, Inc. and I though playing games with the Devil was cool? I wish I could blame that and stop typing. It’s eleven forty three.
This bar is different. In the end, I snorted sixty five milligrams of Oxycodone, by listening to an internal voice.. in insticts? my gut? My God. And I was healed.
And I got my bar. And I don’t have to go to Florida again until the movie is released.
Back to the bar, this is a long story. It’s the bar that always raises, the dragon that turns to smoke when you’ve almost caught it. Chasing the high, giving up, a finding a new high to chase.
Because no bar was ever enough. No barroom bathroom was enough, no sitting backwards on a toilet seat was enough.
No night ended in blurry details I could barely remember the details to tell, as I say to not tell, was enough.
No hazy day coming to consciousness by the sound of gavel and being scared straight for a day was enough.
I chased and I dodged and my dragon changed his names or my dragon has many names or my dragon has many friends.
Secrets. Gossip. Alcohol. Marijuana. Sex. Money. LSD. Consulting. Cocaine. Meth. Dating. Marriage. Indebtedness. Skydiving. Church. Politics. DMT. Oxycodone. Psilocybin. Greed. Attention. Here let me help you. Many names, many more I don’t know.
I caught my dragon by his tail and by God I know what to do with it.
I’m gonna slaughter my dragon and send it back to hell as best I can.
I will tell this story.
I do not know if this will work. However it is the same voice that has lead me this far this year. And if today is the day I die.
Twenty eight years ago on December 21, 1994 a family member told me they were sexually assaulted by my father, David Neil Alexander. That person told me this in my eye and I believe them, because I know that he is the type of person that would cover up a sexual assault. He covered up mine. Also, because he himself looked me in the eye and confessed the same (them both together) at a booth in Virginia Coney Island in winter of 2010 (ish.)
On my sixteenth birthday, June 16, 1978, I was raped by my next door neighbor Billie Jo (something.. it blanks me) in Brooklyn Michigan. I lived at 234 N. Main, she lived one house closer to downtown. For months I would baby sit for her and her husband when they would go out to the bar. She was the driver, he drank. She would put him to bed then pay. Sometimes she would talk a long time and pay me more, it was cool. She was hot. I was fifteen.
On my birthday I was grounded. Bobbie Jo (or was it Billie Jo?) asked my current step mom (my neighbors best friend – ask Theresa Sonneberg Alexander what the neighbors name was.) if I could go to Meijer’s with her to help load her groceries. I was sent. Billie Jo bought me a pair of silk boxer shorts there for my birthday gift.
On the way home, she stopped at the Reed park on south one twenty seven and asked me to try on the shorts.
Then she sucked my dick under a tree.
I should have said that 28 years ago
[EDIT: My eleven fifty nine timer went off and I published before I proof read or typed the final period. I will proof read, but I will leave absent that period, because it’s not final yet.]
[EDIT: I cut and moved the detailed after midnight portion to a new post on the date it occured, read that, then you can finish this post below.]
It is three seventeen. I cannot believe I told this story. I cannot believe I published it. I cannot believe I’m going to let it ride. Little more editing, a whole duplicated section. Twenty five hundred words plus, three thirty one am.
I have my God and my bar, I can walk and type, and I don’t know if this story or my adventure is a good story or not and I do know it is my story and it is at least good’ish overall.
Oh, surgery went well – big story – will tell soon.
Short version: Henry Ford is a rock star, I could pick at this or at, and check out that hardware – had it hours after I woke up and had gone home.. ha, miscommunication solved before I knew it was a problem. And my son was with me when she called, a professional Door Dasher nonetheless, and he went to pick it up and delivered it home for me, as for a few hours after anesthesia I didn’t want to drive.
Great, great, great day – shout out to hungry howies for the deep dish works. I ordered online and added a $10 tip. Manager took my pizza off the oven and delivered himself, twenty two minutes, with paper plates and napkins even! Told me his title and that story at the door (patient too, I’m slow to the door.) and that he didn’t want to see the door dashers foul up my order, sometimes they don’t even come through (haha, Qdoba you’re up soon!) and he didn’t want to see that happen to me.
With a straight face he said that, and I was like yeah boy keep that that ten dollar tip.
My smile, his smile and a fist bump. That is service. Love you Jackson.
Time to rest.