People have a lot of theories about aliens. My Mom thinks they would come to earth to pillage and plunder like a fleet of intergalactic space pirates. “They would want our recourses!” Mom says.
Some alien movies depict them as human being killing machines. Other movies depict them as giant blue creatures who keep humans as pets. I have my own theories. Here is how aliens would view our existence:
You are on a road trip. You have been driving for many hours. Your gas tank is almost empty. You have to stop and get gas. You see a sign for an exit ahead. You take the exit; you can see a light ahead. You follow it and see it is lighting a sign for a gas station! It’s not one of those digital signs; it’s made of ink and plastic. You pull up close. You see a big red “closed” sign in the gas station’s window. Your car jerks, grinds and comes to a halt. You are out of gas. You have a strong feeling that you are in the middle of no where. You get out of your car. You find an ant hill. You watch the ants scurry around to pass the time. You discover that all of these ants do the same thing over and over again.
That abandoned gas station is our planet. That ant hill is humanity. We like to think aliens would be impressed by us. We tell ourselves that they would covet what we have. Aliens wouldn’t be amused by us or impressed with what we have. If they have the technology to get here, they have surpassed us a long time ago. Any alien who discovers humans; would just want to go home.
We have a long way to go before we can expect to be amusing to aliens.
If they hate one thing; they are going to hate all the other things too. What do I mean by that? If they hate black people; you bet your ass they hate women too. The demographics of hatred is not a spotty map. The haters hate it all= women, homosexuals, dark skinned people, handicapped people, you name it and they hate it. Don’t tell yourself it’s okay to sleep with him/her because he/she hates this kind of person but not that kind of person…he/she hates what you are too. That is the thing about hatred; it takes over the mind and rewires it to see nothing but fear. They are afraid, you bet your ass they are. This world is changing and they are a relic from a time that has passed by. If you want to have offspring that is going to be well adjusted, intelligent and adaptable don’t fuck a supremacists. If you fuck one, you might get pregnant and they made abortion illegal…because they know their seed is not worthy. The only difference between a person with dark skin and a person with light skin is skin color. If someone is foolish enough to hate someone based on their skin color…they are unfuckable.
If you get hung up on your personal hatred; you are putting up walls in your mind. Those walls won’t protect you from the outside world. Don’t be foolish enough to think there is any protection for anyone. You are only putting yourself in an intellectual prison. Break out of it, study some Sociology. Evolve with the rest of us, because you are getting left behind.
My parent’s went to see Fiddler On The Roof, the movie. The movie gets to a serious depressing part. My Dad farts very loud. The whole theater laughs.
My father watched as I was born. My Mom said he got pale and said. “It looks like bacon”. The first words I ever heard= “It looks like bacon”.
When I was a child I got Phenomena several times. My parents didn’t think I would survive. My father came to see me at the hospital. I was stuffed in an incubator that was too small for me. The inside of the incubator was so humid; my clothing was sopping wet. My father took me out of the incubator; carried me around and screamed at the hospital staff until I was cared for. If my father didn’t show up at the hospital that day; I would be dead.
We lived in an old orange house in Athens, OH for a few years. We had an acre of land with a garden and vineyards. The grapes died while the sunflowers thrived. A bat got inside the house. My Dad killed it with a shovel in a matter of minuets. He was afraid the bat would bite us.
My father worked at a home improvement store. He told people how to make whatever they wanted to make. He was even on local television once. His episode aired around three in the morning. He stayed up late to record it. The next day the family got together and watched it. The show was set up like a typical 90s talk show. There was a studio audience and a host. My Dad is the host of the show. My Dad explains how to build a swing set. I watch it with the family.
“If you know how to make a swing set. Why don’t you build one for us?” I ask.
“You are too old for a swing set.” Dad says.
I still like to swing on swing sets! I don’t care if I am too old! I want a swing set! I think.
On television Dad is telling the studio audience why wood swing sets are better than other swing sets.
“I hate wood swing sets. They give you splinters.” I say.
“Not if they have been sanded properly.” Dad says.
I didn’t realize how much work my father put into his televised appearance. I was just there waiting to poke holes in his happiness. I was mad that he said I was too old for a swing set. I am not sure if my Dad was on television again after that. If he was, he never told me about it. I still have a VHS of him teaching everyone how to build a swing set.
In the early 90s my father was at work. A forklift escapes the control of it’s human captors. My father runs after the forklift and lands on his ass. The forklift runs over his ankles. Fork lifts weight 9,000 pounds. They are three times heavier than a car. My father went to the hospital. He had to learn how to walk on crutches. He regained his ability to walk again. His elegant stride became a painful, jerky gait. His ankles caused him a lot of pain. He continued to work everyday. His pain was the roof over my head, the food in my stomach and the clothing on my back. I didn’t understand that walking was painful for him. When he came home from work he would ask me to take off his boots. He wore brown leather boots and the smell of leather would combine with his foot odor. I hated to take off his boots because of that pong of leather and sweat. His feet were always swollen at the end of the day. I would complain about taking off his boots but I still took off his boots.
My family was always traveling. We would go to see family members or to a vacation spot. We went to Disney World but it wasn’t as fun as Cedar Point. My brother and I spent a good deal of time playing Tetris on our Gameboys. I was always trying to beat my brother’s score. I never beat my brother’s Tetris score. My father would listen to Led Zeppelin and play air guitar.
“What’s your favorite song?” I asked.
“Stairway to Heaven” Dad said.
“That was our wedding song.” Mom says.
My Dad and I would ride roller coasters together. While we waited in line we would play rock paper scissors or hot hands. Dad never hit my hands as hard as my brother did during hot hands. I hated to play hot hands with my brother.
I grateful that he was my Dad. I love him and I miss him. I don’t go to his grave because he is not a headstone. I carry the memory of him with me. He died, but the love he gave to me and the family will never die.
Humans are like expensive fashion dolls. They all come with their own accessories. If you find a doll that you want; you better like the accessories they come with. Nobody is going to get rid of one of their accessories because you don’t like it. If you want to add a few accessories that is a possibility, but you can’t take anything out. If Ben came to you with a bloody knife in his packaging you better-fuckin’-a-believe-it that he will leave you with the same bloody knife. Every time you tell yourself you can get rid of Tarbie’s KKK wardrobe, you are lying to yourself.
If someone sets your loins aflame; enjoy it, but remember you don’t have the power to change other people. You can only change yourself.
During a group at the mental hospital, one of the group activities was to talk about the worst thing you ever did. Nobody was saying anything.
“I pawned my Mom’s wedding ring to buy ecstasy.” I said.
“Did you tell your Mom about it.” The Therapist asks.
“I don’t remember.” I say.
We leave group. Stan is walking next to me.
“That is the worst thing I ever did.” I say.
A few days pass and I am not sure if that is the worst thing I ever did. I talk about other things I did.
“I slept with a married woman.” I say.
Stan asks questions, I answer them. It still isn’t feeling very amusing. I keep thinking of all the bad things I have done. More and more things would rise to the surface. It became some odd game we played.
After I got out of the mental hospital; I heard from Stan right away. Stan and I went to a gaming store. It was not a video game store. The store was full of tables for people who want to play Dungeons and Dragons. They had a few board games available to purchase. Most of the board games are too expensive for me.
Stan is a huge fan of playing D&D. I never played D&D. I hope to play it some day; so I can see what all the fuss is about. He decided that playing Munchkin was a good way to understand how to play D&D. The man who owned the game shop gave me and Stan instructions on how to play Munchkin. We played a round, Stan won .
“Don’t worry, you will get the hang of it soon.” Stan says.
“I suck at this game, but I still had fun.” I say.
Stan and I would meet up and go out to eat, play Munchkin or shoot pool. We became comfortable with each other. He held the door open for me every where we went. It was a nice gesture but I would rather open my own doors. I was starting to get the feeling Stan was from the 1950s. Stan is an old school guy because he was raised in a Mormon household. He was also an Agnostic who posed as a Jehovah’s Witness to be a part of a community. I am an Atheist. I understand the temptation to join a church, just to be around people.
We began to play Munchkin at my apartment or his house. Sometimes we would cuddle with each other a bit. I always wanted to kiss him but I lacked the nerve to do so. Stan never denied me a hug or any snuggling.
Stan smoked a lot of pot. I was with Stan at his house. He was smoking a bowl and I was smoking a cigarette.
“I want to be your girlfriend.” I say.
“I have had awful experiences with everyone I have dated. I had a girlfriend who punched me and broke my jaw. I don’t want to date. I just want to be friends.” Stan says.
“I am awesome. I wouldn’t hit you.” I say.
“I don’t want a girlfriend.” Stan says.
I feel a weight settle over my chest. I force a smile. I say everything is okay. Everything is not okay. Stan is treating me like I am just like every body else. I am giving Stan special treatment. It is a difficult hit for my ego to sustain.
I didn’t hear from Stan for a few weeks. My cat, Merlin, got very sick. The veins in Merlin’s ears turned purple and his breathing became rapid. I needed a ride to the vet. I didn’t have a car at the time, so I called Stan. I called and sent texts….I kept trying over and over again. I was up all night with Merlin. Merlin was howling in pain. Hearing my little fuzzy man howl in pain made me cry. The hair at the bridge of his nose was standing on end. When Merlin was in pain, the hair on the bridge of his nose would stand on end. I knew Merlin was dying. I wanted to do whatever I could to make it as quick and painless as I could. I got my Mom to drive me to the vet the next morning. The vet agreed that Merlin had to be put down. Merlin didn’t go down easy. He was very big for a cat.
“The second injection will put him to sleep but he will not feel any pain.” The vet said.
The second injection was made. Merlin was squirming and kicking and scratching. It felt like an hour, but it was a few minutes. Merlin died. The hair at the bridge of his nose stood on end.
“He didn’t feel any of that.” The Vet said.
Bullshit. I thought.
I pet Merlin’s lifeless little body. Merlin didn’t look like himself anymore. All of the Merlin had gone out of Merlin. I howled out when I cried. I couldn’t help myself. I loved that little guy. I was pissed off at Stan because he wasn’t there for me when I needed him most. I stopped calling and texting him.
Stan contacted me. He told me that he had gone into a catatonic state in a closet. That he was in a closet when his Dad found him. I move into a new apartment and get a car. Stan and I would go out a few times a week. The conversations circled back around to the worst thing I ever did topic. Stan was feeling bold. Stan told me one thing that I will not repeat here. I took that thing that I will not repeat well. It was clear Stan was not the rational man I thought he was. The second thing he told me was the worst thing he let me in on.
“A drug dealer put a gun to my friend’s head. I wasn’t going to let the dealer get away with that. I stalked the dealer and kept track of his schedule. I would stay in his parking lot for hours, he never saw me. I got parts online and made a radiation emitting device. It looked like a big glass ray gun. It was so cool. I waited for the dealer and his roomate to go out. I went into their apartment. I moved the couch. I cut a big hole in the wall. I put the radiation emitting device inside the wall. I patched the wall back up. You couldn’t even tell I put a hole in it when I was done. I move the couch back. I continued to spy on the dealer. They lost all their hair. Oh it was so funny!” Stan says.
“What did the dealer’s roommate ever do to you?” I asked.
“Nothing, but he deserved what he got for living with that asshole.” Stan says.
“What happened to them?” I asked.
“They got cancer and died.” Stan says.
“The roomate who didn’t do anything to you, died.” I say.
“Yep” Stan says.
“You don’t care that you killed him?” I say.
“Nope” Stan says.
I searched Stan’s face for some sort of emotion…there wasn’t anything there.
“What did you do with the radiation emitting device?” I ask.
“When they died I went back, got it out of the wall, took it apart and threw the pieces in the lake. All traces of my work are gone.” Stan says.
“That’s good.” I say.
I pretend I am not bothered by the death of an innocent person. But I am bothered by the death of an innocent person. I begin to get mentally sexually aggressive towards Stan. I get sexually aggressive because I know I can get away with it. Stan tells me he is still a virgin. Stan tells me he has a micro penis. I get even more sexually aggressive. We play Munchkin together I beat him every time. I talk about sex for hours every time I see him. I enjoy watching him squirm. He manages to make me squirm a few times but I bounce back. We don’t touch each other for a while. I snuggle next to his arm and I can feel his desire to strangle me coming off of him in waves. I pretend I don’t notice it. I shame his virginity forever. He is thirty four and still a virgin. Stan tries to get me to smoke weed with him. I take a puff and blow it out before I inhale it. Stan gets pissed off because I refuse to get high with him. Stan gets in his car and drives away. I don’t see him again. He refuses to answer my calls or texts.
After a few months had passed, I tell my Therapist about Stan’s confessions to me. My Therapist contacts other people about Stan. My Therapist thinks that Stan is not a murderer but just a Schizophrenic who is having delusions. Stan is a Schizophrenic with plenty of delusions. The story about the radiation emitting device didn’t sound like a delusion to me. Stan is no longer in my life but I do have a nifty little radiation detector.
When someone is mentally ill it doesn’t automatically make them guilty of murder….it doesn’t automatically make them innocent either.