atomic_fungus (atomic_fungus) wrote,

#2470: 1/1/11

I'm going to be eating a lot of fried chicken over the next couple days.

Yesterday I went to KFC and picked up a 12-piece meal, because Sailor V was coming by and I wanted there to be sharable food in the house.

Owing to how things shook out (he set a gut malf record and our evening started after 9 PM) he had a chicken leg and some of the sides.

Well, at least I don't have to cook anything. And we had a pretty good time.

...shortly after midnight I took a selection of fireworks out front and lit the fuses. About the time I got to the rockets the cold front came through; the wind whipped up and made the lighter useless.

I went and got the fricking propane torch. Ha!


Good food, four eps of "Endless Eight", Tenchi OVA 14, a couple hours of WoW, and some fireworks. Can't complain.

(One complaint: the side dishes, and it's my own damn fault. I selected mashed potatos, cole slaw, and mac&cheese; I should have gotten another cole slaw instead of the mac&cheese. Oh well.)

* * *

I didn't know Steven was a gunblogger. Heh.

* * *

(Yes I know you don't have to be a gunblogger to support civil rights.)

* * *

Anyway, there's some weirdness occurring with the post light.

Like plenty of houses, this one has a light on a post by the driveway. It's electric and a switch just inside the front door controls it.

Yesterday evening I went to turn it on and found it already on, even though I was certain I'd turned it off earlier in the day. Well...okay, I probably only thought I'd turned it off, I reasoned, and hadn't.

But I went to bed before sunrise this morning, and I know I had left the thing on...yet when I got up this afternoon, it was off.

WTF? Am I sleepwalking?

* * *

My crazy sister is apparently drinking again.

This is the same sister who threw me out into a Maine winter because I didn't buy ice cubes. The same one who was hospitalized in 2004 with 8% liver function, which is about as close to "liver failure" as you can get without actually being in liver failure. She shouldn't even be looking funny at alcohol, much less getting drunk.

Last night I was minding my own business, playing WoW, and she called me...and proceeded to bitch me out because I had apparently said something to her son about her being self-destructive.

She started off abusive and was winding up to be worse; I interrupted: "If all you're going to do is bitch me out, I don't have to listen to this shit," and hung up.

I suppose I should have listened to what it was I was supposed to have done that was so bad, but the fact is, I don't give a fuck:

#1) She is, in fact, self-destructive. See above, "hospitalized with imminent liver failure" and "still drinking". Also add "living on welfare" and "unwilling to accept responsibility for her actions".

#2) Her son is in his mid-teens. He's not five; and he's the only person living in the house with an abusive alcoholic. (I say "abusive" because I figure throwing someone out into a Maine winter, three miles from the nearest town, is pretty fricking "abusive" behavior.) Whatever it was that I may or may not have said, he's seeing it happen before his eyes; if I said anything, it probably only put words to a reality he couldn't quite understand. (Me being tossed out over ice cubes is just one example; there are others. Hoo boy, there are others.)

#3) Her son probably told her I said those things as a way to get her to stop drinking. The grapevine says that the kid "sounds frazzled", not that you can blame him. Shit. That poor kid has to bear the brunt of it, just because he's a teenager and can't leave the house the way his older sister did. The poor kid also doesn't know that there is no way to stop a drunk from drinking if the drunk isn't interested in getting sober. Nothing you can say will stop the drinking until and unless the drunk realizes, "Oh, shit, I'm really fucking up, here!" And my sister has demonstrated that she doesn't give a rat's ass if she drinks herself into the grave, exactly the way her husband did.

#4) It's impossible to get a straight story from her. At the time of my brother-in-law's death, she told us that the coroner had listed his death as "natural causes". Now, all of a sudden, she's going to send us all copies of the death certificate which will prove he died of "alcohol poisoning". ...why lie about the cause of death? Everyone knew he was drinking, and "alcohol poisoning"--while tragic--would not have been surprising to anyone. But there is no room in a drunk's brain for logic, and I doubt we'll ever understand this; the important thing to remember is that you can't expect the unvarnished truth from her. Whatever she says will be altered to flatter her and make everyone else the bad guy.

#5) ...I'm abandoning ordinal format.

She also apparently thinks that we made the wrong decision when we refused to let the hospital intubate Mom. Well, I was following Mom's expressed and explicit wishes; she told me several times what she wanted, and she even had it written down: "I DO NOT WISH TO BE INTUBATED" and "DO NOT RESUSCITATE", in large block letters, on the same paper as her wishes for her funeral. She'd taken pains to show me that paper, and to put it in an obvious place, and had reminded me of it several times since my Dad's death. She gave me her medical power of attorney with the understanding that I would carry out her wishes in the event she was incapacitated.

Of course, my sister has not been out here since Dad's funeral; she has no idea how Mom's physical condition had deteriorated since 2007. Sure, Mom told her about it; but hearing someone complain about this and that ailment does not compare to actually seeing the person having to take a break and sit down while scattering birdseed. Absent the suspected "metastatic disease" and the stroke, Mom would have been good for two or three more years, but she hated the infirmities of her advanced age.


...anyway, I think I'm ranted out, now. There's a shitton more of this bullshit, because my crazy sister is an unending font of asininity, but I'm tired of writing about it.

* * *

My sister in New Orleans was talking, last night, about going to the fireworks stand and buying her arsenal for last night. Apparently you can get eight-inch mortars down there? Eight-inch?

...she wanted to buy some herself, but she's afraid of blowing a hole in the street. We got a laugh out of that. I think next year I want to go down there for Christmas and New Year's, because--damn!--fireworks, man!


After I set off the fireworks last night, I felt refreshed. There's something to be said for 'splody goodness. "Gunpowder is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy."

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