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KungFuMike.net

Ginsanity; Part 3 - July 22, 2008

(Reconditioning Batteries)

Before I get into the third installment of Ginsanity, I wanted to apologize for how slow it's been coming out. In order for me to give this story the authenticity it demands, I have to almost relive every event; letting all the crazy back in and take over so I can paint the clearest possible picture for you. Doing that makes me hurt more than I think I can ever be 100% honest about. As I write all of this now, I find myself walking away from my computer in tears every ten minutes or so. I pace around my apartment and hold back the tears like I'm trying to hold in the last heave during a bout of puking. I cry and I get angry and I cry and I do that over and over. I somehow find a way to distract myself from those emotions and I sit back down to type more. If someone else was watching me try to pump this out, they would have me institutionalized in a heartbeat. I look completely wacked out of my head. Going through this process makes me realize just how truly broken of a human being I really am and it makes me wonder if I'll ever be able to completely separate myself from the monster I know I'm capable of being; the very monster you're watching slowly develop in this serialized piece.

Regardless of that, I apologize for the sporadic posts. Here's part III.

***

Grotesque anger is killing my passion for life.

~ Darkane's "Convicted"

The flat of the knife's blade was still cold on my ass crack as I walked down the street with Timmy toward the Muddy River. I thought about the knife and what I was going to do with it. This is it, Mike. I hope you're really ready for this. I reached back to make sure the bottom of my shirt was covering the handle and approached the crowd in front of the bar.

"That's him! That's the guy that beat that poor woman up!" The kid I sent to the ground hours earlier was rapidly spinning a web of lies in order to get his revenge. He had cuts and bruises covering his swollen face; a real John Merrick. Six thuggish looking hip hop goons stood by him on the sidewalk brandishing fists and Massachusetts road rage snarls in my direction. I remembered seeing those specific characters staring down every guy in the place when I was downstairs earlier. As I drew closer, it dawned on me that outside of a bar after last call is never a good place or time to try to defend yourself against accusations of rape, domestic violence or child molestation, regardless of how preposterous those allegations might be. There wasn't going to be any talking anyone out of what they were drunkenly swindled into doing, and from the look of the guys surrounding my victim, there was a chance that I was quite literally bringing a knife to a gunfight.

Timmy squared up with the battered street dweller immediately. "You better cut that shit out, kid. You're just making shit up and you fucking know it. Just accept your lumps and fucking deal with - "

CRACK! A fist came out of nowhere and caught Timmy right in the face. An immensely tall, black, deadlocked b-boy in the back had wove his lanky arm through the sea of gangsta and managed to plant one right on my best friend. Unphased, Timmy looked around until he found the man that the fist belonged to.

"What the fuck was that? Is that the best you've got?" Timmy scoffed at the weak strike. "That was fucking terrible, dude!"

Visibly shaken, the b-boy turned around and booked down the street like Jesse Owens and Ziggy Marley had a baby. I almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. I hoped the rest of them were pussies. The other five began closing in around us while the kid who orchestrated everything stood back and watched on with his arms folded. I contemplated my strategy while Timmy prepared to throw down, fully well knowing he had never been in a fistfight in his life and that he had no idea what he was doing.

Alright, if you pull your knife now in front of all of them, there's a chance that one or more of them will pull one as well, making this a fully fledged knife fight. If I wait until the first guy engages me and I bury my blade in his belly when he's close, he'll drop, the rest of them will be so shocked that they'll forget about matching weapons and they'll probably run. Probably.

I didn't give a hot bag of fuck about killing any of those guys. I didn't care if I was about to cripple or mutilate one of them. I didn't care about leaving a mother without her child or a wife without her husband. Fuck, I didn't care if I was the one that got shivved in the ribs. My white hot, drunkenly amplified hatred, fueled by grief, dissolved any thoughts about murder, prison or the future. None of that mattered. If I was about to be put in the hospital, I was going to take as many of them with me as physics, probability and massively unbalanced determination would allow. Even as it was all going down, I was rationalizing. It'll all be worth it if I can make them all feel physically what I feel emotionally. That feels good. I widened my stance, feigned defense by putting one hand in front of me while my other reached around and palmed the composite handle of a Faberware chopping knife tucked snugly in the back of my jeans. I would surely draw one of them close to me that way.

Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Timmy. What about Timmy? What if Timmy gets hurt, or worse? Because of my petty beef with some stupid kid that I already squashed a while ago? He's big, but he can't fight. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to him. I just couldn't. Fuck.

I released my grip on the blade and turned to Timmy as he was squaring off with one of the larger assailants.

"Timmy, run. Fucking run. TIMMY! FUCKING RUN!"

Timmy looked towards me just as another fist grazed his head. He didn't need to be told twice. We both turned around and high-tailed it towards the more lit up, trafficked section of the street. The clopping of unlaced Timberland boots followed closely behind. To this day, I can't remember running any faster. We were like two bullets screaming down the middle of the street with no clear target in front of us. I looked behind me every four seconds or so and our pursuers were slowly falling away, screaming out last ditch "FUCKIN' PUSSIES!" and "FUCKIN' FAGGOTS!" in an effort to make us turn around and face them. All I could think about was my stride and rhythmic, labored breathing. Everything else was left behind me in a comet's tail.

We ducked down unlit one-way streets that out-of-towners wouldn't be familiar with, losing ourselves in town and eventually Timmy and I slowed down to a jog, then to walk. We panted and laughed and put and arm on each other's shoulder as we made it back to my apartment. Narrowly escaping a guaranteed trip to the ICU with a best friend tends to put one in a jovial mood. It was totally fucked up I knew, but I was extremely relaxed and happy despite how sweaty, jittery and defeated we were. The insanity of it all wrapped my insecurities up like a hooded sweatshirt fresh out of a hot dryer. The chaos in front of me had made the chaos inside of me fade into the background and it felt like I had a measure of control.

Timmy lit up a cigarette and handed it to me, knowing that I left mine at home in my haste. I took a drag and pulled the knife out of the back of my pants. The blade was glistening with sweat from my ass. I was relieved that it wasn't wet with blood after our dead sprint to safety. Timmy noticed it gleam off of a stray street light.

"What...what the fuck is that, dude? What were you doing with that?" Apparently he didn't know I grabbed it from my apartment earlier.

"It's nothing, dude."

"You're fucking nuts, Mike. Jesus."

I chuckled and took another drag, but Timmy's words resonated deeply with me as I said goodnight to him and headed up my apartment's stairs to bed. He was right; I was.

***

An autumn night in New England. I stood on the sidewalk of a suburban street watching heat lightning pulsate at irregular intervals, illuminating the houses around me. They were all vacant and falling apart. The sky was cobalt-purple with gunmetal cumulus clouds moving fast enough to notice without staring too long. In front of me was a run down playground, overgrown with dead weeds and surrounded by a rusted chain link fence. I walked across the street and through the fence gate that gave access to the playground. There was a man on the swing set in the middle of it all. He rocked back and forth slowly, making the weathered fixtures groan and grind. I walked closer to the man. An unnaturally warm breeze blew, making dead leaves spin around on the ground in miniature brown cyclones. As I got even closer, I could see the man more clearly. He was aged with stark white hair, styled impeccably. His face was pale, heavily wrinkled and held two transparent blue eyes in dark, deep set sockets. He wore a black pinstripe suit and shiny black loafers. He had a purple silk tie tucked neatly into his vest. As I got closer, he motioned for me to take a seat next to him. I sat down and held on to my swing's chains, letting the flexible plastic seat mold to my ass and hug my hips. The man and I held light conversation, talking about each other's day, the weather and current events. He was a pleasant guy and I enjoyed talking with him. The discourse was very comfortable. I never met the man before, but I felt like I'd known him my whole life. After some time, the man looked away and pointed toward the side of the street I was on when I first noticed the playground.

"You're doing great, just great. I'm proud of how far you've come along. You've got a lot to get done though, Mike. We'll talk again soon."

I got up out of my swing and started backpedaling to the fence's gate. "Who are you?"

"I could tell you, but I think you already know who I am."

***

I woke up with my heart beating out of my chest. My sheets were across the room and my pillow was sopping wet . The clock read 5:44 a.m. - one minute before the alarm was scheduled to ring. I got up, took a quick swig of Popov vodka to wash five Advil down my throat and cranked the shower on. My mouth was so parched that the sugary pill coating clung to my tongue as an orange paste. I clutched the cold bottle while hot water rained down on my head and melted my hangover into the drain below.

I grabbed a large hazelnut from a local café and started walking to work around 6:45 a.m. My eyes teared up a little when I walked past the place my legs gave out when I first heard word that my dad died. The tears made my bleary, sleep deprived eyes sting. I always teared up when I walked by there; some kind of reverence for the exact physical spot where I lost my emotional way. I could swear the concrete block that my knees connected with was slightly darker than the rest, like a macabre Billy Jean remix on pause. I finished the hyper saccharine dregs of my coffee and forced my feet forward towards the front doors of my office building.

Once inside, I hung my three-quarter length pea coat on a rack peg and headed into the trading desk. Don was already there, having a leisurely phone conversation with an old client, his penny loafer clad feet up on his desk. His cuffs were already rolled up, highlighting the knuckle hair curling over his gold wedding band. He made eye contact with me from under his wire rimmed glasses for a brief moment and went back to mumbling into the receiver, rubbing his finger along one of his computer monitor to visually highlight a head-and-shoulders trend he was going over. Never expecting a warm greeting from Don, I sat down, flipped my desktop on and began sifting through the typical stack of morning e-mails from our needy, spoon fed institutional clientèle. Jay and Cory eventually came in, both hanging their winter trench coats, plopping down at their respective computers to begin trend analysis for hopeless prospects.

I stopped writing a response to an e-mail and watched Jay scrawl a Fibonacci sequence out on a voided trade ticket. Jay looked up at me, darted a glare over at Don and looked back at me with concerned eyes. I immediately knew what he was getting at. Don't tell Don that we told you about him trying to shit can you while you were out on bereavement. As much as Jay hated our shared employer, he didn't want to lose his trust, more specifically the potential to move in on Don's clients that Don's trust brought with it. That was just business and I understood where he was coming in from. I looked at Don. He hung up his phone, got up and began pouring a cup from the miniature coffee maker he stole from a hotel months prior.

"Mike, I can't have you taking time off like that anymore."

Don didn't spill a drop as he blurted out what was possibly the most insensitive sentence to have ever reached my ears.

"Um, you know I was on leave, right? There's a provision in my -- "

"I do, Mike, but nobody needs a full week to grieve. Be serious. You were out gallivanting with your buddies."

A new winner in the World's Most Uncaring Statement contest was crowned. Don casually took a sip of his coffee and waited for a response from me. I could sense him goading me into a conflict, giving him a loophole around upper management's decision to keep me employed with the firm. Ever since I started working on the energy trading desk, I desperately wanted Don to be my mentor; to shake me out of the wasted life I'd led ever since I left college. I didn't want to waste away. I wanted him to groom me into a real energy broker. I wanted him to make me successful and happy and proud of myself. I thought being in finance would automatically do that for me. I sacrificed the basic enjoyment of living for that chance, and he never gave it to me. Countless overnights and weekends in the office, the unyielding side projects, the piling responsibilities ever towering over my head, my willingness to take it all on to earn his tutelage -- He was never going to give it to me. All at once, my dream future I crafted out of desperation and emotional dishonesty dissolved. It took a while for words to coagulate; like I was just mouthing what I wanted to say. Everything shifted inside of me like an Etch-a-Sketch. The wholesome, polite, nervous Mike slid to my feet while the blisteringly furious, violent, vindictive Mike boiled out of my eyes and mouth. I could feel hate pulse out of my fingers, gallop down the thread bare carpet and claw its way up Don's pleated pant legs.

"You...you know my...my father passed away...right?!" I could feel my eyes welling up. I was slowly learning that tears were typically the harbingers of my outbursts.

"Don't give me that shit, Mike. You weren't even that close with your dad."

The years of indentured servitude and ceaseless groveling I had put in with Don; the emotional chains that restrained me from standing up for myself with my verbally and physically abusive boss rattled apart at that very moment. I slowly turned my whole body towards his seat at the front of the desk.

"Don't...don't...don't tell me how to grieve, Don."

"Excuse m - "

"I SAID DON'T YOU EVER FUCKING TELL ME HOW TO FUCKING GRIEVE, DON!!! EVER!!! YOU WANNA FUCKING FIRE ME?! YOU WANNA FIRE ME?!? DO IT!!! DO IT RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!! DO IT IN FRONT OF MY FACE!!!"

Everything stopped. Phone calls with clients and floor brokers halted mid-sentence. Keyboards stopped clacking. Hushed gossip between employees in the main foyer that normally piped into our office all day like a low volume Buddhist mantra ceased entirely. It wasn't just the brokers on the energy trading desk; everyone at the firm was frozen. Nobody yelled at Don, especially some know-nothing, 23 year old greenhorn. I stared at him, subconsciously on the edge of my seat, waiting for a response. My breathing was heavy. He sat back down in his overstuffed computer chair and stared back at me; his neck and forehead throbbing with adrenaline as he searched my eyes to gauge my commitment to my anger. I could see in the look on his face that he found it.

After what felt like forever, Don stood up, grabbed his briefcase and stormed out of the office without saying a word, save for mumbling something about "visiting clients for the rest of the day" to my sister in the foyer as a last ditch effort to save face before blowing through the side entrance towards the parking lot. I swiveled back to my monitor and started typing where I left off. Jay and Cory stared at me for a few moments before saying anything.

"Mikey! That was excellent, baby. You really put the kibosh on that prick!" Jay was living vicariously through my stand-off with Don. He'd had his run-ins with the boss in the past (as most sentient beings crossing his path have), but like a stereotypical broker, he loved seeing other people do dirt while keeping his own hands clean. The draining of adrenaline from my brain left me with a crippling headache. I stared at the clock in the lower right hand corner of my computer screen for a minute before my hands could reach the keys again, allowing my eyes to fuzz out of focus. I thanked Jay for the enthusiastic accolades peppered with false Yiddish and we all got back to work. Pangs of guilt stabbed at my chest muscles. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why did I just do that? I'm going to lose my fucking job. I'm going to lose my job because I can't control my emotions. What will I do then?

I reached into my pocket and swallowed a 20 mg Adderal. I would buy them from friends and I always kept a bottle with me at work. I didn't have ADD or anything, but the extra push from the methamphetamine salt helped me Juggernaught my way through long hours obsessing over Excel macros and Reuters 3000 ticker flashes. Mike is a monster. He's a bad person. Mike isn't even really human. It's almost like he doesn't have a soul; like he was built for distributing hurt. A crippling inner monologue in the third person began taking over normal thoughts like What am I going to eat today? Or I wonder if I have time to masturbate? It dominated my waking life until I caught myself doing it. It scared me that I couldn't control the voice or stop it. I went to the bathroom we shared with other offices in the building, shut myself in a stall and started crying. I sat on the toilet and buckled over, my arms crossed over my stomach, hugging myself while my tears splashed on my dress shoes. I rocked back and forth, with snot leaking out of my nose. I could feel my shoulders tighten up with every sob. My ulcer began flaming up, shooting warm bursts of wrenching pain up and down my torso. I am a bad person. I don't want this. I am a bad person. I am a bad person. What is happening to me? What is happening to me, Dad? I am a bad person. Why can't I stop this? I don't want this. I'm so sorry, Dad. Jesus Christ, I am a bad person.

I shot up, grabbed both sides of the closed stall door and rammed my head into it as hard as I could. I head butted it again, and again, and again. I let out an audible grunt every time my skull hit the taupe sheet metal, making it pitted and slightly concave. After the sixth strike, I pulled away and saw my blood spattering the depression in the door. My vision was shaky and my ears rang a little. I opened the door, walked over to the mirror above the motion-sensor sinks and watched a trickle of blood run down my nose and drip on the counter. It sprang from a lump growing on the upper left corner of my head. I blotted the blood away with a paper towel, smoothed my hair over to cover the wound and walked back to the desk, visibly shaken. The new knowledge of inebriation and violence being the only tools I possessed that could make my soul stop convulsing in pain stop didn't sit well with me. I did my best to finish out the rest of the day and walked back to my apartment, purposefully taking another route so I didn't have to see the sidewalk again.

That night, I went to a party at my buddy Rob's grandmother's house. She was away for the summer on vacation, so Rob would have a few friends over for drinks and grilling from time to time. Of course, a few friends told a few friends, who told a few friends, and before you knew it, Rob's house was regularly the location for parties with 50-75 people in attendance. I was excited to have a few hours of guaranteed distraction from myself.

I showed up at the house with a case of Becks Oktoberfest. The party was in full swing. By the time I reached the kitchen, Rob was wearing a kid's size Britney Spears t-shirt and swilling Jose Cuervo out of a handle with the plastic pour spout removed. The shirt came up to his belly button and looked like it was choking the life out of his armpits.

"Nice fucking t-shirt, Rob."

"Thanks, asshole. I got this at her concert a couple weeks ago. It was the only size they had left."

"Why the shit were you at a Britney concert?!" Rob was the drummer for a death metal band, so I was a bit curious. "Nevermind, I don't even want to know. How do you know all of these people?"

"Honestly, I don't know half of these people. I'm pretty sure they're all from Portsmouth, though."

I surveyed the back deck from the window. It was full of people I was familiar with through high school or just hanging out downtown. I slid the screen door open and stepped outside to make my social rounds. I found Timmy standing by the grill dumping citronella fuel into his mouth and spitting it in front of a tiki torch, creating monstrous fireballs. I could feel the heat from them ten feet away. The crowd roared in applause. Instead of rinsing his mouth out, he washed it down with a swig of PBR.

"Jesus, Timmy! That was a good one!"

"Yeah, it was pretty alright. I'm going to try doing them with gasoline later on."

Just as I was about to warn him about the chemical burns he was probably going to get from doing that, Rob burst onto the deck in a frenzy.

"Does anyone here know that Jimmy kid?"

An overweight raver girl in the backyard raised her hand. "Yeah, he came with me, why?"

"He's all fucked up. He's walking up and down the street knocking on neighbors' doors. I can't have that shit."
Jimmy's friend spoke up again. "Yeah, he ate a few Xanax bars and drank a four pack of La Fin du Monde. He's definitely the walking dead right now."

"Yeah, that's great." Rob wasn't very happy with what he just heard. "Do you want to go grab him for me so I don't have to?"

"Um...not really, dude. Just leave him alone. He's not bothering anyone."

Timmy put the Tiki torch down and threw his two cents in. "Fuck that shit, dude. Your friend is all fucked up and causing trouble for Rob. If you don't want to go wrangle him, I will."

"Fuck it, I will too." I wasn't about to let by best friend run off into the night to subdue a drugged out mental case by himself. I put my beer down and followed Timmy around the side of the house to the unlit, suburban street.

Within minutes, we spotted Jimmy. He was stumbling down the street, mumbling something to himself under his breath. He was acting exactly like his friend described him; a flesh-hungry zombie.

"Jimmy, how's it going, man? Why don't you come with me, homeboy. I'll fix you up with a drink." Timmy gently grabbed Jimmy's arm and escorted him towards the back deck. Jimmy didn't object at first, but he started to wizen up to Timmy's tactics by the time they both reached the driveway. I couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous situation in front of me. Sluggishly, he shrugged Timmy's grip off of his arm and leaned against Timmy's white Acura Integra.

"Fffffffuck youuuuuuu, asshoooooleeee. I'm not goin' nowheeeeereeeee."

Just as Timmy started laughing with me, Jimmy swung at Timmy with a quickness that wasn't typical of a person reeling from a booze and Xanax cocktail. Timmy instinctively leaned back and Jimmy's fist missed his nose by two inches. Before I could even fully assess the situation, I darted in and popped Jimmy in the face with a quick right cross, connecting with his cheek bone. Jimmy fell back into Timmy's car, reeling from the blow. As soon as he realized who hit him, Jimmy started marching towards me with his fists balled up by his hips. My anger welled up into my throat, but in a more level, controllable way. I was just presented with a gift from the gods; a guilty, deserving human punching bag to release my pain fueled hate on, and all the time and room in the world to enjoy it. My eyes almost rolled back in my head with the sickening enjoyment of anticipation. I smiled and walked forward towards Jimmy.

"Timmy, step back. I'm going to take care of this."

Posted by KungFu Mike at 1:28 PM

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Comments

Thanks for sharing this dude. You said that it was causing pain and I just wanted to let you know I really appreciate you doing this.

It's a great story.

Posted by: at July 22, 2008 02:34 PM

As much as I want to read the next part as soon as possible, I can't possibly try to persuade you to write this thing faster. Good luck getting through the pain and emotions of reliving the experience. I think I can speak for almost every one of your readers when I say that while we started out with you for the entertainment, it's this kind of crazy real-life stuff that brings us back. We're all here for you Mike.

Posted by: will at July 22, 2008 02:50 PM

This story is brilliant and scary. I'm hooked, dude. Keep this shit up, you're going to be big.

Posted by: CJ at July 22, 2008 03:15 PM

That was a pretty insane story, is that the end of "ginsanity" or can we expect any more? Thanks for sharing kung fu mike.

Posted by: Anonymous at July 22, 2008 03:56 PM

Thank you Mike! This shit is off the hook.

Posted by: Cheesedinverts at July 22, 2008 04:39 PM

God damn, Mike...I just pretend the times when I hurt people never happened. I really don't think I could face myself like you are here.

Posted by: Chuck at July 22, 2008 05:24 PM

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Another Cliff hanger!
Well...You've done it again Mike. You've managed to spill your heart and soul onto a digital notepad and leave us with an autobiography of one of the most ardent periods of your life, and for that I thank you. Not only for providing us with an excellent story that stirs up stronger emotions than most, if not all, stories do but also for being open and honest enough to write about an experience that would drive anyone, or me at least, of us emotionally haywire and mentally drained. I checked your website almost daily for Ginsanity: part 3; most of the time before I would check any other Rudius Media website, Tuckers movie in particular. I'll be patiently waiting for part 4. Take care, dude.

Posted by: nick at July 22, 2008 05:35 PM

I guess it says a lot about you and your readers who relate so well to each other. Do you ever wonder what it would be like to not be broken? To not be self destructive?

Posted by: gkv at July 22, 2008 05:38 PM

Wow. Just, wow. I don't think I've ever been so emotionally involved in a piece of writing, ever. I can only imagine how hard this is for you to write, but I thank you for it. I've been dealing with a lot of similar emotions lately and this story has helped me to process them like you wouldn't believe. Good job man, and thanks.

Posted by: Mike at July 22, 2008 08:54 PM

I love this story, probably more than you'll ever know Mike, and I think the cliffhangers make it worth while, like you said it helps you develop the story with authenticity. I have no idea whether its good to urge you into writing this with crippling pain in your thoughts or to tell you to stop to make this go away. Bummer

Posted by: Jais at July 22, 2008 08:59 PM

Hey Mike, I hope you're doing okay right now. Hopefully, you're sleeping peacefully. I don't want your mind telling you how much of a bad guy you are. You're not. You're an awesome guy. I could keep up with the compliments man, but they wouldn't do you justice. Much love man.

Posted by: Wayland at July 23, 2008 12:31 AM

I totally understand how difficult it must be to write this as there have been periods of my life where I have been a completely different person thanks to mental illness and I can't even think about those times, often avoiding people involved to make sure it never comes up in conversation. And I know the cliff hanger is an important literary technique, but it's killing me because I want the next part ASAP, but I also don't want you to be in pain. The fact that you're willing to revisit and deal with these emotions, and are able to express all of it through these stories is pretty inspiring to me. Mostly, I just want to give you a hug everytime I read these serious entries.

Posted by: Mary at July 23, 2008 10:36 AM

You are talented. You are poised for success. And as much as that sounds like a self help tape, they're both very, very true. Your writing shows true emotion that is palatable with each and every sentence. Your father would be proud. I look forward to reading more. And I wish you the very best.

Posted by: at July 23, 2008 12:56 PM

God damn I miss you. NICE work. You are absolutely brilliant. I want to hug you after reading this. Keep it up.

Posted by: Anonymous at July 23, 2008 03:32 PM

Awesome story cant wait for part 4. I'm realy enjoying reading your work.

And just a FYI Adderall Dosn't contain Methamphetamine it's Dextro-amphetamine.

Posted by: Mark at July 23, 2008 04:23 PM

Creeping Jesus, I have never read anything that made me feel the way I did when you started smashing your skull through the bathroom stall. That's when I knew that this was the story of a man falling down. It's terrifying to read, but even more terrifying is the thought that you might not have had the strength of will to write it...

I'm afraid to see how this all develops, but now I MUST see this to the end. Take all the time in the world, Mike, we'll be waiting.

Posted by: Rob at July 23, 2008 11:32 PM

Mike...unbelieveable, man. Entirely worth the wait. The span of emotions I feel with your writing is insane. I am totally hooked with this story. Raw, real, emotional, sarcastic...that's you in a nut-shell, my friend. Bravo, Mike, bravo!

Posted by: Judy at July 24, 2008 04:40 AM

You are a God.

Posted by: Koval at July 24, 2008 10:30 AM

Amazing addition to the story. Thank you for sharing yourself with us in such a naked manner.

Posted by: annie at July 25, 2008 07:18 AM

Wow, you always seem like a huge dick on the rmmb. I never knew you had an introverted, sensitive side.

Props for the excellent writing.

Posted by: anonymous at July 25, 2008 01:17 PM

Thanks for writing this.

Posted by: Ben at July 26, 2008 04:55 AM

no matter how far removed your life could be from mine, it strikes a damn resonant chord inside my brain, and holy shit, the things you are making that picture develop in my brain, that you speak, that you so evidently can make it all real
this motivates me.

Posted by: Anonymous at July 29, 2008 12:57 AM

A-W-E *clap clap clap* S-O-M-E *Clap clap clap*
Awesome awesome is what that was
something something something something cus'(in)

Posted by: Anonymous at November 19, 2008 08:24 PM

I know ow this shit feels, and I'm still not sure if I'm still knee deep in it or if I have long passed it. good luck.

Posted by: Jake at February 13, 2009 08:11 PM

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