Confessions of a crazy little boy

Way I see it, there's only two things I had or have no control over. The day I was born and the day I die. One was a mistake in judgement. The other is judgement day. Between the two extremes, I am the sum of all judgements. When your inside your own personal little heaven, you don't have to breathe and for a long time during the cycle of your birth, you can squirm around your world, kick the crap out of your mom, do spinning cannon balls and piss in the pool. You didn't have to worry about food or oxygen or grades you were getting while showboating in your own personal dark enclosure and you could suck your finger to your hearts content. Even if you didn't know what any of those words meant. Then it happens, all hell breaks lose. that moment when you realize you can no longer swim in your pool and you gravitate to the exit door and wait for an opening. Then comes the stark realization that the opening wasn't into another larger pool. Rathe...

When you have been physically and mentally abused, you start to wonder why you were ever born. The one person you expect to be there to stop you from anymore abuse, really had no idea the person she married was also going to draw someone else to her bedroom. Funny thing about it is, when it came to strangers who liked me, her radar was as keen and as sharp as it should be. Perhaps, to the point where she was being overally protective. When someone wanted to teach me how to play golf, he was gay...whatever that meant. When someone wanted to help me improve my hand and eye coordination trying to hit baseballs, he was gay. But when dad asked if it was okay for me to wash his back, that was okay?  I'd love to say something like what was she raised on a farm...she was. So that's out. So why would a kid want to wash his father's back? Certainly not for quality time! Gentle reader, please don't throw this book in shock and horror. And be patient with m...

Ever since I can remember, there were 4 people in my life that made basic training look, taste and feel like paradise. And you can stop here if you really don't want to know what the 50s, 60s and 70s were like living with drill instructor parents, an older sister who wanted you dead and a younger brother hell bent on making your life miserable. Spoiler alert. Writing is my way of telling the truth. Let's start with this: See anything wrong here? According to this, my supposed grandmother was Clara Fralinger, yet her daughter made us believe her real mother was Mary Fralinger. Furthermore, since the three female Fralingers who were sisters and daughters to Mary Fralinger, they also weren't my Aunts, they were my great aunts. Sounds trivial? Not until, in 1973, you get a phone call that your grandmother, Mary Fralinger had passed away.  If she was really 80 at the time of the 1940 census, she would have been 112 years old when she passed away. When sup...