The following is a comment I received recently. I’m still not certain of the source, but what a lucky friend I have; must be a great mom. This brought tears to my eyes and I wanted everyone else to cry as well. You’re welcome. I hope she doesn’t mind the share.
“Jason, I am the mom of one of your friends. He and his girlfriend told me about what happened to you in 2008. It is such a tragedy, but the fact that you have found a way to keep on with your writing, art, and maintaining friendships is laudible. You have a fine, droll sense of humor… which I certainly appreciate… and sarcasm? Love that too! You are obviously someone with great strength of character and personal courage. (I know, I sound just like somebody’s mother). Time and again I have been both amazed and gratified to discover the hidden reserves of will that enable some people to persevere while others crumble. I admire your determination to be… just who you are, despite physical constraints. You remind me very much of someone very dear to me; my own personal hero. Just call me Momma.”
Thank you, Momma.
Keeping secrets is no longer a problem. The last one I was keeping involved a knife and a very talented, intelligent and quite beautiful young lady. No, I haven’t killed her; not even close.
She’s very much alive. And armed with a German k55k Cat folding knife. My gift to her. As soon as I saw it, I thought of her. She’s small but looks tough enough. With the knife she has a better chance of sticking a bad guy in his gullet and surviving any kind of incident. This makes me happy. She loved it. This also makes me happy. She knew something was coming, but I think I caught her off-guard with the knife. I’m glad. I dig her. Without her I wouldn’t be writing all this honest (yet completely awesome) stuff on the interwebs.
So, the secret gifts are given. Each to a special person in my life. All knives, but not necessarily planned as such. I’m glad I’m here to give gifts; and to have great people in my life. Love them all.
Today I turned 39 years of age. Wow. I remember my mom being 39. It really doesn’t seem that long ago, but it was, obviously. I remember thinking that was old back then. I never really gave a thought to actually being this old. Age is a funny thing, at least to me.
In my mind I am much younger. In there I am probably 18. A very mature 18, I might add. I keep up on trends, new music, fashion, movies, art and sexy women’s shoes (the latter being my little fetish; I want to design them). My musical spectrum is very broad, from classical music scores to the guttural screams of Black Metal. I usually don’t discriminate, but if it sucks, I won’t be into it. My taste in women is broad as well. I have found in the past couple of years that I am a big fan of brunettes. Again, I usually don’t discriminate. I have just as much love for curvy women as I do for women who are physically fit or skinny by random biological means. My sense of humor is extremely sarcastic. I prefer to be around people who at least get my jokes. I can make light of pretty much anything. This intimidates some people, but I love it.
I’ve been told that I don’t look as old as I am. And I guess it is true to an extent. I definitely don’t feel 39 years old. And if I shaved my glorious beard, I would look even younger. That won’t be happening, as I love my beard. It is kind of a trademark at this point, so I would feel very guilty if I ever got rid of it. Deal with it.
As for birthday plans, I’ll be spending time with two of my closest girl friends. It should be very low key, but highly entertaining. We plan to laugh a lot. I really love these two. That will make my day. A beautiful birthday with two beautiful people. What more could I want?
One of my best friends caught me with tears running down my face last night. I think it’s the first time he has ever seen me do that.
Dave, a friend and former bandmate, was with me the night I was shot. We were standing next to one another when the young gunman pulled the trigger. The bullet entered the left side of my neck, exited the right side, entered the front of Dave’s throat, bounced around, finally ending up in Dave’s right upper shoulder/neck region. Needless to say, we are very close and share a bond that not too many people are able to have. He knows me pretty well. He knew I had been crying. He also showed up a little early. Usually I keep this from friends, as I don’t want to cause worry. It is my cross to bear.
Sometimes the pain is excruciating. Right now it is made worse by a large stone floating around in my bladder. Unexpected muscle spasms cut my air supply, but only for a split second. This hurts. It’s hard to explain to someone who has never experienced it. This pain, coupled with my neurogenic nerve pain is enough to drive me insane. I don’t let it. I would never do that. I have conditioned myself to be pretty tough. I think I could handle just about anything at this point. There is no sadness regarding my paralysis, at least not that I can consciously acknowledge. I am at peace with my situation. But the pain…
Having alone time and a bit of privacy is pretty important to me. It’s in these times that I can sit and meditate on life, love, or the lack of it. It’s in these times that I can harness the pain, but every now and then pain gets the better of me and I do cry.
Alone in the dark, I cry.
If there is one thing that I dread every single day, it is waking up. That’s when the pain comes. Lots of it. While sleeping I seem to do okay, but as soon as my eyes open it is all over.
Most mornings I am awakened by a very soft and sweet voice. It is the voice of my caregiver, Sheila. She’s been with me over a year and, at this point, loves me. And I her. She is tall, has caramel colored skin, and a personality to die for. She embraces my sweet but sarcastic ways. She walks in and says “good morning” in a very bubbly voice. She, on the other hand, is greeted by moans and grunts on my end. The pain is unbearable. I would not wish it upon my worst enemy. And it never ends. Granted, I can take pain pills. They do help, but the pain is excruciating and the pills only mask what is really going on.
As an example, it feels like someone is hacking away at the meat and bone of my shoulders with a dull cleaver; or like a serrated bread knife sawing through tissue and nerves. This is my norm. It hurts. And it sucks. I can say though, that it lets me know I am still alive. And for that I guess I am grateful.
This is something that I’ve been meaning to talk about for a while. Most people don’t realize exactly what I go through each and every day. It would be nice if I could transfer it onto people for a five-minute span, just so there would be a little more understanding there. I’m not sure many people could make it the full five minutes, much less for the rest of their lives. It definitely makes me a stronger person. So, if you see me out and I have a smile on my face, it is because I try to make the best of it. Every day. What else can I do?
Enjoy what you have. Always. It could be worse; this I know for fact. Keep well and let people know that you love them. Thanks for reading.
Loyal readers, you will be happy to know that I succeeded in keeping a secret. My two best friends, my brothers from different mothers, now have the gifts in their hands. Mighty cool gifts, I might add. Knives. Not your typical knives, though. These are unique, folding Higo knives from Japan.
The originals are still around, and can be found through a few large outlets on the Internet. These are inscribed with Japanese characters and have loads of appeal aesthetically. An American company, Best Made, struck a deal to release a limited number of the knives on this side of the world. The new version has a hand-hammered, raw steel “samurai” blade, the Best Made logo engraved on one side of the handle; the other side emblazoned simply, “courage.” This is what led me to buy them for my “brothers.” They are both courageous to me. I love them dearly. Fortunately, they loved the knives and promised to keep them forever. I bought one for myself as well (to cool not to). Beautiful.
There’s still one more secret, but it involves a female friend. She really inspired me to write, and this blog wouldn’t exist if she hadn’t. I also have a bit of a crush on her. Like gigantic. But that’s a story for another day.
Sex is something most everyone enjoys, and I’m no exception. In fact, after thinking about it, I fear I might be a bit of a sex addict. There are worse things to be; at least I don’t collect human body parts or smoke crack. But is it healthy? Thinking about sex 24/7? I don’t know the answer. I’ve always been like this, but it seems these feelings intensified after being shot.
Certainly there are questions regarding my injury in conjunction with sex. I would want to know. It’s something very personal, but I am an open book, so I feel most comfortable writing about it.
The first question is usually, “does it work?” It being my penis. It sure does (with the help of a pill). It’s not the same as it used to be, but impressive enough. Once ready it’s good to go for quite a while. This is a good thing (for both parties).
The second question is, “can you feel it?” The answer is no. Well, a bit. It’s definitely not the way it once was. My brain tends to fill in the gaps. And a visual usually helps. As long as my partner is happy, I’m happy. I can still use other things just fine and can feel that. Thank goodness.
Thirdly, “can you ejaculate?” Nope. No muss, no fuss. This is a double-edged sword. On one hand, my partner can go to town (with repeat trips, if needed). On the other hand, I never get a release. Ugh. This ensures I’m horny. All. The. Time.
This is where the sex addiction comes in. More on that in another installment. Until then, I’ll be looking at naked girls on Tumblr and not masturbating.