Letter to my mom (Dysfunctional Thanksgiving, Zoloft, Genny)

 Dear Mom,

I s'pose I'll actually try to send this letter and get to the points at hand, rather than beginning yet another rambling, never to be sent journal of my anxiety ridden love life. 

So, how ya doin'?

Steve, Carol, Tim & I had our Thanksgiving dinner together. We had corned beef & cabbage and continued the tradition of not fully cooking the meat. Tim seems about the same as usual, as does Super Nintendo Carol. We enjoyed a wonderfully anti-social, dysfunctional family get together. Steve, Tim & I played pool in the garage, while Carol interfaced with the Game Station. 

I took Tim fishing in my canoe, which was ok, though he is a bit hard to keep entertained. I think he needs Zoloft. Ha. The answer to everything. Oh, yeah, keep them coming; I guess they are working ok. I don't feel much different, except perhaps that things do not seem to be so much of a chore.

I still don't have a clue as to what to do with my life. I have no girlfriend, no plans, no strategies. But any day now, I guess the sky is going to pop open and beam down a column of light and lead me to her. Hope abounds in the face of disappointment.

Genny has turned out to be a mirage. The closer I get to her, the farther off our relationship becomes. Oh, well. I tried. Now I am tired of being the fool with his heart on his sleeve. "Not me," I say, but if she'd call, I'd run to her. Oh, well, at least I admit it.

Music is very therapeutic for me. Soon, I'm sure, I will get into a band, as soon as someone answers my ad...

I am also getting into better shape. My 3X a week weightlifting is keeping me from getting the Golding Gut. Speaking of which, I wonder about Grandma. I called her # and got a young lady's answering machine...I guess I should call old Dad and find out.

Well, I got to be going. I'm off to work. Talk to you soon. Take care.

 Love, 

Andrew

Thoughts (while) On Pot (Chico 11-7-92)

Pot

Lets you forget

The majority of

Things which tend

To stress people out

And makes you focus

(by limiting the number of thoughts

one has) on the one

Thing you are currently

Doing. You tend only

To do things you enjoy

When stoned, so you

Um. Ah, what’s that again?

---

I had a sudden bad thought, like as if my face

cracked open from the jaw to the temple and out

poured nothing but pot ashes.

A kind of melancholy bliss -- Zoloft, Raving about Genny and a short update on life (another unsent draft of a letter to my mom)

Dear Mom,

Howdy. Thought Id' take time out of my busy schedule of loafing around the apartment, listening to Led Zeppelin and watching mindless, muted Music Television and going out of my head. 

Oh, the Zoloft? Not bad. At half strength, it's about like looking forward to a cup of coffee or a Twinkie. But the agitation I am feeling today, I believe we have spoken of before at great length.

I have my heart hung out on my sleeve for a certain young lady (Genny) who is entertaining, for the moment at least, consideration of dating me. Oh, boy. 

I am at once happy and excited, nervous, fearful, stupid and overly emotionally charged. Music becomes painful to listen to, but I enjoy the pain. A kind of melancholy bliss. I am plainly in hormonal overproduction over this girl. If I could just keep from blowing it and scaring her off. Like all the others...

Other things have been going on in my life, mainly, the daily work routine, Uncle Steve's semi-weekly dinner/TV evenings, Brian, Mona and Gene -- fishing and yapping buddies -- my music and vehicle recreation (I now have a car, a van and a motorcycle -- Steve's old 550) all take up time not spent brooding over my search tor the ideal woman.

Oh, and I spend a fair amount of time worrying about the future, or my lack of one. I could be a more positive person, I guess. 

Sometimes, when the moon is right, and I feel in love and don't have a care in the world, I'll feel like dancing, or singing up a storm, to my neighbor's alarm. I live in the now. When "now" is happening or cool in the pleasurable sense, I am perfectly capable of sitting back and grasping the moment, not dwelling on fears or insecurities.

It's just that most moments are not like that. They are a ceaseless grind of boring sameness. Lameness! I need a challenge, something to live for. A new cause or religion to fight for. You know, an existential experience to cement who I am. Like right now, I'm still liquid concrete being tumbled about in a cement mixer. 

Will I be the oldest living person to be confused about what I want to do in life? Will frustration over failures cause depression to get the better of me? Find out in our next exciting episode...

Well, Mom, gotta go for now. C-Ya.

Well, I'm back from dropping Genny off at work. As if that were not a rewarding enough experience, she made me a big sack lunch consisting of 2 cheeseburgers, chips, cookies, banana, apple slices, a muffin and a soda. I am blessed.

I bought her a tiny vase with flowers and constructed a magazine font ransom note type letter that said, "Dear Genny, I love you. Hoody." She thought it was ever so cute and kissed me. I am so glad she had this reaction instead of a whole range of uncomfortable responses I had been sort of bracing myself for.

I really do love this girl, though, Mom. She's just young and confused, and I'm older and less mature, but she's everything I could dream about. We share the same taste in music and popular culture and have similarly repressed religious backgrounds and liberal politics. She loves to cook, and I love to eat. She's beautiful, naturally, and the fact that she desires to spend time with me really just blows my mind.

We've been good friends and almost lovers, then in limbo while she was deciding what she wanted. I just kind of hung around and kept the door open anytime she'd need a friend or someone to give her a hand with something. Anyway, I would be extremely happy to land such a "catch" as this one, and you would just have to meet her.

Well, enough raving. I'll be seeing her again shortly, and I must prepare to suck the marrow out of these moments, I can tell you. S'long!

Love,

A~~~ G~~~~g

 

Pretty bad, huh?

This is what my signature has eroded into. But it's quick, though.  

'90s Era Survey (to be included with all love letters sent by me)

E X A M I N A T I O N

Questionnaire Related to Letter

Check all appropriate answers

SECTION A  “ I liked your letter, but…”

__ It confused me, especially the part that said ___________.

__ It made me feel uncomfortable, like an itchy blanket.

__ I thoroughly, unqualifiedly enjoyed every bit of it.

__ I felt it was too forward.

__ I felt it was not forward enough.

__ I would rather read a mathematics textbook.

__ It caught me off guard, I don’t know what to think.

SECTION B  “You’re a nice guy, but…”

__ Forget it.

__ I don’t like you in that way.

__ I think you are mentally ill.

__ I am not attracted to you, you’re not my type.

__ I suppose I could like you, but I just have to think about it.

__ My heart is very tender right now, I don’t know what I feel.

__ I am lonely and need a friend (platonic).

__ I am lonely and need affection.

__ I am a married woman, how dare you, you jerk.

__ Please do not pursue me any further, I am more attracted to Joe.

__ Go ahead and pursue me, I’ll slap you if you get out of line.

__ Oh, Andrew, you GOD, light me up.

__ Oh, Andrew, you poor, pitiful fool, get a life.

__ I am mildly amused.

__ I am slightly annoyed.

__ I am mentally ill myself, how should I know anything?

__ Give me 5 mins. to slip into some edible undies.

__ You, being a male, are a pig.

__ I thought you were nice until _____________.

__ I would like to be left alone.

__ I am in mourning, call me in _______ days/weeks.

__ Hold me, just hold me.

__ Just what the hell is wrong with you, anyway?

__ I have plans to become a nun.

__ I will never get involved with another man.

__ I plan to commit suicide next week, so this is all irrelevant.

__ You are opening a can of worms, for God’s sake put down that can opener.

__ Let’s run away together.

__ Let’s forget this whole thing and turn back the clock to before you wrote these ridiculous letters.

__ I am emotionally distressed, please just be my friend and don’t expect anything.

__ This survey is biased and unfair.

__ Questions that should have been included are:

      _______________________________________________________

      _______________________________________________________

      _______________________________________________________

Since there is no way to score this, as it is not really a test, please return to the Survey 

Taker when completed.

Song for Ramona Reid

Song to Ramona
 

Girl its gonna take a lotta bowls,

To get over the fact of you leavin'.

Cause when I come home, go to sleep, get up, go to work,

I got nothin' to look forward to this evenin'.

Never gonna see your face in any office window or doorway,

With a pitcher and the pills in your hand.

Gonna have to remember all those,

Good times we had.

So many times to see your smiling angry face busting up

laughing,

I'd come early to see you.

Then they took away the time from us,

Where did it go? No more:

Stayin' late, comin' early, hangin' around.

It's no good, can't they see, to try to separate you and me.

Cause like Obi-wan-fucking-Kanobi,

If they strike us down our friendship will only become more 

Powerful than they could ever imagine.

All that has happened, like a busted picket fence,

Like a worn out sledge hammer, beats at my poor heart ceaselessly.

Their callous disregard, their privilege to LOSE OUT.

For you I'd go hungry, without any dope for weeks at a time,

I'd sacrifice all that is mine, to capture a minute or two and

set it aside, so that later, when the evil shit comes, 

I will have one perfect gilded gem to console me, amidst the lameness 

that will surely be my life. 

If one swims hard enough, the currents that engulf and submerge us 

will propel and uplift us to perfect harmony, freedom, innocence and bliss. 

Bless you Ramona, for you are the closest thing to it,

this is it...now is it. It is. So rejoice and be glad!

 
(Oh, Andrew, Stop Ramona-cizing everything!)

 
 

Ramona

Ramona,

I am sitting here in a quandary. No, actually it is a chair in the SNC. But my mind is as baffled as Pat Rupp. The source of my anguish is probably evident. But let's go back in time just for fun...

I don't know the exact moment when the thought came into my mind: "Hey, this person Mona, who I work with and occasionally chat with is really cool. I mean, I feel comfortable around her. I want her to be my friend. I want her to like me.

“I want her to like me, share her secrets and troubles and confide in me. I wish she wasn’t married. But that’s ok, ‘cause I really respect her. It’s better this way. We can be really good friends and never be tainted by problems that plague most male-female relationships. Maybe by getting close to Mona and getting to know how she thinks and feels I can begin to understand women in general (a very bold ambition).

“But she’s so accessible and open. Surely she is an exception. She’s very different from anyone I have met. So warm and human and unpretentious. God, and she’s pretty, too. What a lucky guy she must be married to. He probably loves her to death. (seriously, no pun intended). He should, anyway.

“What’s a guy gotta do to wind up with a girl like this, anyway? Be Gandhi or Mother Theresa in their past life? The good ones are all taken and usually taken for granted. Well, I’d never do this,” I say.

Then, the trouble in Paradise. Her man beats her and she kicks him out or he leaves. She says it’s over, but she doesn’t want it to be. But she does not want to suffer any more. No more tension or anxiety in her own house.

She calls her friends for support. I have longed for the chance to show her that I care, that I am there for her. I feel needed. I also feel guilty deriving pleasure from the closeness she has allowed me to have with her in sharing her problems. She seems so vulnerable.

God, I think she is so attractive. Maybe she…thoughts and daydreams run amok…no, this is wrong. Although we are really good friends now, I have no right to indulge in this kind of thinking. Or have I? What if she’s lonely? What would it hurt if I told her how I feel: I know she’s a kind enough person to forgive me if I am acting inappropriately.

I’ll send her a letter (how original). This approach has never worked before but, hey, I don’t think she’d really mind a nice letter to inform her that she is (A) Loved (B) Beautiful. So, I did it. Gave her the letter. And waited and watched. No response. “I liked your letter,” was all. What did that mean?

The subject seemed shelved. And our friendship was intact. I wasn’t embarrassed. I figured I had just been so off base that it had been laughable. She’d never been attracted to me. I am demented, delusional.

So, off I go on my Quest for Woman, sniffing elsewhere, in the personals, in the supermarket. I can’t stand being alone.

I get involved in an “instant relationship” with someone named Joy. She says she loves me. What can I do? She gives me wonderful hugs and tells me I am all that she wants in a man. We’ve known each other less than a week. I have reservations. I don’t want to hurt this nice girl who is so in love with me (an indeed makes me feel loved).

But if I ever had a chance with Mona…no, forget it.

Then, a phone call, “I wrote you a letter.” Hmm. What could this mean? Hold everything. Let’s just see what it says.

P.S. She hugged me—a dream fulfilled.

Another One Bites The Dust

 Dear Joy,

I probably shouldn't be writing you or even thinking of you right now. I feel like I'm violating some law of psychologically correct dating. Well, so f---in' what? 

It's Wednesday, Oct 14. One week plus since I've seen you, and the circumstances of the interval have me wondering and confused. A week can go by fast or slow depending on whether I'm busy or not, etc. It's not a long time in the scheme of things, but this one has been very tough.

The thing that is hard to deal with is the uncertain feeling I have that you must be thinking I'm a big jerk or something -- only you don't want to tell me. So you are hoping I'll just go away. I could be a big jerk. Sometimes I don't always see how my behavior affects others or even notice how I am acting until someone tells me: "You look sad" or "How come you are so quiet?"

But in this case, I really am baffled. What did I do to offend you? It was only a week ago you were saying "I love you" and "You're all I want in a man." 

Now, I know I never deserved for you to say those things to me in the first place, however, like a overpayment on a tax refund, I hate to have you take those wonderful words back. They meant so much to me, a habitually unloved person. I thought you were serious, and I allowed myself to feel a moment of comfort in my lonely life. 

I thought I was going to be one of those lucky people who love has smiled upon. I don't have an overly idealized view of what a relationship is. I know there are plenty of things to work through, and some relationships may never be worth the work necessary to maintain them. Maybe I'm not worth the trouble to get to know and help to grow, etc.

It is your loss, and I'm not being pouty or saying sour grapes. I really believe that. If you are so cold as to close the door on me after inviting me into your life, then I really feel that you are the one who should feel cheated.

You must have seen something in me that you didn't like, but it doesn't have to mean the end of it all. People all have faults. People can change. I'm willing to work with you if you are willing to work with me. But I just can't deal with the insecurity of not knowing what is going on. 

The need for space I understand. The need for time with your kid, time to work, time alone. I understand these things.

But what I feel like is a piece of frozen meat that you took out of the bargain bin and put in your cart, only to return it to the refrigerator after partially thawing it out while walking around the store. I feel like a puppy returned to the pound after a week in a loving home.

I want to cry, and I want to not give a shit, but I can't do either. 

I didn't want to get too attached too soon, but you, after repeatedly telling me you loved me, made me feel confident enough to let myself open my heart to you. At this point, I don't know if I can trust you with my heart anymore.

I can't keep going through these aches and pains of romance. Frankly, it sucks. First, they tell you everything you want to hear, then you believe it -- and then they say goodbye. Then you never want to believe it again.  

Fuck it. I've got better things to do with my energy than waste it hurting over someone who is more confused than I am. I really hope you find happiness and peace in your life. 

Sure, we can be friends. Whatever you want. I just don't know what you are thinking or feeling right now, and I am a bit bitter about being hung up on during our last conversation. 

I have been occupying myself nicely this week, determined not to let this area of my life cause the others to all suck as well. And I may be jumping to conclusions. I do that sometimes, though I'm always ready to give my friends the benefit of the doubt. 

You are just a mystery right now. What did I do wrong? What did she ever see in me to begin with? What can I do to make things better? To make them more like they were during that first week...Was I dreaming or what?

I'm sorry I'm not a more mature person. My judgement is not always clear where my emotions are involved. Oh, well. I guess that makes me human. Is it a crime to get carried away and emotionally involved with another person these days? 

I assure you that whatever psychological problems I may have, I am not an unfit person. I am not violent or abusive. I am not mentally deranged or psychotic (any more than average) or dangerous. 

I hope I haven't given you the wrong impression by joking about schizophrenia. It's just the environment that I work in that causes me to banter about words having to do with mental illness, kind of  a "gallows humor." Whatever, I'm just shooting in the dark.

I wish you would call me and tell me that everything is alright, that it was just a passing cloud, that you really do love me...

Oh, well. Sitting here writing about it is good to pass the time and get things out that hurt to keep inside, but it doesn't change anything. I feel like a candidate waiting for the election results, or a prisoner waiting for his verdict. I'll probably get the chair...

Well, eventually we'll talk and this letter will be redundant and obsolete. Until then, here's wishing you were here.

AG

More Joy (another unsent letter)

 Dear Sweet Lovable Joy,

Hi there! Much 💗 and ☮️ be upon thee, O woman. May the gods of hemp and interplanetary happiness bless your baggie to the overflowing and may your weary soul kick back, smoke one, and find repose.

Ah, yes. Well, I'm guilty of thinking of you again in my off hours. Please forgive this infraction of the Laws of Psychologically Correct Behavior. I am not obsessing or brooding, just pleasantly reminiscing and contemplating our times together. I've really enjoyed your opening up your life and letting me in.

I realize that I have been taking you away from your responsibilities by altering your routine. I do not wish to upset your life, only enrich it. You seem to be needing a bit of space, so I s'pose we ought to cool down and be more adult about our relationship. 

Please forgive me if I make all the classic mistakes. I don't want to play games or use manipulative tricks or be dishonest with you. I am an emotionally insecure person. I need lots of love and attention. When I am sure and certain that I am loved (I am not sure I have ever been) and am secure in the peace of that knowledge, I will require less reassurance and relinquish my fears of being hurt and abandoned.

I know it is not fair to bring the problems of my 27 years into a new and unspoiled relationship, especially when the person is as kind and sweet as you. If I am too sensitive, it is not your fault. I should be more mature.

When I heard you tell your friend about the guy who turned you off by writing you multi-page letters and sending flowers and calling too much, I began to get the feeling that I should be taking a hint from this: Don't overdo it.

I certainly would love to shower you with affection and treat you to the best things in life because of how wonderful you make me feel. I have been lonely and alone my whole life and suddenly there's someone who makes me feel warm and loved. It's only natural to want to get as close as possible and to not want to let go. 

I have been starving, and now I am pigging out. I suppose what I should do is to savor you slowly, enjoying each delicious bite, rather than try to devour you all at once. I have grown up with the refugee mentality: Grab what you can today, tomorrow it may be gone.

I suppose that trust can only come with consistency and the passage of time. If the sun has behaved in the same manner (rising and setting, giving light and heat) for as long as it has, I guess I can be secure knowing that it will continue to do so. People are different. They change, die, betray, go away. Not always. There are exceptions. But it is a naive thing to give one's heart away to a stranger.

I have always been the "jump right in" type of person. And I've always been hurt. Hmm. But is indifference the answer? No, life is vulnerable. If you are perfectly protected, you are not human. Humans have hearts and can be hurt. 

I want to experience the range of emotions that humans are capable of, in their proper proportions. OK, so maybe I prefer joy to, say, sadness or pain. But if we were meant to never suffer, we'd all be mannequins with smiles painted on, or Brady kids or TV evangelists.

What I'm getting at is, OK, I really like you a lot. Like ice cream or cheesecake. And I'm like a kid from Ethiopia, tasting it for the first time. You, being the more mature of us (because women are smarter) are responsible to keep me in line, set the pace and make sure I don't get bulimic. I will respect your judgement.

I only hope that when you get to know me, you will still love me. I am not harboring a secret life or hidden personality disorder. I wear all my problems, joys and defects on the outside. What you see is what you get. What needs improving, I hope to improve, and my life's philosophy is still under construction. 

Take it slow. Ok. Let's do that. But let's not play any games.

Love ya,

Andrew

Ode to Joy, or another random love letter from 1992

Dearest Honey Blossom Cakes O' Sweetness,

To begin with, Hi there! I hope the gods of green bud bless your brain lobes with the ever expanding euphoria associated with smoking a joint, meditating or kicking back near a body of water. Peace be to you soul, mind, household appliances and body (including a special blessing upon those marvelously molded anterior parts, of which I am extremely fond). Peace to your buttocks. Peace be upon them mightily!

OK, OK...I am getting a bit carried away in my benediction. Please forgive. The purpose of my letter, besides trying to make you feel special, is to convince you that I am not crazy (ie. psychotic, obsessive/compulsive, addictive personality, manic/depressive, axe murderer, abuser of small penguins...) but simply suffering from an old affliction, often misdiagnosed in modern times: LOVE.

OK, I know that in the early stages, the symptoms of love are very similar to gout, or the onset of mental illness. But dammit (just thought I'd say "dammit") what's wrong with being in love, feeling it, expressing it, shouting it, singing about it, writing voluminous letters of adoration--etc? It seems the world has been doing it for a very long time now, and I must say, of all the attainments in life, love seems the most worthy to be put on a pedestal. Love, in all its forms and expressions, seems to me what it is all about.

Sure, there are some sick and twisted individuals who, "in the name of love," do horrendous acts, but this should not sully the reputation of TRUE LOVE. I don't think one should be afraid to love or to let oneself be loved. The possibility of hurt is inherent in anything we do as humans unless we have had our central nervous system removed or re-wired. So, if we are human and we are going to be hurt anyway in life, why not let ourselves be loved?

"Love yourself," I hear someone in the back say. Sure. But there's a limit to how much love you can heap on yourself before it gets disgusting. And it really is more spiritually satisfying to love others and let them love you back. Self-love is a lonely world. You can be happy alone, and indeed all of us are alone inside our own individual consciousnesses. No one, no matter how much acid they do, can truly share another's consciousness.

But--it is pleasant to share experiences and ideas with another person who is similarly tuned to the universe. Having a partner or soul mate or lover to share burdens, talk, share the bounty of life (good food, music, etc) and have a warm secure intimate relationship with--what's wrong with that? If two people have the desire to be together, to be in love and agree that they will work with and not try to hurt one another, why fight it?

I know that you have responsible considerations to make, as you have a child who depends on you not to make poor choices. But oh, honey, don't you see I have honorable intentions? I will do anything to prove this to you. I am willing to work on my life.

I don't believe that anyone should try to change anyone else. I don't want you to change what you are--what you are is what I'm attracted to. We all have things we want to improve in ourselves, but that is up to us to change or not. I can make adjustments and be content in varied circumstances. I think I am ready to do what it takes to make a relationship work.

I'm not saying I'll always do everything right. Like right now. I should probably be more aloof. Give you more space to breathe and think. And I will. But dammit (love that word for emphasis) I am in love, and I'm not ashamed of acting the idiot. I just don't want to drive you away.

So, darling, don't be afraid of getting attached to me. I will never do anything to hurt or betray you. You are very special to me, I've never met anyone who makes me feel all the ways you do. I feel comfortable with you, like we're already old friends, and yet quite excited by you and attracted to you physically. You are, on the whole, a very wonderful person and I hope you will give me the chance to become a part of your life.

If I do anything that you feel uncomfortable with, I want you to tell me. I feel that people should above all be honest about their feelings.

You know, this has been a pretty mushy letter, all this about "love" and "feelings." Hell, I reckon I got it pretty bad. Please don't freak out because of the fact of my many-worded writing illness. It is genetic. All writers go overboard in wooing the women of their fancy. Plus, I have a lot of time on my hands here at work. Next week I plan to solve our country's political problems. But this week my love life takes priority.

Well, honey love flower petal dew drop baby, I got to go to work. Ta Ta.

Love,
Andrew

Another Cuckoo personal ad response (Colony Inn Era circa 1992)

Hello. Hi there. 

 

May our eggs share the same nest, or whatever the local customary thing to say is, this is it.

I hope to be starting off on the right foot with you (left one's always gettin' me in trouble, yah!), so I'll tell you right where I'll begin. Why be answerin' a personal ad any-way? What's wrong with me? 

OK. Fair enough. I started out nice, with a little salutation, and now you want an accounting of all my faults. Well, hmmn. Not going to give it to you.
 
I don't have gangrene or leprosy (HIV+ or -). I have been celibate for over a year, through circumstance not choice, but all things considered, through choice, by not choosing to do anything about it. Well, anyway, I never have been "promiscuous," to say the least. 

Who fricken cares? I'd love to have a wonderful relationship (sex included), but I don't really want to hope for anything at this point. To hope for something is to be disappointed. To be disappointed, I know a lot. I do believe I am sounding negative again, and I swore I'd be presentin' myself nice today. 

 

Hello. Forgive me, entirely. I am a bit down on myself, and The Personal Ads, and The Dating Scene in General, oh, but not life. 

 

I would be oh so happy if I could just meet a nice female person I could relate to and be a part of their lives, not in the way that catfood might be, but in a real, milk sort of way. I mean we could nurture the relationship, you know, like a cactus. 

 

We could bike ride together and eat picnic lunches on islands remote and dangerous, or sit around and drink coffee, or talk about The Future, or just shut up and look in each others eyes (but not like psychos or anything).

 I don't know that people do that any more. Do they hold hands? Is there kissing? I know there's sex, I mean, I suppose there is. Sex is just too dangerous to be talked about mildly. It's like talking about a gun. It's negative. Too negative. Let's not talk of it at all right now. 

 I'd rather fantasize and speculate as to what your eyebrows might look like. Your nose. Your chin. Your shin. Your grin. 'S that a sin?

 What am I some rhyming kind of idiot? OK. We're OK. Got it all out of my system. Now. Let's get introductions straight, since you think I'm on drugs. And I'm not, by the way. They're on me. They're all over me! Get ' em off! Get ' em off! 

My name is Andrew. I have many other personalities, but you need only know of this one 'cause the others all go out and report to demons and commit grave crimes and bury people by the side of the road. Ahem. But besides all the killin', I is a real nice man, whom you should think about dating.

 

F'rinstance, though I am an axe murderer and a junkie, I have a big heart and can be a good loyal friend. And although I belong to the gay Rasta Nazi biker Vietnam vets for Jesus, my politics don't get in the way of my religion (ZEN/Krishna/Satanastrianism).

Sufficient background? Now can we be intimate? Oh, come on! Hell, please? 

Oh, awright. But right now I gotta go. No,really. You want to talk any further than this, you goin' to have ta put another dime in the meter. No hangin' around this Seven-Eleven. Keep movin', gotta keep movin'. 

 

Um, give me a call. If you're bored and want to be more so, only with company.

Nawww.
 
343-2372 Andrew (Hoody) Paul Golding
 

Dearest Whomever (From the Adventuress Wanted era circa 1992)

 09
 
Dearest Whomever;
 

Hi there, my name's Andrew, and I likes me some camping. Yessir. I am 27 years old and am in search of a female travelling companion who may or may not become the woman of my dreams as we roll down the road in my '63 Dodge paramilitary parcel van. 

 

The woman should be rugged, or at least not prissy. She need not be a beauty queen, although I wouldn't object. A real down to earth, sandle wearin', tie dyed, woman of the '90s is what I'm looking for. 

 

See, my plan is to get to know this woman through a letter correspondence, then a couple of visits, then a few preliminary weekend camping trips. Gradually, as I save money and outfit the rig for the long haul, I'd like to live with the girl, sharing expenses and saving together. Then, when we are ready to light out, having consolidated our possessions into a mass of currency and utilitarian luxuries for the journey, we will go. 

 

And go. I'd like to tour the whole U.S. because this is to be the trek of a lifetime. Traveling as cheaply as possible without eating roadkill, I would like to make this last as long as possible. Lakes, rivers, streams and mountains, everywhere will be our home. Until the money goes. Then we will hopefully be either in the locale of our dreams, or in a suburb of a town we don't hate too much, where we can work toward the next six months of travel. 

 

I am very handy and can ply myself to most trades, when given the opportunity. I have worked in an office and machine shop and as a laborer in many fields. Right now I work with the mentally ill. 

 

Anyway, if I have to relocate to meet the girl of my dreams, no problem. I live in Chico at the moment. Been here 10 months, living with grandpa, until he died. Then Uncle Steve took over. I'll be in Chico until something comes along, but when it does I'm ready to jump. 

 

What this means is, I am in a transition phase of my life. I am getting rootbound. Chico is not where I plan to plant myself forever. I want to see the world now, not when I am fifty. 

 

I have some college education, although I believe it is mostly obsolete. Computer programming is different now than 5 years ago. Anyway, it was never really my love.

 

I like music, writing and the arts. I like film (video), guitar, and drawing. I believe I could be the next Madonna, if given the right breaks (and lingerie). 

 

So what's on the list of activities? Camping, stopping at gas stations, canoeing, fishing, hiking, smelling the roses, feeling the earth under our feet, conversing, making love, swimming nude in mountain streams. Getting way out there. 

 

I don't do chemicals or drink excessively. I may partake in a beer or a small green handrolled cigarette from time to time, but I am no abuser. 

 

Let's see. Bear with me. 

 

I am openminded but have a few strong convictions. One is honesty. No thieving, lying or sneaking. I like to be out in the open and hate deception. I respect other peoples lifestyles, hairstyles and religions (where they do not infringe on my rights as a human being).  I get along with all races and speak Spanish confluently. I can also speak jive, when necessary. 

 

OK, lets see. No major diseases, like AIDS, herpes, hippopatamus--whatsoever. I am not promiscuous. I've only had 2 or three real relationships, mostly I have been by myself. I am an uncharted  sea. 

 

I hope to meet someone who is not molded in concrete but  who is adaptable, content and creative. She should also have a nice, firm, round head with a brain inside. She should like  classic and underground rock. This is not critical. She could like mariachi music, as long as she is tolerant of what I listen to. I will be likewise. 

 

So, what's more to say except - "Come on, babe, let's fly!" I'm Andrew, come fly me.
 
Andrew Golding
 PO BOX 5650 

Chico, CA 95927-5650
 

 

A few attempts at personal ads from the early '90s

Andrew Golding
1225 Nord Ave. #167
Chico, CA  95926

Date: 9/02/92                    Box# 58270
Account: 916-3432372        Password: 7229
Date Entered:9/01/92        Ad Taker: 0005
Start Date: 9/03/92
Talking Personal

Men-Women
ECLECTIC, 27, SWM eccentric hippie, artist type, seeking happy relationship with one kind-hearted, down to earth female. Age/race unimportant, warmth and honest a must. Call voice mailbox 53270.


SWM 24, 5'7", 160, Blond, Green Eyes. With undefinable qualities of a good heart, Love of Life and good and aversion to Evil and bad.

and some generic, pre-written responses to ads I may have run across:

Hi. My Name is Andrew.

I'm new in town and I'd like to meet a down to earth girl. I'm looking for a friend or companion who will help bring out my wild and zany side. I'm 5'9", 160 with blond wavy hair and John Lennon spectacles. I'm a moderated drinker and partier and a non cigarette smoker. I like motorcycles, camping, fishing, rock and roll and alternative music. I like a good time. How about you?  Give me a call. Leave me your #.


and this one:

Hello Pretty Woman!

I AM ANDREW.

Child at heart, really. I want to meet somebody who will be a really close friend, like a sister who will always be there. Someone who I will always treasure and respect and love. Yes, I said "Love." I don't believe love is a cheap word. And so your friendship means a great deal. But I am an untamed bachelor and am still a little wild at heart.

I am 5'9", 155, Blond hair and green eyes. For a mental picture here are some actors or personalities I resemble:

John Lennon
Mary Tyler Moore
Richard Harris
Peter Fonda
Charlton Heston
Grace Slick (just kidding) Grace Jones
Kurt Rambis
Robert Oppenheimer

Well, I've been no help. I guess you'll have to meet me and find out. I hope we can meet and be friends. I like all the things you like:

1.  Rain, Sun, Moon and Stars
2.  Parades Flowers
3. Travel and the search for paradise
4. Hiking, biking, fishing and camping
5. Music, Guitar
6. Movies, Art, Musical Entertainment
7. Partying and getting crazy
8. Outdoor stuff, going for long walks
9. And, of course, Romance and bein' with someone you care about

Well, here's lookin' at you, kid.

Daily Record of Dysfunctional Thoughts (92 exact date unknown)

Daily Record of Dysfunctional Thoughts

I shall hang myself before year's end.

I will always be alone and miserable and will die this way.

No one cares.

I am incapable of having a good relationship.

I am a fucking jerk.

Life sucks.

I hate all women everywhere.

I especially hate all the happy people who have it made.

I should kill myself before I do serious damage to others.

Hang myself.

Sucks, I'm too scared to do it. 

Guess I'll have to tear myself up with drugs and alcohol.

Fuck it! Fuck it all. Fuck everything and fuck you!

If I don't die soon, I guess I'll fall down...

Rejection (92)

You think you fuckin’ know about

        Feelin’ like dirt?

Do you

        Think you have a clue about

                Having no self-worth?

Well, you haven’t even scratched

        A flake off the scab

        Off the scar of my heart

        Which was broken in

        Pieces on the floor

        Like a jar

        On the day you left

        Me for good

                                           E

                                           I

                                           D

                                           A

                                           N

                                           N

                                           A

                                           W

Cognitive therapy only works when you identify the types of distortions and form rational responses (Genny and Depression, cont.) Mid 93

Automatic Thought:

Jennifer hasn't called. Maybe she doesn't like me.

 

I can't call her again. I must wait for her to call me, to see if she really likes me or if she is just putting up with me when I call.

 

I know she will never end up liking me.

I will make an ass out of myself and will be jealous or a crybaby, and she will never want to be around me.

It will never work.

I am incapable of having a quality relationship. I always blow it by pestering the other person too much. Or I wait for them to call, and they don't, and I assume it's me they don't like, or I'm not important to them. Maybe I'm not.

I will grow old and die like my grandfather, old and alone, or else I'll die of cancer or something.

Jennifer will never call me.

Jennifer will not call today.

I will try not to call her.

My bicycle injuries hurt.

This drug I'm on makes me feel psychotic.

I will never be fit to have a relationship.

I don't think she likes me anyway. I think she likes Matt or Bruce or whoever else is in her life, not me.

I could never be the object of her desire. 

 

She just pities me cause I'm a poor, lonely fool. She wants to be a nurse, that's why.

I have no friends. That's a lie; there's Mona and even Brian. But my uncle Steve thinks I'm a sissy or a geek or whatever. 

Who cares? Nobody.

I can't call my mom cause I've been smoking pot. Mona's at work. Wreath, I don't know well enough and don't have her number.

I'm going to sit and cry until I have to go to work.

I can't even play guitar.

2 Women Blues (early '90s)

I'm going crazy. Because I live in a box,

and my love life's all shocks and surprises.

Complicated mazes, dazes and cuckoo clocks, and to

my alarm, two delicious dishes to tantalize us.

Which is meaning me, who is stuck in this dilemma,

I've got two lovely women, all tears and no lovin'

Which is what I'm coming to, the punch line,

And then there were none...

Genny and a few thoughts on Predestination and Foreknowledge

Suppose a man could see into the future and he sees that, on Aug 4, 1996, his wife of 20 years would leave him for a foreign billionaire on a spur of the moment proposal at a public gathering. This man and his wife have enjoyed 20 wonderful, faithful years together through illness and financial hardship good and bad times, but nonetheless, at this time, on this date, it is slated to happen. It has already happened. It is.

So, the question is, should he spend the next four years with the woman, knowing what she will do? Should he deprive himself of any further companionship with her to protect his already broken heart? Should he kill her now and preserve her memory? He must go crazy.

Because he cannot bring himself to kill her, yet he can't live with her with the knowledge of future betrayal, he is hopelessly deranged and dreams up a host of delusions to convince his poor aching head to stop tormenting him.

One is that he is in a top secret Merchant Marine society. He is always found in bus stations, drooling and holding his cap out, as if asking for money. He develops mongoloid features and speaks with a slow Southern drawl. He urinates publicly and off balconies. He wets himself. He has become the laughingstock of Yolo County.

His size, incredibly, shrinks down to about 4-1/2 feet and he develops breasts. He sports his hair in a Dr. Spock Vulcan bowl-do and has remarkably pointy ears. However, he dies a very wealthy man and well respected in the furniture industry.

This has nothing to do with the fact that his ex-wife to be will be married to one of the world's wealthiest Yugoslavians on Jan. 12, 1997. He died, by the way, of the sudden impact of steel debris, from a railroad explosion, to his temple, causing brain leakage. He was fucked. Anyway, our story follows the woman who married the Yugo tycoon...

You know, Genny, I know that you don't know what you want and can't promise that you won't eventually break my heart. I think you see more clearly than I do. But right now, today Aug. 19, 1992, I know that I like you terribly much and want to be a part of your life. But don't let me be lonely tonight...

Dearest Jennifer (Genny): A psycho breakup letter

Dearest Jennifer,

This is a very difficult letter to write. I really don’t know what I want to say or how to say it. I’ll try to be brief.

I don’t think we should see each other anymore. Reason: I am certain that I will be hurt too badly and I just couldn’t stand to get any more attached, only for it to end in sadness later. Reason why I’m certain it would end in sadness: 1. It always does. 2. I am too immature and unable to handle the emotional stress of a relationship. 3. You are a sweet, free spirited person who deserves someone who is not a manic-depressive emotional cripple.

The reason I don’t exhibit erratic behavior around you is because when I am with you I feel happy, wanted, fulfilled. When I don’t hear from you or you don’t return my calls or call when you say you are going to, I am quite different. 

 

My rational mind says, “Don’t sweat it. She probably just got busy. Besides, people have lives to live. Be patient, etc, etc.” 

 

But Satan or my evil other self tells me, “Man, the reason people always flake on you is because you are boring. You’ll always be unloved and alone. See, if she doesn’t call, this proves it.”

Anyway, I can’t see putting you through another negative experience with someone who is, in all probability, as screwed up or more so than the person you just left. It’s not that I don’t wish it could be different. I cannot begin to express the joy that your company, conversation and hugs have brought me. But I am just a poor beggar, enjoying a handout from a table he will never be able to sit at.

I am ashamed to be 27 years old and so fucked up inside. I am living in a self-created hell of rejection and loneliness. Because I know you will eventually reject me or break my heart, I am sparing myself and you unnecessary pain. I am also wasting and ruining another friendship.

But shouldn’t life be less painful? I think about what others have, ie happiness, love, fulfillment—and I want to cry. Then I become frustrated, then angry, then listless and resigned.

If I knew for certain that I was going to be this FUCKING MISERABLE a year from now, I would kill myself today. I just don’t have the strength to believe in myself anymore. Get counseling, you say? Sure, anyone can pay someone to care about them for an hour, but I have to live with myself day in and day out. I am getting sick of it.

Anyway, as you are obviously too well-adjusted and happy to be dragged down into my pseudo-psychotic self-pitying bullshit, I hope to spare you the worst of it by not letting you get involved with me. Please don’t be hurt or offended. That’s my job.

You will have no problems finding someone who will make you happy and be a strength to you. I radiate only insecurity and guilt. I am not worth it. We can still “be friends” and talk, etc. I don’t want you to feel guilty or like you have to be nice to me. I am an asshole, you’d do better without me. Feel better?

You never have to see me again or call me if you don’t want to. I expect that anyway. So don’t feel bad. I’ve gone on too long, so I’ll shut up now.

Goodbye,

Andrew

Genny Friendzone Rant (Explicit)

It's all over between me and Genny. She wanted to relegate me to that expansive circle of acquaintances that includes, oh, Satan, Saddam Hussein, Herman Munster, the Elephant Man.
 
That's right; we're "just friends." 

Ok, so I have to regret the passage of the cheesecake without having more than sampled the crust. But what can I say. I like to lick my lips, fondle the fork, toy with the topping, before committing the irrevocable act of Tasting. 

Well, I could have picked up on the signals better I suppose: 

Like when she said, "What do you want to happen tonight?" 

That was my cue to say, "Whatever you want to happen." 

"You make me so wet." 

"I want you to feel comfortable touching my breasts. " 

"Tell me if I do  anything you don't like," (followed by a quick fondling of my penis).

"You have a wonderful penis." 

"Let's get stoned and forget all our sensibilities." 

Ok, do you think she wanted me? 

Now, thanks to my quadmate, Ed, I know the difference between a bitch and a slut: 

"A slut is a girl who fucks everybody; a bitch is a girl who fucks everybody but you."
 

Andrew Letter 47 - Another day, another love, and I discontinue Zoloft

 

8-1-92

 

Dear Mom,

 

Well, here it is, and it would be day 8 of z-treatment, however, I was forced to discontinue due to a bad reaction.

I believe the drug was beginning to make me more unstable than I would normally even be. I would be ecstatic, unstoppable one day, and the next I would be angry, frustrated, experience fear and "antsyness." Then, depending on what thoughts would come flying into my mind, I would either feel like crying for 3 hours or curling up in a ball on the floor to avoid acting on ideations of self-mutilation.

It sped me up way too much. I had a near episode at work when a client became abusive. It was all I could do to control my breathing and stand there and not kill him. Someone would say something, and I would find myself applying all the cognitive therapy techniques in reverse. So, in a nutshell, I was freaking out. I also was not eating or sleeping satisfactorily.

I believe that the answer to my problems lies in applying the techniques in the book, not in chemical enhancement. It is just not for everyone, I guess.

On the upside, the other day, right after the day I cried and curled up, I met another girl. It came about through natural circumstances (not the personals). I was reading by the pool and went in the rec room to check my mail. There was a girl in there racking up the pool balls, and she said "hi" to me. Pretty soon, we were playing pool, then making plans for later on. We took a ride downtown to the concert in the park and then walked around town.

It was incredible. The conversation never lagged. There was no uncomfortableness. I could really tell that this girl actually liked being with me. She was excited, I was excited. Like being a teenager.

Just the day before, I was on the floor waiting for girl #1 to call, and she never did. That fueled my reality distortion that I was worthless and would die alone and miserable. And as if by magic or God or Instant Karma, the next day I meet my new friend Kathleen.

Now, she is really cute! She's also 25, closer to my age. And she lives right in the apartment complex. I will refrain from saying "I think I'm in love," although you know I must be thinking it. Anyway, we have a date tonight, and I feel confident, happy and not at all awkward. I will continue this after I get back ...

Mom, I think I want to marry this girl. Although it was not exactly a "date," we rode bicycles in the park and ate at a nice restaurant afterward. There has been no physical contact, which, although it would be reassuring, is not really necessary at this stage. We are just friends. I want to be with her all the time, and I could go on and on with praises for her, but I have to go to work.

So, you see ... the lesson is ... I sure as hell don't know, but I'm just going to go with it. We are going to see each other tomorrow. She initiated it. It is so nice to feel wanted. After we become good friends, we shall have to do some camping together. And get engaged ... sigh!

Well, gotta go, I'll be riding my cloud to work tonight.

 

Love, your incredibly joyous son,

Andrew

Andrew Letter 46 -- Zoloft and Genny report July 29, 1992

 7-29-92

 

Dear Mom,

 

Hi there. It certainly was nice to get your letter, and to talk to you the other day. I really was feeling blue, and your letter really made me feel loved. I appreciate the care package; Zoloft, Stephen King and Feeling Good. I've gotten into the first couple of chapters, and it really makes sense (the therapy, that is). It is practical, not a bunch of that namby-pamby psycho mumbo-jumbo that I eschew. I look forward to using it if I ever have another depressing thought.

As of right now, I have been on the Zoloft for 5 days. If I don't level out pretty soon, I may have to decrease my dose to 25 milligrams. I am just too HAPPY.

Right now, I've got reason to be, though. Last night, I went on my first date in over a year. I met a girl (through the personal ads), and I really like her. I feel very comfortable around her, and she is a very open, warm, caring person. I AM IN LOVE. Well, we'll see. I have been lonely for so long, I'd probably give my heart to a shopping cart lady. I had even considered dating the clients where I work. Reason prevailed, however.

So, I've only met this girl less than 24 hours ago. We spent 2 or 3 of them on the phone, and 7 or 8 of them walking, talking and eating together. She is a very intelligent girl, especially considering she is only 20. And cute. She looks like Jodie Foster and Tatum O'Neil. And she likes me! I have to resist saying it is too good to be true because I don't want to make a self-fulfilling prophecy come to pass.

I am wondering, though, with this medication, if I would be capable of feeling sad if she were to chop off my hand with a meat cleaver. I'd probably just say something like "Oh, hey! That wasn't necessary, but no problem, I'll fix it. Let's see ... "

I have told key people at work to monitor my behavior, although telling my friend Brian was not a good idea. He tried to get my goat by commenting that I was "one speed, a hundred miles an hour, and maybe I should consider Quaalude to go with it." He just wasn't catching any fish.

My other friend. Mona just called. She's the one I have been confiding in at work. I had told her I had a date planned and she just wanted to check up on me. She is the Med Tech at the Manor, so she is keeping tabs on me, and plus, she is just a really nice person who cares.

I am just as happy as a clam. The little things that would irritate me, like traffic, or turning off a light or forgetting something and having to go back and get it, do not even raise my blood pressure. I may even become a productive member of society. It's scary.

One thing that concerns me is that I am already very skinny. I must weigh about 135. Down from 160. Now I realize that 135 was my drivers license weight in ‘84, and that I did have a beer belly that I was trying to lose from last winter. But the belly is long gone and this Zoloft kind of suppresses my appetite. And I am more active and burning more calories than ever. I am afraid I will burn up like a stick of incense and vanish into thin air.

But if I do, at least I'll be Feeling Good. I can only hope that I'll get as much accomplished as possible in straightening out my life before I have to go off of the drug. 

I feel like Charley or Algernon. Or like I woke up inside someone else's body. Someone who is happy, well-adjusted, smiles a lot, giggles occasionally and is completely unacquainted with malaise and melancholia. I can stop and be pensive and not fidget in my chair, but it seems that my mind is always going, thinking happy thoughts until the moment I conk out. I am just so motivated that I am worried that I may have to take a class or two just to have an outlet for this energy.

Now is the time for me to decide, as they currently registering. My life is uncomplicated right now, though, and I like it that way. I have time for people and recreation and do not like to crowd my schedule up. Now, this sounds more like the Andrew I know. Fun, fun, fun. No work, all play.

But I really think I should pursue writing as a goal. It just makes sense. If I get depressed due to genetic causes and am losing my hair from the same genes, should I not make use of the Writing gene in my makeup? I am not worried about it though, I expect it will be an inevitability. I just have to live a bit and experience life and keep gathering memories, so I'll have plenty to write about.

If I can overcome my fear of making changes, meeting people and doing new things, I will be content. Well, anyway, my little black flight recorder is going all the time, so eventually, I'll have to get it all out on paper.

I'll have to go now, it's getting late and I expect a call from Jennifer.

 

 

Love Ya--Andrew

 

 

P.S.  My posture is improving. I have stopped “slouching.” Oh, and I can play guitar just like Jimi Hendrix. Eh, not quite! Bye!

 

P.S.S. Disregard these statements. I was on drugs. Should I send the Zoloft back with Steve or mail it in a package? Depends on if you trust him with all that medication. Kidding, kidding, gosh...

 

 

Friends ('92 - Genny era love song channeling James Taylor)

 

Demons When I Sleep ('90s era possession)

Got to hurry. Much to do, little time. Its back. And I can't stop it, though I think I can fight it for a while longer yet.

Like, I forgot to turn the T.V. on before I went to bed the other day. Which I see now was foolish. Without the hypno-therapeutic trance-inducer pounding my eardrums, I realized a disturbing fundamental fact:

I hear voices.

Naturally they are subdued when I have real audio input. But in total, stark fluorescent silence, they come out in force.

So, I've always slept with the T.V. and/or radio on. This seemed like the lesser of two evils. I would be hearing voices, but they would be pre-programmed, FCC approved and filtered for the general public. So, instead of listening to Satan directly, I got the Government version.

Same shit, different tube.

So, I was sleeping rather peacefully, as they weren't in the room, when I start feeling the heaving in my chest, like someone was using my chest cavity, breathing through me. I could feel and hear voices clambering in what seemed like a multitudinous arrival.

One by one, demons, seeping in through my pores, my mucous membranes, my bronchi, were announcing their names, titles & job descriptions along with their arrival times. Some were disheveled and complaining, others seemed cheerful enough.

After the last few stragglers entered in I guess I dropped off to sleep. Or I woke up. Whichever it is, it is the one I am currently living in and writing from.

I barely had time to fill out my time card.

I had something really important to say, and now I can't remember what it was.

Goodbye.