TRAUMA in HANDCUFFS and on BLIND DATES

Pac-Man makes me nervous. My dad loaded it onto his computer and was playing it for like an hour yesterday. He was sweating. There is something inherently freaky about being chased—doesn’t matter if it’s ghosties or some dirty little kid playing tag. When I was a kid I would hide in very lame places every day at 5:30 when I heard my pop make his way up the steps. He would always pretend I was a very good hider, but most of the time I’d be either under the table or standing super still in a corner. Not so bright. Even now, I often have the urge to run away when I hear approaching footsteps. I must have been traumatized.

Many fears and gnarly issues often stem from trauma. Childhood trauma. Of course, for some, trauma is an every day occurrence. My friend recently decided to be a dirty little freak and lock herself in handcuffs around a beam on her wrought-iron bed. Of course the time came to unlock the cuffs, and of course the key was nowhere to be found. Her man-friend decided he’d be really gentlemanly and help her rip one hand free before going to work. She was still half-shackled, so she really had to wrack her brain for a great solution. “That’s when it dawned on me to go to the fire station.” I am so sure. She rang the doorbell and waited as a small butch lesbian answered the door. Right as my friend (who now had a scrape on one hand from the yanking) was asking if this whole thing could be handled discreetly, a big burly sexy fire fighter came to the door, saw the handcuffs and called the whole firehouse over for a look. I guess they bolt-cut that baby off and she was set for her walk of shame past the now-open firehouse door.

Adult trauma can be just as bad, if not worse than playground teasing for having peed your pants again. Several reliable sources tell me so. Recently, a friend of mine went on the worst date I think you could dream up. I mean wow. A friend of hers told her about www.crazyblinddate.com. Do not, I mean really don’t go there and torture yourself. Unless you want a horrible adventure with some jerk and maybe you like psychological / spiritual pain and heartache. So, you sign up and they hook you up with some unknown person who you meet at some previously agreed-upon location. They send some blurred out picture of this date of yours via email. So my friend shows up to meet this self-proclaimed EMO guy he is visibly disappointed. He may have even let out a sigh. He was wearing a Baby Gap-sized sweatshirt for Christ’s sake and he was the one who was disappointed.

Then the awkward silence. Then the awkward conversation about nothing. About how he doesn’t work and he has no free time because he works. What? He cancelled his meal order, slammed down his credit card and said he thought she might have had some redeeming qualities, but alas…no. The kicker though—and seriously, I cringe when I think about it—is that after this terrible date, he tells her, “I have some super-duper Band-Aids for you.” Confused, she took them. “They should help cover your wounded heart.” He ran away down the street and she looked down and realized they were just ordinary Band-Aids. Jeeez. Like, I want to give him an award. That was by far the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard. And bizarre. Who are these people?  If you want to read the detailed story:  www.cupcakeg.blogspot.com

This is for the birds…I saw a woman catch a sickly old pigeon the other day. I felt like a weirdo watching her stalk her prey from inside a local copy shop. This was before I realized everyone in the shop was watching her. “She works next door at the bank!” one of the guys shouted, “I think she’s a security guard.” Why, why, why. It’s a pigeon. And it’s a sick one to boot.

Back at a Southern California State Penitentiary, the attorney I work for was busy visiting one of our dearest clients—that ALLEGED cop-killing paraplegic I’ve mentioned in blogs-past. Well, the attorney told him all about the sea gull we’d named after him and he got all excited and amused and started screaming and banging the table with his fists. I have now been commissioned to take a picture of our pathetic, single-footed mascot so the prisoner can see his namesake.

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