The Broken Soldier

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? A couple things to write about. I’ll do my best to be brief. “Pete Buckley boxer-brief.”

First up, J.R., a/k/a ‘babyjesushorse.’ He’s cut off from anything involving this site and the non-profit springing from it once my life is in something resembling order. I find his exclusion pitiful, but wholly necessary. As a VA claims/comp subject expert, he is truly second-to-none. (Though “second-to-none” ought not be confused with irreplaceably unequal - several equals are eager to fill his place, nor does recognizing his gifts imply or merit receiving kingly latitude.)

For those interested in back-story, J.R. and I, and occasionally supporting characters, were doing our impressions of the Cold War. (Not the best analogy, as J.R. was doing all the fighting, but the best a dumb Army guy can do on-the-fly.) I’d do something, he’d get mad and blow up at me. I’d not do something, he’d get mad and blow up at me. At no point did I really understand what was happening or why. Perhaps the fault belongs to me? I’ve been slightly preoccupied with family and self since March 2007.

Every now and again J.R. would punctuate insults directed at me, alerting me to and ascribing to me insults directed at him and a blue-blood snobbishness, with gibes at my wife. “For one as intelligent and creative as you, Sarah, I can’t believe you’re politically/economically Conservative” and other pearls of great price so horribly lacking in structure and meaning that rewriting one is sufficient for illustration. Those, with patience limited by circumstance, took me one toke over the line. A matter about which I feel ambivalent. I regret behaving in such a fashion. It’s beneath me. On the other hand I was provoked to fight in one of the most dire times of my life.

His wife, who had obviously harbored unspoken contempt for me for some time, blinded (metaphorically speaking by what I assume is a combination of whatever the wifely word for ‘uxorious’ is and an agnostic luciferphobia for yours truly) anted her wagon-wheel wooden nickle. Several public Facebook insults from her, after insinuating herself into a discussion that did not involve her, and I had had enough.

I told Ms. Thing, via Facebook Mail to ’suck my balls.’ That she took her husband’s side in any matter between the two of us, regardless of whether she knew or understood the context. In email response I got “It’s ‘wife and me’ fuckface,” which I assumed meant J.R. was using his wife’s account to further sever our relationship. I got angry and threatened to beat the shit out of J.R. the next time I saw him if he were to take that posture with me, face-to-face.

In fact, the ‘fuckface’ reference was J.R.’s wife’s attempt to ‘correct’ my English with a less correct form. (How quaint? Instruction from a woman whose drawled communicative-effectiveness makes my bulldog read like Shakespeare.) J.R. and his wife suggested I was threatening her with physical violence, and said they’d bring my violent,’sociopath’-ic tendencies to the attention of my CoC. Why should truth matter when there’s an ‘argument’ to win, a point to make, or an incident to leverage? I gave them my squad leader’s telephone number and wished them well. And then wished them both good riddance. On balance, I guess this means I’m immodest. Better immodest than whatever they are.

On the lighter side, I had the spinal nerve implant. On the darker side, it only works well when standing, but not while sitting or laying down. Meaning I have higher tolerance for standing, meaning a higher pain payment, but can’t use the device when I’d really need it - after activity. This is getting far too long. Like my fuse and my former friend/colleague’s posts. At least my fuse is easy to follow. (Guess I’m petty too.)