"Noogie" Time Is Coming!

. . . . . . . . . . . (pictured left to right: noogee, nooger)



The Collateral Damage Caused By The "Friendly Fire" Of A Violent Suicide Can Be Quite Immense or - Why You Should Never Kill Yourself Unless You Want To Receive Some Serious Noogies Once Your Siblings Catch Up With Your Lame Ass In The Great Hereafter (Part One)


Seven weeks ago, my sister and very good friend Peggy, stepped into a closet, put a Smith & Wesson snub nose .38 caliber gun to her temple, and took her own life.

Since then I have been trying to take mine back.

They say that when a mother loses her son in battle, two people perish. I do not know if the violent suicide of a sibling approaches that level, but the collateral damage from the "friendly fire" is still considerable.
During the day I jump at the slightest noise, while at night it's more quiet than it has ever been.

I am a 54-year-old man who stands 6 feet 6 inches tall and weighs 260 pounds.  As of this past monday I am sleeping with every light in the house turned on.  I do this because I am afraid.

I am not certain whether I should feel humbled or humiliated.

What's next?

Size XXL superhero underpants and pajamas to ward off the night-time evils?

Fear is the last thing that I expected to be experiencing at this point.
It's not just the fear that comes in the middle of the night, but also the general, depersonalized fear of the day.  The fear that any pint-sized punk-ass East Side kid could walk up to me on the street and cause me to curl up into the fetal position just by looking at me wrong.

There appears to be very little structure left.

The house of cards has not only collapsed, but the deck has been shuffled.  I don't even recognize the dealer, or know the game being played.  And yet everything about me, and everything that I am feeling, is on the table.  And with each passing day I feel obligated, or expected, to participate in some way, by placing some kind of wager or investment in the goodness of life.
Since Sunday, November 16th, I have had close to a dozen nightmares about handguns.  Before that date I cannot remember ever having a nightmare, or even a single dream about a gun.
I dream in layers now and I don't know why.

Last night I cried myself awake after cowering to my knees and begging for mercy when a cop walked up to me and pointed a gun at my head.  Except instead of truly being awake I went into the next dream "layer." The cop and the gun were gone, while I was just walking around crying. Then I finally really did wake up - sobbing like a little kid.

The only way that I know for certain that I am awake anymore is when I hear my cat outside the bedroom door meowing away, wondering what all of the damn racket is about.

Let me tell you something - this grief crap is some seriously weird-ass shit.

Here's the part that I don't get: it's bad enough that I lost my sister.  Why do You have to go and rub my face in it with all of this other stuff?

Huh?

Yeah - I'm talkin' to You.

No comment, eh?

I figured as much.

"Supreme Being" my ass.

How about "Supreme Bully?"
Here's an idea for You, Big Guy: why don't You go and psychologically bitch-slap someone your own size?

[Asshole.]
. .