It's got well over 300,000 miles on it but the odometer stopped working years ago. No, not a Pontiac 1000. My car's original analog fuel injection computer is still running strong. A BOSCH computer of maybe less than 100 transistors, this car has no other sophisticated electronics.
Even the intermittent windshield wiper controller is nothing more than a warm wire thermostatic relay.
The first naked woman I ever touched was a nineteen year old who tried to kill herself in my bathtub, one of my then girlfriend's girlfriends. My then girlfriend was attracted to crazy skinny girls and boys, drug addicts or not. Heroin chic or equivalent. When I first started hanging out with her I was very skinny and squeaky. My remaining testicle hadn't fully woken up yet.
I quit high school for college partly because high school bullies were calling me "queerbait" and I didn't have any pubic hair.
Later, a horror stor, ex and me, top physical form in the gym, me grown beyond six feet tall and 100% hard muscle, she much the same by more intense training, people would stare at us, envious, imaging sex. They did not know there was no sex. They did not know she preferred girls, or that my brain and endocrine chemistry were entirely off and I was still a frequent flyer to the E.R., or that the local police knew my name and considered me an amusing late night diversion from their normal sordid duties.
One story, a cop drove me home late one night, past two in the morning, and we could both hear my roommate and his girlfriend having very, very loud sex. Cop kept pounding on the door, just to amuse himself.
Roomie's girlfriend answered the door, unsatisfied, wrapped in a beach towel, probably because my housemate stank of pot and alcohol, maybe to the point he couldn't stand up.
Cop asked her, "Does this guy live here?"
Long moment of suspense and silence, she glowering at me, then she answered "Yes."
Hunter escapes trouble with the cops again!
Later, imagine a nightmare some sordid David Lynch version of my Big Fat Greek Wedding with fucking always clueless me as some Jessica Jones sidekick run away. I met her parents and they were joyous. Praise the Lord, she has a boyfriend!!! I was her first and last.
I never introduced her to my family because my family would have instantly seen through her facade.
My last day with her, I jumped out of her moving car in Berkeley, near the BART station. Still one of my PTSD sites, twice later demonstrated, but not among the worst, and not among the bloodiest. Nobody died.
Somehow, in spite of girlfriend's girlfriend's life as an abuser of IV drugs, occasional San Francisco prostitute, and trying to kill herself in my bathtub with half her blood running down the drain, we all survived.
Leaving me as the coward who ran away, which may be why they are absurdly affluent in this twisted U.S.A., and I am not.
Simply put, I couldn't deal with those sorts of eccentric people. Diagnosed autistic spectrum, more than once. Which probably explains why I was "asked" to "take time off" from university twice, so it took me nine years to earn an ordinary four year science degree.
Nevertheless, mostly stories not mine to tell because I ran away, hair on fire, worse mental health issues than White Phosphorous or napalm burns.
My physical self is messed up, even just this morning.
I've severely abused my physical self this past half century and more, so I now go to bed when I hurt too much to be awake, and I get out of bed when I hurt too much to be asleep. My mental scars are bad, frequent nightmares, more than I can tolerate off the meds that have serious side effects.
Years past, in the 'eighties, past the very most wretched darkest days of my life, I met and soon married my wife.. We were young idealistic public school science teachers in big bad urban communities, rougher than any average U.S.A. public school.
I fancied myself at times a Welcome Back Kotter sort. I was not. When I met my wife we were both looking for graduate school. We were not satisfied, and sometime abused. My wife got the best graduate school offer, in another state, and I joyfully followed her.
I hate Reagan. If there's a hell, Reagan is down there in the neighborhoods of other venal tools and meat-puppet minions of Satan.
Living Reagan and his buddies laughed as my wife and I were watching friends dying of AIDS. We voted for Carter. He's not perfect, nobody is, but he's still a good man.
I later worked in blood banking and nearly all our hemophilia patients had died or were dying of AIDS. I also had the keys to a cabinet of GMO Factor VIII worth more than a million dollars at the time, for babies and our patients who had by some miracle escaped HIV.
One of my geeky Autistic Spectrum childhood friends is a genetic engineer, still practicing in that business. He was smart enough to avoid the sorts of trouble I was always getting into. I got kicked out of university twice, and maybe it's just some sort of sick miracle I was twice invited back. He soldiered through school and university in a conventional fashion.
On a lighter note, it's entirely true, I never did understand what "big hair" was about, or why public nudity was less and less acceptable, especially at the beach. When I was a teen, streaking wasn't conflated with sex crimes and people didn't have to walk far to find a place to swim naked, or sit in a hot spring pool, no clothes, discussing philosophy and science with people of all shapes, sizes, sexes, sexuality, and ages.
My parents were California artists with day jobs. My mom's the sort who'd nurse any hungry kid anywhere if she was lactating, and so's my wife, and always the wise women any adolescent with questions about sex and sexuality can turn to if their own parents blush in terror, quit talking, sometimes even kicking them out of the family home. Our families are trusted eccentric people who will take any kid to a Planned Parenthood clinic for whatever reason.
If my mom can't explain some aspect of human sexuality and reproduction in words, then my dad can draw it. My dad is still so captivated with my mom he still draws pictures of her naked, her boobs about as flat and droopy these days as her grandma's were. That's what happens. We are humans. As a little kid I saw a great grandma's boobs. Her house had two rooms, a kitchen with a wood stove, bathing once a week, and a room for the overflow. The nearest privacy was the outhouse, about forty yards beyond the back door. No way to bathe or change clothes without somebody seeing something, especially in the winter.
Nobody cared. Ordinary Life. As a hairless-down-there-pre-sexual-awakings-kid, I was curious that the points of my great grandmas breasts were in the same latitudes as her naval.
Sigh.
It took me two hours to write this, and I've left out the more sordid details.
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Octafish
