life – Page 2 – Beeshive

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

I wonder if the Chief of Defence Staff and the Vice-Chief of Defence Staff
stop by for the birthday festivities.

Well, today marks my babysitter’s 60th birthday!

Happy birthday!

I don’t honestly know what he looks like now.

His younger brother and his older sister sure look happy for him though, eh?

And there’s the Canadian Armed Forces, still handling things for him all these years later.

I don’t know where his father is.

I wonder if the Vice Chief of Defence Staff or even the Chief of Defence Staff have sent him cards for his birthday.

Handling things for the babysitter and sealing the deal with a weird handshake
and a pat on the bum

If I sound a little sarcastic or a little bitter, that’s ’cause I am.

Not a word of a lie, but I had no birthday parties from the time my mother was ejected from the PMQ on CFB Summerside by my father in 1977 until my birthday in 1985. And that one was so that my father could butter my ass up just in case civilian social services found out about his destructive blow-out in the PMQ in August of 1985.

He promised that he would never ever forget my birthday again.

There was no birthday in 1986.

1987 was going to be my 16th birthday. He promised that he was going to sign me up for and help me with paying for driving classes with Young Driver’s of Canada. Nope. Changed his mind. Whose car would I be driving? Sure as fuck wasn’t going to drive his ’83 Mustang. If I thought that he was going to buy me a car I had another fucking thing coming. I should go speak to that cheap bitch mother of mine and she could pay for the driving lessons and then buy me a fucking car, what has she ever paid.

He sent me a $100.00 gift card for the Old Spaghetti Factory in September of 2006. This was due to the fact that I had chewed him out in August of 2006 for all of the shit related to CFB Namao and the aftermath of CFB Namao.

So yeah, from 1977 until the asshole’s death in 2017 I had 2 birthday acknowledgments and one attack on my mother. That 2 years out of 40.

Meanwhile the babysitter’s father loves him. Blames the military for the way his son turned out.

The babysitter’s sister lied for him.

The babysitter’s younger brother lied for him.

Fuck, even the Canadian Armed Forces were handling things for the babysitter.

But what the hell, it’s his birthday, Happy Birthday!

The Impersonator

It was back in the winter of 1987 when I had learnt that Scott had impersonated me for the first time.

I had been a member of the Royal Canadian Sea Cadets at the Dennison Armouries on Dufferin and Wilson since the fall of 1984. I had achieved the rank of leading cadet, and with the exception of the ongoing issues involving Mr. Stevens, everything was looking up.

This was a Wednesday night parade night when the executive officer A/Slt John Potter pulled me aside and told me that my father wanted my brother Scott to join my corp. Mr. Potter said that he didn’t want my brother anywhere near the cadet corp.

I told Mr. Potter that there wasn’t anything that I would be able to do. If Richard wanted Scott in cadets, then Scott was going to be in cadets. And I knew better than to ask Richard to not let Scott join my corp. If Richard thought that I wasn’t sticking up for Scott then I was in for one fuck of a beating when I got back on base.

Don’t forget, in the fall of 1983, the North York Board of Education had to separate my brother and I and send us to separate schools due to “intense sibling rivalry”.

By the time 1987 rolled around, that “rivalry” only got much worse. Both Richard and Sue had washed their hands of any responsibility for Scott, and anytime that Scott got in trouble with the Toronto Police Service it was my fault for not looking after him.

Mr. Potter took me outside of the armouries and let me have a smoke.

“Bob, do you understand the trouble that your brother gets in to?”

All I could do is sigh. Nobody knew about CFB Namao. All I needed was for Mr. Potter to find out the truth about CFB Namao and myself, that I was some crazed homosexual that made the babysitter abuse his younger brother. And to make matters even worse were the ongoing events with Mr. Stevens, which would have surely cemented my status as a perverted homosexual.

“Bob, you know that I work with troubled youth, right?”

I didn’t pay much attention other than I was trying to hold back the tears. I loved cadets, but here was Richard trying to fuck me over. I was envisioning Scott joining cadets and fucking up and getting into trouble and then Richard blaming me for not looking after Scott.

“Bob, two weeks ago I was dealing with a couple of teens from a group home that had been arrested for B&Es when I overheard that my star cadet had been arrested for theft of a car.”

You think that I stole a car?

“No Bob. It was your brother. When I heard that ‘you’ had stolen a car I had to go see this for myself. I didn’t recognize the kid in the interview room. So I asked the officer what the kid’s name was. The officer gave me your full name, your social insurance number, and your date of birth”

Oh, don’t worry, my father will say that it was my fault that he stole the car.

“Your brother wasn’t too happy with me when I told the investigator that I knew who that name and D.O.B. belonged to”

How did you find out that it was Scott. I know at least 3 of his friends that would give false names if they were arrested.

“When your father came to pick him up. Your father seemed very reluctant to give the police your brother’s name. Your father didn’t seem too concerned about what Scott had done in either stealing the car or using your name”

I lit up a second smoke. And you think that I can tell my father to not let Scott join my corp. Scott’s the little angel that can’t do anything wrong. No matter what the fuck he does, Richard and Sue blame me.

“I don’t mind working with kids that get into trouble Bob. Kids fuck up. Kids need help. But, your brother is different. He won’t admit that he’s done wrong”

Welcome to my life Mr. Potter. Anything that he’s done is my fault. Richard said that it’s my fault for not looking after him.

“Then it’s settled, just tell your father that you don’t feel comfortable with your brother in the corp. Ask your father to send your brother to another cadet corp. Preferably at a different location.”

He wasn’t listening. Just alike all of the other adults in my life up to that point in time. Just in one ear and out the other.

I went back in to the armouries, got my stuff, and left even through classes were about to begin.

I showed up the next week and got a demerit for leaving without permission the week before.

And the following week my brother showed up as a new entry.

Not too long later the CFB Borden event occurred.

And then between home life on Canadian Forces Base Downsview, the ongoing matter with Mr. Stevens, and Mr. Potter’s misdirected displeasure for not dissuading my father from making Scott join my corp., I quit cadets.

How many other times in my life did Scott impersonate me? I don’t know. Sure, finger printing should have easily cleared up any criminal investigation. But there are many types of investigations that wouldn’t necessarily result in finger prints being taken but that would tag my name and D.O.B. in these investigations.

I know that on New Year’s Eve 2000 in Vancouver, my brother gave my name and my D.O.B. when he was found riding without a fare on the Skytrain.

I only know this because the fine for this went to collections in 2006.

I get a call from a collections agency asking when I wanted to resolve the $40 fine.

I asked them for a copy of the ticket, so they sent me a copy of the ticket that was issued

It was my D.O.B. and my full complete name. The address was fake, but the postal code for the area of the address had the address actually existed was correct. The box on the ticket that said “ID Produced” was checked “N” meaning that the person giving my name didn’t produce any ID. There was a second piece of paper signed by another fare inspector stating that they witnessed the person using my name refuse to sign the fare evasion ticket.

As ICBC was responsible for the ticket in the first place, I had to go through their dispute process. They asked me why they should believe me that this wasn’t my fare evasion ticket.

Simple.

I was working from 22:00 on December 31st, 1999 until 06:00 January 1st, 2000 for a property management company downtown Vancouver as we had to be on standby for the much overblown “Y2K” bug that was expected to plunge the world into chaos. We had to be in the buildings to ensure that the automation systems didn’t crash.

And I lived in the West End of Vancouver, so being on the Skytrain heading out to Surrey at 00:30 made no sense.

“That might work for your name, but how did they get your social insurance number?”

I had been mugged in Vancouver in July of 1995. My wallet was stolen. Maybe whoever stole it used my SIN?

The collections was cancelled. But I get the sense that ICBC and Translink have a folder on hand with my name in it waiting for me to pull another fare evasion so they can jump up and down screaming “We knew you lied!!!!”.

Prior to September 11th, 2001 I had frequently crossed into the United States. I’d driven down from Vancouver. I’d taken the bus down from Vancouver. I’d even walked across land crossings numerous times.

But after 9/11 when crossing the border placed one under extreme scrutiny I didn’t dare cross. Even though I knew in 2006 that it was probably Scott that had used my name, I couldn’t prove it so I didn’t push it. But outside of Mr. Potter, other people had told me at various times that Scott had claimed to be me.

And no matter how much I wanted to drop down to Portland or Seattle for a weekend, I didn’t want to run the risk that Scott had used my name and got into some sort of trouble that would have made crossing the border impossible at the least or a criminal affair at the most.

I had my passport since 2010. But I still didn’t try to cross the border.

I wouldn’t cross the border until 2013 when I was in Ottawa Ontario to drop off a letter at National Defence Headquarters. A childhood friend of mine from CFB Shearwater lived in Ottawa at the time. She wanted to meet up while I was in Ottawa. She planned a day trip for us and her sister to go to Boldt Island in New York State. Fuck was I ever nervous at the border crossing.

Nothing strikes fear into me like “Have you ever been arrested”. This doesn’t mean arrested and charged, or arrested and convicted. This means just arrested. And this also includes “has there ever been an arrest warrant issued for you”, meaning has there ever been an arrest warrant issued in your name.

Border agents don’t often have hours to sit down and listen to 40 years of a fucked up life.

I have no fucking idea of where Scott used my name.

I know that he used my name back in 1987 related to car theft charges.

I know that he used my name on January 1st, 2000 for a fare evasion ticket.

Where the fuck else has he used my identity?

Do I blame Scott for using my identity?

Not really.

Richard and Sue taught Scott that he really wasn’t responsible for anything, that everything was all my fault. So it only follows that he would take the next step and not just blame me but transfer the trouble to me.

Hit me up with the Midazolam, propofol, rocuronium, and bupivacaine. It’s been an interesting life, but I’m tired of all of this horseshit.

Yep.

Daily writing prompt

Have you ever broken a bone?

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Broke my right wrist and sprained my left wrist.

Back around the end of June in ’82 my father had borrowed a pickup truck with a camper in the bed from one of his buddies at 447 Sqn. so that he and his new wife, my stepmother, could go to Banff for their honeymoon.

They had no intention of taking Scott and I with them. We got unceremoniously dropped of with out mother in Calgary, AB. Yeah, the same mother that he told Alberta Social Services that had abandoned the family and that the same mother that he had told Alberta Social Services that he had no idea of how to contact.

When Richard and Sue were finished with their honeymoon they swung back through Calgary to pick Scott and I up. We drove back up to CFB Griesbach in Edmonton.

The truck was parked on the street in front of the PMQ.

Richard had gone somewhere and it was just Sue at home.

Scott got on top of the camper and stuffed the vents with leaves.

Just before Richard was due home Scott found me and told me that Richard was going to be pissed off with me for “me” having put the leaves into the vent on the camper.

I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, so I went to check out the camper.

I looked at the camper from the outside and I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about, but once I opened the back door and climbed inside the camper I saw what he was talking about. The wind-up vent was plugged full of leaves. There was no way that Richard wasn’t going to notice this.

So, up on the roof I went.

Tim’s truck was a raised 4X4 with proper off road tires. With the camper on the back the roof had to be about 3 metres off the ground.

I got all of the leaves cleared out. It was spick and span.

I went to climb down the ladder and I lost my footing.

I landed on the ground flat on my back.

I had the wind knocked out of me and all I could see was stars.

It took so much effort to start to breathe again.

One of the locals came over and helped me up and walked me back to the PMQ where Sue was.

Sue sent me up to my room with the warning that Richard was not going to be happy when he got home.

When Richard got home he was none too pleased to find what had happened. The fact that I did something stupid that could get him in trouble with his commanding officer showed that I didn’t care about his military career.

The fact that I allowed Scott out of my sight meant that Scott could have fallen off the roof of the camper.

The fact that I wasn’t responsible enough to look after my brother meant thatI should take this as a lesson and learn from this.

My left wrist was burning. My right hand was swollen, numb, and immovable. But neither were anything compared to the headache and vomiting.

My father gave me some of his 222s to help me sleep.

Two days went by and then he took me to the Charles Camsell hospital in Edmonton to get my wrists looked at.

That’s when it was discovered that I wasn’t faking anything.

A couple of the larger bones in my right wrist were fractured. My left wrist had hairline fractures and was sprained.

The headaches and the vomiting had stopped by this point so I don’t think that Richard had mentioned anything to the doctors.

I can’t remember what Richard told the doctors, but I know he didn’t mention anything about falling off campers.

My left wrist got wrapped in a tensor. My right arm was set in a cast.

Did you know that it’s almost impossible to wipe your own ass when your dominant hand is set in an arm cast? My left arm wasn’t much use either. Hairlines are really super sensitive to force.

I wasn’t Sue’s kid, so that was out of the question. After Richard and Sue got married Sue wasted no time in telling Scott and I that we were to address her as Sue only that we were never to call her “mom” or refer to her as our “mother”. So yeah, wiping my ass wasn’t on her list of agreed upon tasks.

Richard only kept my brother and I because “it was cheaper than paying child support”. Wiping my ass was not very high on his list of priorities.

And as much as I feared my grandmother, she had moved out of the PMQ back in the spring of 1981. Walking from the PMQ at 10215 – 138 Ave over to my grandmother’s apartment at 10611 – 111th St. to get my butt wiped wasn’t in the cards.

Many creative ways were tried and tested to wipe my ass that didn’t involve using my hands.

The cast was only supposed to stay on my right arm for six weeks, but it ended up staying on for the entire summer as Richard insisted that this was the best way to teach me to not fuck around.

Nothing.

Daily writing prompt

Describe something you learned in high school.

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What did I learn in high school?

Absolutely nothing……

I dropped out of school at the start of grade 9. That’s junior high school. I never made it as far as high school.

Had to get out of the PMQ.

1987 was the start of the grade 9 school year for me.

September of 1987 was also two years removed from the summer of 1985.

The summer of 1985 was the last summer that my brother and I spent with our grandmother.

The summer of 1985 was also the summer that my father went on a rampage in the PMQ on CFB Downsview. He did some very significant damage to the PMQ. It took three military police officers to subdue him.

When my brother and I arrived back in Toronto from Edmonton my father was required to notify the base military police of our arrival so that they could come speak with us. When they did come to speak with us they told us that during their investigation they grew very concerned when they couldn’t find us so they started talking to the neighbours and that’s when they started hearing about Richard’s yelling and screaming and his physical abuse. The military police said that if my father ever lost his temper again that we were to flee the house before calling the base switchboard to ask for the military police.

In September of 1985, my father bought me a birthday cake. This blew my fucking socks off as he had never acknowledged a single birthday of mine since 1976, the year before my mother left. Even though he promised to never forget my birthday again, he never acknowledged my birthday again thereafter.

And his temper started to get out of control again by the spring of 1986. He just knew how to hide his outbursts better as he was under supervision of the military.

By the summer of 1987 my brother had graduated to credit card theft, B&Es, and car theft. He had also grown significantly larger than me and he was even physically larger than Richard. Richard could no longer control Scott. And Scott was now running with a group of thugs. Kids who had been in and out of the juvie system.

As Richard had given up on trying to control Scott, he instead turned to lashing out at me for allowing Scott t have been molested by the babysitter on CFB Namao and this is why Scott was acting as violent as he was.

So yeah, by the time September of 1987 rolled around, I had to get the fuck out of the house.

What would really piss me the fuck off is that in the summer of 2011, when I obtained my social service records from across Canada, I would learn that my family was actually under the supervision of the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto from the time we arrived in CFB Downsview in the spring of 1983.

This pissed me off because when I moved out I had to take my employment from part time to full time so that I could afford to rent a place to live.

Had I known about my family having been under the supervision of the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto, I could have applied to CAST for emergency accommodation. I could have even arranged for the courts to make it mandatory for my father to pick up my bills until age 18. Either of these would have allowed me to finish off school while living in a safe environment.

One of my pet peeves.

One of my pet peeves is when people who don’t have a single emotional scar, let alone a single emotional scratch tell me that I just have to think happy thoughts and that everything will fine.

That all I have to do is apply myself and I can be anything that I want.

What these people will often not admit is that they practically had everything in life handed to them on a silver platter

And these people are usually the first to shit all over me.

They’re usually the ones who are still in close contact with their parents.

Even when mine were alive, one resented me for having “fucked with his military career”, and the other moved on to a new life and wrote me off.

Their parents almost always took an active interest in them when they were young and their parents ensured that they never fell behind in school.

My father would rage out at school teachers when they’d suggest that he participate in activities with my brother and I.

Their parents would have moved heaven and earth to get them treatment if they had endured any type of event that would have caused them psychological harm.

My father obeyed his orders from my military social worker and basically denied me any treatment for the events from CFB Namao.

Their parents provided them with housing and shelter and funds while they went to college, or university, or trade school.

My father was more than convinced that grade 9 was more education than anyone needed and that all I had to do was to get a job and work my way up.

They didn’t have to live on the streets and couch surf for the first few years of their working life.

I was working for a company in West Vancouver in 1993 that had to close down. The regional manager liked me and liked my work, so he arranged for the branch in Mississauga to hire me. The branch manager liked me, but my immediate supervisor Don didn’t. He was always ranting about “No one from the West Coast was going to tell him who the fuck he had to hire”. Plus, he knew I was queer. So out the door I went. EI did a little investigation and my claim was re-opened, but it was going to take about 4 to 6 weeks for my original claim from British Columbia to be redirected to Toronto. I knew better than to call my father. And it wasn’t out of shame. It’s just I knew that there would be absolutely no help.

My father was a piece of work.

When he received his final posting to Alberta in 1990 he invited me to move back with him. He said that “we could try to be a family again”. I think he had found out that I had just finished a 6 month contract job with a company called Canshare Cabling and I had about $30k in the bank. I paid for most of the expenses for the move, plus I also paid for a bunch of new furnishing for his computer area. As I was 18 at the time, I didn’t have an understanding that he could claim these expenses from the Canadian Forces and that he would be reimbursed.

My brother Scott didn’t move with us at the time as he was finishing his jail sentence at the Uxbridge Training School for Boys in Uxbridge, Ontario.

When my father bought his retirement house in Morniville two months after we arrived back in Edmonton, I moved with him into the house, but I only lasted about 2 weeks there before my stepmother got me booted.

My brother didn’t fare much better.

When he was released from jail he was sent to Alberta by the Ontario government. He lived in Morinville with my father and Sue for a couple of weeks before my father unceremoniously dumped Scott off at my apartment. Scott ate through all of my groceries in three days. Everything was gone. Fridge, freezer, cupboards. Everything.

I called up my father and asked him if he could help out with groceries and if he had any idea of how long Scott was going to stay with me before he went back to Morinville. Richard laughed. He said that he was done with paying for my brother and I, that he had paid enough for us when we were kids, and that maybe it was time for that “bitch mother” of mine to start paying some of the bills.

I was able to get hold of Marie, she came into town and picked Scott up and took him to the acreage she lived on with her husband Art. She bought me groceries.

Richard quickly took Scott back to Morinville when Marie reminded him that Scott was under 18 and if she took him in, she was expecting child support payments from our father.

Richard’s attitude was not unexpected and it didn’t shock me as all. He did tell an airforce buddy of his around 1986 that the only reason he kept my brother and I instead of dumping us with our mother is that if we lived under his roof he could control the costs, but if we went to live with her that he’d have to sign his paycheques over to “that bitch” and that sure as fuck wasn’t going to happen.

So no, there was no fatherly love or motivation for a higher education.

But, let’s dial this back into common day.

I’m currently 53 going on 54.

The position that I’m in has no requirement for secondary qualifications.

But if it did have requirements for secondary qualification these secondary qualifications would be red seal Trade Qualifications.

Some of the red seal trades that can be attached to a power engineering certificate are Electrician, Millwright, Refrigeration Mechanic, Welder, Pipe Fitter, Steam Fitter, etc. These are all four year full-time apprentice programs. These all require a very heavy investment for tools and materials.

But, it must always be remembered that I didn’t become a power engineer because I wanted to, or because I thought that it was a career path with potential, I got into power engineering because it was the easiest way for me to keep a roof over my head and to keep my bills paid.

Going through life with diagnosed but intreated mental illnesses has always meant that I’ve just taken whatever work I can.

I don’t fit in anywhere.

I am a misfit.

I am accepted at work because I bring skills that are typically far outside the skill requirements for the positions that I occupy.

But I never have the opportunity to get official “qualifications” for these extra skills which means that I am always at loggerheads with others who do have the official qualifications.

And even if I were offered the opportunity to take these course the depression would surely destroy my every attempt.

But I can hear the choruses of the unblemished already.

Bobbie, think happy thoughts!

Bobbie, are you eating properly?

Bobbie, more sleep will cure depression!

Bobbie, you should find god!

Bobbie, you should volunteer!

Bobbie, I know what you’re going through, my cat died when I was 14 and I still miss Pepper, but I soldier on and so can you!

My depression has cost me dearly in life.

T- 722 days and counting

Well, it’s 722 days between now and March 17th, 2027.

March 17th, 2027 is of course when MAiD MD-SUMC is supposed to become legal in Canada.

MAiD MD-SUMC was supposed to have been legalized on March 17th, 2023, and then again on March 17th, 2024, so I’m not exactly holding my breath for this date.

The one things that these dates do give me is a bit of relief.

This relief is the same relief that you feel when you’ve worked a double overtime shift, or you’re on an extremely long flight, and you’re near the end and you get the little kick of energy that perks you up a little to get you through.

These dates also give me a bit of hope.

A bit of hope that if I hold on for just a little bit long that I can end my life with a humane procedure under the care of a licensed medical practitioner as opposed to risking failure through a self administered procedure.

Yes, I fully understand that by ending my life via M.A.i.D. I will be giving the Government of Canada, the Department of Justice, and the Department of National Defence everything that they could possibly hope for.

However, I think I can now die knowing that I at least tried to take on the Canadian Armed Forces and that while I wasn’t successful, I did at least make some people in the DOJ and the DND extremely uncomfortable.

However, I am fucking burnt out and my depression is not ever going to get any better.

I hate the fact that I am able to somewhat function with major depression.

Bobbie, you’re an asshole!

Bobbie, you’re not a team player!

Bobbie, you’re a jerk!

Bobbie, you think you’re better than everyone else!

Having high functioning depression is a fucking curse.

Not having the events from Canadian Forces Base Namao acknowledged in even the slightest really doesn’t help.

I really hope that M.A.i.D. MD-SUMC is approved this time around.

The hospital that I am currently at is slated to transfer the acute care operations to the new site in early 2027.

Even if M.A.i.D. MD-SUMC is approved in March of 2027, there will be an evaluation process that I will have to navigate as well as a cooling-off period that I will have to sit through.

The current site will still be in operation until about 2030 as it will have to support the research programs until the new research facility has been built adjacent to the new hospital.

I have no interest in going to the new site.

I consulted on the new site, and I was a member of the committee overseeing the design of the new site.

I wish I could say that this was a highlight of my life, but it wasn’t.

It was just more proof that my depression and my baggage from the past prove to be easy targets for those who sense these vulnerabilities.

My management team is well aware of my plans to not go to the new site.

So, I get to be the captain of a sinking ship.

And believe me, there are reasons why myself and this current site fit together like hand in glove. If M.A.i.D. MD-SUMC does some to pass in March of 2027 and if I am approved to undergo the procedure I will probably explain why the current site and I both share a lot of things in common and why I think we were made for each other.

Another writing prompt.

Daily writing prompt

What activities do you lose yourself in?

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I don’t really have any activities that I lose myself in.

I’ve tried over the years to pick up hobbies and interests, but outside of work I really don’t care about anything in particular.

It’s hard to explain to people, and it’s hard for people to understand.

But there isn’t anything in this world that calls to me.

The household that I grew up in was not one that encouraged curiosity or rewarded ingenuity.

Any interest in any subject was seen as stupid, childish, immature.

This is hard for people to understand.

I honestly will never understand why people refuse to believe how toxic some people can be as parents.

My father was a piss tank alcoholic with anger issues.

Worst off, we lived on military bases across Canada. An environment that didn’t concern itself with what went on behind closed doors.

So there aren’t any activities that I lose myself in.

I keep trying different things, but nothing lights that flame.

Dabbled in cars when I was younger. But never really was bitten by the car bug.

Even the time I spent at the base auto club of CFB Downsview gave me the skills for working on cars, but I never had a spark to work on cars.

Got into motorcycle in my 20s. Just never got bitten by the motorcycling bug.

I loved ice skating as a kid. And I frequently skated until the events of CFB Namao. I didn’t skate from 1980 until 2006. In 2006 I was off on a journey, but I happened to pass by the West End community centre. Can’t explain why, but I rented a pair of skates and went for a skate. It was like I had never stopped skating. Skating lasted for about 6 years before depression and dealing with the Canadian Armed Forces made skating impossible.

Over the years I’ve tried to pick up a musical instrument. I can play music mechanically, but it doesn’t evoke anything within. When I play keyboard I have about as much passion as a MIDI sequencer or a roll playing piano.

Computers and electronics. Again, I can work with ’em. I just don’t find anything to like with them.

My dream home

Daily writing prompt

Write about your dream home.

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What would my dream home be like?

I don’t know.

I never lived in a place that I would call a “home”.

And I never lived in any place that I would call a “dream home”.

The houses I lived in were all fucking traumatizing nightmares, and I don’t mean that they all had the same fucking paint scheme no matter which base they were located on. Living in an abusive dysfunctional family in military housing on military bases was the traumatizing nightmare.

I grew up living in Private Married Quarters on Canadian Forces Bases.

And with my rage prone alcohol fuelled father, these weren’t homes.

They were houses.

It’s where I kept my shit.

It’s where I slept at night.

It’s where I was absolutely terrified to ask my father for help with school homework as that would launch him into a rage and fury.

From the time my mother left in 1977 until September of 1985, I never had a birthday. In 1985, no doubt due to my father’s rampage in the PMQ during the summer of 1985, I had a “birthday” of sorts. A small cake and a $20 bill. And a promise that he would never forget my birthday again. That was the last birthday of mine that he ever acknowledged. I guess once he realized that the base military police were not going to inform the Children’s Aid Society of Toronto about his massive meltdown in the PMQ in the summer of ’85 he didn’t have to pretend to give a shit about me any longer.

My alcoholic grandmother living in the PMQs and raising my brother and I didn’t make things any easier. If I had to take a wild guess, I think that my father got his mental issues from her. As much as he would claim that she was an alcoholic that was cruel to his children, he was the exact same.

When my father received his final posting in June of 1990 to go back to CFB Edmonton in anticipation of his retirement, he and my stepmother bought a house in Morinville, AB.

I lived in an actual house for the first time in my entire life. Not a military PMQ. Not a rooming house where I rented a room after I moved out of the PMQ on CFB Downsview when I was 16. An actual house, with walls that you could hang pictures on without fear of pissing off the base construction engineers.

Yeah, my stepmother had me booted out within a week of us moving from CFB Griesbach to Morinville.

She apparently did the same with my brother when he finished his sentence at the St. John’s Training School for Boys in Uxbridge, Ontario and moved to AB to stay with our father as Scott was still only 16 when he was released.

So yeah, never really did live in a real home as a kid.

I’m happy with my bachelor apartment.

It’s not too big.

Growing up in my father’s house it was either “go the fuck outside and stay the fuck outside until the lights come on” or ” get the fuck up to your bedroom and stay there” or “get the fuck to school”. There were no weekend nights playing boardgames or watching Disney on TV or any other family style of activities.

And that’s why I like my apartment.

I’m either sleeping all day, or I’m at work, or I’m out and about trying to keep my brain from ruminating over and over about what I could have done differently in life.

My apartment, just like the PMQs, is just a place where I store my shit, and go to sleep.

What is my dream job?

Daily writing prompt

What’s your dream job?

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to have a dream job, I suppose one would have to have dreams.

And dreams are something that I’ve never had, at least not for a long while.

Growing up, especially in the aftermath of Canadian Forces Base Namao, my only dreams were to die. To die and have my father blamed for my death. That was about my only dream.

I always had dreams of Richard going off to prison for a very long time

When we lived on Canadian Forces Base Downsview in Ontario, my father and my stepmother used to use Canada’s Wonderland as “Richard’s and Sue’s Discount Babysitting Service”, or at least that’s what Scott called it.

Back when Wonderland first opened up, and I think for the first season or two, it had introductory unlimited access and unlimited rides for $29.95. Richard and Sue would drop

I used to dream that I’d get kidnapped from Canada’s Wonderland, that I’d get murdered, and that my body would then be found by a hiker in the woods. And that after identifying my skeleton, the police would go talk to Richard, and Richard would lie, and lie, and lie, and that he’d eventually fess up and that the judge would sentence him to prison with extra time added on for his lies.

But, that never happened.

I’m now 54 years old, and I still dream and ponder about how life would have worked out for Richard if I had been kidnapped and killed.

So far as dream job goes, I’ve never had a dream job.

I wanted to join the Canadian Forces when I was younger, but that never went anywhere due to the recruiting centre “obtaining some information” about me that indicated that I was an unsuitable candidate for service. I think this had to do with Captain Totzke’s paperwork being in my father’s service file, which would have been available for the recruiting service.

I’m probably lucky that I was never enlisted in the Canadian Forces. I don’t really know how well my psyche would have held up in an environment where the truth isn’t based upon reality but is instead based upon the whims and desires of the chain of command.

If I had enlisted in the Canadian Armed Forces I’d probably have to have hidden so deeply in the closet that I’d be somewhere in Narnia.

Working in bowling centres was never what I’d call a dream job. But seeing as how I brought skills to bowling centres that most bowling centres wouldn’t be able to afford, I was always afforded a lot of leeway. I don’t know how well me being trans and going on hormones would have been tolerated at some of the centres, but other centres would have been okay.

There was one guy I worked for in Vancouver. He owned an electronics installation company. He started the company with money that he got from his parents. He couldn’t understand why I just didn’t get some money from my parents and start something up that I liked to do.

Two problems with that. There was never going to be any money from my father, or my stepmother, or my real mother. I don’t blame Sue. I didn’t burst forth from her crotch. Richard? Yeah, fuck no. His responsibility to my brother and I ended when he ejaculated. My mother? Richard having the military chuck her out of the military housing on Summerside destroyed her and turned her into a husk of herself, especially with Richard’s bullshit about her just abandoning the family and running of with a guy named Gus from the P.P.C.L.I..

People often ask me why I’m so leery about guys like Bill Gates, Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Donald Trump, or the various others I’ve known in my life that often portray themselves as self made and living the lives that they lead after years and years of hard work.

I worked under a general manager once who only got his job because his father knew one of the board members of the company. His business degrees were worth less than used toilet paper. His managerial skills consisted of overt threats and convincing people that other people were out to get their jobs. Yes, this manager ended up getting replaced, but not before numerous people who had been with the company for years up and quit. Of course, as fate would have it for the well connected, he ended up failing into a job with more pay and more prestige.

I had a co-worker that wasn’t all that bright, caused far more harm than good, but as he didn’t have crippling depression and debilitating anxiety he could glad-hand his way into positions that he didn’t belong in.

It’s as they say, if you can’t dazzle ’em with brilliance, baffle ’em with bullshit.

If it wasn’t for Errol Musk and his involvement with emerald mining, especially being compensated with roughage that he could then process and keep the proceeds from, Elon wouldn’t have been able to jet set from South Africa to Canada and then into America. According to Errol, any time that Kimbal or Elon needed money for anything, the safe was wide open. If it wasn’t for Maye Musk being Canadian, there would have been no back door for Musk to entre America through.

Musk didn’t found Paypal.

Musk didn’t found Tesla.

Musk did assemble SpaceX, but without SpaceX being awarded a multi-billion dollar contract from NASA for flights to resupply the International Space Station, SpaceX would never have become anything. What’s even more amazing about SpaceX is that it received its first contract with NASA without even having a rocket ready to go.

Jeff Bezos nearly lost everything in the early ’90s with his early attempt at a being a book reseller on the early Internet. Luckily for Jeff, a near 1/4 million dollar loan that his parents facilitated kept him from insolvency and allowed him to start what became Amazon. And now Amazon both via patents and just the sheer magnitude of his empire, Bezos can prevent any and all competition.

William Henry Gates the 3rd is NOT the plucky little guy that started from nothing. The Gates family is a well established and well monied Seattle family going back generations. Bill Gates and Paul Allen both went to the same exclusive school in Seattle. Their respective families were able to get them access time on mainframe computers where they could hone their programming skills. This was at a time when access to mainframes was about $1,000.00/hr. This was before the advent of home computers.

Bills mother was a socialite who hung out with the wives of board member of IBM. This was at a time when IBM was looking to release a personal computer. IBM had the hardware, but they didn’t have an operating system. However it happened, Bill’s mother found out from a wife of an IBM board member, and Bill’s mother told Bill.

Bill Gates then did what any kid with access to easy money did, he bought a licence from a small company in Seattle called the Seattle Computer Company for their product called “Quick and Dirty DOS”, rebranded the QD-DOS as Microsoft DOS and sold a lot of units of this new “MS-DOS” to IBM, and quickly pissed off the Seattle Computer company.

Did I mention that Bill had one of the most influential Seattle lawyers as a father and the founder of the Seattle First National Bank was his grandfather?

Donald Trump is the ultimate Nepotism Baby. Donald would be nothing if it wasn’t for the real estate empire that his father built in New York city. This empire was built from tax payer dollars that were paid to Fred Trump by the US Govt. to build housing for American troops returning from WWII. The fact that the Trumps are even in America is solely due to the fact that when Friedrich Drumpf immigrated to America, immigration requirements were almost non-existent. Friedrich Drumpf immigrated to America he only to avoid a prison sentence in his home country of Bavaria which he was given for failing to enlist for compulsory military service. Friedrich also had no proper documentation when he came to America as Bavaria had stripped him of his citizenship. If Friedrich Drumpf were to try to immigrate to America today he would be refused entry.

Fred Trump was one of the most reviled slumlords in American history. The many scams of the Trumps are far too numerous to list here, but they are publicly available for review.

Needless to say that Donald wouldn’t have reached where he is today if it wasn’t for his family’s money.

Almost everyone in a position of influence these days got there solely due to family money.

This isn’t to say that I would have had a happy life if I had family money, but having family money opens up a lot of doors for a person.

I’ve had co-workers that fell into good positions in life solely due family money or family connections.

And quite honestly I do get rather sick and tired of people telling me that if I wasn’t such a lazy asshole and such a whiny crybaby that I could have simply applied myself and I could have easily been something.

A lot of what the world is these days is people using their family capital to build their personal wealth and empire. And once they build that wealth, they use every means at their disposal to prevent challengers. Microsoft, Apple, etc. don’t own thousands upon thousands of unused patents for no reason at all.

But having family money early on would have allowed me to go to school, maybe to have travelled when I was younger. Maybe bought a house. And afforded myself the ability to have recovered from the trauma of CFB Namao, of my grandmother, of my father, and of Captain Terry Totzke.

Maybe then I could have discovered what a “dream job” was.

When I was 10 years old I was given an IQ test as part of a psychiatric evaluation by my civilian social workers in an attempt to ascertain what the fuck was going on in my brain.

136 +/- 6 was the result of my test.

At work I’m reviled by everyone there.

Every attempt that I make to bring my section into the modern era is met with heavy resistance. Almost every initiative that I’ve tried to institute to ensure compliance with the Safety Standards Act just meets with more stubborn resistance.

I know that I shouldn’t be here.

But power engineering was the only way that a “poor” like me could get into a union position that would protect me and allow me to move out of the life of poverty that the Canadian Armed Forces and my father had assigned me to.

I thought that power engineering was my ticket to the future, but then I very quickly realized that power engineering is just to ensure that there is a warm body in the plant so that mgmt. can assure Tech Safety BC that they are meeting the requirement to have a warm body in the seat as required.

And that’s it.

Nothing more than glorified plunger jockeys.

Yes, I know that I’m too smart for my position and that my knowledge and my abilities intimidate other people.

Yes, I know that I am a complete asshole for not teaching people how to do what I do because I do it so easy.

Yes, I can troubleshoot computer networking issues. But it’s not because I received special training. I just read the books and read the manuals.

I don’t like computers. I don’t play computer games. I don’t edit videos. I don’t make music.

But I can RTFM ( Read The Fucking Manual).

I am also not afraid to call or email tech support for guidance.

It seems like anything that I do at work unleashes the rage of my co-workers.

Run a fibre optic network between the Generator Control system in Phase II over to the Burrard Building power house to eliminate a long standing communication issue with the 600 volt breakers in the Burrard Building?

“Why the fuck is that asshole sticking his fucking business into this, why doesn’t he fuck off and stay in his own lane?”. “The Fuck is wrong with him, the asshole isn’t a licenced electrician so he shouldn’t be touching any of this fucking shit!”

Troubleshoot a long standing communication issue with the Phase II Delayed Vital MODbus network?

“Is he even fucking certified to work on this? What if he destroys a breaker?”

They may think that I don’t hear them, but I hear them.

Their voices, and their sideway glances, and the conversations behind closed doors are easily overheard.

These are the things that I’ve heard all of my life.

“Bobbie’s just trying to make me look bad”

“Bobbie’s just hiding this knowledge from me. If it was easy for a moron like him to learn then he should be able to teach me. Sure, I don’t like computers, I don’t even own one, but he should be able to teach me how to set-up a MODbus to IP gateway ’cause if Bobbie can do it how fucking hard can it be?

“If he wants to work with networking or electronics, why the fuck isn’t he taking a diploma course?”

People have asked why I’m not going to the new hospital even though I was involved on the design committee for the new site.

There were two individuals in particular that went to every extent possible to make sure that I understood that my presence was not wanted on the committee and that I was to stay in my own lane and that anything that I had to say was limited to my power engineer certificate and that anything that I had to say beyond this was not going to be accepted.

These two persons in particular, well there’s a third, but I don’t have to deal with him, made sure that I understood what my place was and that freaks like me aren’t welcome in their new state-of-the-art playhouse.

Get a diploma?

Get a certificate?

Fuck, I don’t even want to get out of bed, how the fuck am I supposed to have enough strength to overcome my daemons and get a fucking diploma or a certificate?

And besides, I’m not fucking 18 years old, or even 24 years old.

I’m 54 fucking years old.

No savings, no real estate, no fucking nothing.

So no, there is no dream job.

There’s just the fucking eternal hell of knowing that I’ll never have the opportunities that should have been mine. That certain assholes will always dangle these opportunities in front of my eyes to ensure that I know that they know what I’ll never have.

p.s.

There was a study that that looked at the outcomes of children with high IQs. It was started in the 1920s in California by the father of the modern IQ test, Lewis Terman. These children were traced all throughout their lives. What surprised Lewis Terman 30 years into this study was that his hypothesis that IQ levels were hereditary was wrong, the parents of the children with high IQs that went on to have better incomes had higher educations, had better jobs, lower divorce rates, and more books in the household. Almost all of the kids that came from poor families with lower education levels and lower expectations of their children ended up as “failures” of no significance that “wasted” their talents.

My view on life and death.

Don’t expect anything profound from this post. This is just my view on life and death.

Life is something that we all experience. But we all experience it differently.

Only a complete tool would expect that everyone else would have life experiences similar to their own.

To me, life is what exists from the time that you’re conceived until the time you die. There is nothing before, and there is nothing after.

This life is all that you get.

Where you end up in life is determined greatly by where you start off in life.

I get a lot of people telling me that my fascination with death is unhealthy and that I should be thankful for the life that I have.

There is nothing for me to be thankful for.

I’m not the result of some divine miracle.

3.7 billion years of evolution has insured that reproduction works fairly reliable.

My father fucked my mother, his sperm fertilized one of her eggs.

My father didn’t have to pass any tests. Neither did my mother.

There’s about 7.5 billion examples of sexual intercourse existing on this planet.

There is no divine creator.

The human brain is a curious thing. It needs answers. It doesn’t like being without answers. When it can’t discover the correct answer the human brain has no problem detouring into the land of make believe to create answers. Not knowing the answers causes the human brain a lot of stress and panic.

This is why humans have known over 3,000 imaginary friends in the sky that are responsible for or can be blamed for every aspect of human existence.

It wasn’t until the 1570s to 1580s that it was discovered that women had eggs and men had sperm. This is why historically religions had viewed women as nothing more than walking and talking incubators that simply allowed the man’s baby batter to grow into a human baby.

This is why masturbation for boys and men was always seen as wasting “god’s” precious seed, but menstruation by women was seen as just a filthy unclean punishment for eating a fucking apple. The fucking inbred goat herders couldn’t have possibly known that the woman was eliminating an unfertilized egg.

This is why back in the olden days, when a woman couldn’t conceive she was deemed to be worthless and barren. The man was never at fault.

Because of this fascination with imaginary friends instead of allowing me to end my life for personal reasons, society insists that I keep on living for another 20 or 30 years because otherwise I’d be wasting god’s precious gift and then I’d be going to hell for committing the sin of suicide.

Don’t believe me? Check out this wonderful comment that was left on my other blog by a concerned person with an imaginary friend.

This of course is all based upon religious nonsense that has carried over from a time when everything that was unexplained was magic.

And then of course there are those who wish to use outright fear because if I want to die then can life really be the cake walk that they’ve experienced?

They will go so far as to use American prisoner executions as an example of how M.A.i.D. will cause suffering, and that my death will be painful just like that of a prisoner.

In the American penal system, the death penalty is seen as a punitive punishment. The Americans aren’t simply happy with executing a prisoner, they need for that prisoner to suffer as much as possible without causing outrage and public anger. So they don’t use a humane protocol. They only use enough drugs to kill a person, but not enough to ensure a quick and humane death. It’s called the “penal” system for a reason, penal being derived from penance. Suffering and pain are supposed to make your soul learn a lesson.

What do I believe happens after death?

Nothing.

Just death.

The M.A.i.D. protocol used in Canada is comprised of three drugs. Propofol, Rocuronium, and Bupivacaine.

Propofol is an intravenous anesthetic formulation used for induction and maintenance of general anesthesia. This is what knocks a person out. One of the benefits of propofol is it seems to inhibit the brain’s ability to form memories. At the level it is introduced during M.A.i.D. it will typically cause a deep coma.

Rocuronium is a muscle relaxant that inhibits the skeletal muscles. The diaphragm is a skeletal muscle. The rocuronium stops a person from breathing. Normally not being able to breath would cause a buildup of carbon dioxide in the blood stream which would then cause great discomfort and possible panic due to the inability to expel the carbon dioxide. However, due to the propofol in the system the brain won’t be aware of the carbon dioxide levels in the blood stream.

The heart will still be beating at this point, this means the heart will still be circulating blood around the body, potentially supplying the brain with minute amounts of oxygen. The bupivacaine is administered in order to stop the heart and to cease the circulation of blood.

The human brain cannot survive more than four minutes without blood circulation. Once more than four minutes have elapsed brain damage starts to occur as the neurons and nerve fibres start to die due to a lack of oxygen and due to the build up of toxic waste products.

And that’s it.

No more pain.

No more suffering.

No more memories.

No more judgemental assholes.

No more dealing with the “smile and be happy” brigade.

72 hours elapse and then I will be cremated.

It will be just like it was before my father fucked my mother.

I won’t exist anymore.

Not existing for 13.7 billion years didn’t cause me any grief.

Not existing after won’t cause me any issues either.

Sure, there will be those in the god brigade that will wring their hand and try to shame me for upsetting their imaginary friend.

But this life belongs to me and to myself alone.

My life does not belong to you nor your imaginary friend.

My life does not belong to the Department of Justice, or the Senate of Canada, or the Conservative Party of Canada, the Canadian Armed Forces, the Catholic Church, the pope, or the imaginary friends in the sky.

You don’t like people taking their lives for “no reason”?

Don’t make people suffer.

Don’t deny people treatments for mental health issues.

Don’t deny people justice.

Don’t patronize people.

As I’ve said elsewhere, human life only seems to have value when people wish to take their own life.

We tolerate 2,000 easily prevented deaths by automobile in Canada because slowing cars down would hurt car sales.

We tolerate drug overdoses in this country because we don’t want to slow down traffic at the border as that would make day trippers sad.

And we have absolutely no problem with adventure seekers dying “do what they liked doing”.

Airlines have crashed due to management decisions to cheap out on designs or to cutback on maintenance.

And we have no problem shipping people off to foreign countries to die fighting the good fight.

Death is tolerated by society so long as it’s due to any reason other than a person taking their own life.

I think this has to do a lot with society not wanting to admit its blemishes and its failures. When someone takes their own life, society will sit back and try to assure itself that there was nothing that could be done, that we exist in Xanadu, where everything is perfect so long as you intentionally ignore all of the flaws.

People taking their own lives whether it be by their own hand or with assistance from a medical professional means that society has to reflect upon just how horrific and unfair life really is and how our society treats people as disposable objects that are the property of the state.