RE (A) D FROM A SENSITIVE HEDONIST (the title was given to me but it’s apt)

 
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IT’S PLASTIC COMMUNISM
S’TI CITSALP MSINUMMOC
MSINUMMOC CITSALP S’TI

 
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GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS (not bowel-motion)

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you will never find out ‘til the rain’s come

 
 
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My father sold my unborn soul to Peter Sellers for another bet, that’s why I’m like this

I had to stop thinking. I had been restarting the same game of Patience for about forty-five minutes. I kept fucking up at the end and had made the same mistake three games in a row. I knew it was there but I couldn’t reach it. Sometimes victory is the hardest thing to find. I told myself not to think for a minute. I sat there in silence until my mind took over. I am sitting in my wheelchair willing my left foot to move. I now sit inside looking out. My right foot moves a little bit down and to the right. At times I have convinced myself that the left foot is moving but it isn’t; everybody alive deludes themselves in one way or another.

There is rarely ever one more “big” move that you can make…

I opened the door

It is the day after my fortieth birthday and I feel like crying. I am in pain but this is a pain in my head and my heart. As I reach forty I often think of all the things that I don’t have, a job, a house, a car, a woman and I am so poor I don’t “have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of”. None of my friend’s but one (three) came to wish me well. I know why, she didn’t like my friends and had cut them off from me. Two of my friends are millionaires and most of them are married with children while I spend my time sick and poor with parasites feeding off of my injuries. I met with two of the vermin today and I watched them as they calmly told my why I must remain a servant to the system. Everybody must bow down to the dollar. Australia is slowly heading towards communism. They made me tell them how I was disabled again. I could not remember. I felt like they were pouring hot tar on me as they asked me if I could perform a variety of tasks while checking off on a list of double-sided A4. Nothing has changed. I hardly remember anything new. I am paralysed stuck and isolated in my own little world. I feel panic when I am placed into a new environment or my routine is changed and I now panic most of the time. I remember that, the pain and panic. Even my mates don’t understand. Nobody can hear me scream as the tar burns/scalds. I feel like crying because the devil is a woman pretending to be a man.

I could not sleep last night. I was probably awake ‘til a quarter past four. When I woke up this morning I realised why. I had forgotten to take my bedtime pills. I have a nurse, a.i.n, that should have reminded me but I get the feeling that everybody involved in my rehabilitation is merely going through the motions. They all think I am better than I am. I have to take two pills at night. One is an Anticonvulsant while the other has a dual purpose; Amitriptyline helps to stop seizures and also has a side effect as an anti-depressant. If I forget to take the pills I cannot sleep for hours on end but the pleasant side effect for me is I remember my dreams.

I can’t believe that I didn’t know what was going on at the time. I should have known by now that without the pills I cannot sleep. I stayed awake all night apologising to God for all of the bad things I have done. I kept taking deep yawns but I couldn’t get there. I got up and pushed the wheelchair on to the balcony to have a cigarette at about 3:45am. It was very dark. The rubber on the left wheel of my chair has a spot that has perished and by luck I rolled onto the spot where it had come loose from the tyre. I am still waiting for “Approval” to get it fixed. I could feel the length of the flap so I gently peeled back the rubber with my thumb to assess the damage. I let the tread flop back and felt the extra air on the skin of my forefinger… it will be okay ‘til Monday. I lit my smoke and sat and watched the night turn ugly. The night had been quiet until Big Black (White against the Night) in the sky appeared with crackles of far-off thunder. I finished the smoke and went back to bed. Turning in bed is a problem when you are paralysed but I managed to do it until I fell asleep.

I woke up and had to go in a car to the office to meet with the communists. The driver was Arabic and tooted and stuck his head out the window to shout at every woman that we passed. We were just about there when I saw a beautiful woman walking on the left hand side of the road. He saw too. He slowed the car and started “crawling” her. I couldn’t believe he was doing this while he worked. He wound my window down with the button and leaned across and shouted something at her. I saw her jump. Her hand went to her heart. He had scared her. I said, don’t, then he said, why not; it’s fair game. I tried to roll my window up but he had locked it. I banged down on the button repeatedly helping him realise I didn’t like what he was doing. He picked up speed slowly as he realised that I wasn’t like him. The speed made me realise that he was driving the car. We drove and drove until the driver (he) finally got there and I was glad when he did. I have made some good friends since I’ve been disabled and one put me on to the advocate that has helped me with legal issues. None of this makes any sense at all as I only need legal representation because I became disabled at work.

It feels like I am the last person on earth who would know what if feels like to be this fucked up. People can’t tell when they meet me. I think it’s because I smile and can hold a conversation. I sat in front of the Red as they rattled off their rehearsed speech. I wanted to tell them that they are a parasite. Their job wouldn’t exist if there were no accidents happening to people at work. To me it just feels like BIG DADDY (communism + BIG DADDY) pulling my pants down to spank me and call me a naughty boy. I wanted to tell them that but couldn’t. My voice has been stolen; it was stolen a long time ago – all I have now is my word. Despite having what the insurer’s doctor has called a severe traumatic brain injury, the old Andrew is still trapped somewhere inside me. I managed to tell them, I was working towards the GDP with my efforts in the construction industry. Why must I remain a slave in this system? Why am I no longer entitled to sue for my medical costs so I can get out of this trap? I was insured when I had the accident. There was no mention of not being compensated due to the severity of my injuries when I signed the GIO Worker’s compensation contract. Why are my medical costs not being compensated? Who do my medical expenses now belong to? The Red was quite for a few seconds then simply said, legislation

I have found out that the New South Wales workers compensation scheme is currently over $4 billion in surplus. Despite this fact the combined sum of my multiple disabilities has made me economically unviable in the terms of their loss in capital. They would have to pay me out too much money.??? If I had endured any one of my multiple disabilities at work I maybe could have closed my case and been independent. By that I mean, if I had only endured a brain injury or post-traumatic epilepsy alone or if I had just gone deaf or had simply (there is no such thing as simply becoming a paraplegic but it’s in context) become a paraplegic or merely dislocated my shoulder I could have closed my case and moved on with my life. The NSW Government has picked on the disabled working class simply because they can. One of my friends recently asked me why I don’t have a job now? I felt like crying when they asked. I had my first job when I was twelve years old. I mowed lawns for a neighbour until I got a job making pastry in the bakery down the road later that year. I am unable to work now because of my multiple disabilities, x that equals = me + bowing down to − communism.

I had to go see my doctor yesterday (shock horror) but he wasn’t in so I had to see a new one. I sat in the reception waiting until my time came. I pushed my chair into the room and saw an older lady doctor sitting there. She asked how she could help me so I smiled and told her why I was there. She turned smiling, tapped a button then sat there in silence reading my case history on the computer screen. I started telling her the other reason why I was there but she didn’t say a word. She had long beautiful silver hair and giant hanging bosoms. Her bespectacled eyes were intent on the computer screen like a man watching porn. She must have sat in silence reading for over a minute and a bit. Her eyes were a wild Scandinavian light blue. Her face changed and she started muttering to herself. Her arms straightened as she softly said, shit! She looked up at me then back down at the screen a moment before asking me why I was there? I started repeating myself before she interrupted to say, in my estimation eighty percent of all the people I see claiming for workers compensation are fraudulent in their intent. What do you mean, I asked? She said, most people are just looking for a holiday and a handout; there is nothing wrong with them. None of them have had legitimate accidents like you have. She asked me if I had come to the surgery by myself? I told her yes and she complimented me. She went on and on about how the system is unfair for severely injured workers. As I said she had a good bust so I didn’t mind listening to her. She went on and on and her beautiful giant bosom’s occasionally swung against her body movement so I was happy to watch and listen. I knew all of her talk would get me nowhere but I liked the view. Hearing somebody else talk about me now means nothing.

I needed the advocate for another meeting with the firm. They call the new system for seriously injured worker’s icare (isubmit). Wait, hang on a minute, am I seriously injured…? Well tell me what you had for lunch yesterday? (shrug) ? Well what is today’s date? ?…?. ? So do you know what day of the week it is? ? Friday… no Thursday, shit!! ? Ok fine, that’s me. The fact that they have used a lower case i make’s me feel like vomiting; no wait another minute. I can’t talk about vomiting; I’ve used that recently. What does it make me feel like doing… … something odd… sneezing and farting at the same time? No, that’s too common; everybody will do that, does it make me feel like slitting my wrists? No but it does makes me feel like slitting somebody else’s wrists. They must think we (severely disabled from being at work) are all loopy, hoping that by attaching a lower case i that they could somehow attach themselves to Apple. Apple was birthed of slackers anyhow. Workers compensation only really works if you have a minor injury at work that you can easily recover from. At the moment I am at the behest of ning-nongs and thugs. I kept on thinking about how none of my mates had come for my birthday. I hadn’t invited anybody because I didn’t think I had anything to celebrate, apart from being alive. One of my friends cried the first time he saw me in a wheelchair all fucked up. Left of all the things that I can’t do sometimes all I can do is breathe. Some people will tell you that that is a blessing. When all you can do is breathe sometimes it would be a blessing to not. I shouldn’t cry about it. Crying might make it feel like it was somebody else’s fault.

I was driven back by the same driver and he was conspicuously quiet the whole way home. Inside my house I felt released of the stress and shrugged my shoulders. My phone beeped. The communists are cunning. I got a text apologising for not turning up and telling me they would come to my home instead. I called the advocate and she came to my home with me to wait. She was late (COMMUNISTS) and the advocate had already left. She was over an hour and three quarters late and I had forgotten she was coming and wasn’t wearing any clothes masturbating to an ad on the telly selling support underwear for fat women. There was a knock on my door so I let go and went and opened it. They sent a tall blonde woman to my house to tell me about how the system was changing. She was standing there wrapped in cellophane and she was hot. She looked down my chest at my erection and smiled. I looked down and could see the outline of her stretched pussy lips… and it was my birthday. I smiled and invited her inside. They always send me a woman to tell me bad news. This one was a bit fat but she was built where it counts. She was there to tell me that they were removing some of the services I am entitled to. I asked her if she wanted to sit down but she said no. She asked if I wanted to put some pants on? I shook my head so she started talking. She kept winking at me and pulling at the layers of cellophane as she told me that everything that was being done was to benefit me and to make me more independent. My erection went down slowly. The Communists have made my life more difficult already and even I am not so stupid to know that it is to save a dollar. Her eyes glazed as she kept rambling. I don’t like being lied to. She shifted her weight and unpeeled a layer of cellophane with every revelation. It looked like she was carved out of shiny pink soap. As the layers were stripped back I could see it so looked at the hair on her pussy, it didn’t match the hair on her head. She was trying too hard. She took a step towards me and her tits didn’t jiggle. Her bust wouldn’t move as it was filled with plastic. Her face wouldn’t move, she had too much Botox in it. Everything about her was phoney. She looked and sounded like a Jehovah’s Witness as she preached. I told her that I was thinking about going to the media. She said, really Andrew… what do you think going to the media will do? I told her that if I shouted loud enough for long enough perhaps I could change the system. She asked the question in such a condescending way that I could have spit on her.

I have been graded ninety-two percent % Whole Person Impairment by my insurer’s doctor. One hundred % percent Whole Person Impairment means you’re dead. Ninety-two % percent is also the grade of high distinction I achieved to enter university to study an English degree eight days before my accident. Is this a coincidence? I don’t know, my whole sense of real and unreal right and wrong and just and unjust has been thrown off since all of this happened to me. The WHIP has taken away my ability to close my case in preparation for BIG DADDY taking over. The seriously disabled need more help than anybody else. Why can we not be given independence to run our own financial affairs? I have had a brain injury but I am not loopy. I argued to my stumped guest that all of my earning potential has been robbed simply by turning up to work. My employer admitted that all of my multiple disabilities were their fault. I’m now too sick to go back to work. My future was unlimited and BIG DADDY did not live up to their side of the bargain. I had insurance and the FUZZ has told me what my case was worth before BIG BROTHER took over. Now I am only entitled to eighty percent of my wage as a labourer and my wage has never been adjusted to what I would have earned if I had been able to complete my degree. I am stuck in a trap by being so disabled. I am only disabled because it was my boss’s fault. Where is the justice for what I have suffered and will continue to suffer from? I was at work and I was insured; I wasn’t doing anything reckless. I am now a continuously sick and poor man. If I had suffered the same multiple injuries under any other circumstance I would have been justly compensated to close my case and moved on with my life. Why I am being held a slave to my disabilities. icare is nothing but evil as it has picked on society’s most vulnerable. You would think it would be hard enough being disabled the way I am without having to deal with all of you people with fictional (not real) occupations! The room went quiet. I may only be eight percent but I can still hold a room.

How come nobody came to wish me a happy birthday? Is it because I haven’t been a good friend or was it because I hadn’t invited anybody? Are both things (the same) that I have created or were they created for me? Are my friends no longer my friends because of me or because of me? It doesn’t really matter when you go home and feel like drinking more. I once told an audiologist that one of the only times the tinnitus decreases is when I’m drunk. To tell the truth one of the only times I feel like myself is when I’m drunk. Every decision I have ever made has been for self-preservation until I woke up and now self-preservation is actually to self preserve. The question is what came first, wanting to be alone or being alone? I could discuss this for hours so I am asking you. Do you know or do you know? ! ? Good, neither do I but I can tell you that it sucks; being like this and knowing who your friends are, 2 friends 1, and no woman. I am only trying to analyse my predicament. Don’t get me wrong, I am just trying to understand how 1 and 1 made 1 (of 2) and that one, 1, managed to be all alone on his birthday. Is it because my friends are embarrassed or is it because I am embarrassed?

I needed to go somewhere else. I turned my wheelchair on her and went and opened the front door. She stood there looking at me, all fat naked and wrapped in cellophane until I had to beckon her out with my head. She walked past me in a huff and left the room without saying a word. I felt depressed thinking that there is no hope for my situation. I waited until I was sure she had left. The odds are stacked against the severely injured. I dressed then went on the street and looked both ways; good, she was gone. I pushed my wheelchair until I saw something familiar. The pub was packed and noisy and it was difficult getting my wheelchair inside; but I did. I pointed to a tap of German wheat beer. The beer in my hand was cold and tasted so good that I kept swallowing until the pint was gone. The still cold empty pint glass made the hair on my arms stand up. I could feel somebody looking at me so I turned. There was a short woman on my left with dark curly hair staring. She looked embarrassed and turned her head when I caught her stare. I stopped looking at her; it all seemed too hard. I turned right and pushed back for another beer. I took the empty glass out from between my legs and handed it to the woman behind the bar. I pointed at the middle one and she started filling up the glass. I needed the drink but I could still feel it. The women behind the bar have started buttoning their shirts up to hide their cleavage but the beer is still good and a hot blonde handed it to me. Money means nothing to a cold beer. The drink in my hand was inviting me but I could really feel it. She was still staring at me. I turned back and she was. Anybody that doesn’t believe in a God is simple. There is divinity in being able to perceive when someone is watching you. I handed the barmaid my money, got my beer off the bar, took a large sip, held it out in front of me and pushed my wheelchair s-l-o-w-l-y with the left hand. I got to the first empty table and placed my beer up on it. She kept turning to her friend whenever I looked back at her. A woman with dark hair’s pussy tastes different. I have only been with two but it is different. A blonde’s pussy tastes better but any pussy tastes better than none at all so I pulled her over with one finger the next time I felt her looking at me. I was staring straight at her when she next gazed. Her head shot back at her friend but couldn’t stay there very long. She looked down at her drink. Her left hand twirled the straw in her glass. She slowly peeked back up at me so I smiled and nodded slowly beckoning with all four fingers. We repeated the same procedure over and over, her bashful, until she submitted. She smiled and started walking over.

I don’t really have that much to be proud of these days, no job no pool no pets. All I have is the ability to beat death in an arm wrestle. I once knew a woman doctor who told me that lots of women would love to be with a strong man who has survived such a horrific accident. I didn’t see it as flirting as it happened. She too had an amazing set of boobs but it was too close to the bone. If I saw her now I would have enough confidence to try and fuck her. I saw her just after becoming disabled; that was when I hated myself. I know that I always write about being disabled but these days this is all I know, besides a friend once told me to stick with what I know. I should really try and change… I’ll write a story about a young boy that gets a sailing boat for Christmas… no… no I don’t know anything about being rich. What else could I write about? I’ll write about a man in India who has a pet monkey and a pet tiger, the man loses a fight to the monkey then the tig… nah fuck it. I can really only write about reality. I will stick with what that

I had only approached her because she kept staring at me. Would you like to come outside with me, I asked her after a few minutes of conversational foreplay. For what, she asked with a smile? We bantered the pantomime and I was successful with words but I still blew it with her. I was myself but myself was not good enough. I should have just grabbed her but I didn’t. That’s the hardest part about being disabled. I now no longer know if I could now fuck a woman enough to make her shut up and fall asleep. Since I fractured my spine I have had lots of trouble with my dick. I kept wetting myself every time I coughed or sneezed or tried to stand up. Firstly I had shot after shot of Botox in the bladder wall to firm it up. The shots eventually stopped working so then I had the sling procedure where they slung the urethra up so I wouldn’t piss myself. The sling eroded inside my body as I continuously tried to stand. I kept wetting my pants. At one stage of my recovery I had a leg-bag for my supra-pubic catheter and a leg bag attached to a Urodome on the end of my dick. The Prof has inserted a prosthetic sphincter that sits inside my ball-bag and now by another’s hand I do not wet myself. I have been trying to not be disabled but my body wants none of it. Ever since it happened I have been fooling myself into thinking I am well. I am sorry if you think that I talk too much about this but it has been the fourth (third 3rd – three fantastic women that loved me and took me in, I Piss Sex & Irony) most defining event in my life. And besides, if I don’t write this down I will scream.

I pushed my wheelchair home to find it empty. With the prosthetic sphincter taking room inside my ball-bag I’ve noticed that if I don’t masturbate every couple of days to get the sperm out I will get really sore balls. With the added plastic there is no more room left for the sperm. I knew a woman who once told me that men should hold on to their energy (juice) and women should release (juice) theirs. Well give me a woman that likes to fuck. I will worry about the consequences all by myself. My balls felt so sore from being full that I knew that I’d have to wank. I pulled my pants down and took it in my hand. I started to get hard as I suddenly remembered my dream. I was fucking three women at once with a fat naked lady wrapped in cellophane watching us. It’s been so long since I’ve had a woman that now all I do is dream. My dick was in My hand. As hard as I tried I could not remember the faces of the three women I was dreaming about. I wish I could have seen their faces. All I remember is their flesh. All that I remember are their woman bits. I had to wake up to see what is happening.

When you, yes you, eventually wake up you will also realise that one day soon we will all be red. Pain will be everything. Money will mean nothing. A dick will be of the same value as a pussy. The communists have always won the war. I sat up and put it back into my pants. I got on and pushed my chair through the lounge and I closed the bedroom door behind me. Take the pain. Hold on to it. You are trapped but there is still hope. Just try and hold on to the sperm, then you might (may) be right. Don’t let it exit. Hold it all inside. Thunder filled the white noise of night once more and I counted the seconds until white light filled the night sky. It wasn’t long. It was close. The pills had taught me something. The pain in my balls will one day outweigh all the rest of the pain. You will one day feel it too. ) The cat always catches the mouse ( We will all feel it eventually and then eventually will know…

RED not as a metaphor but as a way of life

 
Andrew Stuart Buchanan II Second