I woke up lucid again this morning in some industrial place with a chain link fence around it. Sure, so again I'm running around like a chicken with it's head cut off trying to find my way out. The question quickly became "Who am I that's trying to get out of wherever this is?" Thankfully, it wasn't all that long before I realized that I was laying in my own bed in my own house, and I could be here/there without an identity and nobody would know. But, who exactly was this lump of clay?
As I lay there knowing I was laying in my own bed I began to use my imagination to come up with proof positive I was somebody. I imagined my driver's license. It has a picture on it. My VA Hospital card also includes a picture ID. My bank debit card doesn't have a picture on it, and could belong to anybody who has a picture ID with the same name on it. How could I prove that I am who I claim to be?
During the entire time I lay there this morning I didn't think about my parents and siblings as a source who could prove that I am who I say I am is. I didn't resort to my ex-wives or the children they claim are mine as a source of identity. They never came into the blank stare I came up with as my self.
They could be anybody's parents, siblings, ex-wives, children. If they were around and were asked, they might have said, "I don't know who this fakir thinks he is. He doesn't belong to me. Have you checked to find out for sure that whatever this is, is a "he". I never thought to reach down to my crotch and check it out for myself. Otherwise, how would I even know I was a human being?
I did know while I was laying there in my own bed and wondering who i thought I was that I had a tongue. It was because I had a tongue that I knew I was alive, because my tongue still hurt something awful even as I lay there in an awful state of unknowing. The pain hadn't gone away during the night like I have given up on praying for.
The painful spot on the left side of the top of my tongue eventually became the reason I used to get out of bed at all. Why else would I get out of bed. My parents are long dead. My siblings only care whether I live or die because of whatever possible reactions they might have to endure if such became so.
My first wife, if she's still alive, might have a passing regret. The only child we had together, if she's also alive too, might make a passing comment about being happy that bastard finally croaked. The fact that I don't know whether either one of them are alive pretty much sums up what my first marriage came to.
My second wife wanted her own children in the worst way. I don't think she was conscious of how badly she wanted and needed a child. She got pregnant by the black dishwasher who worked in the pizza joint where she was working her way through college. Her mother literally tried to murder her for her indiscretions, but was at least successful in forcing her to get an abortion. In my opinion, that made her want to have a child even more.
It was a bad time for making babies in the early Seventies. Women's liberation was in the air. Many of the women who fell into that mode forgot their main purpose in life is to have babies, not to become equal to men. It's been the ruin of many a poor girl. I seem to run into a goodly number of those females who were convinced what they really needed was a career and all the toys that men accumulate. Several of them read this blog.
What? You still tell yourself I don't and never did ken the depth of yo' soul? You still love the idea of me, and we're all still alone, aren't we?
Some women (who don't know their main purpose in life is to have their own babies) don't know that I took a vasectomy to get out of being the guy who could ignore their past mistakes and convinced them to do the right thing before they got too old. Unfortunately, by the time I met them, I was already sterile, and they were already too old psychologically. If I had not been sterile via the vasectomy procedure they might have convinced me to father a child with them. I've lived thirty years longer than that already.
It's too late for me and all those women I knew who never became mothers. It's too late for the non-mothers who never became women. Motherhood is the way women become real women. They don't do it, unfortunately, because they get it educated out of them. Women get convinced to become educated in order to make the fathers of other women's children provide the good life for uneducated women they got pregnant.
To become a professional women is to become a whore. How stupid is that? Some mothers become part-time whores to pay for what their children need. For them, it's the only honorable thing to do. Ignorant sluts become professional career women and forego children. Do these dumb asses think money and all that it will buy will replace having their own children? It just makes them bitter and less attractive as they age.
Who am I to write about women who get tricked out of having babies? I got kneed in the groin when I was fourteen years old, and that one incident nearly put my own baby-making on the dung heap. I spent the next twenty-six years trying to prove I was as much a man as any "normal" man with two good testicles, and sadly decided to go ahead and have the vasectomy done. Why would I not? I tried. Why become a toy for a dried up old woman with an empty house?
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