Serving a Life Sentence for Being I. T. Challenged

A struggling writer has few options for making quick money. One of the ways I discovered yesterday has one building "hubs", which are little more than mini-websites that carry thematic discussions from your writings. I was gung ho as I started building hubs and already imagined the house in Sarasota on the water, glass walls facing the Gulf. Then came the time to pull the levers, snap the glass ampule that would release the cash flow--basically I had to sign up for the ad engines that would generate the income each time some fool made the mistake of hitting a link off of my hub into someone else's domain.

The biggest of these money-machines is offered by Google, called ad sense. I went through the whole damn process and couldn't get it to work. After an hour and a half of profanity, weeping and gnashing of teeth, I discovered that I had been denied an account. After another thirty minutes it was discovered that I had been denied because I had already signed up for it a year ago on this very blog - the one you and two other people are reading. As it turns out, since I have such a paltry following on this blog, Google and ad sense gave up on me, banishing me to outer darkness. I then spent another hour trying to recreate myself on various free search engines to no avail. The Google monster knew exactly what I was doing. I couldn't find anywhere on their forums on how to speak with a human being so I have been excommunicated, declared a leper for the remainder of my natural life. No ad sense, no one cent a pop for the fools.

After two glasses of a lovely pinot noir to calm my nerves, I then sought out the next candidate, amazon.com. In filling out their associate paperwork, as it were, I realized that I had changed default email addresses and reset passwords so often in my surreptitious breaking and entering at ad sense that I no longer knew who the hell I was or how to explain it. I had already gotten my wife excited about the new home in Sarasota so I did the only thing I could think of to pretend to have a nice quiet evening alone watching her show, American Idol. I drank three more glasses of wine, popped a xanax and went to bed.

I realize the future of writing and publishing and capitalism all lay in cyberspace. It is for this reason that I am drinking the pot of coffee to cure the headache from the mild wine hangover so that at some point this morning I will have an epiphany of how to survive until cyberspace comes to me. This whole nasty mess has me lost in self-doubt not unlike my futile attempts with the prettiest girl in school in puberty. Humiliating.

Radio Flyer

Last night's cine de noche was "Radio Flyer," a coming of age kind of fantasy with the dark cloak of domestic abuse starring as the fictional obstacle to an otherwise blissful mid-sixties tale. Car buffs no doubt regaled in the various models used to authenticate the street scenes. Engineers were certain to revel in the imagery of two young boys designing a flying machine from only their imaginations. What left me with an irksome nausea were the scenes of abuse, or rather, the suggestions of the abuse. My wife of six years spent twenty-some-odd years with an emotional terrorist. She and my step-daughter, who is now twenty-five, carry emotional scars and talk little of those years. From what I have been able to find out about the darkness, it is a wonder either of them can function at all. The step-daughter has blocked it out of her memory--a new lovely tale of familial concert now plays in her head.

It is mysterious thing, a woman's spirit. Some seem drawn to the very person who will destroy them. I stand chained and gagged as I watch the tragedy unfold, unable to help; wanting to kill the predator. But they go back again, and again. I want to scream at them but know I would only become more of the cacophany that rages in their head. "Stop this!" "Get away from him!" They will not listen. I do not know why. So I conjure up scenes of rational beings.

"You know he is going to kill you some day?"

"Uh huh. I 'spose."

"Why in God's name don't you get away, move to a new town?"

"He would find me."

"Get a TRO, befriend the police."

"That would just make him madder."

"Jesus! Would you listen to yourself? You have surrendered to this asshole!"

"Please don't yell at me."

"Sorry." "You do not have to live like this..."

"Yeah, I know.  I gotta go. If I'm not there when he gets home, he gets angry."

"Baby, you don't have to stay there. You know that, right?"

"You're sweet."

Two days later, she was found dead in a dumpster.  LISTEN TO ME:

He is NOT sorry that he hit you, just afraid of consequences for his savagery. He will NOT change--your love has no effect on his poisoned soul! He does NOT love you, never will.  He is simply incapable of it.

Memorize this:  "The first time he hits me or threatens me, I swear by Almighty God that I will get away from him by whatever means possible. I will not hesitate to pick up my things or explain myself. I will disappear from his life immediately and forever.  So help me God."