Overbearing Father Figure

Shit, I've done it again!

For the past four days I have been walking down to 59th street, Columbus Circle and back home for the exercise and exposure. I've picked up a new pair of headsets for my MP3 player and now I have music as I stride along the moderately filled blocks of the city streets, oblivious to the world around me. I'm also oblivious to the area around my slacks, namely the zipper part. I know you know by now that I go commando wherever I go, just in case I have to pull my pants down in public. I want that extra embarrassment that men that go commando get whenever such an event arises.

Well today, like normally when this shit happens, I am looking at the faces of the women who are looking in my face. I know, I know, I look like a madman with my beard and crazy hair (oh, I also forgot to take my cap this morning which when I'm wearing it makes me appear at least a little bit normal). I know I'm not the sexy beast that they wish to find in their lives, so what the fuck? That's when I recognize the cool breeze blowing in my slacks. Not around my slacks, IN my slacks. Now, I continue to walk and as you know there are hundreds of women walking on the streets in the afternoons between rush hour and lunch hour, the in-between time that I go walking simply because there are fewer people on the streets.

For some reason, during these hours, there are mostly women on the streets and very few men. I believe if there was a man walking past me he would have given me the XYZ sign...oh XYZ meaning 'X-amine Your Zipper'. You know the move, the hands go to the groin and imitate zipping up the zipper. But no, nothing. Now I get to thinking, what if these women did not even notice that my zipper was open and the worst was happening to me? By reaching down to investigate the issue with my fingers, I would be drawing attention to the area. I shake my head and think as I stroll and come to the conclusion that if my Johnson is out and greeting the world, well it's been doing it for awhile now. I'd better put him away before some hard up old lady sees it, jumps on her cell phone and calls the cops. Indecent man walking!

I reach down and Sho'Nuff there he is, my life-long pal greeting the New York public like a politician running for office. With a finger I shove him back into the pants and with the other hand, zip up the zipper. Then I walk faster down the block, looking to the left and the right for the 'HEAT'. I duck through the thin crowds and zip around vendors to lose any tails. When I felt that I had done enough I stroll calmly again, knowing that someone rushing through the streets would draw attention. I was just so grateful to get home and shut my door behind me that I almost passed out.

I checked my account and noticed that my benefits were restarted, which is good. I can make it through the month. I am also assaulted with a blizzard of mail, mostly from Social Services. One is a four page letter stating my benefits have been continued. Another is a one page letter stating that I have a confirmation of my Fair Hearing request and that my benefits have been continued. Now I wonder, why the need for the four page letter? Oh, of course, to really fuck with your mind! To wholly confuse you with a with a fucking hurricane of useless paperwork so that you are so turned around that you are ineffective in pointing out HRA's errors.

Such as accusing me of not attending the Drug and Alcohol screening after I did and got the confirmation letter from the examiner that day. So now I'm running around showing them that they fucked up...oh, and of course dealing with pounds of paperwork regarding this. Hey, and masturbate with this brand of Vaseline if you'd like. On the very SAME confirmation of my Fair Hearing letter, on the bottom they have the issues to be addressed at the Fair Hearing. Nothing really descriptive, just a brief comment. You should know what should be happening there, because you called for it! So I read it. It reads:

"SNA-Failure to cooperate with drug/alcohol screening/ assessment", yeah, that's it. I've got that covered. I've got my confirmation letter that I was there right in my hand. But right under that one, there is another one...a single tiny line like the one above it. "FS-Failure to verify any aspect of food stamp eligibility." WHAT IN THE FUCK? I went through that whole shit! I was told that everything was cool. So why are they attaching this complaint, which I never made, onto this case? The only thing that I didn't produce is a lease, and they never asked for me to produce one. I shake my head in disbelief and open another letter.

The next one, also from Social Services, states: "This notice informs you that, prior to the Fair Hearing, you MUST attend a Mandatory Dispute Resolution interview to discuss the issues relating to your public assistance benefits that you intend to raise at the Fair Hearing." Okay, this is a first. A mandatory meeting before the Fair Hearing. Makes any sense to you? This meeting has absolutely no affect on the Fair Hearing, but to miss it "this could affect your benefits." A nice way of saying that they will cut you off on that hour of that day.

This wouldn't be so incredibly stupid to me if not in the opening of the very next envelope in the mail is another letter from Social Services. Dated the same day as the other two. This one states: "Your public assistance case has been RECERTIFIED for the period August 1, 2010 to July 31, 2011. The following individuals will receive Public Assistance: Hobobob." So here we are, getting confirmation for something that I'm being accused of failing to verify any aspect of. I shake my head. This is the insanity that you go through just to get aid. That's alright. It won't last forever. I see the day soon that I'll be completely off public assistance. Soon.

On a good note, another envelope has my tax records in it. I sit down and open the documents carefully, flipping through them. On the records they show that I worked for a small technology firm before it was bought out by the larger firm that I was fired from. The tiny firm has it's address on my Tax report...111 Fulton Street...below Canal Street, near Ground Zero. Actually, my building was closer at One Liberty Plaza, but this is close enough. I am happy because this is the only proof that I could come up with. My tiny firm is long gone, and the new firm? Their address is in fucking Boston. I swear that conglomerate isn't worth shit.

I feel good, because now I can send documentation to the 911 Bureau and get Psychiatric and Substance abuse help from professionals dealing with the workers in the disaster. I am happy. At least there is some agency in New York that has their shit together. I feel something run up my spine. I reach back for it but nothing is there. It's the bugs all over the place again. No, please. I get up and walk around as tiny pinpricks wrack my body, from head to toe. The bugs are biting me to no end. I go and pop two pain killers and in time the misery ends. I live in fear of this event. It's making me crazy. I can scratch and scratch to no end, and it'll still itch. That's fucked up.

I make my appoint- ment with Doc. A. and he checks my blood pressure and my blood work, giving me a clean bill of health. Keep up the walking and the exercise, and eating beans. I need the potassium. I nod, will do, Chief. Then he looks me square in the eye, "How is that itching going?" Still bad Doc. I don't know if the painkillers are working, or is it that I just THINK that they are working. "Well, have you been taking your LAMICTAL twice a day?" I frown. Twice a day? I thought I was supposed to be taking it once a day. He frowns: "How about your WELLBUTRIN, are you taking that twice a day?" Am I supposed to? On both medications I have been taking them once a day. "Well, how do you feel?" He asks me. I'm fine, Doc. But when I stopped taking them I felt fine. It took my close friends to convince me that I was flipping my lid. He nods: "That's the problem with being bi-polar. You can't tell these things on your own. Many people stop and think that they are just as fine as they were when they were on their meds, but obviously not." Well, I'm on them to stay doc, simple as that. Should I go back up to the maximum dosage? "What do your friends say? Are you better or worse?" Better in fact.

But couldn't I be better than better? "Stay with what you are doing, and if you think you need more, take them." Cool. He smiles, "Oh, and another thing...basically almost all of your medications can cause itching and rash, so I'm going to chose one to discontinue, and we'll see how that goes. If it continues, then we'll drop another one until we find the culprit." Okay, which one? "The NORVASC."

I get home that night and look at the bottles. The WELL- BUTRIN says on it, once a day. The LAMICTAL says twice daily. I pop another one. We'll see how that feels. I sit in my dark room, hungry. I have recently found a store downstairs that has rather professional knives for two dollars a knife. I go nuts for some reason. I buy steak knives, and cleavers, and long bread knives, and butcher knives. I bring them all home and cater to my new addiction. Chopping vegetables. Yes, I love chopping vegetables down to fine bits. I just love it, I don't know why. Maybe it forces me to concentrate, which I miss doing since I've stopped working on computers.

Or maybe it's my new OCD? My Obsessive/ Compulsive Disorder. I seem to have to be obsessing over something, why not chopped vegetables? Oh, and cleaning my room. I'm chopping away with my new knife, long, wide, like something in a horror movie.

My neck starts to itch.

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