Hell's Bells, Cathrin, what is one more best friend/sister alienated from something I wrote as a twisted, "harsh

" joke? It's not like that has ever happened before (insert bitter sarcasm where you please). The final straw of me not giving a damn about what people thought of the words I write (and I care more about my writing than I ever did for you and ten women just like you) was when my god-mother, my Gran Jan (Jan Gerst), a woman I considered my grandmother for my entire life since I never knew my real grandparents. After I wrote an essay and a few Face-Book comments about the actions of the Stockton Police, she decided she could be my god-mother anymore and this hurts me because she had been taking me out and about since I was two or three months old. Gran Jan was one of the few women I have respected and trusted 100%. That is a very short list of women I admire and respect but I must say you are on it, along with Roberta Farrens, Sand Kakuda, Wendy Kakuda, Victoria Bell, Chrissy Chavez Johnson, Aggie Rose Chavez, Latrina Rhinehart, etc etc. My Gran Jan disinherited me because she did not agree with my politics, along with being offended by the words I wrote about the Stockton Police (although what I wrote was true). She joins the ranks along with other people from this fucking rotten city whom I considered blood family and who are NOT allowed to speak to me or be my friend because their wives think I am a bad influence. I can accept that but they don't explain to me that that is the problem so they just leave me twisting in the proverbial wind. No wonder I am a weird, introverted asshole. I am utterly hopeless and I indirectly begged you in my earlier, "harsh" comment for mercy from this insanity I deal with every waking hour (hinting that maybe you could call me for even a two minute phone call that MIGHT provide a sense of relief but alas, there is nothing you need from me at the moment ), especially since you kind of owe me for that midnight "write an essay in ten minutes" phone-call from a few weeks back, yet all I get told by you is that I'm "harsh" but it's all good, my dear sweetie pookums. I know that I am expected to be at the beck and call of any “REAL FRIEND” (maybe I should re-define what a real friend is), while it be would be very rare for them to call and utter the simple word "hello", much less think of my troubles, except in generalities. "Why, that white devil Drew doesn't need any help or even a friendly hello every couple of weeks. No, no, no, no, he has it all set, what with taking advantage of his sick mother and her "bottomless pit" of monetary funds." (that is sarcasm, in case you were too busy to read between the lines......) Even if I was depressed and contemplating suicide, WHICH I AM NOT, though EVEN THAT SELFISH ACT, or at least the thought of it, real or imagined, is beyond my control because of my “responsibilities”. While my animals are not children like Luke, I

cannot leave them alone with a woman who cannot feed, water or walk them properly. I suppose it is when I stop caring about them is when I am finally done with this pointless life----it is not a funny joke like you assume it is when I write that I am forever stuck in Stockton and there is more truth in that statement (and this whatever you might call it.) than you can possibly imagine. But please don’t worry your pretty little head about that for I must be HARSHLY EXAGGERATING, neh? Congratulations! Thus far you have read almost half of this Face Book post made up of simple yet "harsh" truths. I doubt you will finish it, not out of lack of empathy or even cruel malice but rather because you are a young mother and have not the extra time to give somebody like myself the time of day, much less use the precious recreational time you have reading a letter from someone that can do nothing useful for you at the moment. I didn't know what I expected from my earlier apology about my baseless humor yet all I get from a woman I once loved more than life itself, is that “I'm harsh.” Does a bear shit in the woods? No shit........ Jesus Christ, I’m sure you don’t understand (or care) where I am coming from and likely will only read this letter partially, if at all. It’s terrible that the whole tone of this twisted explanation of why I am truly losing my feeble mind sounds pitifully senseless, really, but sadly, it gets to the heart of our friendship in a clear and concise way that I never imagined it would, if you consider our relationship a friendship. Which I doubt you do………. I'm just another guy you fucked for a few years until someone you considered more fun and a better opportunity overall came into your life, while I consider you to be the only woman I have ever sincerely loved unconditionally, which makes me question my sanity even more when I look at the limited times you've reached out to me for any other reason than when you needed something. This sounds so melodramatic but tragically 'tis the wicked truth, woman. It seems to this dumb heathen White Devil that our friendship is little more than a one-sided “what have you done for me lately” type of thing but strictly on your part of it. This is par for course. The only time I talk to you on the phone is to see how Luke and you are doing and coincidentally, it is me initiating the phone call to you. The rare times I get a buzz from you is when you need something. Hell, from what I understand, you speak to my mother more than you do me. It’s how everyone else treats my unconditional loyalty, a statement of which you KNOW you cannot argue. Except for a

few like Tyler Kakuda, A. Zell Williams, Matt Chavez, and David Valtierra, all of whom I have been friends with for longer than you can imagine, I cannot trust scumbags........ I don’t even care if you read or respond to this painful missive but please remember I ONLY wrote those “harsh” words earlier, not out of anger or rage, but as a inappropriate joke I'd though you comprehend and also out of a sheer desperation to rid myself of the bizarre nightmare I experienced when I fell asleep at my desk this afternoon, slumped precariously over this damned indifferent keyboard…….. yada?? I really do not expect anyone, much less you, to care about my pathetic life that I have fucked up good and well on my own, nor is this is even a kind of talking shit complaint aimed at you. Quite frankly, I have absolutely NO ONE, except Nepenthe Kitty (and she is a lousy conversationalist), to which I can express the craziness of the seventeen sober voices in my head. This is, of course, not a good thing at all........... This letter may sound like a Kazinskyville Kazinskyness sponsored pity-party and you must think that I'm butt-hurt like a raunchy d-list porn-star after an on camera "greek" gang-bang by one hundred and one ten inch cocks, not to mention the turn of that skin popping, sinister freak, Ali Baba and his god-damned forty thieves, but it is not that way at all. This is just how I feel things are between you and I: a complete disassociation from me as I suffer the mental anguish created entirely by a disdainful reflection of the behavioral sink I am drowning in and unless I am willing to examine and change my now sick and depraved way of thinking, I am fucked. You only need ONE slow drowning in the behavioral sink before that begets an endless cycle of an apathetic behavioral sinks, which makes any sort of lasting change, however the good intentions and motives, seem a futile and rather crippling atavistic endeavor. My rotting carcass is hauled about day in and day out by a degenerating nervous system controlled by an atrophying brain but it is truly a living dead man inside of me that consumes my forsaken Soul with a disheartening melancholy, which I fear has brought out an early genetic problem of Idée Fixe where I suffer from long standing delusions that is slowly but steadily stalking my already tenuous grip on sanity, if you can call it that. But hey, baby, that's cool. Well, not really but one must not suffer from delusions while walking the thin line of knowing how to use your illusions. If you are upset I posted this on the public Face-Book Wall, then I really understand that you will be livid with me when I publish this letter so that thousands of people, not including my ever-growing legion of "Constant Readers", can read this on

my feculent profile on Scrib'd, Writers Cafe, etc etc. Although you will call me a repulsive scum-bag piece of shit equivocator, I have written nothing more than what I consider the truth of our friendship, as skewed as that may be. Like others I speak my heart to, you will likely curse me, calling me all sorts of vile adjectives. Thankfully, with the friends I thought were my brothers and sisters but who abandoned me for whatever reasons they had, including actual blood family, I have managed everyday to add a layer of thickness to my skin to repel such deadly heartbreak. I guess most have a different concept of siblings than I do as an only child. I think that most do not take it as serious as I do. As an only child, if I consider you a brother or sister, you have my absolute, unconditional loyalty (NO MATTER WHAT THE HELL YOU DO IN LIFE-except for betrayal of said loyalty, rape and child molestation, I can't get down with that at all), and even when I pass on from this merciless World that seems to hate my family and I, my ardor will never flag. I will NEVER change, therefore I don't care anymore WHO IT MAY BE that does not comprehend my skewed and twisted sense of humor based in fact. Sadly, I guess you have been fully initiated and indoctrinated into the evergrowing parade of Jerk Chicken Ass Haters of me, myself, and I. These spectacular carbon copy examples of extremely well-to-do, tolerant, progressively right-minded thinking Americans (SARCASM!!) have decided that they perceive Andrew N. Farrens AKA Drew Kazinsky as the Devil Incarnate in regards to the unspeakable imagination from which I dredge up these absolutely horrid memories and then I conjure these uh, uh, stories, from the empty space in between the ears on my head. To the purists, I am disloyal' to the mythical road-map every writer allegedly carries in his head. Essentially this is a rule-book and keeps you straight in the literary world with the "KNOWLEDGE" that will allow you to function in the World of linear journalism but Cat, my baby-doll honey-pie cutie, I am what they term an "Outlaw Journalist/POET/Freelance Word-Bully . As much as this term causes myself and others a good sense of belly-laughter, I was sent to deliver plague and pestilence in a literary form, so this makes me a viable threat to their version of "The American Dream". I will NEVER change, therefore I don't care anymore WHO IT MAY BE that does not comprehend my skewed and twisted sense of humor. Anger is a useless emotion but like a hobo rail-rider bum stealthily hiding from a young runaway rookie rail-rider bum who gazes thoughtfully out the side door as the heavily farmed and almost fallow farm land of America's Empirical Bread Basket. Even as the rising Sun continues the timeless ritual of the morning erection sliding from the purple grey-black sky. In the seemingly emptiness of the excruciating forlorn darkness of a jolting and creaking cargo train-car, Anger lurks in the slithering shadows as it waits for the perfect opportunity to swiftly snatch the next doomed victim. There will definitely be senseless murder in the hot town tonight but the person who dies will not be that poor kid

who never once thought he'd suffer an angry and inevitable homicidal loneliness on the steel rails of America; rather it will be the targets themselves who do the killing, for that pour Soul is now lost in perpetual anger............ Res Ipsa Loquitur

Andrew N. Farrens

Drew Kazinsky
West Stockton, California

October 7, 2012

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