Chapter 1

These are the Rodentia files, or, the story of my life.

The bars of my cell are not vertical, they are horizontal. They are venetian blinds but they mark the margins of my existence. Oh, sure, I can go to Walmart, or H.E.B., McD’s, or Subway, or even the waterfront. But what of it? What do I do when I get there? Shop? Buy? Sit and look? And then what? It’s back to the bars, and not the good kind where you can overpay for a little akieholl, and try not to get into a fight with some asshole that doesn’t like the cut of my jib, whatever the fuck my jib is. No the bars of my cell are horizontal.

They may look fragile but they are made of the most tempered steel imaginable. They are constructed of the memories of a lifetime of rejection and outright hostility. You see I am ugly, and that is not cool at all. Also, I had ptsd from the ripe old age of seven thanks to some pedophile who wanted to get his jollies for a few minutes; a few minutes that gave me ptsd and made me angry for 60 years. That is, until I solved the logic of emotions, discovered I had ptsd, and then used the logic of emotions to get rid of my ptsd. Now I am still ugly; old and ugly; but I am no longer angry, unless you count my reactions to a lifetime of being shit on, and pissed on, and ambushed by sanctimonious people convinced that I “had it coming” ... cause I was ugly and angry.

Yeah, jail cells are made of reinforced steel but my bars are made of reinforced social ostracism. So many shallow people, so many selfish turds. So many tiny little minds. So much lack of imagination.

Yeah, I figured out the logic of emotions and the traditional logic is that I should share it with mankind because it would help so many people, and I would do that, if I could just wash all this damned shit out of my mind. Out, out damned shit. Life is but a walking crapfest.

So fuck you, assholes. If you get on your fucking knees and beg me, just right, I will explain it to you. Otherwise ... FO!