Assume

Let’s break down the word assume: Ass U Me. How’s that sound now?

Sounds to me like you and I are both asses if we assume, but we do it, almost every day of our lives. Ever wonder why that is?

My guess, based on my experience and obvious lack of information along the way, is that we’re too easily influenced by hype, need for acceptance and just plain lazy asses.

I have, or I should say had, because I think they disowned me for reasons they either refuse to state or seem to have some form of proof of my guilt, in either case, none that I know of are aware of the big picture, but they assume I am guilty as charged.

I will be the first to admit there are issues, many of which I’m guessing none of these assumptive rejectionists are well informed about, nor do they care to be. What they do care about it their ability to speak freely on matters pertaining to me as though they are experts on my life and philosophy.

What fools we be, to bend the knee, and blindly reject what we refuse to see.

I’ve learned that through writing and, probably more importantly, editing, the value of citations (aka cites) to substantiate a point; example:

“Jimmy stole Johnnie’s laptop! He should be arrested!”

First question that comes to my mind now is, how do you know this is true?

“Umm, er, ahh, well Johnnie told me.”

Second question, how does Johnnie know?

“I dunno, but he said he did.”

Pretty classic assumption on the part of junior, but not provable in court, unless of course, Johnnie has a pic, a recording, or a witness, all of which are, in essence, citations.

Had junior said, Johnnie said, “Sally saw Jimmy take his laptop, you would have a citation.” (OMG, I’m dating myself with those names; can’t wait to mention Spot.)

The issue is this, an assumption is nothing more than unproven idea based on no facts.

In writing, especially college level, citations are critical to every paper a student may write. If you’re quoting (citing) a comment in a book, you need to identify the book, author, page(s) and other information that allows the reader to access your proof.

In a court of law, what is a witness? Basically, a witness is a living citation. (I’m stretching the definition, but hey, if you’re starting to understand better, it’s worth it.

So let’s take this a step further with Credible Citations. Obviously, in our little scenario, Johnnie is not a very credible witness cause he “dunno.” He is assuming, not proving his claim.

In writing, one must employ credible citations or risk being challenged for plagiarism (stealing someone else’s ideas, work, etc.) which can destroy your hopes of ever being truly believable.

Would this be a credible citation: “Sally said, Johnnie said Jimmie took his laptop?” Nope, why look at the spelling of Jimmy. Small error, but a critical one, especially in court.

How about this one: Sally said Jimmy showed her his “new” laptop and she saw Johnnie’s name scratched on the bottom. Yes, you have witness and source point for verification.

The same principle holds true when writing example: “We have only just begun to fight.” With the quotation marks, we are claiming it as a direct quote, not an assumption. Now we need to show who or what we’re citing and where we got it.

Franklin D. Roosevelt, October 31, 1936, https://patriotpost.us/documents/284. This is a very simple format, college level formats are more detailed, but it gives you a path to the statement.

Learning to cite, or if you prefer, quote people, places or things in your life decreases a tendency to assume facts are true, rather than proving them because assuming makes an ASS of U and ME.

Assumptions are the tools of the trade for those wanting to control people. “You must believe me because I know everything.” But cannot prove anything but you must assume I do.

Everyday, I hear people demanding we make assumptions on matters because their information comes from polls, experts and people who know. What pools, what experts and what people, they rarely provide those details.

I think the most tragic and demoralizing display of assumption by propaganda came with the attack on the Covington Catholic High School student who simply stood and smiled at someone harassing him, and his fellow students. Allegedly, through the use of well edited video, propagandists manipulated the situation to make it appear that the student was the culprit in this incident. As a result, assumptions were made by many radical extremists that the high schools kids were at fault and threats were made against them. Thankfully, an unedited version of the incident showed that the high school students neither physically nor verbally assaulted anyone but, because the original edited video was shown by mainstream media without citation, it was assumed to be correct and the threats keep coming.

The result of these assumptions may affect innocent people for years to come. It could have been avoided, but no wanted to verify until it was too late.

How should love be shown?

I’m curious, do all people demonstrate their affection for another in the classic romantic manners of the movies and novels?

Of those that do, can you tell me if that truly makes a difference or are there other acceptable ways to demonstrate your love for another.

Now, before anyone chews my head off, I want to explain something here. I’m not against the romantic love as seen in movies and novels but I am against fake demonstrations of love.

Anyone else ever heard this phrase? “You have to love me for me! Accept me as I am!”

Umm, nope, I do not have to love anyone period. I love those I choose to love and I show my affection for them in a thousand different ways, but I don’t say I love you 100 times a day, nor will I kiss you if you smoke.

Why you ask? Because you didn’t smoke when I fell in love with you, your smoking clings to your clothing and hair and I don’t kiss ashtrays.

Will I still love you? Yes.

How about hearing this: “Why don’t you snuggle and spoon with me in bed?”

I’ll start with the smoking issue here and add on, you breath also smells like stale beer and vomit, you just puked all over the bathroom and I think you forgot to unzip your pants to piss.

Will I still love you? Yes.

Why can’t we afford to go on a nice vacation like others do?”

Since you’ve been using your credit card everyday to buy packs of cigarettes for $8.00 each in your fancy bars, I’ll start with your smoking. I’ll follow that up with the bar tab receipt you dropped showing how much you enjoy aged Scotch and imported ales. Last, but certainly not least, let me mention the money you lost at the casino when you said you were at your friend’s house. Don’t worry, I covered the car payment but there may be an issue with the rent again, and it was nice of the Casino to take your car keys and send you home in a cab.

Will I still love you? Yes.

By the way, I forgot to mention someone by the name of Kelly, not sure if it’s a guy or a girl, keeps calling for you. Won’t tell me what it’s about or give me a number for you to call back. Not sure what it’s all about but the last call came in from a state STD clinic.

Will I still love you? Yes.

You ask why there is no longer any affection between us, it’s pretty simple.

I love you, always have and maybe always will, but now I have to love me more.

Have we lost all reason?

This morning I woke up to the headlines that the State of New York is now basically proclaiming the title of Infanticide Capitol of the World.

Wow, what a success to write to your grandchildren about. Er, wait, if they’re murdering innocents, you may not have any grandchildren. As a matter of fact, if you promote mass infanticide you may not have any children period.

I won’t apologize for my opinion that anyone and everyone who believes in and supports non-essential abortion on demand is a criminal; a murderer of the innocents. Those who profit from these murders are beyond redemption as humane people.

I’m not an innocent soul, I fathered a child out of wedlock when I was nineteen. That was back in the days when they only performed abortions in the very early stages of pregnancy by doing Dilation and Curettage (D&C) procedures:

D&C (Dilation and Curettage) Procedure: Surgery and Recovery

My child, a girl, was born and immediately given up for adoption by her mother; I had no say in the matter, nor was I allowed to see my biological daughter. I did learn, many years later that she was adopted by a wonderful couple who could have no children. They loved her from the first moment they met and, to the best of my knowledge, still do.

Now days, we don’t hear stories like this. What we do hear is how professional, for profit, infanticide factories murder the innocents for their body parts.

What has become of humanity in America?

What gives anyone the right to murder an innocent who may have the genetic makeup to do great things in our world? Perhaps another Einstein, Peter the Great, Michelangelo, Madame Curie, Rosa Parks or Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? Yes, or maybe a Hitler, Stalin, Caligula or Jack the Ripper; we don’t know, but can we take the risk?

Who will hear the cries of pain when the infant is torn from the mother’s womb? Who will hold that child close while he or she suffers the poison injected into his or her brain?

Is there a place on this earth for the discards known as “aborted fetuses?” Are they burned in crematoriums like the Jews, or thrown in pits like the Armenians? Are they thrown to the wild animals in the mountains the way Russians once did?

Who will mourn for the innocents? Who will answer their pleas of

“WHY?”

“WHAT DID I DO?”

“HELP ME MOMMY, IT HURT SO BAD!”

There are very few legitimate reasons for abortion, but thousand of reasons against it; each one, an innocent.

Have we, as humans who claim to care, lost all reason that we must punish the innocents for our failure to think, to care and to acknowledge our mistakes rather than bury them.

“Why mommy? What did I do?”

Alone again.

As a child, I spend a lot of my time alone, isolated from the rest of my family by the strict rules of my mother who believed in encapsulating in certain areas of her life. It was tough for me, especially when I started elementary school because I couldn’t bring any friends home which would have been great if someone had taught me how to make a friend. I did, in time, make one friend; his name was Henry, and he was my buddy.

In retrospect, I think Henry found me and took the effort to become my friends because he saw the loneliness. Today, thinking back on our friendship, I honestly think Henry was the first person I loved; not love in the physical sense, but the love of having someone care and caring in return. We met in the second grade, and during those years, we walked to school together, talked and collected glass containers for their deposit, but he never came to my house; he couldn’t because he was black and I was a strawberry-blonde white boy with freckles. But we were real friends. I lost track of him the summer of my fourth grade when my family moved from our apartment over our store on Franklin Avenue in Minneapolis, Minnesota to a house in Bloomington, Minnesota where I had to walk to school alone; alone, scared and lonely.

            It wasn’t too long after we moved that Henry and his family also moved. I don’t know where they relocated to, nor could I find out; I had lost Henry. Several years later, when I was working as an Emergency Room Orderly (we weren’t called ER techs back then) at Minneapolis General Hospital, a white lady came in with someone who was ill. She looked very familiar to me, but I couldn’t place where I knew her from. After her friend was taken into an exam room, she came over to me and said, “are you my honey boy?” There was only one person who ever called me “Honey Boy” and that was Henry’s mom because she said my hair looked like golden honey in the summer sun. I melted! I literally lost it. I put my arms around her and broke down, crying like a baby right in front of everyone. My charge nurse, Olive Lindbergh, took us into a private room and told me to take a break.

            The first thing Henry’s mom said to me before I could even ask, was “He’s gone, baby. Henry is with God now.” I almost fainted. (I’m not ashamed to say, that as I write this now, I am crying.) When I calmed down, she told me told me that Henry had tried to contact me by leaving notes at our store, but I never got any of them. He had wanted me to know where they were moving to and how to get in touch, but I never got them. Then, the summer of his eighteenth birthday, while sitting on the front stoop of their house, Henry died peacefully. His heart, the biggest heart I’ve ever known in my life, gave out. Henry had been born with a heart defect, but he never told me because he didn’t want me to pity him, he wanted me to be his friend.

            I stayed in touch with Henry’s mom and dad until they too left me to join Henry. That was when I really started to feel alone. I had no family support, nor good friends in my life. I had only me and a need to be with people. I went on in my life searching for a connection, a person who would be like Henry; kind, smart and always there for me; needless to say, I made a lot of tragic mistakes along the way. Now, I’m seventy-five years old and alone again, only this time it’s worse than ever before because I’m losing some of my survival abilities to cope with life in this day and age.

            I am alone again, and this time it’s different. (continued in “Loneliness”)

I AM ME, IT’S ALL I CAN BE.

IN WANT I DID DISCOVER,

FIXED TRUTH HAD COME TO ME.

MY SEARCH SUSTAINED BY PAIN,

DEAR LABOR MEANT TO BE.

SEEKING TRUTH, I OFTEN FLOUNDERED,

INNER VISION BLIND TO FATE.

SELF-LOATHING’S HEAVY BURDEN,

BORN DOWN BY PRIMAL HATE.

ONCE THOUGHTS OF SELF DESTRUCTION,

BROUGHT ME TO LIFE’S DOOR.

THERE FACED BY SELF-WORTH CHOICE,

MY LIFE JOURNEY IN LAST SEASON.

PASSION TO EXPLOIT SORROW,

DID YIELD TO TIME OF REASON.

NOW I STAND BEFORE YOU,

A MAN TRIED IN FIRES OF TIME,

NEITHER PERFECT NOR SPECIAL AM I.

AWAITING DEATH’S TOLL TO CHIME.

LET ALL WHO ASK REMEMBER,

TO CHALLENGE THOUGHTS OF FEAR,

FOR EACH MUST LEARN AS I DID,

TO ALWAYS KEEP MIND CLEAR.

FOR I AM WHO I AM,

IMPERFECT AS I MAY BE.

I AM WHO I AM,

PERHAPS YOU ARE LIKE ME.

Love is not a commodity!

Anyone who truly knows me knows that I reach out to people in need of help and friendship. I know, it’s a selfish and narcissistic way of gaining pride in myself, but I’m cool with it. The important part is that I mean no harm.

A little over ten years ago someone reached out to me for help, and I gave it. At first it was a mutual loneliness and need that brought us together in a romantic way but that ended pretty rapidly, but I refused to give up on the person who, I thought was worth fighting for.

When I was growing up, there were three words I never recall my parents or brothers ever saying. Those words became, at least for me, alien and undefinable. I never learned what saying “I Love You” meant.

I must admit here that there were other issues of my childhood that caused psychological trauma, which I acted out later in life, but never did I intentionally hurt anyone but myself.

In time, as I grew older, I learned how to say “I Love You” but I was never sure if I felt it because I honestly didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. When someone said “I Love You” to me, I felt like an empty shell, not knowing what to say.

Now that I’m in my mid-seventies and perking along like an old freight train, I realize that throughout my life. I was actually showing people that I love them by caring for and about them. Which brings me back to my little friend.

Did I love this person? In my own way of caring, sharing and being there when someone was needed. I housed, fed, clothed and even tried to get this person started on an education at a two community college, but nothing worked to motivated. Shopping, for clothes at least worked, as did travel but education, nope, went to school everyday spending each one either in the cafeteria, library or off campus somewhere. Hell, I even bought a car just for this purpose, it got ruined. I learned that there’s nothing wrong with the oil in the car if there is no oil in the car, but of course it was checked regularly.

It was about this time that my parental instincts kicked in; I didn’t want this person to have the poor life I had, so I decided not to say good-by; my mistake, but an honest one.

Now, ten years later, after thousands of dollars, three cars, a wasted two years of education, numerous jobs, doctor bills, dentist bills, clothing, dealing with an alcohol and drug problem (neither of which are mine), treatment for an incurable STD, and other medical issues, (also not mine), I get dumped because I’m not affectionate, and don’t say I love you.

There is much more to this story I won’t go into but I will say that I have had my faults to, none of which compare, but faults none-the-less.

The problem being, I began to think that love, like the material things, was becoming a commodity. I want you to do this for me because you won’t say you love me. If you loved me, truly loved me, you’d hold me whenever I want and in whatever way I want. I’ll be nice and friendly if we can go eat at this expensive place tonight.

Although not all comments were so explicit, most did present themselves as terms of a negotiation rather than mere requests.

Now, I’m alone, my Christmas gift was the closing of the door. No thank you for everything; no sorry things didn’t work out and no Happy New Year and no goodbye, just the closing of the door. However, in retrospect, that was my Christmas gift but not from who one might imagine. The gift was from myself to myself; a gift of knowledge that love, true love is not a commodity.

Monday – why I do not hate Mondays!

Ok, so I sound strange. “Everybody hates Mondays, dude! What’s wrong with you?” 

Umm, does the word different explain anything to you? 

I am different, unique, special and guess what? There’s only one person on this planet with my DNA to prove it.

“We get it!, but, how can you be different and not be a Democrat?” (I was actually asked this question.)

“We Democrats are all free-thinkers, each special in his or her own way. We do not adhere to the fascistic commands of the orange-head in our WH!”

The only part of that comment I agree with is “special in his or her own way..” You got me there guys, but the remainder is about as logical as me trying on Speedos. It ain’t gonna work, no way, no how!

Therein lies my argument with the philosophy of the Democrat automatons. 

I love this definition of a “free-thinker” from the Urban Dictionary: 
“One who relies solely on themselves to make judgments based on their own perception of the world rather than blindly accepting what is told or implied by an outside influence, which is usually some kind of authoritarian figure.”

“Usually associated with non-conformists…Very few people in this world have realized that they have access to and the ability to perform independent thought. While everyone has the ability, only the freethinker uses it, because he knows what he wants.” (Chesterfield, 2016)

The Democrat leadership propagandizes this philosophy of having free-thinks lead the party, but it’s a lie. No political correctness allowed: it’s a flat outright lie. It’s as though the rank and file Democrats believe in one form of Democracy while their leadership believes in another.

Now, that said, what the hell does this have to do with my liking Mondays?

So glad you asked! 

On Monday mornings I pick up a case of fresh fruit at Sam’s to take to the Student Assistance office at my Alma mater, Meramec Community College in Kirkwood, MO. When I arrive at school I am always greeted by beautiful, young faces of youth who strive hard every day to succeed in college and get ahead but battling the problems of poverty.

I see blacks, white, Asian, Native Americans with various disabilities lining up to get to class on time to learn! There are young adults confined to wheelchairs due to conditions beyond their control who ask nothing more than a chance to learn and excel. Each and every one of these young people is marching to his or her own band; free-thinkers not chained to ideology, nor restricted by politics. 


For me, Mondays are my refueling days; the time when I recharge my batteries with the help of these energetic leaders of tomorrow.