Tag, I'm It!

blatantly pilfered from vimrod

Okay, so I haven't been officially tagged, for which I'd usually be appreciative since I typically despise feeling forced to oblige such purposelessness. But I've happened across several other bloggers who have been called out to write a post with ten weird, random, facts, habits or goals about themselves. Once tagged you are then expected to tag another five (or six, it varies) to play along ... and so on and so on. I won't be doing that, no worries, but I'll admit this one did rouse my interest.

I like the overall notion here because I find it fascinating to read useless personal trivia about the people you think you've kinda sorta gotten to know. Of course, my mind automatically went into overdrive and brought up the beaucoup me-things that without doubt must never be divulged. To anyone, under any circumstances. Ever.

But still, "ten weird, random, facts, habits or goals about yourself" I think I can pull off without compromising my to-the-grave huggermuggery, so I want to play. Even if I am crashing this virtual viral party. So I'm self-tagging. I'm "it." Randomness, yes, but I think that's the whole point.

When I was 13 I bought a People magazine on a trip to town with my granny. Then while she was distracted in the cosmetics department, I stealthily swapped out the People for the Playgirl. I had, after all, at least paid for something so as to justify to myself not having just unabashedly stolen porn. Clever gay boy me.

I believe in ghosts and miss the ones that lived in my house until opting to vacate without proper notice about four or five years ago. Particularly active at night, they were. I still wonder where they went and why they left, and was it something I did?

I believe in reincarnation but am perplexed with so many folks laying claim to previous lives when some I would think must surely be making their inaugural earthly visit, given the scads more folks on the planet now than ever before. Maybe I'm missing something, but it doesn't seem to add up somehow. Still I believe.

I was on probation once but quit going to my court-appointed meetings with the probation officer because I found her to be quite an annoying bitch. Plus, I don't like being told what to do. Curiously enough, no one ever followed up on that. Why on probation is verboten, don't ask.

I have a morbid fascination with all things macabre, murder in particular. I want to know gory specifics, pictures a plus. My aunt was a secretary back in the day for one of the attorneys assigned the Clutter family murder trials of Capote's In Cold Blood infamy, as that whole spree began and ended right here in Kansas City. She was privy to the crime scene photographs. I want details about the pics but she remains mum about that to this day, which annoys the hell out of me. No surprise, really, since she's annoying by nature anyway. I am a sicko, I know.

As a kid I was constantly writing short stories, most of which I still have the originals of to this day. The pages are rather brittle, but I enjoy revisiting them from time to time and am actually struck by my younger self's imagination. One I do not still have, however, was written in my sixth grade year. I destroyed that one lest Mom might have found it and had me institutionalized for life: Mrs. sets the stage for a presumably romantic anniversary evening, Mr. comes home, dinner is lovely, candles lit and hot monkey lovin' ensues. At the peak of his orgasm, she takes the knife stashed earlier beneath the mattress and plunges it to the hilt into his back. I don't know why. Hormonal disorder, probably.

If love makes the world go 'round, if love is all that matters, if love is all you need ... then I'm totally SOL. I really don't think I understand what love is, of any kind (not just of the romantic variety.) Seriously. I mean, I grasp the concept of "like" and even "like very much" but that pretty much sums it up for me. I like very much, for example, my mother, my daughter, my second ex-wife. But to be honest, that's pretty much what it translates to when I say to them, "I love you." If there's more to it than that, well, I've given up at my age on figuring it out. And that whole "love thyself" nonsense? Bullshit. F'getaboutit!

When I was young my first wife and I were foster parents and took in two brothers, four and five years old, into our home ... who were total messes. Their mother and boyfriend had sexually abused them and Mom had tried to drown them in a public pool. Enter the authorities and foster care. The youngest at four could only babble, I couldn't understand a word the boy said. Had to teach him colors, too, which contrary to popular belief is more difficult than one might think. Meanwhile, the oldest at five was hardly ready to start school that next Fall by anyone's standards, not to mention his asshole attitude.

We had them for two years, taught and raised them. Hard and challenging work in the beginning, let me tell you. Anyway, in short order they thrived and evolved into the most polite and loving two boys that you'd ever want to meet or call your own. Job well done on our part, if I do say so myself. They were still with us when we bought our first house and helped pick out the wallpaper for their new bedroom (multicolored stars it was, kinda cool.)

Eventually, birth-mom's rights were severed and we were ecstatic to have the opportunity to adopt! Went through the whole drawn out red tape process, the interviews, blah blah ... but in the end it was all worth it and we were good to go! The boys were quite excited as well. They would finally and officially be dubbed Robertson. I remember them practicing writing their new last name. It was cute.

Then one evening a social worker showed up at the door. My wife was pregnant with my daughter at the time, which we quickly learned was most unacceptable. Apparently two kids was our state-mandated quota and an expected third would simply put us over the limit. Maybe if we'd only been expecting half a kid. I believe 2-1/2 is the norm, no? Honestly, that whole evening is a blur.

Long story longer, I kicked the social worker out of my house, called the boys inside and tried to explain (once I had emotions in check.) Lots of tears to go around that night, for sure. Made the familial goodbyes tour over the next few weeks, in between packing them up for weekend visits to another, more suitable family gung-ho to adopt. The boys didn't like them. Then the family decided they wanted only the one, not the other. Sorry, bro. Ultimately both were returned to the state for exchange.

Last I heard they had been shipped out of town to Wichita where they were featured guests on one of those local news Wednesday's Child segments, marching out the unwanted children in desperate need of loving families or at the very least, a Big Brother or Big Sister mentor!

"Daddy, will you still love me when I don't live here anymore?" one of the last things I remember the youngest asking while we were packing up his closet. I cry even now and that was over twenty years ago. Pardon me, I need to grab a tissue.

I believe in God. I pray often. I'm a very spiritual person, in fact, and I do read the Bible as well as other religious scripture. I'd probably best describe myself as Buddhist-Christian, if there is such a thing. Without the robes (less than flattering and people look at you funny) or the crosses (grisly reminders, those.) I think, too, that anyone - regardless of preferred spiritual handbook - who believes that the words of whatever their tome of choice were spewed forth unedited, straight from the mouth of the Almighty to the page, must be delusional. Divinely inspired the texts might be, but none should hardly be considered authorized heavenly transcript.

I once owned a 1976 bicentennial special-edition AMC Gremlin in patriotic red, white and blue. Awesome, I know!

I think that was ten random and certainly weird facts, and I didn't even touch on the extra-marital affair, my premie baby's NICU stint, why I embrace my alcoholism ... and oh so much more! But rules are rules, after all, and I obviously do need limits set. I clearly take these things far too seriously. If you made it this far, though, you now understand why no one tagged me in the first place. Can't say that I blame them. Cheers!