I Do Not Like Musicals. My Favorite Movie Of All Time Is A Musical.

Do you like music?  I like music.  I love music.  Don't we all. 

But.

Do you like being around music you loathe?  Do you stay?  That string of unintelligible excrement someone else finds immersive and satisfying?  How does it make you feel when you cannot escape it?  Do you deal, keeping your internal pressures in check?  Or do you seethe, writhe, and fester?  Doesn't that feel like forever?  And a day...? 

Have you ever heard a duck...making noise...while a dog happily runs down the beach with said duck's neck in its mouth?  I have. 

8-track.  Cassette.  CD.  Vinyl.  Streamed digital.  Then or now, how often do you find something inescapable?  How many albums can you listen to straight through, loving every track?  You can skip those 'others', right?  Even at a friend's house you can lobby for a skip. 

Inescapable?  That's right.  Live. 

Stage, theatre, stadium, club.  And movie theater.  Can't just (well, you can...) get up and walk out, for one or all songs.  You kind of have to stay and suffer through it.  One good song, one bad one.  rawr 

I tend heavily to not like musicals for exactly that reason - I very rarely like every song in any suite or collection of music but I skip as needed.  Sometimes I do actually test myself, most times not.  At home it is a little bit different in that you can fast-forward.  Still, if you like most of everything, it is easier to suffer through that single irritating cacophony, especially if you aren't watching alone.  Camaraderie makes for patience, does it not?  Nope.  Not all the time.  Especially today, we get up and go do something else.  And no harm, no foul.  Right?  Not all the time.  It does take work, and I know that.  In moderation. 

I do not like musicals because it is extremely rare that I find even thirty percent of a given offering attractive.  And why is it so many times the parts are given to people who aren't actually professional singers?!  Especially in movies?  Don't get me wrong, some people switch gears with astonishing brilliance and accomplishment.  Others just plain fucking suck.  Even professionals.  To each their own, and there are plenty of us; one person's diamond, another's coprolite.  So it is something I rarely decide to partake in, let alone pursue. 

So. 

Enter my then-relatively new partner.  She is incredible on all accounts, and she comes from a performing family.  Music, theatre, arts.  High expectations across the board.  What does she love, more than almost anything?  Musicals.  Fuck. 

New people bring new ideas and...gag...exposures, right?  Right.  I had to sit through musicals.  Can't we watch romcoms instead?  Not really fair as I am very much an atypical, Gen X cishet and love most intelligently playful romcoms.  But - challenge myself to sit, listen, attention, learn.  And I did!  And I did not.  Yuck.  Pain.  My ears!  Cat on a rack!  Poor puddy tat. 

Of course this led to sore spot(s).  I turned into that thankfully rare Mr. Hyde as I found less-than-choice (depending on your perspective) descriptors for those less appealing performances.  A few tense moments but nothing either of us couldn't understand about each other.  Great relationship with effective communication is fabulous. 

SO. 

The Blues Brothers has been my hands-down, uncontested, favorite movie of all time since I saw it in theatres in 1980 at age ten.  Period.  Only a couple of films vie for a distant-or-not second.  Yes, there were some songs in it, fantastic songs.  , OK, quite a few.  I had thought through much of what was appealing about that movie.  Maybe more on that later as it conjures more verbosity from me than you likely want.  Possibly a dumb statement if you are reading this, but anyway.  It was a YUGE part of what I saw as my formatively playful sarcasms, cynicisms about the world. 

SO, when we watched it together, she did like it and immediately stated: "You do know it is a musical, right?"  With exactly those well-placed emphases. 

Oh.  My.  Fucking.  Shit. 

She's right. 

I lost my shit.  Speechless.  And stayed that way.  And just thought about it.  And she fucking grinned a fucking smug fuck grin.  Fuck.  I had never attached that word to my movie. 

I had become even more anti-musical since I had met her and partaken more in that realm.  Desktop, laptop headphones, in another room or gone if I can be.  I own a copy of Moulin Rouge but I do not watch it. 

My favorite movie, of all time, something I imprinted heavily on, was indeed a musical.  A god-damned, fuckshittard musical.  At forty-fourish, after all of my high-powered introspection, study, learning, experience, wisdom...that smacked me upside da head like an adopted, black, southern mother-in-law.  And I mean that with a viscerally dedicated affection - I told my mom as an early teenager, when asked if I could choose a mom that wasn't her, who would I choose?  It was obvious.  I have always adored black culture, community, women.  I wanted Aretha as at least a pushy aunt with high expectations I would happily deliver on. 

That is not to say there aren't other musicals I have come to adore for other reasons - Chicago, Little Shop of Horrors.  Parts of Phantom.  Holy fucking shit, Gerard...!  Dude! 

And there are always diamonds to be found and polished, enjoyed despite their flaws.  But I'll be damned if I ever sit through Moulin Rough again. 

Maybe I'll be damned. 



                                                                                                                          ©2020 Michael Pichahchy

0o00o0o0....I know what I did wrong...!

I have actually known for years but these articles sparked my need to write this out. 

http://archives.yalealumnimagazine.com/issues/01_03/dropouts.html

https://www.nhregister.com/news/article/No-shame-in-dropping-out-of-Yale-for-some-it-s-11682151.php

We all have some kind of opinion, compliment or insult tossed our way during our formative years, playfully productive or otherwise. My favorites generally tended toward those iterations of my unusual and somewhat musical last name: Pichahchy.  pitch·AH·chee  Memorable variants included Kerplatchy, Pistachio, Pitchunky.  There were more I am neglecting to recall at this moment so I might include them later as those synapses decide to fire.  I included the 't' in the pronunciations because of the mispronounced attempts over the years, the worst being something akin to Picocky.  I know that is a possibility but I always wondered how people landed on that as their first thought.  Technically I know the answer to that but won't go into it here. 

And you should see what I get in the mail.  I digress. 

My absolute favorite, mainly due to what I considered its astute perception, if I may be so bold, was during my senior year while we were all floating ideas for who was 'Most X', 'Likeliest to Y' and the like.

Here is a fun list I found just now trying to recall a few:
https://www.shutterfly.com/ideas/yearbook-superlative/

Long before graduation I had heard, read and talked of such things but it was either one of my classmates or a teacher (I believe it was the latter which got back to me via a classmate...) who labeled me "most intelligent underachiever".  It stuck with me and has my entire life.  Are you a teacher?  Can you imagine or do you know how frustrating it is to work with someone who chooses not to apply themselves?  It happens all the time, obviously, for a variety of reasons.  Not because I thought of myself as 'most' of anything but because I took my work and study very seriously. 

And when I say I took my work seriously, I mean literally my work.  What I was doing, meant for me and my interests.  Which, for better or worse, was pretty much everything, and it oftentimes meant assisting others in creative ways.  Combined with ADD.  Not ADHD, ADD.  If anything I now term my condition ADSD, no remote intent of insulting our lovable sloth friends. 

Once I truly started branching out from that which was put in front of me to study, maybe 8th to 9th grade, my 'grades' suffered.  Not horribly, but enough that it was noticeable.  The surfacing of sexual and technical/mechanical interests, as usual, did not help, obviously.  I studied anything and everything of interest.  Sponge.  As I got bored with regular curriculum, which in hindsight was solid for its time, it took something else for me to want to apply myself to classes, homework.  The real kicker was I had learned what all this was about in the first place - I could teach myself.  From cell structure to differential equations to cultural anthropology. 

Then there was testing.  Meh.  I realized very early on (and was later told I should very seriously consider constructing a grad-school thesis on) how everything affects testing - how much sleep, household environment, friend/acquaintance status, what you ate 5 minutes ago versus a week ago versus your overall diet, etc.  I loved the word 'holistic' and applied it to everything.  It is weird, in hindsight I talked to almost nobody about anything like this, save my mom and sometimes grandpa. 

Where was I?  Am I?  Oh...over there...I'll go get myself...brb. 

Philosophically I wanted to help people.  Intellectually I wanted to immerse myself in a field that would allow me to study and apply everything I could get my hands on because at the time I was learning how much less time I had to study all the things I wanted to when combined with what I had to do.  That whole adulting thing...load of shit, it is. 

Medicine was a good fit.  A great fit.  Eventually forensic pathology because you can and oftentimes should draw on pieces of any part of this living planet and beyond to search for answers, solve the problem...detective work.  Michael Crichton was my premier idol from very early on.  Read one of his books.  Harvard Medical School, never practiced.  Who does that?! 

So I was committed, but I still wanted to do it my way, even if I still didn't know exactly what that meant.  I knew merit and exposure could carry you anywhere if you were out there enough and people got to know you and your capacities.  Grades were important but not the end-all-be-all, at least back then, and certainly not for a tall, white kid.  What ceased to matter were those teachers who didn't quite resonate with me.  I loved all of them for various reasons but you know what I mean.  I had to care in order to perform, and man did I when I wanted to.  I wasn't a competitive person by nature, not with people insomuch as against the problem, but sometimes...rarely.  Mindy found that out in Mrs. Alder's Plant Science class. 

I took a big, encompassing auto-shop class my senior year instead of AP Calculus, AP English, AP History.  Why?  Because I could teach myself the AP stuff and auto mechanics was another excuse to gain access to materials otherwise unreachable.  Doctors eventually loved that sentiment...especially the anaesthesiologist friend who loved hearing me talk about internal combustion engines...something he knew nothing about.  Sometimes I wish I had gone to study and work with him at St Martin's as he wanted. 

I did the whole applying for college thing, and having grown up poor (in a house on the waterfront, go figure) I didn't get to 'go visit schools' and play that fucking game (yeah...resentment...but in hindsight it wouldn't have done me any good) but I still applied, like any good job search.  Just toss your intellectual jizz all over the place and see what sticks.  At the time I wanted to do both my undergrad and medical at the same place.  Lots of rejections.  Duke...nah.  NYU, nah.  Hopkins (was enamored with them, still am)...nah.  UW, nah (UW years later said yes, please...).  Stanford, UCLA, Columbia...nah, nah and nah.  Yale?  Sure!  WTF.  A person gets used to rejection so acceptance can feel strange. 

OK, my heart actually aches a bit right now.  It feels different writing it...as so many things do.  This is fucking weird.  Recalling an age-old desire like this...I am actually a little shaky, will have to think about this as I have talked and thought about this for decades.  Need water. 

The catch is that while I was accepted I had *no* money and I didn't qualify for any kind of assistance.  I kicked myself only slightly for not getting that proverbial 4.00+ (graduated with 3.33).  Can you imagine how often that happens in today's world?!  How fucking painful is that?!  In hindsight I could have probably worked something out but did not, for whatever the reason.  Knowing what I know now the catch-22 is that I should have found a way to work it out, and should have gone for at least a year...beyond that did not matter.  I should have found a way to get into an Ivy-League school because what it gets you isn't a better education, in the end (more on that later), because they do not have all the best professors locked up as there is brilliance everywhere but I would have met people with assets, ideas and gained exposure.  The latter being the big one.  See articles above.  And sometimes you go to places like that to steal others' ideas - something else I am insanely sensitive to.  Thanks, Mark.  Fucker.  Berg.  And others like you. 

I could have dropped out to follow some of my then-ideas, and I had a lot of them.  Still do.  I eventually found I wasn't as committed to medicine, mostly because I got sick and tired of meeting those people in positions of power, mostly older, white men who talked more of golf and Porsches.  I realize that in the end people have done something for so long they are looking at retirement but it had quite the detrimental effect on a young, ambitious type. 

So that's it - I should have dropped out from an Ivy League private school.  Instead, after seven straight years through community college and public university I dropped out.  Don't get me wrong, at 50 I have had an extremely fortunate ride for which I am grateful from every conceivable facet.  But - if I had done the former who knows where I would be.  Something I am trying to rectify now, and it doesn't require college to do it.

But maybe a few more classes...

P.S.  -  I have to speak to something very much related to my 're-application' to UW.  While attending classes at South Puget Sound Community College in Olympia and working as a wine chemist I also volunteered at Capitol Medical Center, mostly in ER, where I gained some incredible knowledge and exposure.  So much so that I had inadvertently befriended a woman whose husband was a first cousin to the founder of Medic 1 in Seattle/King County and Professor Emeritus at the UW School of Medicine.  Because apparently a few people at Capitol thought I showed 'great promise' an offer was extended to transfer.  I ended up instead following my girlfriend to WWU instead...and the rest is history.  

Did I do that wrong as well? 

                                                                                                                          ©2020 Michael Pichahchy

My Penis Is

Johnson.  Weewee.  Peepee.  Dong.  Dingdong.  Schlong.  Cuke.  Phallus.  Cock.  Dick.  Pecker.  Willy.  Shaft.  Skin Flute.  Prick.  Tool.  Wang.  One-Eyed-Wonder-Worm.  Wood.  Meat.  Joystick.  Rod.  Trouser Snake.  Sausage.  Peen.  Penis.

Asshole.

Yes, Asshole.

Complete fucking asshole.  (quasipun realized a fraction of a second after I realized the thought, obviously)

As I know so many of you have, countless times over my own fifty years have I heard women say something akin to 'you men have it so easy, just whipping it out and going anywhere'.  Yes, absolutely, no argument.  We all know it has its merits.  Whipitout and go virtually anywhere.  And, of course, it is even fun...fun to play with, dink around with, hose things down with and the list of imaginative ideas is seemingly endless; unfortunately to the distress or even demise of some unsuspecting victim.  Writing your name in the snow or other available medium that accepts a steady stream of urine.  Hosing down virtually anything that is at a lower gravity state than the level of your member.

That's the upside.

So...of course, as there are so many ways to put it, there is always a dichotomic downside.  A Yin to a Yang.  A Dark to a Light.  A Don to a Jimmy. 

People also like to say males have two heads, two brains, and that some don't think with the correct one.  Subject for another article, but I'll suffice it to say that this little fucker (again with the...yeah) has a mind of its own.  Asshole.  Dr. Dickyll and Mr. Fucking Asshole.  Who'll happily fuck you in your hyde.  Dunno wtf that thought was but I'll leave it. 

Forget about the dangers of 'crossing the streams' as that might be 'bad'...(you'll have to forgive the inevitable pop-culture reference, though it makes me wonder how many drunk dudes who have seen that movie also crossed their own 'streams' in a gregarious display of comradeship)...what about splitting them?  Involuntarily, and from the same source?  Or worse? 

Exactly.  It is not all joyous entertainment, above and beyond the joy of basic pressure relief from the walls of your bladder and the organs and tissues around it. 


*You know...it just occurred to me...I was daydreaming again about how 'if I were a billionaire' I'd be building, among many other things, a radically advanced Universarium (dunno what I'd name it...didn't Paul Allen's EMP get renamed recently?), where people stand among the galaxies.  Instead of Bezos' fucking balls, a huge, many-more-faceted globe where people stand on a glass floor and our facet of the MultiVerse expands and contracts and floats around them.  Think planetarium meets that excellent scene in Ridley's Prometheus.  I was thinking of writing something about that when I looked at all the unpublished articles I had titles and notes for when, for some (dumb?) reason I saw this also-unfinished article and it got its hooks in me.  Welcome to me.  But I digress.  This was inspiration for the subject in this little detour:
http://www.sdss3.org/press/movies/dr9miguel_1080.mov

Where the hell was I?  I'm hungry.  It is 1:19pm and I have not had anything but 1L of water.  It is also, for those who care, 'Christmas Eve'.  I am all about giving in a huge way, especially to those in need, but I prefer Solstice, personally. 

Distracting hunger.  BRB. 

GodDAMMIT.  Any other writers out there (of any sort...I am certainly not a writer...am I?) know they need to go do something else, take a quick glance back, and end up editing something previously written, only to...yeah.  Standing up now. Thankfully I have to pee, too, and that comes with increasing urgency.  I dare you to see how long you can put this off (DISCLAIMER:  Don't.  It might actually be hazardous to your health!)  I didn't stand up now.  See?!  Fuck.  BTW, my record for a sustained stream is, IIRC, about 84 seconds.  Jackie even timed me once during an evening of drinking, hydrating, eating and other shenanigans we were famous for during that era.  OK THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN A WEEE WIZZ...fucking asshole. 

Back.  Whew.  Of course I got to the pot and I am wearing 501s with a belt.  Ever notice that when you really have to go, once you stand up from a seated position while having 'to go' for some amazing reason the gravitational pull on your bladder seems to triple, thus increasing urgency monumentally? 

Fuck.  The nee to pee erased hunger pang and now it is back tenfold.  Can taste...ketones?  My vision is blurring and can't thunk. But I rarely have the gumption/discipline to just sit down and fucking write...so I like to enjoy these times as often as possible.  Speaking of possible, I'm im. 


*Published incomplete by...request...?  More soon...

©2020 Michael Pichahchy

'Me Too' ...? Wtf? What Am I Doing?

Finally we arrive in an age where women feel the majority of the progressive public has their backs, allowing them to feel sufficiently empowered to voice their grievances with the men who have done them wrong with their persistent sexual advances, and many times so much worse.  It has been far, far too long and unfortunately will not be over any time soon.  But we have some modicum of progress. 

Random, related thought:  Harvey Weinstein had better not die of the current corona virus pandemic...that would be pulling a Kenneth Lay and getting off easy, never realizing punishment for his maltreatment of people and profiting from it.  (3/24/2020-12:56pm)

Please pardon me while I attempt to get to my point.  Writing is many times therapy, and as with the clinical environment finding the right words to express what is truly meant can be quite the undertaking even when one has a strong command of a language.  Mining those gems of realization and understanding. 

It is still difficult to talk about, even if I have mostly worked to understand and compartmentalize for myself to this point.  What makes this particular case unusual is that it feels strange...fucking strange...to be a six-foot, broad-shouldered, Caucasian male grieving something like this.  I do not remotely mean to dilute or otherwise diminish women's grievances, quite the contrary, this just happens to be my own experience with something related to what they are going through.  It will never be the same.  My heart goes out to them but I cannot possibly imagine what it is like to be a women, even today.  Always having to live with the idea that some wrong-minded male might take a malicious interest in you?  It conjures a crushing ache in my chest for them.  After staring out the window a while the only thing I can conjure that even approaches is that proverbial story of a soft, cute guy going to prison.  sigh

For some reason that recording of Amber Heard and her verbal abuse of Johnny Depp just came to mind.  I don't know the whole story, obviously, but that phone call revealed that it wasn't just Johnny who was allegedly abusive. 

I have festered over telling my own story in this #metoo movement.  Entitled, white male much?  At this moment I forget what the memes were but there was that whole 'poor me/us' by the bros of the world, complaining about how much more empowered women were becoming.  Suck it up, fellas...the fact that you bring that up at all shows how insensitive, non-introspective, and non-empathetic you are. 


It always felt incredibly strange...being a six-foot Caucasian male having troubles being seen as a sex object by women.  I won't get into why I am so sensitive right now, just suffice it to say that I am. Sex is wunderbar!  Fun.  Interesting.  Stimulating, expanding, exciting.  When you choose to play an active part in it.  Right? 

I am a cautious person.  Aware, alert, informed, usually prepared.  Only very calculated risks.  I have had just shy of fifty sexual partners in my just-over fifty years.  The vast majority fantastic women, ultimately even those I intend to complain (?) about here.  It is almost bizarre to me how difficult it is getting to the crux of this.  I am not speaking directly to even a single person.  I am throwing this out into public without the faintest idea of who, if anyone, will ever read this.  But it makes me feel better, even a tad moreso knowing that it isn't just sitting in a drawer on paper somewhere. 

Because while I generally shy from risk I also have zero skeletons in my closet.  If you ask me something about myself you had better be prepared for an open, honest answer.  It is up to you to decide how to react to me being me. 

I do pride myself immensely on being a person people can trust and feel completely comfortable with, especially women.  Yes, I am and always have been girl crazy.  How not?  There are billions of beautiful, intelligent...how can one not go nuts?  I try to think about those times that, under today's expanded introspection, I might have behaved less than desirable toward women.  I cat-called only people I knew, even as a teenager cruising streets in hot rods.  The idea of forcing myself on someone else is nauseating.  That said, there have been a few times of late and only with my most recent partner where I drank too much, got horny and when turned down got into that stupid 'you don't love me' mode which I cringe at.  Alcohol, drugs, moderation, fine, but it changes personalities.  It is absolutely no excuse - but it is a reason to control yourself and partake in manageable moderation.  Don't put yourself in that situation to begin with; I learned to come to terms with myself on that note and believe I of some years now have changed my behavior for good. 

My point?  Yeah...at this point, what happened with me?  To me? 

I am a very physically affectionate person, so my lady friends have always felt secure and comfortable just sitting next to, sidling up to, even sleeping next to me because they knew I wasn't going to do anything.  That said, I had heard a few times later on that they kinda wished I would have.  Sigh! 

My left thumb is twitching.  Related?  Driving me nuts.  Maybe typing this is stressing me in ways I am not aware of.  Probably...I am fairly uneasy right now and I am resisting the urge to give in to my ADD and partake in a distraction.  The odd thing is I am actually unusually focused, much moreso than 'normal' for me.  Though I just got a lot more hesitant in the last minute or two with a lot more typos to correct.  And I am holding my breath!  Jeezuz...and my shoulders shrugged tightly.  This is weird.  Foreign.  Unsettling. 

I have many times in my life put myself in situations where people crashed together.  Sometimes a bunch of us at a party or just chilling with a friend at her place or vice-versa, etc.  A few times even work trips in hotels with coworkers.  We've all been there one way or another.  On the plus side there's that comfortable ability to sleep and even snuggle next to your friends, knowing you don't have to worry about anything.  Except maybe snoring...

I have been fortunate.  Fifty years, lots of partners, the only malady I've picked up was twice backcountry hiking alone and managed to get slight yeast infections.  That is it!  Usually condoms when needed but there were times I decided to risk things a tad.  'knocksonwood'

I am also a heavy and light sleeper.  One of those people who can be downright dangerous if you wake me in a way my subconscious isn't familiar with.  A train can go by and not wake me but if the wrong pin drops I am UP. 

S0o...it was easy to go to sleep next to someone who you decide is safe and contact isn't unusual.  Nice even.

...

Ever had a nice dream?  I have.  They are...nice.  Sexual dreams (never had this 'wet' dream though...thankfully) are fun. The kinds I have had anyway; again, thankfully. 

It is an odd feeling when you wake from either a dead sleep or (sometimes) sexual dream to actively having sex. 

Three times this has happened to me with three different women.  Friends.  Aged early twenties to late thirties. 

Generally, I'd say I'd started waking to something...welcoming?  But then, as one gains consciousness, that realization hits and you get swept away (in my mind, anyway) with like HOLY SHIT SEX IS WTF WHO HOW WHAT?!  What did I do?  Say?  We...didn't drink or do anything last night, so...what?! 

I mean yeah.  They were all on top, I suppose obviously, but a friend in college used to tell me about how she could get her boyfriend to sleepfuck her while he was on top. The first time it happened I literally bucked the woman off of me. 

Generalizing to basically the same reaction each time and, for odd or maybe it makes sense, all three 'woke up horny', tried to wake me, found they had gotten a 'rise' out of me and decided to move forward with things. 

I am now simultaneously stimulated and stressed.  A fond memory (FUCK I can't type...!) combined with the thought that I could have been exposed to something I hadn't had a chance to consider consciously.  I've studied plenty on STDs, epidemiology, pathology, you name it.  None of them put a condom on me, and we all knew we'd had other partners, being friends who talked a lot about everything. 

It is that absence of choice that bothers me the most.  Right...?!!  Even in the absence of force. 

What gets me next is all three said things to the effect of 'I thought you'd enjoy it, find it erotic, thought you liked me' and others I don't immediately recall.  Well, sure - all of those things!  Darlin'!  But how do you come to terms with feeling such affection toward someone but also feel so...sigh...WTF is that word?!!

@#*(@&#^&...

VIOLATED. 

That mix is just disturbing.  Feeling tremendous affection for someone but also feeling violated by that person.  This reminds me that I ended up throwing up later that same day the second time it happened because I was so concerned about what I had been exposed to.  We were close but I knew she got around in what I'd call a less-than-safe manner.  It was ultimately OK as we both got tested but it left me scarred, moreso than the other times.  The third time I was like OK what the actual fuck?!! 

I am seriously amped right now and not in any good way but I feel compelled to get it out.  It has been over a decade that I've mulled over just writing this; very different from discussing it with another friend directly.  I am curious as to why this feels so much more difficult.  Is it the idea of it possibly being so public?  Maybe but I don't think so.  

I had what were ultimately interesting incidents/occurrences that have evolved considerably in my mind.  Two of them I continued sexual fun with (even that morning...).  Thankfully great conversations resulted from all of them and a lot of introspection and learning took place and for that am grateful. 

I experienced friends who felt a mutual closeness approach with nothing more than affection and positive intent.  

What I am left with is now that incredible tightness in my chest over that worst-case scenario...what women have suffered as a result of force from men.  Beaten.  Bruised.  Bloody.  Violated.  Raped.  Drunken gang-bangs in college frat houses.  Attacks anywhere and everywhere.  It makes me sick.  Physically sick. 

I need to go for a walk but my kneebee hurts.  And my head aches.  Enough for now.  My chest is really tight, too.  I feel like crying but not for me.  Once again for all those women who...sigh.

©2020 Michael Pichahchy

WHY THE HELL ARE NOSE HAIR FOLLICLES SO BLOODY STRONG

rawr

Just had to put that out there as I just now had one annoying, keratin thread driving me nuts that was begging to be plucked.  So I did.  And am still, three minutes later, cringing from the results.  And I have a fairly high 'pain' threshold. 

More on this later.

©2020 Michael Pichahchy