Friday, December 02, 2011
Forever... and ever... and ever... Amen.
(1)
First sip at 1355. Yay beer! Three leftovers from last week. Buzzing my brains out at 1410 as I begin beer #2 on an empty stomach. Heavy face rad now as I reread last week's posts. Huge mucus flows, nose blows. Is there any way I can terminate the sadistic behavior of my 'neighbors?' Last night was another 14 hour (tap) experience of 'legal' torture. Definite human rights violation. Is there a way I can stop this torture without moving out? Any suggestions?
Moving along from last week, my experiences with the priests and nuns of Charleston (The 'Holy' fucking 'City'!) served me well in later life, turning me off, emotionally, to Christianity. The 'logic' of Acquinas was my last bulwark against Atheism, but it collapsed ignomineously in the face of modern philosophy which I discovered at the library one fine day while looking for a book about Acquinas: Russell slew Acquinas with a single blow. (Buzzing nicely on beer #3 after peaking about ten minutes ago.)
I was lucky, apparently, in that none of the priests ever tried to 'molest' me (although one of them came close). Some of the nuns, however, did 'molest me' with their power over me. Worst was 'Sister Mary.' We secretly called her, 'Pruneface.' She was a skinny old sadistic bitch. She was the orphanage cook. I dissed her chocolate pudding one evening, not realizing she was standing behind me. She was terribly offended. She got even with me by requiring me to scrub her dormitory floor. Not once; not twice; not three times...
Forever.
Every Saturday morning she would ritually move all the cots in her dormitory to one side of the room. She would then sweep the unvarnished hardwood floor meticulously, allowing not a single hair or a single dust particle to escape. I, meanwhile was on my hands and knees with a brush, a bar of soap, and a bucket of water. I would splash water on the floor, rub the brush on the soap, then scrub the floor in front of me with the brush. After it was all scrubbed I would mop up the soapy mess, squeeze it into another bucket, and repeat the procedure until all soap residue was gone. I would then do another five or six square feet. Meanwhile she watched me like a hawk. The 'procedure' took all Saturday morning. Meanwhile the other 'inmates' played, or did small chores and then played. The other children played, I worked.
The 'work' was not necessary, of course. No other dormitory sister required such intensive 'floor maintenance.' The other Sisters knew, of course, but did not intervene. It was child abuse. Nobody cared. Nobody stopped it.
It affected me in later life, of course. (If it ain't fun, don't do it!)
One glorious day I was told that I was no longer condemned to live in the Charleston Catholic Orphanage; I could go! Glorious news!
I walked out. I said 'goodbye' to nobody. I never returned.
First sip at 1355. Yay beer! Three leftovers from last week. Buzzing my brains out at 1410 as I begin beer #2 on an empty stomach. Heavy face rad now as I reread last week's posts. Huge mucus flows, nose blows. Is there any way I can terminate the sadistic behavior of my 'neighbors?' Last night was another 14 hour (tap) experience of 'legal' torture. Definite human rights violation. Is there a way I can stop this torture without moving out? Any suggestions?
Moving along from last week, my experiences with the priests and nuns of Charleston (The 'Holy' fucking 'City'!) served me well in later life, turning me off, emotionally, to Christianity. The 'logic' of Acquinas was my last bulwark against Atheism, but it collapsed ignomineously in the face of modern philosophy which I discovered at the library one fine day while looking for a book about Acquinas: Russell slew Acquinas with a single blow. (Buzzing nicely on beer #3 after peaking about ten minutes ago.)
I was lucky, apparently, in that none of the priests ever tried to 'molest' me (although one of them came close). Some of the nuns, however, did 'molest me' with their power over me. Worst was 'Sister Mary.' We secretly called her, 'Pruneface.' She was a skinny old sadistic bitch. She was the orphanage cook. I dissed her chocolate pudding one evening, not realizing she was standing behind me. She was terribly offended. She got even with me by requiring me to scrub her dormitory floor. Not once; not twice; not three times...
Forever.
Every Saturday morning she would ritually move all the cots in her dormitory to one side of the room. She would then sweep the unvarnished hardwood floor meticulously, allowing not a single hair or a single dust particle to escape. I, meanwhile was on my hands and knees with a brush, a bar of soap, and a bucket of water. I would splash water on the floor, rub the brush on the soap, then scrub the floor in front of me with the brush. After it was all scrubbed I would mop up the soapy mess, squeeze it into another bucket, and repeat the procedure until all soap residue was gone. I would then do another five or six square feet. Meanwhile she watched me like a hawk. The 'procedure' took all Saturday morning. Meanwhile the other 'inmates' played, or did small chores and then played. The other children played, I worked.
The 'work' was not necessary, of course. No other dormitory sister required such intensive 'floor maintenance.' The other Sisters knew, of course, but did not intervene. It was child abuse. Nobody cared. Nobody stopped it.
It affected me in later life, of course. (If it ain't fun, don't do it!)
One glorious day I was told that I was no longer condemned to live in the Charleston Catholic Orphanage; I could go! Glorious news!
I walked out. I said 'goodbye' to nobody. I never returned.
