Hey all! Hope you're doing well. Things are really crappy on my end -- far more so than usual. Without going into too many details, I may be out on the streets as soon as November, so I've got a lot to do in the next couple of months. Among other things, tomorrow I'm planning to trek to the dollar store to buy a few hundred plastic baggies so that I can start sealing up my action figures and their accessories and preparing to post them on ebay. If you've read Scary-Crayon, you know how much that's going to kill me. My toys are pretty much my only tangible links to a time of my life that wasn't thoroughly and unrelentingly miserable, and I imagine that ridding myself of these mneumonic aids is only going to multiply my sorrows. There have been times when the only thing stopping me from taking my life at a given moment was glancing over and seeing Michaelangelo's head poking out from the heap of his brethren, sticking his red-and-green (because some of the paint has rubbed off) tongue at me as if to say, "Mellow out, dude!" I often pick up the figures and cradle them as if they were alive, because, in a sense, they are to me: they've been my constant companions throughout my life and have never betrayed me or responded to me with hatred and malice. On the plus side, with them and those attendant memories gone, I'll have no reason to stick around or maintain any sort of contact with my family members, which will make saying goodbye -- whatever that entails -- all that much easier.

I've been thinking about my memoir lately and why I seem unable to write it -- and now I think that it's because my experiences are such that they don't even seem remotely believable. A lot of the things that have happened to me are positively unreal, and even though people are familiar with the actions of terrorists and criminals and "Jerry Springer" guests and whatnot, nobody wants to believe that ordinary, well-adjusted and even well-to-do individuals would go out of their way to intentionally hurt others by (for example) making exaggerated police reports. Nobody wants to believe that that nice assistant teacher at work holds thoroughly racist views. Nobody wants to believe that their inspiring and dedicated physician thinks exceedingly little of his son, partly because the boy isn't out having all kinds of sex like he was at the kid's age. Nobody wants to believe that these kinds of people are regarded as heroes and role models. And nobody wants to believe the person telling them this information, especially when -- by that indivudual's own admission -- he has been decried as a murderer and a rapist and a violent psycho and a monster and worse. One of the interesting things about my life is that many of the people who have thought it ridiculous that I have been so falsely accused have later gone on to make the very same accusations.

But I do want to write about my life. So as I bag and label my beloved action figures in preparation for our final goodbye, I'm going to chronicle our good times together. I'm going to write about the crazes that led me to seek them out in the first place, what I thought when I first saw them (insofar as I can remember, anyway), and how the happy events that unfolded during our association relate to the later, less positive events in my life. I don't imagine that many people would be interested in reading that kind of book, so it'll likely end up being the last thing I post on SC -- at least for a while -- since I won't exactly have Internet access wherever I end up.

I should still be around and available at least during the next month or so, but I'll go ahead and thank you all for reading now. Fondest wishes and best of luck to you in the future.