It's been an eventful couple of weeks. I've lived in or around Huntsville, AL for a large part of my life. I've lived in other places from time to time, but always seemed to find myself back there for some reason or another. The most recent stint in Huntsville began in October of 2009 and lasted until this past Friday. About two weeks ago, my apartment--which I'd had since March of '10--was condemned because a part of the walkway from the upstairs level fell through. Thankfully, no one was injured, but the city came out and declared that part of the building unsafe until repairs were made. Since I'd always been prompt with paying rent and had been an ideal tenant, the management decided just to move me to another building rather than move me to a less savory part of town or to just leave it up to me to find another place, so I moved and thought that was it. The new apartment was nicer than the old one, albeit smaller, and I settled in. Or started to, anyway.
I figured that the city officials that had come out a few days earlier would probably be back to check the status of the repairs that were--as far as I knew--in progress. About thirty apartments had been condemned, and I was one of the lucky ones that didn't get tossed out on their asses. I felt sorry for the ones that might not have had a place to go right away. This was a Friday night, and some of the people ended up having to spend a couple of nights in a hotel--or worse, the rescue mission--until Monday when the manager's office opened back up. So, a week goes by, and the manager tells everyone to be ready for another inspection the following week. Tuesday of the next week arrives and, sure enough, so do a group of inspectors from the city. I was hoping (I would've prayed if I thought it would help) that at least my apartment would pass and that I wouldn't have to move again. Just moving from my first apartment to the new one was exceedingly inconvenient and painful, since I suffer from multiple chronic forms of arthritis and sometimes it's exquisitely excruciating just to move, let alone have to haul me and my belongings several hundred yards when I occasionally have difficulty even going from the bed to the bathroom. Well, as luck (or lack thereof) would have it, there was a florescent orange flyer on my door that read: UNSAFE BUILDING: DO NOT OCCUPY and I had to move again. Since I'm currently disabled and have to live on the meager pension I get from the government, I was broke and there was three days left until the day I would get my check. Fortunately, I have some good friends, and was able to borrow the money for a motel room until I was able to find other, more permanent, arrangements. I spent nearly every waking moment (which was most of the day since I couldn't really sleep, given the circumstances) looking for apartments or houses online and in every other media I could procure and couldn't find anything I could readily afford. I posted some status updates on facebook detailing and bemoaning my situation and some cousins from out of state contacted me and offered to help.
I had met these cousins before, but the last time we'd seen each other was when I was about three years old. These relatives are on my father's side of the family, and my mom did all within her power not to let me know this side of my lineage. She and my father had had problems during their entire marriage, and she didn't even let me know him until the day he died. I had found a lot of kin I didn't know I had via facebook and had spent the last year or so catching up. Having heard about my plight, they offered to come down from North Carolina and bring me back to where they lived so I could maybe find a place there and, after considerable thought, I agreed. They came down last weekend and we started the eight hour trek to Charlotte, North Carolina. I started talking to my aunt and my cousins about the father I never really knew, as well as the rest of the family that my mother had done her best to hide from me. I've learned a lot during these past three days and I'm glad that I was able to meet everyone as an adult. My aunt Paula and I talked for several hours about my life as a child that I was too young to remember. I can remember a lot of things that happened to me as a child that shouldn't ever happen, like physical abuse and starvation among other things, but to hear from someone who was there how my mom didn't care about anyone other than herself--not even her own kids--explains a lot. Much of the abuse that happened to me was at the hands of foster parents, but much was also perpetrated by my own mother.
If you're still reading this, I applaud your stamina and I thank you for sticking with it. The point of all this rambling is this: all of us are sure enough in our minds that there isn't a god up in the sky (or anywhere else), but if there were, he would be characterized as a sadistic, amoral, self-serving sonofabitch who cares less about dying babies or innocent people's deaths or any other abomination than he would about mindless, unquestioning sycophancy. If asked what I thought god looks like, I would say he's a Merlin-esque wizard looking bastard with a magic wand in one hand and his dick in the other hand, masturbating furiously while looking intently upon all the suffering he causes for his own pleasure with his little fairy-wand. That's just my opinion, but I know there's no such thing in actuality. Bad things happen; good things happen. What has happened in my life has shaped me into this monstrosity that sits before this computer screen, and I don't think I would have it any other way. There may be some people who might say "there are no atheists in foxholes", but I would disagree; I would go so far to say that there are more atheists in foxholes than Christians in foxholes. Sometimes bad experiences make you understand that it's all a random occurrence and that a loving god wouldn't have put you in a fucking foxhole to start with.