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| Xeogaming Forums - Story Realm - Memoirs of a Tormented Youth |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie!          Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 717 days Last activity: 717 days |
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The Autobiographical Account of Lee Almodovar As long as I can remember, I've wanted to be someone powerful in this world. When I was younger, I'd spend hour in front of the mirror practicing my starter screen smile. Remember watching the old TV shows where each character would be doing something, then catch the camera and smile interrupting their actions? Well, that's what I'd be doing. Then, the facination with computers followed suit. My dad, being the nurturing one (sarcasm), purchased an old typewriter so that I could start practicing my touch typing. Years later, I'm in the triple digits as far as speed is concerned. I figured out that I was gay around the age of five. I didn't know what it was at the time, but I just knew that I couldn't watch boxing because it made my penis "happy". I used to spend hours watching baseball with my dad because he forced me to do so. I hated baseball. In turn, I hated my dad. 
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. To be continued... (Last edited by Zabuza on 11-09-07 09:46 PM) |
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Elara Divine Mamkute Dark Elf Goddess Chaos Imp Penguins Fan Ms. Invisable  Since: 08-15-04 From: Ferelden Since last post: 95 days Last activity: 95 days |
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| So that is why you're so damn good at typing... this is interesting Zabuza, write more. I'm curious to see what all you put in here. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 717 days Last activity: 717 days |
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| Dad was an odd fellow. He had his last son--me--at the age of 60-something. He was retired government, but refused to tell either my mom or me what he used to do. "I was a technician," he'd tell me, "and you're going to be one too. None of this doctor shit." He hated doctors. Never saw one.
I used to spend hours sitting in front of my "computer"--a concoction of an Etch-A-Sketch resting on top of my typewriter. I wasn't allowed outside unless under the supervision of my mother, and the one friend I had wasn't allowed in the house. He was a little black boy, whose name I can't remember, that lived in the same condominium complex. My dad, as I learned years later, was a huge racist. I learned to hate him even in the years after his death. I also learned, years later, that he never wanted me. I was an accident that got through. But, we'll touch on that later. I had to talk to my friend through the door. Once, my mom let the child in, and we played for hours until my dad came home. He was so furious, but he couldn't do anything. My mom would just not let him. At five years old, I absolutely despised my dad. I didn't even cry at his funeral. But, somewhere deep inside, I do miss him. I cry now. My dad was a huge enterpreneur-type man. He motivated me to do things. At six years old, I had my own paper hat business. I sold them to the neighbors for a nickel each. The company ran for two weeks before I lost interest. I made ten cents. We lived in a beautiful complex on Neil Armstrong Dr. in Montebello. Our home, on the second floor, was a two bedroom condo with a beautifully large living room, dining room, and two bathrooms. But, I was five, so everything always seems bigger. I used to wake up with my mom to watch the sun rise. Dad spent his days watching TV. I spent my days destroying things. I took apart my model cars to find out how the steering mechanisms work. I destroyed clocks, dismantled my stereo, broke open the smoke detector, and stared at the movement of the typewriter as I typed. Standing in front of the mirror, I would stare at my mouth as it created words; completely fascinated with language. I had one other friend, Noser, a snooty Hindi boy that lived down the hall. I could see his door from my bedroom that I never slept in. He would take me to his home to show off their projection TV, suspended from the ceiling and projecting a huge image onto a giant screen. I was amazed to watch M.A.S.H. on such a magnificent screen. His home smelled of curry and spices, and his parents were always so nice. He was little turd, but it was someone to talk to. As the years went by in elementary school, we grew apart. One friend. I had but one friend in kindergarten. The special ed kid. Steven. He had a drooling problem. I was easily squeemish. But, it worked to an extent. I also had girl troubles. Brenda--the classroom whore--had developed a crush for me. I hated her, and she was the source of my trips to the principal's office. I was too smart for kindergarten. My teacher, Ms. Boyd, suggested bumping me up to first--even second--grade. My father wouldn't have it. "He's too young," he'd say. I was six. In kindergarten. I only entered school in the first place because my mom forced him to sign me up. He wanted to hold me back. He didn't want me to learn. He'd do my homework assignments so that I wouldn't learn. My teachers wised up, and sent home a fake letter stating that no homework was to be given to the kindergarteners under a new curriculum mandate. It worked. My dad stopped checking my backpack, and I started learning more. Because of him, I didn't learn to read until mid-first grade. I could do basic multiplication, recite the alphabet forward and backwards in three languages, was ambidexterous, could write in cursive, and could program in BASIC in kindergarten. I wasn't noticed. I was a dot. I didn't exist. Sharing was a weird concept to me. It didn't make sense. If there's a giant tub of Legos right there, why do I have to share the small handful I have? It just didn't make sense. I scored horribly in sharing because I refused to do so. I still tend not to share. I showed my teacher once that I could write my name in cursive, with my left hand, upside-down. She took my paper, crumpled it up, and issued me a new one telling me that "it wasn't nice to show off." What the fuck is that? Nurture a youth, for pete's sake. Ugh. First grade was no different. I was tormented by a little black girl that hated me for some reason. She used to get me in trouble by staging accidents where she'd be the victim. She once asked for the glue. I passed it to her. She opened the bottle, and spilled it on herself and started crying. My teacher didn't believe me. I had detention for the first time in first grade. And, the last time. My father came, and scared the teacher so much that I never got detention again. I did throw up twice in class though. Those days were awesome. Second grade is mostly a blur. I remember going by the name of "Wesley" for about two weeks. Nothing much else. My father died shortly after second grade. I felt nothing. In the hospital, I saw the tubes and wires. I heard the beeping heart monitor. I smelled the sterile environment. He was a shell, a loveless carcass. It makes me tear up now. It did nothing for me then. My mom received a call one morning. He had passed. She cried for hours. I, having no emotion and not knowing what to do, sat in my room and drew on the Etch-A-Sketch I had shoplifted. Then, the bill collectors started calling. Apparently, my dad had maintained our "rich" lifestyle by racking up charges on credit cards under my mom's name, his name, and my name. We filed bankruptcy, and moved up the street to a nice apartment that we could afford. For a while. I had a bunny. Named him Tony under the guise that he wanted that name. Turns out that the gesture I had mistaked for a nod was actually the bunny sneezing. Back in the condominiums, I had created an elaborate network of drinking straw piping from the kitchen to the bunny's cage so that he could drink water. It worked, until dad came home and dismantled it. The earthquake of 1989 found me in the closet playing with my toys. A large bookcase we kept near the door filled with medical references, do-it-yourself encyclopedias, and religious references collapsed across the door. It took my father and the neighbors an hour and a half to move the bookcase and free me from the closet. I came out of the closet--literally--at the age of seven only to do it again almost fifteen years later--figuratively. My father had a real direct approach to things. I learned about babies from the medical references. I knew where they came from. I knew how they were conceived. I wanted to be a doctor. He stopped teaching me from the references after that. At the age of five, I knew there was no stork and no Santa Claus. No Easter Bunny either. I was, and still am, a cynical little boy. My mom told me stories of how my father would take her to the park on rigorous walks while she was pregnant with me. He was attempting to cause a miscarriage. He hated me. He didn't want me. I was an accident. He married my mom in January of 1981. I was born in November of 1981. I used to stick waffles in the VCR because the machine got warm after a while. Fascination caused me to stare at the new see-through VCR displays at Sears. I loved watching those gears swirl around. The Disney channel and PBS were my friends. I could play the piano at the age of two, solely learned playing by ear. I wanted a real piano; not my toy piano. Dad wouldn't have it. "Watch TV," he'd say. I played house. I was the mom. I loved it. I guess that was the first sign. There were many signs, come to think of it. I loved wearing my mom's pumps. I loved her dresses. I adored my father's business suits. I played dress-up in his shoes. I was always the mom at school. I like playing games with the girls, picking flowers, being a rope turner for double-dutch. The summer after second grade, we moved again. This time, into a small room at one of my mom's friend's home. Tony, my bunny, died that year. I found him. Stiff and strangled from his makeshift leash. My mom was receiving government help. We were practically poor. That's when I decided I never wanted to be poor again. We used to walk, my mom and I, everywhere. Down the winding streets of Rosemead to my school and back up the hill. Walk the three blocks to the bus stop to head out to the Montebello Galleria. I loved her so much, and even more now. Her eyes were so full of love and sorrow. She loved my father very much. I never asked again why she married him after learning about my being an accident to him. She married him to keep me. It makes me tear up every time I think about it. She put up with his stubborn shit to raise a wonderful child. She allowed him to ruin her credit and force her to sleep in a separate bed in order to give me a better life. In first grade, we received fortune cookies with our meals. My fortune changed my view of karma for the rest of my life. My father, being the one I despised, died within a year, almost exactly to the day. My mother, whom I love more than anything in the world, still lives well into her 60s. In the summer before third grade, I discovered I like writing stories. I illustrated them as well. My mom, seeing that this helped to cope with the loss of my father, encouraged my writing. I'm glad she did. It inspired me to continue writing. To be continued...still in progress, this is all one big rough draft posted as the memories flow. (Last edited by Zabuza on 12-05-05 06:53 AM) |
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Elara Divine Mamkute Dark Elf Goddess Chaos Imp Penguins Fan Ms. Invisable Since: 08-15-04 From: Ferelden Since last post: 95 days Last activity: 95 days |
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| Filler kitty post
... You're dad makes mine look like father of the year.... There was an earthquake in 1984? Ignore the rambling, keep this us. I've never read a memoir before actually, it's interesting. Though I noticed that you jumped around a bit this time and it threw me off a bit. Writing it as the memories come I suppose. |
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Cairoi This isn't about you and your loud mouth, This is about me and my fucking beard. Since: 08-29-04 From: PA Since last post: 4631 days Last activity: 4255 days |
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| Wow, Zabuza, this is a very introsepective into your life. ^.^ It's very well written as always, and amazingly vast in topics.
This is one of the first stories I've written that I've felt sad while reading. I feel for you, man. Keep truckin'. -The Cairoi |
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AlpoRaggins Troubadour Not so much dead. Since: 12-11-04 From: Someday, Somewhere, Over the Rainbow Since last post: 6396 days Last activity: 6285 days |
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| That kept my interest the whole way through. I wanna see the rest, what happens after that. Lemme see the rest, post it man! | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 717 days Last activity: 717 days |
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| OOS: My correction, earthquake was 1989...I think. I corrected it...
And, yes, I'm writing as the memories flow. It'll all be re-organized and re-written for the print version, not the online version. I used to create stories, and share them with my third grade class after moving to Paramount. Paramount was a nightmare when we moved in. My mom had pulled a few strings to keep me enrolled in Lincoln Elementary because they had an excellent GATE--Gifted And Talented Education--program. I was started in KEYS (I don't remember what it stood for). I was a loner in third grade, but quickly became friends with the other loner in class, the school psychiatrist, and the school P.E. evaluator. Because of my father's recent death, I was forced to attend weekly sessions with the psychiatrist, a short Asian woman maybe no more than 25 years old. There was one session where I was told I would get a gold star if I could sit without fidgeting. I don't remember what we talked about during the sessions, but during this one time, she reached underneath the table and steadied my shaking leg. After that, our talk distracted me, and I walked away from the session with a gold star. I was proud of myself. The P.E. lady, whose name also escapes me, was assigned to special cases of students that just seemed not to able to advance on their own. I found documents years later of my progressive evaluations. "Is able to throw and catch a ball from ten feet apart." "Can jump robe consecutively ten times." "Interacts with other students; possible candidate for classroom P.E." "Able to kick a ball fifty feet. Requires immediate praise." I laughed at the thought that my special P.E. apart from the rest of my classmates was to condition me for re-introduction into the society of school. My psychiatry sessions served the same purpose, but mostly, they just wanted to make sure I was the genius I had tested out to be. My psychiatrist and I would spend some sessions sitting outside under a huge tree in the middle of the main quad. She'd sit with her notepad, jotting down notes as I talked about the leaves, the way the sun filtered through the branches, and about my life. We talked about how I felt in class. We talked about my homework, my classmates, the city, my house, my room, the world, anything. Then, one day, she told me that I wouldn't be seeing her anymore. I was saddened. But, as a parting gift, she handed me a box of gold stars. I treasured those stars...until I lost them in another move. My toys had been "lost" among my little cousins when we moved from Rosemead. We were staying at my cousin's home on Third Street. It was a horribly grotesque home. Cockroaches ran around at all hours of the night. We had to wear cottonballs in our ears for fear that anything might crawl in them while we slept. I couldn't wait to move again. My mom managed to secure a place across the street from my aunt on Georgia. It was a converted garage, but it was home. I had my first birthday party, at the tender age of eight, there. I had my first communion party while living there. I had my first experience with flooding the bathroom and kitchen there; my mom was not pleased, but she wasn't mad. I destroyed a fragile relationship with my half-siblings while living there. It was a nice year at that house. We moved across the street to a property my aunt owned the following year. Fifteen years later, we still live there. On Adams, around the corner from my aunt with the big avocado tree. |
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Elara Divine Mamkute Dark Elf Goddess Chaos Imp Penguins Fan Ms. Invisable Since: 08-15-04 From: Ferelden Since last post: 95 days Last activity: 95 days |
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| Wait, so your house is a converted garage? Or was that a different house?
And if it was the Whitter quake you are thinking of then it was in 1987. Are you going to cover what happened between you and your half siblings? |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 717 days Last activity: 717 days |
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| Different house. The old house was a converted garage. This house is just a house. With a Whitey next door. The half-siblings will come up later. I'm organizing my thoughts into chapters, and the half-siblings thing isn't important right now. Nope, I checked government records, it was 1989.
Let's fast forward to the early 21st century for a moment. Power was always something I held dear. In late 2003, I was granted a piece of it. I became a Federal Agent for the US Department of Homeland Security. I had a security clearance, I knew more information than I need to, and I had (very little) power of civilians. I was swimming in the power, and it ultimately caused my demise with the Government. The TSA, Transportation Security Administration, unknowingly provided me with so many resources that I didn't know what to do with them. I had studied UNIX and Linux in the past, so the interface used to control the x-ray machines was not foreign to me. In a matter of one year, I learned enough about explosives to make even the anarchists envious. And, to my benefit, my brain works in a manner that the government finds threatening. So what if I constantly think of every possibility for a security undermining. I would think that doing that would help strengthen a security environment. They, however, felt otherwise. The airport appears secure, but we won't get into that here. This is a public board. They have people to evaluate the security of the airport and act accordingly, they don't need the lower level drones executing that work. I'm tired. Going to work. |
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Elara Divine Mamkute Dark Elf Goddess Chaos Imp Penguins Fan Ms. Invisable Since: 08-15-04 From: Ferelden Since last post: 95 days Last activity: 95 days |
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| Ah yes, I remember you talking of that a lot. Meh, their loss. I know that with your studies you mentioned taking a break from writing for awhile, but if you want to post more you can. | |||
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 717 days Last activity: 717 days |
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| Okay, we do understand that "memoirs" is a French derived word for "memories", and that "autobiographical" means that it's a true story about my life, right?
Middle school was a blur. A confusing blur, but a blur nonetheless. It was a time of discovery, which for me, meant that I had figured out that my classmates--particularly the boys--were little hotties. This hindered my ability to dress out for PE in front of the other boys. Our school colors were blue and white. I wore blue sweat pants, a white shirt, and a blue zip-up hoodie every single day to school. My nickname for all three years of middle school became "Smurf", despite the fact that I was taller than most of my other classmates. At first, I enjoyed the sweaty musk of the boys, watching them undress and horseplay in that dimly lit box of a locker room, stretch and strain their young muscles--some already sporting the muscular, toned definition that would become more prominent in their later years--and diverting my glance every so often for fear that I'd be caught. That I'd be labelled a "queer", "fag" or otherwise. I hadn't come to terms with it yet, so I labelled myself "bi-sexual" to deal with it. I still liked to hang out with the girls, but I was mostly a loner--by choice. I talked to myself a lot, and I still do despite the fact that it has waned off and is mostly confined to my head now. I had categories of hotness for the guys. I also had my first long-standing hate developing. The nemesis that would follow me through high school, only to disappear after graduation. A budding hate that would spark fears after Columbine. "Buff round." "Bruce Lee buff." "Lickably hott." These were few among the many classifications for the varying degree of muscle that the boys exhibited. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the older boys play basketball. Thankfully, I had developed a bunion on my left foot, and could fake severe pain. I could also fake an asthma attack among myriad ailments. For three years, I sat out of all the baseball games, basketball games, and some track sessions. I walked around the field, with the girls, during jungle ball. Suffering a barrage of hits from random balls--once, while crossing the field, hit with a nerf ball, a nerf football, a soccerball, another football, a tennis ball, and the giant ball--only to stand near a goal and pretend to play. I served as umpire and catcher during the baseball games where I was forced to play. I served as referree for the basketball games. I was lap timer during mile-runs and other track events. I killed in touch football, tennis, badminton, and volleyball. I, whether I knew it or not, was gay. On rainy afternoons, we all gathered in the multipurpose room behind the boys' and girls' locker rooms. The rooms were split; girls got to watch whathaveyou while the boys had to watch sports bloopers. Eight graders sat in chairs along the back walls. Seventh graders got benches in the middle of the room. Sixth graders got to sit on wrestling mats towards the front of the room. Joy. As an eight grader, I was so happy to get a co-ed class, and a position to watch the other older guys around me. The younger kids just weren't that hot. On certain days, we had indoor time that required us to either do Tae Bo or some other aerobic workout to a video. I excelled at this, as well. Made the boys make fun of me, but I didn't care. An A was an A. There was a kid that would steal my wallet out of my backpack every day around second period, and returned it in tact just before lunch. I figured out years later, that he wasn't being a pest to me. He was hitting on me in the only way that schoolyard boys knew how...to torment the person you love. Sad to say, he was ugly by my standards. He moved from the city shortly after eighth grade promotion, and I never saw him again. I didn't attend the eighth grade trip to Disneyland. But, I did attend the eighth grade trip to Washington D.C. All eight of us. That was an awesome trip, but we'll touch on that later on. Back to my gayness. All I could think about all summer before ninth grade was the hot, muscular bodies of the upperclassmen. The budding sexualities and hormones of the guys and girls. The exhilaration of a new campus, new friends, a merging of the Alondra Intermediate School kids and the Clearwater Middle School kids. The clash of the underclassmen was about to begin, and all I could think about was PE and the locker room. (Last edited by Zabuza on 01-14-06 09:13 PM) |
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Bitmap #1 Enhancement Shaman US Ravenholdt  Since: 09-05-04 From: His Laughin' Place Since last post: 4340 days Last activity: 4333 days |
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| Im picturing the one guy from "The Big-O" narriating the entire story...adds a "Mature-back-off-or-get-cut-off" kinda mood to the main character...
Nice job Zabuza, Im expecting more... |
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Katana Dark Wizard \"She said tonight...come on come on collide...see what I fire feels like..I bet its just like heaven.\"  Since: 08-15-04 From: Philadelphia, P.A. Since last post: 1337 days Last activity: 1155 days |
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| As I was reading, I got lost in my own little world. My sister told me that people were talking to me, but I wasn't responding at all. I was so absorbed in the content. I only do that when I'm reading something that fascinates me. A truly wonderful feeling, getting lost in something you're reading, if you ask me.
This isn't Harry Potter, or some epic tale set in a fantasy world...This is all true, set in a human world...yet it still feels magical. You have a gift with words. Everything just flowed so nicely. |
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Stitch Roy Koopa Holy crap, it is the RoboCoonie! Since: 08-20-04 From: California Since last post: 717 days Last activity: 717 days |
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| Well, thank you. Moving on...
The locker room was a different story. I could dress out in about five minutes flat. In and out, and ready to go. I found out instantly that freshmen--as well as queer boys--were instantly the prey of the upperclassmen. So, I made a point not to blatantly stare. I'd save that for the field. This was also about the time when I discovered someone who would become both my best friend, and later on, my enemy. Rogelio C. Tadeo. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? He was an outcast and a pop culture icon. I developed a crush for him as well, but that one took time. He was in every single one of my core classes. English first period. Science second period. Health fifth period. Math sixth period. My third period was reserved for Orchestra, while fourth period was PE. When our school had two lunch periods, I occupied second lunch after fourth period. He had first lunch after third period. Somehow, the schedule worked, until my Junior year, when we became the Senior campus. Clearwater Middle School was renamed, and became the Paramount High School Freshmen Academy, effectively splitting the school between two campuses. Effectively creating a new breed of runts to taunt--the Sophomores. We had a love/hate friendship. Tugging at each other, secretly pissing each other off, creating a rivalry that still holds true until today. I'd protect him from any danger still, only because his death shall be conducted by my hands alone. He was an odd character. Short, muscular, filipino boy, scruffy face, glasses, moderately intelligent, could hold his own. I was the brains of the outfit, so to speak. He was a shell. Created an emotional wall for himself so that he wouldn't have to suffer anything. I did respect him, at first, but it all just went down the drain a few years after high school graduation. He was marching band. I was orchestra. He was a band jock. I was a dorkestra nerd. He was the muscle, I was the brawn. We were both science club. He was yin, I was yang. He would fail in some assignment, and I'd get the A and gloat. He'd excel in PE, and he'd gloat towards me. We were quite the team. He secretly wanted to kill me; as did I. Other than that, freshmen year was pretty uneventful. High school blends together, and I pretty much only remember my Junior and Senior years. I spent the better half of my last two years as a student librarian, vice-president of the Science Club, senior editor for the Science Club newspaper, historian for the orchestra, and liaison between my interests and that of the school. |
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Elara Divine Mamkute Dark Elf Goddess Chaos Imp Penguins Fan Ms. Invisable Since: 08-15-04 From: Ferelden Since last post: 95 days Last activity: 95 days |
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| Ah, we get to the years that I know a little of. That seems like the shortest post overall that you've made in her oddly enough. Post more! |
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