A Boomer’s Reflections

Sometime between 2017 and late 2019 the term “Boomer” went from being a descriptive about the generation in which you were born to being an epithet.

Simultaneously, “Millennial” and “Gen Xer“ also became hurled as insults.

This illustrates the divides in the generation war very clearly. The generation war isn’t new. It has been going on for a very long time.

As a Boomer, I recall thinking my parents, grandparents, and all elders were too old to understand much of anything. Due to cultural constraints I didn’t vocally call out my elders as is done today.

As a Boomer I mostly muttered under my breath, generally kept my opinion to myself and then after weighing the risk of being caught… Did my own thing anyway.

I’m old enough to remember watching the Fall of Saigon, and Richard Nixon famously resigning the Presidency. That forever tainted the Office of the President and “Proved” that the children of the 1960s and 1970s had been absolutely correct in their mistrust of anyone over 30.

16 Years later we entered Desert Storm and have been involved in some military action or other in the Middle East ever since.

But in the time between, there were many other events.

The fall of the Berlin wall, the Iranian Hostage Crisis, the fall of the Shah of Iran and an absolutely astonishing level of technological innovation.

As a gay man, there were other things in this period. I came of age, dated, and slept with a variety of women and ultimately discovered love and happiness in the arms of another man.

I was a “Deviant” at the time. “Going to Hell” as the religious folks loved to tell us, Often, Loudly, and with great hostility.

Politicians liked to marginalize Gay people (We were all One people at the time) LGBT folks were ALL painted as deviants and it wasn’t uncommon for Queers to be institutionalized.

We could be arrested and jailed under sodomy laws that were common in almost every state. We could lose our jobs, homes, and families easily after being convicted. The worst thing someone could call you was Fag, or Dyke. The merest suspicion could literally cost you everything. Slight proof could even cost you your freedom and damn you to a drug induced existence punctuated by electro-shock therapy signed off on by your family.

After all you weren’t right in the head. You might be a danger to yourself. You practiced the love that dare not speak its name. Putting you in an asylum was best for everyone. Especially your family, since you were an embarrassment and they were doing the right thing trying to get you “Help”.

It must be noted: Young LGBT people today face some of the same issues. It’s not uncommon for young people to be kicked out of their homes by their parents for simply being gay. In some states, jobs and housing can still be lost or denied if it becomes common knowledge that a person is LGBT

There has been progress.

The flash point that sparked that progress, catapulting the LGBT community into the public eye, may have been Stonewall. But gay people marched in Selma with Dr Martin Luther King, as did Jews and Christians of all stripes.

Gay people, as we came to find out, had always been around and it wasn’t as abnormal as puritanical America would like to have believed.

In the late ‘70s and early ‘80s I thought I wasn’t “right” even though I knew I wanted to have sex with men. Then I thought I had only a binary choice. I had to be either this or that I couldn’t exist being both.

I was wrong, and it took a long time to realize that I could be both and be comfortable doing so. In that way too, the younger generations have a better world. I suspect there are a lot of mostly “straight” men and women who are breathing a bit easier too.

All this came to mind today after witnessing an exchange on Twitter where a younger person (37 by their own admission) was fighting with an older person and said that us older folks didn’t know what it was to shed blood for the “Gay” fight. Later this person said something to the effect that Us older folks were responsible for the HIV epidemic, I’m paraphrasing but couldn’t help but respond.

To set the record straight: It was our generation(s) that wore out suits going to funerals of our friends. It was our generation(s) that was responsible for the adoption of safer sex practices within the LGBT community. It was organizations like ACT-UP and our participation in them, that forced changes which accelerated research and quicker release of drug therapies that significantly extended the lives of infected people. Not to mention how many people depend on those advances today.

It was our generation(s) that started the major push for equality for LGBT people.

We suffered the disappointment of Bill Clinton caving in to the religious right and back burnering his promises of equal rights and the institution of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

We did these things at a time when it was still acceptable for Gay men to be “Fag-Bashed” or Egged around the only safe spaces we had (Gay Bars).

Everywhere else we were targets and often ignored victims. The police had little or no desire to prosecute someone who beat up a little faggot cocksucker. In rare cases they’d offer the faggot cocksucker a ride home, for a blowjob. Yeah, that happened too.

Still we rose up and pressed for change and fought for every inch of the rights the younger generation now enjoys.

We were not necessarily heroic. We were mostly selfish, narcissistic, and stupid. But more than those things, we were pissed off.

We were pissed because so much of the society was willing to “write us off”. We were “Defective”, an un-necessary and undesirable element in the society. We were getting God’s just wrath, and so what if faggots and drug addicts were dying in alleyways, or our homes, or in quarantine wards in hospitals. It was common to conflate LGBT people with IV drug addicts. After all, “They want to die anyway right?”

There were even people on the left and right who were saying LGBT people should be rounded up and sent to camps where they could butt fuck each other to death.

Many of us learned a deep unyielding fear. Fear of being found out, fear of being punished, fear of sex, fear of life.

Fear like that leaves a mark, and while I and others of my generation smile and support the young, we also long to have had the freedoms that the young now enjoy.

We can’t truly embrace those freedoms, because we incorporated that deep fear into the core of our being. We have no choice, but we’ll gladly look on from the sidelines and take some comfort in the knowledge that we, for our part helped make society accept the LGBT community. We take pleasure and pride in helping to make a place where the youngsters can fearlessly dance and play.

That’s the job of the elder generations. The job of parents is to make the world better for their children. For the Gay elders it was our job too, even if only by proxy.

None of this is to imply that there aren’t still battles to be fought and won. None of this is meant to imply that the battles the young are fighting are any less important or to minimize their achievements. We, and those before us, laid the foundations, it’s up to each subsequent generation to build beauty on those foundations.

And yes, we made mistakes. So will the younger generations.

To say that our generation was responsible for the HIV/AIDS epidemic is beyond wrong and patently unfair.

When HIV/AIDS got to major population centers, it was all but unknown. In the ‘60s & ‘70s there was no STD that couldn’t be cured with penicillin. How were we to know?

Yes, the epidemic occurred on our watch. For at least 2 to 4 years we didn’t know what was killing us. We called it the Gay Cancer. I sit here today HIV- and alive because a friend who was in the medical profession told me;

“We don’t know what it is. We don’t know what we’re looking for. We’re pretty sure it’s not bacterial. We know it’s attacking the immune system. We don’t know what the transmission method is. In my opinion this is sexually transmitted because some recent data indicates the spread is following the same models as syphilis and gonorrhea. So, my sexy little lamb, use a barrier. Don’t let a guy cum in your ass or mouth, no wet kissing. It won’t be as much fun or as free and easy as sex has been; but maybe, just maybe, you’ll not be infected.”

Mike, God rest your soul. I wish you’d taken your own advice, you handsome loveable furball.

A year later, condoms were on the counters in bars. Guys were reminding each other to play safe. The doormen of some bars were checking to make sure guys had condoms when they left the bar together and reminding those guys to use them.

Home grown advertising was in every gay bar coast to coast. And yet, there were straight couples having unprotected sex and many of those men had secret male lovers or dependencies on shared needles and the drugs they contained. To some extent the “Straight” community ignored the problem until they started to die too.

It wasn’t that the LGBT community wasn’t warning them. They chose to ignore those warnings because they apparently believed that they were “blessed by God,” and invincible.

The LGBT community of the time knew all too well that there were “Straight” men who, like today, want to have a bit more variety than simple missionary sex.

At the time, it was common for a straight man to preserve his professional and community standing by spending a few hours in a bath house with his legs in the air rather than to admit he went both ways. Straight men wouldn’t even confide in their doctors this fact, and insisted they got AIDS from a toilet seat.

Once straight people started dying, the government got interested. The religious right pumped up their power using LGBT and prostitute deaths to lump both groups together implying that sinners die, the righteous live, and mobilized an honestly damaging conservative movement that ACT-UP fought valiantly against.

An interesting side effect was that many straight men now sought out gay men for blow jobs because their “Righteous” wives wouldn’t perform that function in the bedroom. There’s probably no data to indicate if this had any effect on transmission rates.

What I can say from personal experience is that a straight man would often “Sell” having a gay man blow him by assuring the gay man that he was clean by virtue of his being straight. “Oh, I only have vaginal sex, it’s only that my wife won’t blow me, so you can swallow. Really, it’ll be fine.”

Then there were the friends who were so very sick. They became pariahs. Folks afraid to touch them. As the disease progressed, they began to look like photos I’d seen of prisoners in Auschwitz. Grey, emaciated, skeletal. In the right light, sometimes you could still catch a glimpse of the person they were. Their eyes told the tale of the battle they were losing.

I lost count of how many times I was asked, “If you were going to kill yourself, how would you do it?” That’s when I knew they were at the end, and I probably wouldn’t see that person again. I’d always answer them, having chosen my path out of life were I to get sick.

My friends knew that I would answer. I wouldn’t give them platitudes or false hope. They knew I’d have analyzed the problem and come to several possible solutions, each solution weighted by factors such as opportunity, availability, probability of success, and practicality. After the discussion, I’d kiss them, & hug them, often for the last time.

To the young man who said to us elders, we boomers, that we hadn’t bled for the cause…

Here are my wounds. Here is my blood. Here are the shreds of my soul.

In all this though, I am not a victim. I am a survivor! All those who are not with me here today physically, are remembered and loved. I live on, and live well because that is what they would wish for, and expect of me. I’ll see them again. They’ve got a bar tab running and a glass with my name on it.

I say this sincerely young man. May you never have to endure losses such as I have endured.


In my time, there was Interferon, then the first of the cocktails, then second and third generation drugs to keep HIV at bay. Each one extending the lifespan of those infected and leading to a greater understanding of HIV and other viruses. But all of these drugs came at a price to the user’s overall health. Some became toxic over time. Others simply stopped working.

Now we have PREP.

But not a cure.

Still, it’s progress.


This same young man implied that Boomers were also responsible for increasing HIV rates.

In point of fact HIV infection rates were dropping. But they’ve now seen an uptick because the disease has become fashionably manageable.

I’ve been present in several public situations where beautiful twenty something young men were asking to be fucked unprotected by HIV+ men.

Their reasoning in making this absurd and insane request was that they wanted to be able to have unprotected sex without fear of HIV since they’d already be positive. Then they could get on a cocktail and have as much unsafe sex as they wanted to. They said literally, “We just don’t want to have to worry about it.” At which point, why bother to purposely get infected? It’ll happen in due course if you play unsafely.

The most recent occasion went like this: Upon hearing their request, this was at a cocktail party not an orgy… I wondered if they were going to be able to leave without being skinned alive (metaphorically) by the elder men in the room. These youngsters didn’t even grasp their error. They had no clue why suddenly the elders in the room were visibly angry. The elders were comprised of about half who were HIV+ and half who were HIV-.

One of the elder men who is HIV+ took these two youngsters aside and began explaining to them why this was such a bad idea. He explained side effects, drug interactions, and just how careful he had to be with diet and exercise. He explained that it was expensive. In his case insurance didn’t fully cover the drugs he used and that he’d give anything to live a “normal” life. The younger men would not be dissuaded and were finally asked to leave.

I have no idea if they found someone to grant their wishes. I hope they didn’t.

So again, to the young man stating that increasing HIV rates are the responsibility of “Boomers” I call bullshit.

The increase is to be laid squarely at your generation’s feet, all wrapped up with a pretty sparkly bow.

In other words son, own your shit! After all you’ve demanded nothing less of my generation.

Truly one of the sickest things I’ve ever read.

A jury in Texas has ruled against a father in a custody battle leaving the door open for the mother of a 7 year old boy in Texas (One of a set of male twins) to pursue at her option, the transition of one twin boy to a female. 

Here is an opinion piece from The Washington Examiner

Here is a news piece from The Washington Examiner

Here is the report from KPRC in Texas

Here is a report from Lifesitenews

Here is a link to a website dedicated to the boy

Here is a link to Chad Felix Greene’s article in The Federalist

UPDATE

Judge rules that the father of James Younger will be allowed to Veto medical intervention. In other words, the father has not been stripped of all parental rights.

Read More here


Oddly, I wasn’t able to find coverage on NBC, ABC, CNN, CBS or more than the briefest mention of it in local Texas papers. It is somewhat unsurprising that only “conservative” outlets are carrying the story.

A 7 year old?

WHAT?

It’s not even clear that the child has gender dysphoria. At 7 isn’t it natural, perhaps even expected for children to be curious about what it’s like to dress up? The experts in the case say the childs gender is still fluid.

Reading through the available, and no doubt biased, information points to a bitter divorce… correction annulment. I suspect that the annulment is a farce and that there is still some kind of pitched legal battle behind the scenes ongoing. To my rather suspicious mind it begs the questions, “Is the mother trying to use the child as a weapon? Is she willing to harm a child in order to harm the father?” The truly amazing thing is that she’s not the twins biological mother.  Yes she gave birth to the boys, but the eggs were not her own. 

Add to this, several years ago there was the case, in Seattle I believe, where biological parents (who happened to be Native Americans) won custody of a child. In this case the child had been given up at birth. The child had been adopted by a white suburban family and had never known anything other than that family. But the state in it’s infinite wisdom ordered the child surrendered to the Native American parents based on the biological connection.

By that logic, in the case of James, his father Jeffery should have a greater claim to custody of the two boys. 

After all, at its heart this is a custody battle. It’s a father acting to protect one of his children from medical procedures that will have permanent, potentially negative effects. Isn’t this what custody battles are all about, or at least what they should be about?

I suppose what’s shocking to me is that the jury ruled against the father. 

My shock is not about Transphobia, this is about a child who frankly is too young to understand the hubub and for whom nature should probably be allowed to take it’s course at least until the child can specifically say, “I want to be a girl.”

I have many reservations about transitioning children’s genders because of the long term physical damage. Think about it. Hormone replacement therapy is a lifelong commitment, and potentially life shortening in the case where you’re fighting the fundamental programming of the human body. Would any parent wish that for their child who didn’t need it, or was uncertain of the child’s wishes?

I found myself nodding as I read the opinion piece (above) by Brad Polumbo

This “transgender radicalism” has gone on long enough and been allowed to go too damn far.

Let children be children. All of us need to stop putting our hangups, fears, hatred, confusion, or political statements on them. 

Our duty as adults, Straight, Gay, Transgendered, White, Black, Yellow, Red, Brown, whatever, is to protect children, any children, because they can’t protect themselves. 

That means protecting their lives, innocence, and childhood, until they are ready to make their own choices. Even then, when they make poor choices and stumble, it is our duty to pick them up, dust off their clothes, put a band-aid on their boo boos (emotional, physical, or both) and tell them to try again.

That’s what being an adult is.

It depresses the shit out of me that so many so called “Adults” have forgotten that simple duty or have been terrorized into silence.

There used to be a saying, “There’s nothing worse than an X-smoker”. That statement is often true about an X anything. X- Smokers tend to be rabid about other people smoking, X-overweight people tend to point out what others are eating as fattening. 

Perhaps X-Binary Genders are engaging in something similar? “ I’m happier now that I’ve transitioned and therefore everyone would be happier if they did too”

It’s a question that has more than once flitted through my mind.

I’m quite happy being a male. I like my body, (well except for the few creeping pounds of age). I like my genitalia and have no desire to change. (Well, larger would be nice, ahem) I recognize that may not be true of all people and your choice, is to make changes to your own bodies as you desire.

BUT, don’t you dictate my choices, or impose your beliefs about what I should feel or want, or how I should express my sexuality. 

You see I, as an adult have to personal strength and conviction to say that, and the ability to defend my statement, just as you do. 

Can the same be said of a child?

Was quiet and blue all day yesterday

SCAN0117I realized that yesterday was the anniversary of my Dad’s death.

It’s funny, it’s been 27 years it still gets to me some years. Perhaps I’ve just been very retrospective recently.

I miss him. 

I was so busy packing and planning how stuff would be loaded and moved I wasn’t really thinking about why I was blue. I was chalking it up to the move itself and the feeling that I was giving up something that I didn’t want to give up.

Perhaps it’s a combination of the two. I didn’t want to give Dad up, and I don’t want to give up a space that is mine alone. Humble as that space may be, It’s my space and I like it.

That being said, there are times when you have to give up people you love and things that you like.

This is a photo of my Dad, Mom, and the little guy is me. Yeah I should have been looking at the camera but hey, I was a kid. The funny thing is, In this picture my Dad’s expression is the expression I remember most.

This is Dad. My Father is eternal in my memory he’s forever this age and even when he was in his 50s he looked pretty much the same. Yeah, a few more wrinkles but he’s the same man.

I can only hope I age as well.

So Dad, you’re remembered, missed, and regardless of any disagreements we had, you’re loved always and forever.

Now I have to get on with the final packing and get this move out of the way.

Mixed Emotions

This whole move thing has me filled with mixed emotions.

On the one hand, I will not miss the noise of the street behind the apartments. This street is more like living next to a raceway than living in a residential neighborhood.

The only time that street is quiet is between 2:30 am and 2:45 am any other time it’s an endless parade of cars zipping along, motorcycles, and modified drift car wannabes roaring by, and various larger trucks rumbling along. 

Sirens and ambulances scream by at all hours of the day and night.

After a while you start to ignore most of the road noise.

The Apartment complex is an older one and has older people in it. Ambulances and paramedics roll up at least once a day to cart some unfortunate person off to the hospital, or the morgue.

2 Zen living room

This is a plain no extras complex and it’s showing it’s age. The walls are paper thin and the windows single pane. You can hear everything. People having conversations in the parking lot, some of the younger folks are still sexually active and so you hear them pounding away on creaky beds. The tenants that are hard of hearing will let you enjoy their movies, music, or operas at all hours of the day and night.

It’s not restful and it’s hard to sleep.

We’ve just had 4 weeks of tree removal. They came through and took out all the grand eucalyptus trees that provided shade and put a sweetness in the air. Now we’ve been dealing with plumbing issues and the sidewalks are all torn up with the attendant heavy construction crews coming in at 6am to haul away broken concrete jackhammer up more sidewalks and generally yelling across the parking lot at each other. 

It’s been a dusty noisy environment and parking is a nightmare. 

All that being said, this was my place. Things remained where I put them and I was in complete control of my little space. It has been home to me and I’m not really looking forward to sharing my space with another person again.

The plus side of the mountain hose is that it’s quiet

HoardingI have a monumental cleanup task waiting on me at the house in the mountains. Part of that task is a creation of my own in that I haven’t been there with enough energy to clean out the stacks of frankly un-necessary paper left in my office on my desk. I’ve already had trouble putting my stuff back in the house because the other person that lives there is a major packrat.

Before I got this place, I had been feeling compressed into smaller and smaller space. My absence has compounded the problem. I can’t get to my workout bench anymore, There’s no way I can get my motorcycle out of the garage and I can just barely fit my car in the 2.5 car garage. The basement storage area is a fucking disaster with barely a path between junk that hasn’t seen the light of day in 10 years, longer if you count the time pre-fire. I know I have stuff in the basement that needs to find it’s way to the trash heap, I can’t find my stuff that needs to go away, because of all the other stuff that’s been stacked around it. That all has to change, and it’s going to be a battle.

This is a battle I’m not looking forward to.

There will be hurt feelings  and passive aggressive anger and I’m sure it will be an unpleasant time. But I need to focus on trimming down all the shit because a longer term goal is my future. If I find a position with a company outside of California I want to be able to make a clean break of it. I want to take all my shit from well defined areas and put it in a truck and be done. I don’t want my stuff in 3 or 4 different places I want everything in one place Easily accessible, defined, labeled, and movable.

The storage facility I just rented may provide a space in which I can move, sort, trash, and store my stuff.

2014 04 20 15 45 131I suppose I’m getting to a point where I don’t place the same value on sentimentality that I once did. Things don’t matter all that much to me, Stuff is an anchor that makes it hard for you to move literally and figuratively.

I’d like to be able to haul anchor and go. I want simplicity

It’s been a long haul

Wow, December since the last entry.

A lot has happened, and yet nothing has.

I’m still at the same shitty job, hope is fading. I still don’t know what to do about the other half situation and the odds of finding another job seem very low at best.

As to my future I haven’t a clue.

There have been some bright spots. I’ve been able to play a couple of times sexually and those times have been enjoyable.

Apparently due to a clerical error, I’m now at risk of losing my job which led to me having a major panic/anxiety attack this morning because I was going to be late to work. You’d think that wasn’t cause for a panic attack, but here’s how it went down.

A freeway transition was closed, forcing me to divert to another freeway. I got off at the next exit and tried turning around because I was going in a completely opposite direction from the direction that I needed to go. As I got off the freeway, the inbound entrance (going in the direction I needed to go,) was closed.

OK, I started trying to take surface routes from where I was, to where I needed to be. No joy! One dead end after another, and of course the navigation system was telling me to head back to the freeway (that was closed) useless!

So I pull over to the curb, fire up the maps program on the phone and start looking at the roads, trying to chart a course that would get me to work. I was after all, only 4 miles away. Trouble is, the dead ends are because there is no direct way to get where I needed to go. To traverse the 4 miles I was going to have to go 15 miles. Okay fine! I put the car in gear and there’s this grinding noise as I make yet another U-turn.

What the FUCK???

I put the car back in park, get out, and see that as I pulled over to the curb there must have been a traffic cone lying on its side which is now firmly wedged under the car. GREAT! Just FUCKING GREAT!

I have less than 10 minutes to get to work and 15 miles to go not counting delays caused by the invariably poorly timed lights in San Diego.

This isn’t going to work! I’m going to be late! If I’m late they’ll give me an occurrence, if I get another occurrence, I’m gonna be fired.

And that’s when the meltdown began.

Rage! Burning bright, roaring in my ears, my chest heaving and heart pounding. Panic set in and I fucking lost it. I’m crying, I’m laughing, I’m cursing. Head pounding, tunnel vision setting in and I’m fully out of control.

I do the math in my head, if I call to say I’m going to be late I get an occurrence, If I call out for the whole day, I use up one of my last sick days, but I don’t get an occurrence.

I call out for the day.

1st Problem solved.

Now I have time to address the next problem, how do I get this fucking cone out from underneath the car?

I need more clearance between the street and the underside of the car. A car jack comes to mind. Yep! That’ll do the trick…

My car has run-flat tires, there is no jack in the trunk. DAMN IT!!!!!

There are no gas stations as far as I can see, So limping into one and using a floor jack is out of the question!

Still in the waning grip of the anxiety attack I’m suddenly very tired and very depressed. Mentally I kick myself for being such a weak fucked up pussy.

I lean against the hood just about to start really sobbing, furtively I glance around to see if anyone is going to see my second meltdown in 20 minutes.

As I glance around, I notice the driveways into businesses are all very steep. It’s characteristic of San Diego where you’re bound to damage your front end trying to get to an ice cream shop. Gotta keep the paint and body shops in business right???

Humm,

I get back in the car pull across the street to the steepest driveway I can find. Slowly, I back up the incline stopping where I guess the largest distance between the bottom of the car and gutter in the street will be. (As an aside, did you know that some cars won’t let you get into reverse if the fucking driver door is open? “For your safety and convenience… MY ASS!

My guess is a good one. There’s enough gap to yank the offending cone from under the car. I don’t see any damage to the car. Of course, I’m looking in the dark using my phone as a flashlight, where the fuck is my Maglight?

2nd Problem Solved 

It’s 35 minutes past my start time.

If I worked for a real company, I’d have made my way to work, gone to the men’s room, washed my hands and gotten to work.

I don’t work for a real company. I work for a bunch of shitheads who are more into punishing their employees regardless of the situation, and making the workplace as hostile and stressful as they possibly can, within the limits of the law.

I tell the navigation system to take me back to my apartment. 40 minutes later I’m closing my front door taking my clothes off and crawling back into bed.

It’s warm and cozy and I drift off to sleep.

After a couple hours sleep, I wake, jerk off and begin contemplating the 3rd Problem, while sorting clothes for a trip to the laundry room.

The 3rd Problem is a bit trickier. I need a job, but at what cost?

Jobs are supposed to be simple exchanges. I provide a service you need and you pay for that service. My politics, personal situation, and buy-in to your company politics or anything else should be irrelevant.

I work, you pay, end of discussion. If I don’t work, you don’t pay… THAT’S the punishment for me not being there.

Modern American Businesses don’t see it this way. They seem to think that you’re supposed to feel privileged to work for them, and part of that privilege is that you’re supposed to allow them to run your fucking life. “Oh sorry you can’t take that day off because we need you. Oh You had a vacation planned? Sorry you’ll have to cancel it.

Did I earn that vacation time? Yes? Then I’m taking it! Do I understand and accept that I’m taking a day off without pay? Then Shut the fuck up!

What? You mean you don’t enjoy being abused by management, and our whiny, perpetual victim-class clients, who we’re charging a shitload of money for our product? What’s not to like? You can buy stock in our company… but you’ll never be able to spend it. What is wrong with you?

Ahh there’s the crux of it… In the end, the company wants you to feel that no matter what, it’s your fault. If you buy into it being your fault, then you’ll also buy into their right to punish you for your “Failings”.

WHO IS JOHN GAULT?

No company or corporation is your friend. No Manager, Supervisor, Vice President, or CEO is your friend. You are not their friend, you are a FREE PERSON.

Friendship predicated on gain, is not friendship. Your life, your joy, and your sorrows, are yours alone. It is not up to your employer to punish you, if you’re not at work, the only right they have is, not to pay you.

As a FREE PERSON, you are responsible for your creations and owe them to no one. You are not obligated to sing the praises of a company or a god that you don’t believe in. You are not obligated to give anything to anyone that you do not choose to give. That includes your time and energy. Likewise, you are not owed anything you have not earned. 

I do not like panic attacks and I don’t ever wish to experience another one because I fear what a company or manager will do.

The only way to win this game, is not to play

3rd Problem – Solution Pending…