I'll never meet this woman again, so I'm going to go ahead and post it here.
In 1991 I suffered a loss in the family. Some weeks or months later I went sailing (I owned a waterfront home in Foster City) and sailed by the Edgewater Shopping Center to my friend's house on the other side of town (who also lived in a water front home).
I sailed by one restaurant and saw a group of women at a table next to a bay window. One was a blonde who I didn't see very well. I beamed a wide grin and then sailed on. A little harmless flirting.
But let's back up here a bit;
1) I was suffering depression because I was losing my temper
2) said temper was brought on, I believe, someone slipping steroids into my food
3) said depression also made me forget my homework assignments
4) my temper flare ups, my mood swings, my forgetfulness, and a few other things, including how my body bulked out without me participating in any sports, again in my stern opinion, were the result of someone wanting me to be "more of a man", so to speak. A thing I would have to puzzle out 30 years later as I write this series of journal entries.
As such, because of a lack of academic success, because I seemed to be forced into going into the arts (specifically film and video production, a career I really didn't want, but for which I had specific aims), I didn't feel too good about myself. I kept myself from dating because for some strange reason I kept having temper tantrums. Said temper tantrums, ever since I've left the house, have since stopped. But the other element in them was DFNC helicopter parenting me from a distance, along with his bitch wife Camille. DFNC is not a doctor nor health care specialist of any kind. He is not a doctor, he is not a registered nurse, he is not a social worker, nor qualified for anything related to the field of health care. His wife, Camille, is. And, I suspect, he rode in on her success using ego to push his ideas forward. To this end, because I suffered psychiatric techniques in my upbringing by DFNC and his bitch wife Camille, I was abused.
So, fast forward back to 1991, and I'm thinking it's just a bad idea of sticking around. I didn't like the film industry. I couldn't get ahead. I felt like I was being "parented" or "looked after" from a distance, and it was NOT a good feeling, and I resented it very much to the point where it had me contemplating suicide.
So, I load up my dog into the back seat of my red 1987 Acura Integra and go to the drive up teller window at a local bank. And this perfect girl leaps up onto the window and says "Ooh, look at the puppy!" Wow. I was awestruck. As I slowly looked back at the dog, not really knowing what else to do, I noticed that the dog looked up at the bank teller drive up window as well.
Anyway, to make a long story short, it was the same girl, only I had been using that bank to transfer the estate into my name, so I wasn't sure if she was on the level or not, and lost my temper when she gave me the business card of an investment consultant.
But I kept thinking of her for 25+ years.
Fast forward to 2012, and there're little hints that she may be around, or coming back, or know that I had been thinking of her, and that she understood that I had some issues. Ah, but the year before, 2011, when I was working at the Orchard Supply Hardware in Millbrae off of El Camino, there was an effort to hook me up with an "Andrea lookalike."
No joke. I kid you not. The Gaul of it all. The nerve. The audacity. The just plain stupid, idiotic, bone-headed, tasteless, insulting quality of this act is beyond belief. Imagine you fell in love with a girl from your younger years, and someone tries to get someone who looks like her and present her to you as a substitute.
It wasn't Andrea's hair, it wasn't much of one aspect of her physicality (though I thought she was cute beyond belief), but that vibrant personality. Growing up I was pretty self conscious, and Andrea was the first girl who just came and said "Hi, this is who I am, and I like you." No need to try and test me or humiliate me or call me up anonymously on a party line, or shout at me from a car (yes, all those things happened to me). She was just herself. I liked that.
But the same fucking bastards who hounded my entire life, tried to create a facsimile.
I've often wondered about this. And the only thing I can conclude (after thinking about it since 2012) is that these absolute fuckups of a "family" thought I was visually oriented and "saw things" when I was in my creative process. These bastards saw me at my most private moments, used psychiatry to pry from my deepest recesses my most inner desires, hopes and dreams.
They are immoral scum. For had they understood anything about love, true love, they would have known that my love for this girl wasn't because she was a blonde haired blue eyed surfer girl, but just a nice girl with a great smile.
It gets worse.
So, I'm coming home from yet another "construction job" (I fucking hate tools and working on shit with tools ... I TRIED SEVERAL TIMES to get a writing position), and there's a blonde on my front walkway at my home in Foster City talking to my asinine neighbors.
What the hell.
It's just another psychiatric ploy, and again the police will do absolutely nothing about it, no matter how many times I call.
Thank you Foster City Police Department and former chief Craig Courtin.
So, I ignore it. Was it Andrea? It probably was in retrospect. But all this time I had been fighting off scum bags from harassing me on the road.
Okay, so we have to go back again and get to the purpose of this journal. Back in 1992 or 1993, Andrea was still working at the same bank locally, and I was coming back from Point Reyes with my dog. Only my dog had nearly lost the ability to walk by now, so I took her to the beach one last time. And wouldn't you know it, for all the hours we spent on South Beach at Point Reyes, she defecated in the car when we got back inside instead of on the beach.
I wasn't happy about it.
I got off on the Edgewater Foster City exit, and was going to make a left turn onto Beach Park Boulevard and maybe stop off at the local Safeway. But Andrea was in the Edgewater "go straight" lane, so I pulled behind her ... it was my big chance to really make it up to her!
But not more than an hour ago across the Golden Gate bridge I had unleashed the worst temper tantrum I had on my beloved dog. And I grappled with how and why I kept losing my temper, and should I really get to know this girl with him I very much like?
I chose not to and turned off as she and her friend tried to say hello to me as we drove down Edgewater.
So, again, I have DFNC for his asinine helicopter parenting with psychiatry, and that goddamn bitch of a "real mother" and her fucking offspring for screwing with my life.
Because when I saw Andrea again (assuming it was her) standing in front of my house, I ignored it. It was just another trick, and another goddamn ham-fisted attempt to "give me" what I wanted, as opposed to letting me seek and work for what I wanted on my own WITH PRIVACY.
These bastards have so fucked up my life with their "good intentions" that it is beyond criminal, and deep into "immoral" country.
Ah, but trailing Andrea, I'm guessing, must have gotten around to the local girls that "this is what I wanted". That my "love" expressed itself in "aggressive driving", and that throughout the last dozen or so goddamn fucking years I was DELIBERATELY HARASSED on the road;
A) to test whether I was still losing my temper on the road
B) to see if it did indeed prove "the way to my heart"
C) possibly to arrest me to force me with her or someone else to "calm me", "domesticate me" and prevent me from being a further hazard or danger to the public on the road.
The only problem is that the connection made was UNTRUE. I do NOT get sexually nor romantically aroused by "aggressive driving". I in fact HATE reckless and dangerous drivers. It's the WHOLE REASON I LOST MY TEMPER IN THE FIRST PLACE.
I poste the story here; www.lostlovers.com/ubb/ultimat…
It has since been taken down, since the harassment I received by the "P family" led me to believe that private information I had shared with Doctor Ross, Doctor White and Doctor Kalish, had been made public.
As a result, I filed a formal complaint with the Department Of Justice's Inspector General's office against elements in one of the local Law Enforcement agencies that I believed were trying to harass or entrap me. As per this journal entry, that may not have been the case.
But, if it wasn't, then it was a criminal act of harassment, I suspect, deliberately done at "Family P's" instruction and request.
These bastards, along with DFNC, have completely ruined every aspiration I had. More recently these fuckups seem to want me to move even further north into a shanty coastal community, or so I'm sensing.
Sorry, no. You will not sweep this under the rug. A judge, a REAL judge who has no ties to national security, will hear this case. This may actually be supreme court case material, as a person of my suspected social stature is not unique, and others may have gone through something similar as to what I've experience, although not as rigorous.
Of course I'll be asked to present my evidence beyond my anecdotes, and if my "real family" are the VIPs I suspect them of being, then I've got a snowball's chance in hell of getting evidence I need to be made public, much less presented to a federal judge.
And that's the "story" behind the story of the love-road-rage connection. Note to any female reading this, I don't care if you're Andrea herself or some other girl I loved in the past, you will go to jail if you screw with me on the road one more time.