Fighting the Corruption! - My Two Wars - the Hungarian Mafia and Banking Scandal Machines

Thursday, October 17, 2019

Narcissism, Sociopathy (or Psychopathy) and the Fomentation of Evil; A Paradigm Shift, where Evil replaces Good, and Facts are replaced by Lies

October 17, 2019

If I were to write a research paper or a book about a certain group of my most unscrupulously deceptive siblings, the title would be something like this:

Narcissism, Sociopathy (or Psychopathy) and the Fomentation of Evil; A Paradigm Shift, where Evil replaces Good, and Facts are replaced by Lies; the Controlling of Whimsical Follies of the Favored in the Dias Family Clan Relationships; Games People Play and the Motivations to Kill—the Contortions of the Sandwich Effect!: An Educated Assertion and An Exercise in Logical Reasoning for “the Overly Under-educated, Unlearned Overly Schooled”, written by “the Uneducated”, by Chris Dias, your “Uneducated Brother”, 6th from the Top.

Godlessness in the Last Days

2 Timothy 3 New International Version (NIV)

3 But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days. 2 People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, 3 without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, 4 treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God— 5 having a form of godliness but denying its power. Have nothing to do with such people.

6 They are the kind who worm their way into homes and gain control over gullible women, who are loaded down with sins and are swayed by all kinds of evil desires, 7 always learning but never able to come to a knowledge of the truth. 8 Just as Jannes and Jambres opposed Moses, so also these teachers oppose the truth. They are men of depraved minds, who, as far as the faith is concerned, are rejected. 9 But they will not get very far because, as in the case of those men, their folly will be clear to everyone.

A Final Charge to Timothy

10 You, however, know all about my teaching, my way of life, my purpose, faith, patience, love, endurance, 11 persecutions, sufferings—what kinds of things happened to me in Antioch, Iconium and Lystra, the persecutions I endured. Yet the Lord rescued me from all of them. 12 In fact, everyone who wants to live a godly life in Christ Jesus will be persecuted, 13 while evildoers and impostors will go from bad to worse, deceiving and being deceived. 14 But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have become convinced of, because you know those from whom you learned it, 15 and how from infancy you have known the Holy Scriptures, which are able to make you wise for salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. 16 All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, 17 so that the servant of God[a] may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.

Part 1: Introduction

This writing herein is a rough draft to what could be a research thesis of sorts, or a book that evaluates the dysfunctional paradigms and balances of power within the family I grew up in, if I were ever to write one. Herein, I will only partially present some of the issues and evidences that at least some of my siblings and their families deliberately and systematically tried to kill me, or at least disrupt as much as possible any positive contributions to society and to themselves I could produce; and although they didn’t succeed in my complete demise, they did instead disfigure my progression through life over many decades and over many attempts, but not only mine, did—and intentionally and systematically so, debilitate my sister Cecilia, as well as had—and deliberately and systematically so, had a hand in my brother Matthew’s demise, who unfortunately committed suicide by carbon monoxide asphyxiation in February 9th, 1983 at the age of 29. 

I grew up with 13 siblings and two natural parents. We were raised in Los Gatos, California.  From the top of the family birth order out of 14 natural children birthed by one mother and seeded by one father, Matthew comes in at 5th, I come in at 6th, and Cecilia comes in at 7th—we are the three that were brutally squashed by being in the middle of the sandwich—this is the sandwich effect syndrome.

Although it may seem hard to swallow and ironic that I would make such accusations against family members, some of whom sometimes write and express so keenly their “compassionate natures” about family members who have moved on to the next life and even have named their children after our very deceased siblings, research and write about the family tree as far back as centuries, and of whom have even lately compassionately commented about me, I who has struggled immensely through emotional and financial turmoil, that is exactly what I am doing. 

Although bragging rights to the winners of these deadly games belong to some, and specifically someone who had made his million before his middle ages, he—and they, have also neglected to mention that I too could have been a millionaire with just a smidgen of the support that these cockroaches acquired, and that of which these maggots restricted me from—intentionally and methodically.  These scum-crumbs squeezed me out of favor in the most heinous of ways.   Through the art of their very infringements on my welfare, their ghastly states of narcissism and sociopathy (or psychopathy) stain a very morbid depiction of a family in disarray.  This is a story of Satan’s diabolical endeavors masked as Jesus’ apostles’ impositions within my family, and the two of three of us who survived.

Although much of these evidentiary assessments will be in the framework of Mark’s writings and comments, he is by far not alone in this endeavor.  It will be in his writings, however, that I will analyze most of all because it is they that are most concretely revealing in his postures.  You see, sociopaths (or psychopaths) and narcissists will almost always reveal themselves if you are able to peel off the layers of sedimentary mental disruptions of the soot—it’s late in the game for me to rectify the damage they have done to me, but it’s still available to see if you are able to critically think through the art of deductive reasoning.  Evil knows no bounds, neither in its endeavors, nor in the perpetrators who propagate it. 

Due to time constraints and my lack of desire to write something very few people will read, this paper’s release will by no means be a final version of what could be a comprehensive and structurally sound composition of thorough, analytical arguments of thought about the deep and dark recesses of these kinfolks’ myopic minds and their dysfunctional attributes.  So, since it is not all of that as of yet, be forewarned that I’m not going to be holding my tongue on vulgar and graphic language.  

This paper is being written as a part of my own therapy and my own history that I have no alleviation from. Although Matthew must have been scared to take the plunge, which can be inferred in his suicide note, aside from the actual act, he did it; and so I feel compelled to ask, “Was he the more cowardly or was he the braver than I?”

I have wavered in such endeavors, irresolute at the most auspicious of times without clear direction, like a spinning top about to fall, but one that never seems to completely fall and stop, or to stand completely erect, sometimes seemingly stably, but genuinely wanting to find out what happened to Matthew.  I am as smart as anyone, or maybe even a little bit more than that, but like Matthew was, I remain in conflict with internal decision-making displacements of empirical degenerative acumen.

I’m not a victim in this, but a survivor—well, that’s what my brothers call me, anyway, though they did in fact expect me to murder myself, (mass) murder others, or do some other violent or heinous act (e.g. called Psychological Projection) that would require me to “see a warden”, as callously and indifferently as they have both stated and implied it, and that proof is in the pudding.  “To see a warden” is an expression Mark has publicly announced on multiple occasions as a good resolute for me to my “much needed” therapy. 

This is a statement coming from a brother who has had forced sexual relations with our sister Cecilia, robbed stores, broken into schools (he has said on rare occasions about the schools and on his Facebook rant to me, as shown below, that he partnered with Matthew and Matt’s friend Scott Smith about the schools, but I doubt that one), and has committed an insurance fraud scheme that has garnered him hundreds of thousands of dollars over decades, of which he is still reaping huge dividends from to this day, and of which maintains his indifferent chutzpah towards others, that can be seen easily only for someone in position who is able to reveal the layers of deception, like me, like Cecilia, and like other insiders.  

I’ve seen many a survivor of brutal circumstances who have survived far worse and far more successfully than I have, largely because of their maturity level and their support systems, but even at the age of 63 I’m trying to find comfort through certain kinds of videos and writings: murder documentaries, suicide documentaries, the Dragon’s Den, the Lion Whisperer, the Undercover Boss films, talent contest inspirational stories, true love stories, the Good Book, communication analysis types, self-help psychology books, true court cases, as well as by remembering certain individuals and situations who have marked positive impressions in my life, The Survivors Club by Ben Sherwood, Games People Play by Dr. Eric Berne, and many more; my dad who I reconciled with and finally became friends with, and who I made a promise to on his last day on Earth; my mom who always went to visit me no matter which jail or institution I was in, and took my baseball team to have an ice cream on several occasions; my sisters Cecilia, who always gave me an honest friendship, and Aileen and Margie who were mostly normal in thought and relationships with me; my students who look up to me and who rely on me; and others who all play a role in somehow forming my thoughts in this internal struggle between right and wrong, good and evil, smart vs. not-so-smart: release my pain by watching others do what I’d like to do, by realizing the repercussions if I took negative steps, and by seeing that my story is far from unique, and that I can still be a force to be reckoned with, as I have become a political activist against the Hungarian fascist oligarchs and bankers.  In psychiatry most of the above stated relationships would be called ‘protective factors’.  Nevertheless, my internal and external struggles persist vigorously, pulling and tugging in perpetual oscillations.

My history would indicate that with me being under such psychological and economic stresses that this varmint family-class propagates, violence of some sort would follow, and so it is true that their games are dangerous enough; but they—my mischief of rats siblings, miscalculated the last attempts, and I beat their odds to some extent, and I am still among the living and out of prison to tell these facts, as of yet.

Not without scars and bewilderment with their provocative treachery, and my overwhelming desires to rewrite their histories as well as my own, do I stand strong enough here, however, to share not only in part my story of my survival, but also to expose my siblings who find Satan amusingly ingenious with virtues that they grip on to with glee by using Jesus’ good name in histo promote Satanic “good” works through contortions that make all that is good and just into all that is bad and unjust, that simply encourage convoluted prostrations and unrighteousness righteously normal—from the top and from the bottom this was a sandwiching effect against the three of us in the middle to the extent that one of us left this world in a most untimely manner, by suicide.

In Matthew’s suicide letter he writes, “…I have to know the truth and this world is so full of lies, and I can’t find an answer….”  And everything was a lie not only to him, but in his reality, in his world with his associations; but more importantly than to know that is to know his circumstances and his state of mind at the time of his suicide.

His circumstances and state of mind were very similar to mine:  He was hanging out with the wrong crowd, namely, but not exclusively, with his cynical brothers and sisters and parents (which Mark accurately declares are quite dysfunctional—a bit on that a little bit later), just as I was, at the time of his undoing.  He was at around that time trying my brother Andy’s church (Andy is a substitute pastor of a deviant sort—a bit on that later.) for awhile, as I did, and had recently bought a home, as did I, and he recently lost his job, as I did, all the while he knew he wouldn’t be receiving any proper counsel or proper financial support that would have been consistent with a strong family bond, a family of 13 siblings and two natural parents, in his predicament within the family unit, as I also suspected would happen to me.  He waited, as I did, but relief from the internal tug-o-war was probably even greater for him than for me, internally begging for a welcoming hand for family that would never come and would never be.  He would have been the wiser to stay away from these sadists, as would I have been, though it is probable that he didn’t quite recognize the stench of the article, just like me.

His last words to me were in his backyard tool shed that he himself built alone for the entire family’s use, when he simply said something to the effect, “I’m very lonely”; because I was already preoccupied with my own despair and sadnesses, I gave it no attention.  Within a short time after that he was found dead in his car by some joggers, but I don’t remember if it was days or weeks or months or years—well, I do know it wouldn’t have been many years.

I can also assume that these cynical artists were able to paint their own pictures of their own interpretations of his deemed “sordid” lifestyle and took it upon themselves to correct it, not to intently correct wrongs, but to intently break a man’s soul, as they did with me.  With these assumptions, I can assess that it was they who were intently directly influential with the dissolutions of his girlfriends and friendships, of his earthly loves as well as of his goals to find heavenly and spiritual ones.

As for me, every secret of manner that has ever been held from me by family members has been against my interests.  Just one of probably dozens of secrets kept from me is exemplified by the following tragedy: my daughter’s 2 years of sexual molestations by my callous and cowardly brother Greg, an incel at that time and sexual pervert-predator at the age of 17, and/or 18, who also threatened her if she told anyone, that more than one family member knew about, possibly for the entire time or shortly afterwards, and for years—and that I did not.  The fact is that Greg had also been molesting a multitude of other children before, during, or after Jennifer was abruptly taken out of the house and away from my custody; I’m not sure which, but his indifference to us would have been his deathwish if I had ever found out at the time, but I never did find out.

My daughter Jennifer was born when I was in jail for armed robbery, but I got out unusually early after only 13.5 months due to my relatively young age, me having known and campaigned for the Sheriff of the County, James M. Geary, at the time who put a good word in for me to the judge, and mom’s many a letter from family friends who requested leniency on my behalf to the same judge.  When I got out Jennifer became my world again, while I went to school and lived in a halfway house.

I visited Jennifer regularly and paid a minimum amount of child support.  At the halfway house I learned janitorial skills and landed a job as a janitor, by coincidence for the same district as where my aunt worked.  Trouble was still following me wherever I went, but bit by bit I was able to shrug it off.  There were many a time when I took Jennifer out on visitations that something seemed wrong with her.  She was often so groggy and fell asleep almost as soon as I picked her up.  She also often had fresh cuts or bruises or burn marks on her, or she had a very red bottom;  I took her to the hospital once or twice for them, but it wasn’t clearly demonstrated that these things were caused by neglect or child abuse, according to the hospital.

When Jennifer was only 3 her mom gave me custody because she said that she couldn’t handle her anymore.  I accepted without hesitation, but had asked for nothing more than 100 dollars in return because my money was still quite tight, but I never asked for child support because I knew that that would be a cause for contention.  Only after probably close to 3 years later did I ask for 50 dollars a month when her incessant irresponsibilities towards visitation waned on my wife and I too much; she would schedule visitations and we’d schedule our time for it, get Jennifer ready, looking good, packed and excited to be able to go out with her mom, only to get a call or no call at all at the last minute from her mom who said she couldn’t come—with no excuses.  When I received Jennifer she was in bad shape: wetting the bed constantly, even crapping on the floor once or twice, if I remember correctly; Jennifer was very disorderly and unruly, but after 3 years, my wife and I fixed her up pretty well.

We asked for the child support after almost 3 years of having her, and then the court battles ensued.  Within 3 years of me having raised her, Jennifer was just a princess, enjoyed herself and being with us, and she was just a happy-go-lucky treat to have in our lives.  My wife and I had a boy, Joshua, who Jennifer adored.  However, the tide at first started to turn back toward the negative slowly and then the decline sped up as the extra expenses and stresses took their toll.

The court battles took off right after I asked for 50 dollars in child support—this was the first of the kidnappings.  They started when Jennifer’s mom took Jennifer on one visit and refused to bring her back home.  We couldn’t just go get her because they lived on a secured navy base in San Fransisco.  Her mom and stepdad said that Jennifer was going to stay with them, which meant that they were kidnapping her.  I had to fork over 1500 dollars I borrowed from dad to a lawyer, who got her back after some days.  Although I won the handful of every court battle concerning custody matters that I had ever been in with that bitch, I was losing the fight because I was going broke and Jennifer’s step-family had unlimited funds.  After that, every year they tried to get Jennifer back, even though the child custody remained at 50 dollars and the visitation rights increased every time.

At the time, I was a machinist, but the company moved to Fremont from San Jose, which was a significantly longer commute.  Since it was so much further I tried to get a raise, but I don't think I got one, and if I did, it wasn't much.  So I got another job for more money, but was laid off after a short time.  My wife had a part time job, but had apparently been spending all of our reserves.

This forced me to make drastic, frenzied decisions.  Since my wife wasn’t a very good partner, I felt compelled to move back into my parents’ web while I regained my composure; yes, I moved back in with parents who never recognized my marriage and were quite abusive in their own right, but helpful in some ways, even though that help was never full-in and the conditions were never stable; thus, my wife and I weren’t allowed to live together.  There were still a significant amount of siblings living there, all of whom had never recognized good conduct and good sense.  Although my wife moved back home into her alcoholic parents', who always talked shit about me, I moved in with my parents and siblings who also always talked shit about me—but I felt that I had to take the chance that things would be different this go round. 

So, I had decided to start my own gardening/landscaping business and move out and  back "home."   I started on the project immediately while still living in the apartment by drilling holes into my good-condition Toyota long-bed and putting wooden side rails on it.  During our marriage my wife and I had separated a couple of times for very short periods, but now we were going to move separated from each other but stay a couple.  The marriage lasted probably less than a couple of years after that.  I was working hard to get my business launched, but my wife didn’t seem motivated in anything, nevertheless, we did visit each other regularly.

My daughter had started wetting the bed again, probably immediately after we moved in with my parents and several siblings.  I bought a bed wetting alarm system made of some kind of tin foil, but it worked to no avail.  We stayed at that house for a couple of years, just enough time for me to learn to hate everybody again, except for those I worked with and for, while I continued to build my customer base and tooling needed to sustain myself.

This was all the while that Jennifer’s mom constantly told her that she would get to do anything she wanted if she moved back with them and I found myself in court again spending thousands and thousands of dollars simply because my circumstances had changed.  So I thought that Jennifer’s attitude was due mostly to her mom’s incessant abuse and coaxing, but I didn’t know that my brother Greg, who was twice her age and an adult, was fucking her or molesting her when she was as little as 6.  He said he never stuck is dick inside her, but that's not very relevant to the facts and damage caused; besides that, he had already lied to me about the whole thing with a verbal "fuck you" on more than one occasion.

Things got more chaotic. At one point Mark was there at the house visiting and said that "Chris needs to see a warden" (his exact words), even though he only inserted himself in cases he was vaguely aware of.  I asked him if he wanted to step outside, but he declined that proposition.  I put my hand through Dorothy’s hollow wooden bedroom door because she locked herself in in fear of me; this was due to my rage after I found out that she and my wife were going out clubbing to pick up dudes, and it didn't have any direct link at the fact that she was criticizing my parenting skills, even though her abuse with her daughter Melissa (who is younger than Jennifer) was extreme in itself, including her locking her in the bedroom for hours on end without anyone in the house (They are also estranged from each other, and I'm more than confident that that estrangement will be for a lifetime.).  Before I moved back home, during my stay, and afterwards, the house was a house of disarray, chaos, and the "Cops and Robbers" game, as well as many other psychosomatic games had been well developed by these mites, and they never, not for one second, seemed to have ceased in playing them.

Jennifer and I used to have as close of a relationship as any father and daughter could have, but now things between us were on the brink.   My heart was breaking and she was breaking.  I was eventually harder in disciplining Jennifer as well.  In fact, one morning she and I had one disturbing morning, but I sent her to school in her normal carpool anyhow.  She was so distraught that those people called the police and she was sent to the shelter instead of to school.  When I came home and found out that she was in there, I immediately yelled to the person on the other end of the phone to "Get her out of there!" several times.  I knew what this meant. I knew it meant that they would give her over to her mother, but I needed her out of there—that was first and foremost in my mind.  Unfortunately, the story doesn't end up well, as is written in the Good Book:

1 Kings 3:16-28; 
Solomon Makes a Difficult Decision
16 One day two women[a] came to King Solomon, 17 and one of them said:
Your Majesty, this woman and I live in the same house. Not long ago my baby was born at home, 18 and three days later her baby was born. Nobody else was there with us.
19 One night while we were all asleep, she rolled over on her baby, and he died. 20 Then while I was still asleep, she got up and took my son out of my bed. She put him in her bed, then she put her dead baby next to me.
21 In the morning when I got up to feed my son, I saw that he was dead. But when I looked at him in the light, I knew he wasn’t my son.
22 “No!” the other woman shouted. “He was your son. My baby is alive!”
“The dead baby is yours,” the first woman yelled. “Mine is alive!”
They argued back and forth in front of Solomon, 23 until finally he said, “Both of you say this live baby is yours. 24 Someone bring me a sword.”
A sword was brought, and Solomon ordered, 25 “Cut the baby in half! That way each of you can have part of him.”
26 “Please don’t kill my son,” the baby’s mother screamed. “Your Majesty, I love him very much, but give him to her. Just don’t kill him.”
The other woman shouted, “Go ahead and cut him in half. Then neither of us will have the baby.”
27 Solomon said, “Don’t kill the baby.” Then he pointed to the first woman, “She is his real mother. Give the baby to her.”
28 Everyone in Israel was amazed when they heard how Solomon had made his decision. They realized that God had given him wisdom to judge fairly.

After Jennifer left my custody at the age of 8, it took me more than 9 years to make contact with her again, except for one time, probably 2 to 4 years later, when her psychologist called me and asked me if I wanted to see her.  I don't remember the details, only that she was still small when I received the call.  I had tried to see her before and afterwards, but I couldn't find her.  Jennifer, her mom, and her mom's husband must still have been on the navy base because the meeting was in San Francisco.  When I saw her I immediately started pouring tears and crying with emotions and I didn't stop for 20 or 30 minutes, is my guess.  It was at this visit that Jennifer’s psychologist said that Jennifer had been molested by my brother the entire time we lived back in Los Gatos.  Jennifer's psychologist seemed to be on my side.  The psychologist said that I could call her anytime, but after that day she never picked up the phone and Jennifer's shit guardians disappeared with my daughter.

Someone also told me that her stepfather’s friend also molested Jennifer and was sentenced to jail for a month—but I don't remember exactly when or who informed me of it, perhaps that was from Jennifer herself.  I do know that I wasn't told about it for years after it happened.  Jennifer also tried to run away from them and back into my custody on more than one occasion, but still she was told that if she ran away again from their place, that she wouldn’t see anyone anymore if she did it again.

I was alone and without any family whatsoever anymore.  After Jennifer was taken my sister Dorothy and I got into an argument and I told her that I could kill her with one blow.  It wasn’t a threat, it was just something she should have needed to understand.  I then put all of my tools in my truck and moved out.  Right after my daughter was taken away, my then-wife and son also simultaneously stopped coming over, found another man—a millionaire, while I moved into my green Toyota long-bed truck and put my tools, much of which were gas powered, into storage where I would have easy access.  Although I was broke and a drained man by then, I still had dreams of proving everyone wrong.

I was desolated and alone and emotionally and financially broke, had spent thousands of dollars protecting my daughter from her mom and from those on her mom’s side, only to be conspired against by a family of maleficent personalities.  Can you imagine your six year old daughter having sex, let alone forced to by your late-teen brother, her nephew—the outrage?  And supported by both my parents and many, many siblings, financially and with praises all in secrets hidden from her father, from me.  My dad compares it to me having sex with my daughter’s mom when I was 19 and she was 17.

Then the pigs (cops) found me sleeping in my truck, ran my information, found that I had warrants and escorted me to jail; I didn’t even know that my sister and mom filed any police reports on me until that evening.  I remember getting another court date for something else, but I thought it was for the same thing, so I wrote back to the sender and told them to take a hike, that I was already taking care of it.  I was already living in an apartment and it was nearby so I roller skated to the court.  The judge had my letter in his hand and had me arrested because apparently that court letter I got was for the second assault and battery charges from either mom or Dorothy, I don't know which.  After staying out of trouble for 9 years, I was back in jail and didn't get out for a week or two.  Not one person in the family cared about my welfare, except perhaps my mom, who was like a mom who keeps dropping the child, then says she's sorry, and then does it again, over and over again.

Do you know that when I found out about Greg, that he was working in a young girls’ summer camp?  No family member ever showed concern about it.  Do you know that after years and years—guessing more than a decade, I saw him at the Saddle Rack dance-bar and the next day he complained to our parents that I was telling people what he did?  Which I did!  That was followed up with a talking to by mom and dad because it was I who was trying to ruin his life, according to them all—and I can now imagine that in the background and in secret whispers, in rapid speed and rapid fire, the wheels of mind-boggling gossip in favor of Greg and against me spun like atomic atoms excited for one reason or another.

When I found Jennifer 9 years later, I had discovered that she had also been to 9 different schools, and it was possibly at that time that I learned about her stepfather’s friend molesting her.  And, on top of that, I had to spend another 4,000 dollars in court against back child support payments and cite child kidnapping law because Jennifer's witch of a mom (I never degraded Jennifer's mom in front of Jennifer) saw opportunity for dollars.  My daughter had turned out to be as giddy and under educated as can be imagined—she had learned almost nothing more than when she had left me at the age of 8.  I’m sorry I couldn’t protect her.  Your very own brother fucks your 6 year old daughter, her step father’s friend fucks her and no one tells you about it for years, she goes to a different school every fuckin’ year, 10 or 15,000 dollars spent on lawyers, and more than one life in shambles.

When I moved in with Mark and his family almost two decades later, Mark had him over his house when I was there with no regard for me, but I just left the area; then again, why did I decide to move into Mark’s house when he had sex with our sister as a teenager or young adult—did I know about it at that time?  I knew what Mark had done unconcerned to me earlier (a bit on what Mark did to me will be revealed soon), but that was all water under the bridge, right?  I really, really don’t know.  Gene and his wife lived next door and they said that I should forgive Greg.  Andy and his family came over often and said the same thing.  Why did I move back into this environment?  These derivatives of that time and to this day have been perpetually pernicious to my soul.

Just a few short years later I came into money, after oh so many struggles that were largely initiated by family degenerates, in my new world as a computer network and security engineer.  I was expecting excitement for me by someone, anyone, but I instead received nothing but scorn from the spoiled brats that paraded around me, and they had already shooed away my beloved girlfriend.  As the usual deviants they have always been, they conspired against me again.  They—Mark and Jeanine, Gene and Valerie, Andy and Esperanza, together with more than 100 years of financial experiences and 100 years of computer technologies under their belts collectively were jealous of me because of my newfound standing based on shares gifted to me by the company I was working for, of an industry that Gene had got me started in 4.5 to 5.5 years earlier, at my young age of 40. When the new money came in in the forms of shares I asked for help—and they knew I needed it, on how to make adequate decisions, they shunned me again, and for months, but talked behind my back often about it, including having conversations like, “What if Chris loses the money [and opportunities]?” A question Mark asked Gene because I had first taken Gene’s advice when he said to just leave it where it is, “Don’t worry about it.”

Gene answered Mark with “It’s Ok, because he’s a survivor.”  Mark accepted this proposition for me without me being aware of such a thing.  Mark told me this story over the phone from Hungary to California after I did almost lose everything and before dad helped me buy a flat in Budapest.  Mark said that I should have known what kind of person Gene was (i.e., how delusional and devious he is).  All of this was despite the fact that he knows that Gene and I have never ever done one thing together in all of Gene's pathetic life, and he barely knows me or my history; it was, in fact, Gene who was the one who came into my space and said that the family was going to help me just a few short years prior, but then mentioned on the phone—from Budapest to California, in passing as to why I was out of favor in the family, and added the ever so essential, "Fuck off!, I owe you nothing (exact words)!" when I implied self-harm (i.e. saying something to the effect that if anything happens to me, here's what he can do; this was in fact a last will  for a dying man, of sorts.).

Everyone in that world knew I had no significant contact with Gene even for the couple of years I spent at Mark’s at a time when Gene and his shit family lived next door.  I took his advice over Mark’s because Mark had been whining profusely out loud with—and I repeat these exact words, “Why does Chris get the good job?  I’ve been doing this for 20 years.”  I hesitated to take his advice because he simply went hysterical and he wasn’t to be trusted on that issue, but I wavered not only on that issue, but on others, as well.

In a functional family, members of a family would normally applaud for a member who came into such a befalling, like you might see of families of a contestant in a “Who Wants to be a Star” talent contest.  They would not only encourage it, they would help you form a coherent direction with your sudden and newfound opportunities that you obviously needed counsel in, and especially in areas that they are experts in—because the whole family would certainly understand how the benefits would not only be jubilant for the one, but would radiate effervescently for all in his / her world.

Yet, as sick as it may seem, as dysfunctional as this family is (The dysfunctional assessment was proclaimed by Mark himself first, as far as I know, which is true, of course.), this family does the opposite. They make you feel bad and unworthy, and while my brother Matthew was primed for success, he was also primed for their victimhood gaming sedition, and while Cecilia and I were also primed for their same wonders and were also found to be in their cross-hairs, they missed their marks ever so slightly.

When Mark found out that I had stock options that were doing so well, he went into a rant and rave using the same mantra over and over again with, “Why does Chris get the good job?  I’ve been doing this for 20-30 years.”  Those were his exact words.  Over and over again, he whined like the most spoiled of brats you’d ever imagine—a little bit on that later, and so I hesitated to take his help seriously.  Gene was much quieter, seemed more stable, with a simple “to not worry about it.  Keep it where it is, it’ll be alright.”  But all three brothers’ (Mark, Gene, and Andy) and their wives' temperaments, and their fragile relationships with me were reversed within seconds, from amicable to downright devious misanthropic from the pits of hell—they reverted back to their previously established click, and I wasn't privy to it.  They slammed their doors on me and turned their backs toward me in a sort of temper tantrum like Cinderella’s step sisters thing. 

Why didn’t I just run?  Yes, that was my fault.

So I didn’t worry about it right away, but the stock slipped so quickly that I asked Mark again, and Mark said that he didn’t know what I should do. This was all the while that, 6 of my relatives who were in continual contact with each other—6, Mark, Jeanine, Gene, Valerie, Andy and Esperanza, the clan “of the Most Smart, of the Most High”, all conversed about me surreptitiously regarding my new found money, and none of them applauded, none of them offered support, and understood that brotherhood, friendships, partnerships, and teamwork could see advantages for everybody in any such a case, would have been most Biblical on any account to shoulder the consequences, and all of them understood their financial savvy advantages over mine.  It slipped so fast after that that I froze in disbelief and maintained hope simultaneously, like a petrified deer in the face of blinding headlights on a pitch-dark night.

Nope!  They all felt jealousy a callin’ and scorn enticin’, just as they did when Matthew moved from criminal activity to successes galore.  They betrayed him too.  I found out about the gossip whisperers whispering behind my back from Mark after I lost almost everything after I moved to Hungary: my house, my furniture, my car, my tools, my country, my friends, my children, my job and my direction—at the age of 48, the money I invested in getting schooled in another career, which caused years of distress again caused by one day and one moment when Gene invited himself over to MY house to say that “The family has decided to help me [go to hell, again]”, at the age of 40, or so. And just like that, and just like Matt, I again sunk into depression.  Mark has recently changed his story about the facts of this case, but it’s too late for that story to be believed because I’ve already written about it in previous documentation years earlier, much earlier than now, closer to when he told me, that I’ll be re-releasing with this one.

They had all of these experiences, whereas I had almost none, and they purposefully gave me either bad advice or no advice at all when I asked for it, knowing that their positions and comments were diametrically opposite of what they actually believed. They reverted to the previously established click, maintained their inner circle and I was on the outs again—like a true Cinderella story syndrome, but in the end I had no one in my corner, fell into a depression, made decisions too late and lost all of the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity allotted to me, as they had anticipated I would.  

Except, I did find one chess piece that no one saw, not even me—a girl and an opportunity in Hungary; yeap, I suddenly woke from my comma, and moved to pick myself up and to rectify and recoup what I could. Was it by chance, or was it truly by the hand of God that I found a woman and another country, Hungary?

It used to be wrong to talk behind someone’s back, and to betray your friends and family by abandoning amicable reasoning for selfish righteousness, but in this family it’s commonplace. Mark recently mentioned about how dysfunctional this family is, and so why in the hell did they have to spread the cancer back to me again?  When I responded to Mark’s declaration of the dysfunctions I responded in a way he wasn’t expecting and so he then lashed out at me in the most verbally abusive manner, which prompted me to write this, and with which I will make the majority of my critical thinking challenges.  When I found out that Gene said that it was Ok if I lose everything in a secret conversation he had with Mark, I fired him immediately as a friend, as a recognized brother, as a business partner collaborator, and as a team member who could have also benefitted from my successes—I was furious.

Why did they do it?  Jealousy, for sure, but the only other reason I could think of is that they reverted back to their old games—kill him, kill me!  A bit on that later.  This destabilized my emotional state, exacerbated my loneliness, and my depression over rid rational decision-making on my part, which caused me to lose my advantage, and in fact my advantage became worse off than ever before since my time in jail at the age of 19. 

I escaped to Hungary by the skin of my teeth, opened up a new road for myself in the blink of an eye that no one saw, but then I was soon thereafter scammed by this Hungarian oligarchy just a few years later when I bought into a mortgage fraud scam that has stripped away almost any remaining wealth and dignity I was able to muster, as well.

Another secret held from me?  Tony, my preacher brother Andy’s son, has a wedding and announces to everyone that he doesn’t want me to go because he wants Greg, my daughter’s child molester to go; he wrote about it and announced it to everyone that he invited even though I was already living in Hungary, more than a 6100 mile journey by a straight rocket trajectory. No one in their right mind would believe that I would have taken that journey for anyone, especially in my financial condition, and certainly not for a nephew I scantly knew, to visit a family reunion I would have scantly endured. They needed to smear my good name as just so “cool”, once again! And my brother and his wife Esperanza and the other siblings and Gene and Mark all must have been in on it—there’s no other way to deduce the facts in another way.  It was a preplanned impertinence.  It is they who impressed upon each other and upon me that I am the one of the less moral and of the untamed kind—how ludicrous!

“The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. The difference between my sins and your sins is that when I sin I know I'm sinning while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean's waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea. You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron from hell yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig.” ― C. JoyBell C.

That was just one more of many secrets hidden from me and no one made a fuss as to the nature or intent of such an abusive and bizarre suggestion. When I asked Tony’s siblings one by one about it they one by one flat out denied it right off the bat without batting an eye—not one iota of hesitation.  With bewilderment to my line of questioning they expressed their dismay by my suggested notions and they proceeded with perturbations by using expressions such as "We would never do something like that", and "Of course it never happened", all the while professing their undying, profound love for me.  But it was all a ruse based on one deception after another.  

There was another secret leaked: Once I told Mark about a secret having to do with the girlfriend I had at the time before I left the country and he talked to others about it—he knew what he was doing. This girlfriend and I had been attending Andy’s church until she disappeared from my life without warning or any talk whatsoever, but I loved her and was heartbroken, and she loved me, though I knew that my near empty pocketbook wasn't a big positive.  My preacher brother Andy and his “darling” family had been going to church, like forever.  I mistakenly thought that they were united in union and thought, and had Christian values of a sort, but that was my bad. 

Andy apparently felt that his (unearned) moral superiority warranted his attention to talk to her sub rosa in a deleterious secretive conversation, but he would never feel a need to tell me about any of it, nor did he feel a need to tell me about his family’s and my other brothers’ dirty little secrets in betraying a social family unwritten rule by betraying my trust in good faith by helping me out in financial matters that they are well rehearsed in—for the umpteenth time they did conspire against me—again; there is no limit to their malice against me. They knew I needed and certainly could have benefited from their expertise, but instead they sat back to watch my death, like the Susan Smith who drowned her own.  If they don’t trust me, certainly they would expect me to reciprocate in kind.

So, church taught them nothing whatsoever, individually and as a group. When I found out about this later, about all of these crafty dishonesties, I fired preacher brother Andy and his every-week church going family: Esperanza, Anthony, Clara, Esteban, Omayra, and Jeremiah as recognized relatives, friends, as business partner collaborators, and as team members who could have also benefitted from my successes—oh man, I was furious!

How about covert conversations with my wife and other girlfriends that helped cause us to break up?  Other secrets of mine had been intentionally revealed because they suited their games designed to defile me: when Cathy was still alive she invited me and my girlfriend to dinner at her house when I was in my late 20s or early 30s.  Within minutes she blurted out something about my armed robberies that I had committed when I was 19 to my girlfriend she was meeting for the first time ever, to a girlfriend who was relatively new to me at that time, as well.

Since my girlfriend didn’t hear her because she was talking to Cathy’s husband Steve (who’s now also deceased, taken by HIV), she kept trying to say it, all the while I’m kicking her as hard as fuck—she must have had bruises on her leg, under the table and shaking my head in a frantic gesture not to say it, but she said it anyhow as if it were a school announcement about a school fire over the loud speaker.  She later said that she thought she (my girlfriend) knew.  What the fuck?  Certainly as anyone could expect, the mood plummeted to as sour as an umeboshi sour plum, and the abasement stole over me.  She also surreptitiously babysat my son via my divorcing, cheating wife when I was scheduled to see him, which she knew I was, but she said nothing, only to protect her job and the other degenerate, my still-wife's new boyfriend (who has taken care of his family and my son quite nicely, I might add).  Cathy used to vituperate me with the calmest of voices whenever she found opportunity.   

There are still several other subversive wrecking balls Cathy brought into my life, as did most of the others, but for the purpose of this paper and this focus, I’ll stay clear of them, or I’d probably have to rewrite this paper in its entirety and possibly even have a separate chapter for each sibling I’m talking about here.  She also knew about Greg fucking my daughter for most, if not all, of the years I was out of the loop on the subject.  What I will say, however, is that while we were growing up, Cathy was my confidant for a time, but now she was just an abject failure at being my friend—she was purely wicked as far as I was concerned, and on her death bed, while she was dying from leukemia, I told her that I hope she dies. 

There were two big differences between Matthew and I. One is that he was always more successful than I and the other is that it was always more important to him to be closer to the family, and so he fell victim to these emotionally incredulous myopic, feigned dispositions earlier and more often than I, since I had essentially left the home at the age of 15.5, not including my short stint at my aunt and uncle’s. 

Regardless, I was still fooled into their entanglements a few more times throughout the years.   Where I had big plans for myself that were diverted, he had big plans and more effectively made them happen, at least for awhile; when I just talked and dreamed, he dreamed and acted, which may account for why I’m still alive, and he is not. So, I feel compelled to ask, “Was he the more cowardly or was he the braver than I?”

They, the mischief of rats, have destroyed and broken up everything I’ve ever loved from my earliest days, probably starting by at least my old age of 8:  my music records were scratched up to death, my stamp collection, coin collection, model airplanes, camping gear, my Bible material (because it was King James and not Catholic) were all stolen, and, in fact, the thievery escalated when I went to juvenile hall.  Even Matthew, I suspect, burned out the eyes of my tortuous.  Along with dad, a group of these callous inferiors also took my adopted cat to the park and let it loose; they did it because they said that dad was allergic to cats, even though dad lived with animals and rode horses throughout his youth, and even though he later adopted Pancho, his brother’s dog.  No one would ever tell me who did these things—there were 4 of us on two bunk beds sharing the same room.  I do know that Mark is the one who scratched up all my vinyl records because I woke up with him in my drawer, but then went back to sleep because I didn't think anything of what he was doing.  They’ve betrayed my trust in too many ways to be listed easily.

With all of that I’ve seen and can assume, I believe that this FAKE “more-morality” group sabotaged Matthew in the same manner.  Every secret of manner that has ever been against me and my interests were kept secret, and every secret that was revealed was to hurt me specifically.  I can assume these were the same tactics used against Matthew, and I’m pretty sure Cecilia would accept most of my assessments.

And as for me, I’ve been in jail 4 times, 3 were directly related to siblings and parents calling the police to send me away to jail; one was preceded by a trip to a mental institute and on suicide watch, and another to group counseling sessions with other losers after another incarceration.  All of my work was violent in nature.  Plus there were 2 or 3 times I’ve been homeless, each time was for about 3 months—luckily I had a vehicle I could sleep in: a 4 cylinder long bed Toyota, albeit, I never slept in the bed, only in the cab.

Even still, the first time I saw jail was when dad took me to juvenile hall, probably when I was 12 or 13, to show me what was going to happen to me if I didn’t follow the rules.  I believe that that was shortly after he, accompanied by Mark and Andy, unlocked the basement and found me under there in a cubby-hole under the staircase studying my King James Bible and materials that my sister Cathy had provided me.  I was able to get down there through a vent because I was skinny; it was my private space for awhile.

That discovery of finding me down there studying a non-Catholic bible was followed by a hasty prance around the house three times—exactly three times, until I tripped over some bricks right in front of the basement hatch that I escaped from, the basement hatch that was locked before they unlocked it.  The end of the chase, of course, was actually followed up with an ass whooping that included an onslaught of kicks to my legs, to my stomach, and to my head—and I still know the details explicitly.  It was also followed up with—I remember it well, Cathy getting slugged in her stomach on her bunk bed repeatedly.

I believe that it was Mark who was the only one who knew I was going down there from time to time.  Neither Andy nor Mark has ever alluded to that event, and of course, that means that neither of them have apologized or revealed their parts in it, either.  Right after that beating and confiscation of my most alluring study materials I gave up my desires to remain a martyr and began my new birth, my new life with agnosticism.

The first time I was incarcerated was for 3 weeks, when I was 15 years of age. It started with dad kicking me out of the house, but I don’t remember why, though most of my punishments were Catholic-oriented; all the same, it could have been for anything, but almost surely for something very small, as usual.  It was a bitterly cold night and I only had pants on, no shirt and no shoes or socks. After probably about a couple of hours later I crept through the garage and snuck into a downstairs room, Mark’s room, for refuge. It was dark and already late for a school night, and although that room was cold, it was just a tad bit less cold than the wide outdoors. I think Mark gave me a pillow only because I remember a pillow and I remember that I began to try to sleep on the floor with it, but without a blanket. 

When Mark thought that I was asleep, he snuck upstairs, and it was he and only he who ratted me out, like rats do. He then snuck back into his bed, just like nothing had happened, and just like that, a minute later dad came downstairs and started kicking my head and the pillow out from under it, and yelling.   As is the case with sociopaths (or psychopaths), it was in this case, that Mark was kosher in our camaraderie until he suspected that I wasn't looking, and then upstairs he went for the backstab. 

Well, that was it then!  That was the last straw.  Mark thought that I was sleeping but it was too fuckin’ cold for that. I knew what he did, and even if I didn’t, which I did, that could have been the only logical answer as to how dad knew I was down there so late at night (The first time I revealed these details was earlier this year in an attachment I sent to him in a Facebook message, but he blocked me without a response; maybe it was because of that or maybe it was because I asked him if he was fucking my sister before or after that incident, which I'm sure must have irritated him.).

A few minutes later after dad had left I got up, fed up, wanting to fetch my shoes ‘cause I was just fuckin’ shivering. I needed my shoes and socks, which were in dad and mom’s bathroom, because I had taken a shower in it earlier, so I had to go along the objects against the left side of the wall in dad and mom’s bedroom to get to them.  Well, dad heard me, of course, and chased me out of the house.

A short time later, I went back, but this time I first made a stop in the kitchen at the silverware drawer, which was on the way.  I never hesitated in grabbing a knife and I had planned to proceed to try to muscle for my shoes again.  If I had to muscle my way in, I was prepared to do it—I didn’t want to do it, but I needed him to stand down, which he did not.  

It was quite dark, so I couldn’t see well, but he got up and tried to chase me out again, though this time I didn’t back up more than a couple of steps, which were a couple hundred short of what he was expecting.  He saw the knife and I said that I just wanted my shoes.  He went back into the darkness and I was hoping he went to retrieve them, but he did not.  He instead retrieved his usual weapon of choice, his belt, and that fuckin' belt buckle fastened to it, though he had an arsenal of weapons—everything but guns and knives.  I stayed quiet, alert, and focused, for this was now or never—the fight was on.  

When he came out with that belt, he didn’t hesitate to lash me with it.  Mom then appeared with a broom, wanting to hit me, but dad was in the way.  He lashed me once, then twice, and then I caught it on probably the third strike and I pulled it.  I don’t know if I completely pulled it out of his hand, but he then reached for my knife, and I gave it to him, blade first.  Blood began gushing profusely all over the floor.  The knife was fairly dull, and it was at that moment that I realized that it’s better to cut someone with a dull knife than a sharp one because the cut is thicker and more jagged and causes more damage if you get it deep enough.  Even still, technically, I didn’t cut him; he cut himself on the knife I was holding. 

It was at that point that mom came at me with the broom in an attempt to bash it over my head, but dad grabbed it from her.  I was cornered, trapped by the counter top on my right, the kitchen sink behind me, and the refrigerator and silverware drawer where I got the knife on my left.  Once he started slamming the broom on my head, that my arms were inadequately protecting, I still put the knife down, but on my left close by in case I needed it again; his rage grew, but I let him bash me over my head—it was a near straight down motion aiming for the center of my skull, as many times and as hard as he could.  Slamming the broom over my head again and again and again and again until it broke once, then twice, and then thrice—exactly three times. The broom broke over my head and defending arms three times—exactly three.  When I went to Juvenile Hall, I had oval bruises up and down both arms.  If I had made just the slightest of adjustment to my thought processes that night, my mom would have been husbandless and my siblings fatherless—this was no laughing matter, but even then, I sensed that Mark had an internal chuckle or two.

It was Matthew’s and my rebellious streaks that saved the family from more abuse—well, from the same kind of abuse—from our parents, that is.  It was the two of us who wore the old tyrant down the most.  With all of that being said, dad still had a lot of juice left and his every manner for his obsessional enthusiasm for everything Catholic wasn't by any means yet subdued.  Not only was he not subdued, neither were my sociopathic (or psychopathic) narcissistic siblings and their most deceitful callous unnatural convictions in their courses for self-growth and their deliberate attempts at children #5's, #6's, and #7's destruction.

Throughout my turmoils, which had only just begun, and after Matthew's suicide, which was relatively later than my biggest troubles, Dad's abuse waned and he finally resigned to maintaining his zeal for everything Catholic to himself, though he did bring it up in passing.  Dad became more in line with keeping an even keel in a boat adrift.  I don't exactly know the details because my life with that family and my adolescence were changed forever and I was out of the house, though, I admit now, not out and away enough.  

Mark—I remember it well, asked if he could call the police that night, and he gleefully did so. He was a poor boy who assumed the role of the Little Helper.  My act was in self-defense, and my dad is the one and only one who should have gone to jail that night, but they took me away instead; besides that, I didn’t know the law and wasn’t great at creating such impromptu arguments for a real-live case like this; perhaps I was too young and inexperienced to know such stuff, and too traumatized myself.  

My mom brought my homework when she came to visit me.  My parents also convinced me to come back home after I got out, which I did.  However, I remember getting that “D” in geometry during my first week back to school, and I remember it breaking my will, my intent to continue striving hard in academic things went to pot (Is that a pun intended, or not?  I’m not sure.). Before these events, I was a solid B student with motivation, but after it, I became a floundering B student with a course to nowhere, and it was shortly after that that I started taking drugs (I still like pot and think it should be legalized) and mentally dropped out of proficiency in my studies.  Mark alone changed the course of my history for the worse from that one fateful night because of his own sociopathic (or psychopathic) and narcissistic mental ruinations.

I was able to get by, though, and finally graduated high school after 2 stints as a foster child in separate homes, taking 9 classes my last year to make up for lost time.  In my first foster home, being with my aunt Pris' and uncle Bill's, my uncle was a big boozer and so it didn’t take me long to start tapping into his booze supply along with my wonderful and adored LSD, plus some other kinds of amphetamines, and any other kinds of drugs I could get my hands onto, though I didn't do downers because I wanted to be high, not down, and I’m proud of the fact that I have never ever shot anything into my veins—LSD, booze and then off to school, that was a perfect day. Nevertheless, I was seldom the highest kid at school.  

In my second foster home I had brothers and sisters and we had outings and nice vacations, but it was still abusive.  Although some of them in that family were cool, some of them smoked weed and took other drugs and some of them were straight and it wasn't so bad, it was still abusive.  I came to find out that not long after I moved out, the parents got divorced.  Einstein's earlier problems in his life were similar in nature to mine, but there was one fundamental difference—I was no Einstein.

At my first foster home aunt Pris and uncle Bill put up a "Welcome Home Son" sign that greeted me—I remember it well, as I walked up the short walkway to the front door on my first day.  They proved to be way too strict and my parents were coming over way too frequently so I rebelled more.  They also didn’t let me go out or on vacation with any friends. 

I do remember one night my friend Ivan and I dropped some paper acid or window pane at his house.  That night there came a point where I felt I needed to check in to home base, but I also wanted to see if I could spend the night because we were both oh so really, really shit-faced.  I found the nerve and made the call, but my call was received by none other than that answering machine.  Hell, that answering machine tripped me out so badly because when I started to speak, it kept on doing what answering machines do. My problem was that it wouldn't stop talking and listen and we couldn't seem to synchronize our conversation so I stopped talking and tried to listen to what it was trying to say; I simply didn't have a clue.  That fuckin' answering machine had me spinning and as paranoid as hell—bloody hell, as the Brits would say, and in fact, I got so confused that I abruptly hung up in a panic.  (I can now assume that I went through all of those perplexities before the recorder started recording because neither Aunt Pris or Uncle Bill mentioned anything about it.)  I didn't know what had just transpired and why my uncle (or aunt) didn't behave as I was expecting him to.  So Ivan drove me home, but we had to keep reminding him that he was driving so he wouldn't get distracted.  I don't remember what happened after that but I don't remember any big troubles for me that night, so maybe my aunt and uncle were out.

They did give me a party at some point and I invited both straight and non-straight friends (as in those who take drugs and those who don't; I'm not talking about the modern-day straight and not straight queer crap) from my two schools.  I remember my aunt and uncle giving me a birthday present.  Do you know what it was?  It was a very small bottle of blow-bubbles.  Blow-fuckin'-bubbles in front of a dozen of high school friends!  My brother Andy inherits millions from them and I get blow-bubbles!  How cool is that?  Nothing to humiliate and traumatize your beloved son—I mean nephew, with, right?

My other siblings always had more advantage in being able to go to far away places, and receive more support, whether it be directional or financial, so I mentally spat in my aunt's and uncle's faces, not literally, of course, but in all sorts of other ways; nevertheless, in the end, I only hurt myself.  

I had a job at a restaurant and after I came home late from partying with the owner they called my probation officer who was there waiting for me after school the next day, whereupon I told him that I wanted another foster home.  To me, them calling him was equivalent of them calling the police, so I was done.  I was so stoned out of my gourd that I could barely see him, let alone speak to him, but he complied without saying a word about it, so I don't know if he knew.  My probation officer later gave me a choice of being placed into a non-close family unit where I would just check in and have certain things to do, or to have a close family unit; he was a bit taken aback when I told him that I wanted a close family unit—I'm a family man by heart.   

My second foster home was better, but it was also abusive, so I only stayed there for a semester, long enough to finish high school.  I got kicked out of it the week leading up to my graduation.  Perhaps I didn't stop my lust for psychedelics and speeds because of the abuse, because I didn't care, or because I liked the recreational aspect of the high too much, I'm not really sure.  Nevertheless, I was allowed to stay until graduation, which was less than a week away. 

I loaded up my Dodge Lancer with all of my things before graduation, put on my rented graduation gown and hat, went to graduation, waited outside the house for my natural parents to pick me up and take me to dinner.  They didn’t know of my predicament and once they brought me back to my foster home I got directly into my car and drove away without saying goodbye to my foster family.  When I was there we had a couple of good vacations and I learned how to water ski some, but it was still abusive.

I was living in my car when my girlfriend got pregnant.  We were happy about it, but she was a big fuckin’ dingbat and I wasn’t headed for any big successes anytime soon either, as most would measure success.  I slept in my car for 3 months until I moved in with her and her parents, who had just moved into a new apartment. 

When I was there, I was working at 7-11, but stealing small items for our home, still taking drugs and selling them even at work, since I worked the night shift where supervision was minimal. Well, I got fired and soon thereafter robbed another 7-11 down the street with a gun twice from where we were living.  I got another job pretty quickly, but the police went there and arrested me for the robberies.  Sheriff James M. Geary, the top-dog sheriff of Santa Clara County at that time, who was my friend's father, and who I helped campaign for while I was still attending the 1st of the 3 high schools I attended, had his guys come and pick me up at my new workplace. 

I was facing 20 to life, but Sheriff Geary wrote a letter to the judge, along with many my mom had collected, so the judge showed leniency.  This support allowed me to go to the California Youth Authority (CYA), that accepts youth up to the age of 25, instead of prison.  The support I received back then is one reason why I continue to spare myself from the criminal activity my mind often wishes I could execute into a reality—my protective factors are still stronger than my desires to settle scores.

And for my sister Cecilia, who was sexually abused by Mark, it seems that she was mentally and physically abused in other ways, but I don’t know the details. What I will tell you is that she used to write to me during my incarcerations. Her letters were very caring and I will never forget her encouragement and understanding, but there was something amiss in her handwritten letters. The letters in her writings were less than half of the size of any normal handwritten letter size I had ever seen, which sometimes made it difficult to read. I didn’t know of the abuses that were perpetrated against her at that time, but I was well aware that she had suffered something somehow by knowing somethings very basic in handwriting analysis (i.e. People with extremely small handwriting are shy and have some self-esteem issues.); it was evident then by seeing her writings that she had internal sufferings herself.

Nevertheless, the two of us are still alive, maintain Christian values of a sort, but as for me, I am left in a constant conflict with it.  Although I find it nearly impossible to express the depth of their wickedness and my hatred toward them most difficult, I am about to.

They call me a survivor—and all the while only do so behind my back; nevertheless, it is clear that they didn’t mean for me to survive.  Why?   And how can I know or assume this?  Selfish indifferent indulgences, is my guess as to the why—but I can only guess as to their motivations.  I remember Gene said in a caustic way that Becky said that she thought that he was jealous of her, implying how ridiculous that notion was; although I don't know those circumstances, I can assume that they are true because Gene's preposterous stated notions of me are beyond the pale and demonstrate beyond the preponderance of evidence that jealousy was clearly the driving factor in his rationales against my well-being. 

Gene had stated on many occasions that I should forgive Greg, for instance, but would he have forgiven anyone who did something so heinous to his own children?  I think not!  Gene stated that he and the family were willing to help me (spend my own money) to buy a house that had already become too expensive at that time, or to change my occupation (By the way, he first started me off with Novell networking, which is a great system, but with a substantially smaller market than Microsoft.  So, did he believe I would be able to get a job or develop my skills in a timely manner by entering me into such a much scarcer networking system market?  Why did Mark sit back and allow for Gene to augment my growth by allowing me to swim in the mud with parasites when he was well aware of the incorrigible nature of Gene's propensities toward irrational and irresponsible behaviors [that I knew nothing about]?).  Why was this same fuck-of-a-man (Gene) demanding of dad to not help me in Hungary?  What would I have possibly done to motivate him to turn on a dime?  I had so little contact with these people at that time that I could not have caused the most minute turbulence to brew this storm.   

If I lose everything is what they said in private, but not of course in public in open space so I could hear it with my own two ears.  Why?  The only three people I know who can survive and live to tell about, from nothing to something, are, let me see…Jesus, and Darth Vader, and perhaps Rambo. That’s about it.  There are very few people who can come out of that condition, and at any rate, it isn’t a comfortable moment.  Not many people are going to give you something if you have nothing to reciprocate, at least not for the duration, and certainly not substantively.  I did something similar 18 years or so prior, launching my gardening business and all, but even then I actually did have some tools, no matter how shoddy they were; even then, I had enough to survive and enjoy a few things, but I was never to accomplish my most desired goals of becoming a family man again (with a new woman, preferably already with adorable children, because I had already had a vasectomy because I once thought that my family was set and settled, having already fathered one boy and one girl, and married a woman) and a home of our own with progressive savings.  And these jerks—not at all, though, ever cared about, inquired about, thought about, or ever knew about how I had achieved what I had, nor what it was exactly I had achieved.

“Everybody has asked the question. . ."What shall we do with the Negro?" I have had but one answer from the beginning. Do nothing with us! Your doing with us has already played the mischief with us. Do nothing with us! If the apples will not remain on the tree of their own strength, if they are worm-eaten at the core, if they are early ripe and disposed to fall, let them fall! I am not for tying or fastening them on the tree in any way, except by nature's plan, and if they will not stay there, let them fall. And if the Negro cannot stand on his own legs, let him fall also. All I ask is, give him a chance to stand on his own legs! Let him alone!” - Frederick Douglass

Fredrick Douglass’ assertion is absolutely right.  Even I feel the same.  However, if you keep shooting at the fruit in hopes that it would fall, I would hope that the fruit could shoot back with even better precision.  Perhaps you would think I would be a DemonRat (a.k.a. a Democrat), but I can’t for the life of me reconcile with the logic and empirical evidence.  My siblings are simply shitheads, there’s no doubt about that assessment, but it still isn’t some other poor soul’s responsibility and that poor soul should not be forced to help my sorry ass in any way, unless he would want to, of course.  In other words, you don’t have to give me your successes and I shouldn’t want to give you my losses.  Even still, it is at this point that I wish to die in some fashion.  

Back on topic and on top, after all, Gene was jealous that I had risen so quickly in my level of computer skills and financial status—and perhaps he was jealous of Kris’, my sister Aileen’s husband, newfound money—though I didn’t know at that time that Kris had also found an opportunity similar to mine.  I began my expertise and financial growth far beyond anyone could believe, in a field Gene himself has been involved in for decades, and one that he had launched me into. Then again, Mark was also jealous, even though Mark had already accumulated more than a million dollars in wealth 10 or 20 years earlier—a bit on that later.  It later became apparent to me that these jackasses were only happy if my successes were baby steps and not large leaps because their assumed prelude to my assumed role in their "step-sisters" game-world was that of me being of an inferior stock compared to their wise and noble abounding glorious species. 

Gene was so jealous that he left his cushy job at 125k a year with benefits in 1995 (or thereabouts) to a rising .com that never transpired fruitfully and so he lost it somehow.   As a part of these perplexities, and their responses to my rise, I fell into a deep depression, as I was alone and no one to love or console, and so I lost it all, then woke up a bit late, but woke up I did.  These rats are not more clever than I nor are they more clever than Matthew or Cecilia, but what they are is that they are actually of a more conniving criminal type and far more manipulative in nature.

When I wanted to borrow money from dad to buy an office in Hungary in 2005, Gene, the bro that invited himself into my territory to tell me that the family had decide to help me, vehemently reprimanded dad and anyone else in every manner of effort to deny me of it, but Mark approved. This is when I told Gene that I hope he burns in hell. These events are also certainly indicative, among other hints and innuendos, that they for the most part significantly influenced our father’s decision-making processes regarding his selective, substantial financial and moral support for some of his children and not for others throughout decades, maybe even for a half a century, as well as indicative of their clear and astounding efforts to lie about wanting to help me.

For the longest of times in my new life here in Hungary I needed dad’s support, of which I had only on the rarest occasions asked for ever before in my life, of which were mostly denied.  This time I was more desperate than ever since my days as a homeless vagabond, thanks to my fucked-up brothers, again, and my ignorance of their disdain for honorable character within themselves and othersagain.  Dad’s support was never stable with me, or with Cecilia, or with Matthew.  But I needed it, and he came through, for the most part.  

It is “funny how”—or less than funny how, it was always Mark who Ok’d any and all requests I had from here in Hungary on my behalf.  For the first years I was grateful for his support, but now I am curious as to why he always needed to speak an opinion on such occasions, which were several, when he had refused to do so—in a normal way, that is, when both he and I, and the family, would have benefitted the most.  Was he simply offering an opinion and support, or was it something sinister?  Was he so influential with dad?  Or did he do it out of habit, like a mother wolf tending to her cubs, where the child (Mark), becomes the mother and where the mother (dad and mom) becomes the child, approving or disapproving what was to be, a mother (Mark morphing into dad and mom) who had rejected for the longest of times this outcast (me) because it was truly she (Mark the predator) and the other(s) who were truly the outcasts, or let's put it in plainer terms now, the true misfit(s) (misfit is a synonym for dysfunctional parts)?  

Were these misfits all projecting their own dysfunctionalityprojecting their own misfit-isms onto me and Cecilia, as they had with Matthew, as the story would seem to have it?  In other words, things seem clear enough now that it was this group of robber barons: Mark, Gene, Andy, their spouses, Cathy, Dorothy, Greg, and others, who were pulling levers on the purse strings of moral, financial, and family support, who were the puppet masters pulling the strings of the puppets (the once seemingly hale of a man who had turned into mush, our father [and mother]). See how it is?  Always an interjection of an opinion at the most opportune times—opportune for them, that is, so long as it doesn't affect their most glorious esteemed positions in the hierarchy.

So, after a few years of me being in Hungary dad did lend me money to buy an office, after I begged and shouted in desperation.  I had to convince him that this was the only way and that I was sure I could maintain my own English-language oriented business, and that it would continue to be much more difficult if I tried to find a job working for someone else, whether it were computer related or as some kind of English language teacher working for someone else in a language school—no regular school would hire me without a proper diploma; that pay would have been so, so minuscule by any account, anyway.  So, dad did lend me money, but always with an “Oh-boy” sigh, as though it were always a big burden (Did he do the “Oh-boy” sigh with anyone else, I don’t know?). 

Although he did break down and kick me over the money, I asked for just enough to get a loan, not more. The loan, however, happened to be a part of one of the biggest scams in recent European history and so I’m paying more than double than the agreed upon amount.  Like millions of others across Europe, it’s not sure that I’ll win by the end.  Many have bailed out of it with astronomically mounting debts still lurking over their shoulders, a reported 5,000 in Hungary alone have already committed suicide over this one issue alone, thousands of others have developed health issues as a result, some have found family or friends to pay for the unfair usury burdens, some have left the country, and I used up all my inheritance money, but still have 3 more years to pay—providing the final version of the story of the loan is true.  Unfortunately, I didn’t want to abuse dad’s generosity so I only asked for the money I needed to get the loan.

There are many videos on YouTube about this loan scam, but one in particular sums it up explicitly:  HUNGARY, LAND of EVICTIONS - Oct 2, 2019.

After these fiascoes and during that same time period, Gene had borrowed 300,000 dollars from dad to buy a moving business that went belly up after a short time. For the longest time, the family inheritance trust didn’t even know Gene wasn’t paying his bills and dad never said a word; upon learning of Gene's status, Gene was forced to relinquish both of his properties, but the family’s trust absolved Gene of his remaining debt of 25,000 dollars after the Inheritance shares were tallied up.  I was never jealous of these imbalances, but I am furious as to the cunning manipulations of their art for seasons of reasons.

You see, I had been away from the family for more than 13 years after I commenced my business after my last stint in jail—a stint for two weeks in the early 80s because my mom and sister Dorothy each wrote separate police reports on me to say that I threatened them, though it was largely exaggerated, and even though I had already moved out of the house weeks prior, was living in my truck for the second time in my life, and even though there was no evidence whatsoever other than their words, on top of the fact that I didn't even know I had warrants.  The police found me sleeping in my truck, ran my info. and I found myself in the county jail once again. 

At that time of that incarceration I had been out of trouble for more than 9 years until this group of mucous ratted me out on untruths that again put me in county jail for a week and an expensive 2,000 dollar predicament by forcing me to defend myself in a court of law with my previous family lawyer against their accusations, shortly after my daughter was kidnapped, and after my wife and son had left me.  

In fact, I asked my wife if she could come to court and she brought her new boyfriend—I just wanted to jump at them, chained to the other inmates and all.  The court hearing could have ended up with a jury trial without any evidence, but I had to jack hammer my family lawyer’s backyard concrete without pay instead; somehow he showed up to defend me but I don't remember calling him—I think Cathy didtalking about hard labor.  It also gave me another felony on my record—after more than 9 years of staying out of that shit-fuck world of cops and robbers and jail and a world you couldn't possibly imagine unless you have lived it. 

Nevertheless, sometime at the end of 1996 or the early part of 1997 Gene invited himself to my house and stated “The family had decided to help me” (His exact words). I was 40 or older at the time, but I accepted the offer.

When I embarked on my own business roughly 14 years prior, probably in 1981 or 82, I started my business while living in my green Toyota long-bed truck, but, as mentioned earlier, I was arrested and sent to jail for a couple weeks when the police saw me sleeping in it, due to my mom’s and sister’s separate police reports.  As a result of my incarceration, I had lost a couple of jobs, but I managed to keep going after I got out—living in my truck, building clientele, and buying equipment that I stored in a rental storage shed, where storing gasoline equipment wasn’t exactly legal.

Some riffraff named Andy finally came up to my truck window to ask me for a job.  I was sleeping in my truck that early morning in a park parking lot, obviously without a better place to sleep, and this dude just a comes knocking on my window in the early hours asking me for a job.  Well, I'll be damned!  He was a fast smooth talker and wanted to be partners right away. I believed he was either going to steal everything I had, which was a good amount, relative to what I had already accumulated and achieved, or make me rich, but I took the do or die gamble, as is of the kind of gamble of what often happens in times of desperation for a man who'd like to move forward in his life. 

I would later discover that this guy Andy's psychiatrist put him on lithium because his brain circuits weren’t exactly sparking correctly.   Well, he did take me for quite an unpleasant ride, but at the same time he had managed to get us an apartment.  Andy must not have stayed for more than a month or two on the account of him becoming scared of me due to my anger over his bizarre behavior and his borderline flimflamming schemes, but happenstance would have it that he also introduced me to his older lady friend whose daughter rented me their house where I stayed a few months later and where I was able to adequately build my business for the rest of the life of that business—for 13+ years, probably; no more carrying my lawn mower and garden equipment up to my second floor apartment.

A year or two later I had asked dad if he'd help me buy it for 120k but he flat out said "No!" And so I never asked again—I'm not a beggar—even with all that I've been through and my homelessness, I've never done any begging, though my snake siblings could have even enjoyed that if I did do some—some street begging, that is.

When Gene came over to help a decade and a half later the house must have been worth more than 250k and way beyond my ability to afford it.  Even decades earlier when I was married I had an opportunity to buy the condominium where I was at and dad said "No!" then too, even though I was an inspiring CNC milling machinist with a modest, but steady income. The new condominium I bought, with my new fortune of stock options, decades later valued at 250k dollars, and that cozy, newly renovated home was next door to where I had lived about 25 years earlier.  Although dad had been helping several other siblings in various ways and those others sometimes gave each other support, whether it be moral or in some other way, that garnered them huge dividends, it was I who was the shit-son and outcast-of-a-sibling who wasn't worth spit, and it was I who was on the outs. 

My mom and dad were compensating that dilemma with a dinner once a month to the local smorgasbord for me, but I didn’t have more contact with the family than that, for the most part.  Mom often wanted to take me bowling after dinner, but I was too depressed by the time dinner was over, knowing my daughter was kidnapped and how much they had nurtured my other lying, cheating sibling fucks, and were providing so many opportunities to them that you couldn't imagine, so between that and other depressive circumstances I opted out of that offer in favor of a marijuana joint awaiting me at my house in the comforts of my own privacy.  I regret not going bowling with her, but I think it was better.

So I again, when Gene came over, was oblivious to the true fiendish nature of the characters of these rats due to the time-lapse in my involvement with them.  Besides that, I didn't know that it was every click synchronized with such diabolical precision ganging up on us three (Well, Matt had long been deceased by this time, but the algorithms would suggest he was at one time part of the pattern.), systematically, simultaneously, as if it were all a high-energy tag team wrestling match.  These goons!  People don’t really change, but they do forget that to forgive is not to forget—I’m speaking about myself.  Dad did once say in a demeaning genre that Chris thinks everybody's after him—but he didn't understand that I can prove it and I am proving it now, and that that is in fact the reality of my siblings' sense of morality among Christian values misconstrued, that is in reality a heinous fervent passion for Christianity-perverted, a Satanic brew, and it is specifically designed to destroy me and Cecilia and Matthew that has by its very nature side effects that have also created massive fissures amongst the others involved—collateral damage is what it's called by name.

When Gene came over, I was living in a house by myself, had a large clientele base, lots of gardening equipment, a proper education, licensing for landscaping and chemical applications, a business that I built almost exclusively alone, and they all were willing to trash it all from me again in another con game, which I don't suspect they would have done if they knew that my debts had started mounting because it is that I may have self-destructed without their intervention, or perhaps they would have anyway, for their lust for the involvement of the sabotage could have been more compelling.

Still, I was always nervous because the house wasn’t mine and my credit cards had grown over the last 4 years or so.  I did love having my own business that I had started by myself and I knew that my meager beginnings of near nothingness were exceptional and well-respected by those who followed me; but there were some serious downsides that hampered me outside of the family’s non-help: I couldn’t keep any great female friends because my earnings weren’t enough, I was only renting the property my life depended on and I didn't own it, which meant that I could have had the rug pulled out from under me at anytime, the illegal and legal immigration were eating at my clientele and pricing base daily, like termites, and my date-car was a work dump truck, which made for a lousy impression as far as girls went.  It was depressing, but I knew where I was in life.

What Gene actually neglected to say when he came over was … well, he forgot to finish the line. “The family has decided to make more effort to help you go to hell if you succeed, and we’re going to fuck you again if you give us another chance.”  And he also forgot to mention that they were going to help me by allowing me to borrow against my own inheritance.  So the help was actually that I was going to be able to borrow from myself, and no effort or risk was on their shoulders whatsoever.  So essentially, they had no vested interest in my successes, or to maintain a positive relationship with me, and me being their brother and all provided them with no more incentive or sheath whatsoever than a socialist in Denmark out of work in search of work while eating pizzas and bananas downed with a beer or five.

But Gene did say “the family”, which I assumed was a good thing, even though they made sure that I was last in line—not by a little, but by a long shot—last, by a long shot; the reasons were just two: because their morality was “more worthy” than mine, so they were due the upper hand with anything the family had to offer, and because my criminal record was on record, and theirs were not. And that was my jail sentence from the Dias family—they would decide if and when I was ever to be released from the financial and psychological bonds that they themselves imposed on me, in hopes to kill me, but I wouldn’t die.

Nevertheless, I took the bait, hook, line, and sinker. I again became ensnared in their web of mindless misdeeds, lies and betrayals. Their poison is simple: separate the victims from their resources, including social intercourse and a solid financial base, then taunt and torment him or her until he / she breaks.  This is a pack of hyenas who manage to separate a lion or lioness from his or her pride, and then methodically takes the poor schlemiel down to the very end.  This is the agenda that has been repeated time and again against my good soul by these worms, as they similarly did against Cecilia’s, and against Matthew’s.

In other words, what they are good at is exploiting emotional incapacities on the part of us in the middle. Matthew was smarter and more successful than most in the family at his early years, but what had happened was that he was dejected as a result of being rejected at every turn by the very people he wanted to impress and satisfy. One time Mathew painted the entire inside of the house as a surprise to our parents and family when the family went on vacation, but was scolded severely for weeks on end by those very people because they didn’t like the color, or something—and not one of his siblings, as far as I know, backed him up at that point—they abandoned him like rats do when they are challenged and have a rat tunnel to escape through.

Can you imagine 14 kids and their friends running up and down here and there and yonder year after year smudging hand prints and any other kinds of substances all over the walls?  Can you imagine how much grime was removed by his efforts?  I was already out of the house, but maintained rare visits.  He also built a shed in the back yard, putting electrical lighting and the whole bit back there and was very good with mechanics.  Matthew had the biggest positive footprint of any other sibling in the family in the house ever.  

It was by the hand of jealousy alone that other siblings (Mark, especially, because he had naturally desired a way to move back into his status in the hierarchy and beyond his flunky status living in Matthew's world) were enticed enough to play such despicable games as in this shortened list: "Tattletale", "Mother's Helper", "the nursing game", "Kick Me (Poor Me)", "Why does this always happen to me? WAHM (Poor Me)", "I'm Only Trying to Help You (Psychopathic Star)", "Threadbare (Poor Me)", "Now I've Got You, You Son of A Bitch (Violator)", and the rest (ref: Transactional Analysis).  Through their sociopathic (or psychopathic) narcissism a significant motivating factor was had for them to turn the tables on him, to turn the tables on us three.

However, Matthew, like the rest of us, did of course have a dark side. As mentioned previously, I believe he burned out the eyes of my tortoise, though I never had any proof; it's just that I came home one day and my tortoise was dead and his eyes were black, like from what a torch might make, and Matthew was into welding.  In another instance, he and I got into a fight once (I don’t remember what it was about) where he proceeded to try to twist off my leg while I was pinned against the porcelain bathtub in the upstairs bathroom, and as usual, mom kept asking him—not me, what was wrong.  

I then ran out of the house to the back of another house a few houses away where I had done some gardening work a couple years earlier, and where I had been stashing my weed in a wooden chest in a wooden shed that I could get to through a hole in the lady’s back fence, and where a safe place awaited. When I saw that my weed was discovered and confiscated, I started breaking out the small 10—12 inch windows one by one. After about 3, my hand was bleeding so copiously that I ran out through the gate leading to the front yard, up the street screaming, and ran up the hill about a half mile away or so to my friend’s whose mother was a nurse and who was able to bandage me up for the time being.

On the way to the hospital we stopped by my parents’ where Matthew apologized and I just screamed “Fuck you” from inside the car while holding my hand, whereupon my friend’s mom Carol slapped me instantly. This was the second time I’d find myself incarcerated, and the last time I would be living at home for years to come.  I’m sure it had an effect on Matthew.

I remember lots of violence.  I remember writing "I hate you" (to mom and dad) in the garage closet and getting a good ass whooping for it.  I also remember when Matt pinned dad into a fetal position by punching him after dad tried to swing the first blow.  By that time, Matthew had already taken wrestling and was taller and beefier than dad.  Matthew then dashed out of the house, not in fear, but to escape from himself, not just the situation, not just from dad, but from himself—running and running, but never getting any further from the very skin he was trying to escape from.  I don't remember if I ever knew where he ran away to or how long he was gone, but I do remember that the pigs (the police) were never called; one can assume that the reason the fuzz were never called on Matthew, but were always called on me, is that Matthew was a more capable chap, and as Mark wrote, he wasn't someone you wanted to mess with, but that certainly wasn't how they felt about me, now was it?—in other words, members of the family were seriously cautious and afraid of Matthew, but they were not cautious or fearful of me—NOBODY WAS FUCKIN' AFRAID OF ME, BUT THEY WERE OF MY OLDER BROTHER MATTHEW (Remember that as we move forward on with this story!)! 

It’s kind of like the differences between a person who commits suicide and a person who “attempts” suicide.  The person who is committed to carrying out the act is more likely to “Just do it!” rather than to talk about doing it to others (who can be informers) before doing it, for self-preservation of the commitment is first and foremost.  Those who "attempt" to do it may be attention seekers, or may be death wish seekers by creating problems for themselves, but they are less likely to take that final step by going over the line of no return.  Even habitual smokers may be considered to be a part of this self-harming group.

The same thing with being truly scared of someone.  If someone is truly scared of someone and isn’t ready to face all of the consequences, such as recognizing the need to get a big-ass weapon and actually getting one, or doesn't commit to going into hiding, leave the country, or whatever, that person isn’t likely to call the cops for fear of the repercussions that could follow when the person or persons you called the cops on seeks retribution.  Well, but if someone simply wants to play the game of “Cops and Robbers”, then calling the cops will reap tokens (ref: Transactional Analysis), which have psycho-dramatic benefits, if nothing more, but usually more. These tokens have always been their rewards for doing unto me what they wouldn’t even have thought about doing unto Matthew.

I don’t know what it was about, but I do remember Mark was also there—actually; it always seemed that Mark was nearby when the most of the brutality broke out.  Why was that?  And another thing is that I don’t remember Mark ever getting whipped, not violated by dad’s favorite weapons, the belt and that fuckin' belt buckle, sometimes a stray board in the yard, or a fist, or even a rock, like I did.  Mark always seemed to escape these collisions with fate, but that could just be my imagination.

I think that a big difference between us in the middle and the rest is that we were more sensitive to things, even after we did something wrong. The others are pure sociopathic (or psychopathic) narcissists and found their clicks within the family and were supported by our parents, no matter what they did wrong.

I did similarly nice things for our parents on occasion as Matthew did, and as most kids do, though on a much smaller scale than Matthew. One time was when I must have been no more than 12 or 13 I gave my mom a flower or two that I picked off the neighbor’s bush (It was only one or two flowers out of hundreds on the one bush), but mom scolded me and took me to the neighbor’s to apologize for stealing.  Another time I anonymously voluntarily washed the upstairs bathroom and when mom found out about it, she inspected my work, then yelled at me for leaving a Clorox film, which barely existed, if at all—anyway, it was clean, and the old adage should have applied, “It’s not the gift that matters, but the thought that counts”, but it didn't in this case.

Those were the last times I gave her flowers and volunteered to do anything, but not the last time I would steal. Mom stole my gardening money and sales money that I had earned from my gardening jobs and from my selling of Christmas and birthday cards.  She stole my fuckin’ gardenin’ money and money from other sales I had worked long and hard for—I was furious.  I used to garden every weekend and put the money in a joint account mom opened up for me to put the money ‘in a safe place’; that was money out of our joint bank account that I had been saving for years.  You see, despite the abuse that began years earlier, I was still an eager beaver and quite a responsible kid, but mom stole my fuckin’ money because she said she had to pay for me for being in juvenile hall.  So that’s about the time I started doing a bit more 5-finger discounting as well. 

From where I was living at my aunt and uncles’ some miles away I snuck out of the house one late night and rode my bike all the way to my parents’.  I snuck inside and was planning on stealing some money back out of mom’s purse.  I was on all kinds of amphetamines anyway, so I had plenty of night energy.  I'm not sure if I took any drugs that night—I don't think so, but I already had plenty of foreign materials in me from all the other recent days that the Road Runner wouldn't have been able to catch me. 

It was dark, but somehow Becky appeared at mom and dad’s bedroom door, but I don’t think she came from inside their bedroom.  She saw me and before she knew it I had vanished into thin air, and rode back home.  This is the first time I’ve ever revealed this escapade, which has never been brought up by anyone else, so I don’t know if Becky just thought it was a dream.  I gave no thought about doing unto others what others had done unto me and stealing back my hard earned money was just one perpetual ambition that cycled through my mind.

We three in the middle were as good a student and as smart a Dias as any other Dias, but our emotional disorders, dependent on support and affection, are inadequate under “this-family’s”-oriented dysfunctional pressures.  Matthew’s successes and plannings were meticulous and focused, but this disorder that he and I both suffer(ed) was/is mostly due to our desire to love and to be loved, but couldn’t find it—and we were both systematically separated from our primary dreams for our futures by this “more-morality” sadistic clown show acted by losers fallen from God’s grace, but pretending to be in God’s grace.  I too fell under that spell of depression, and am here to dispel the lies and share the facts for my own therapy and because these matters need to be unraveled in my own head, along with the jab back at Mark that is long overdue. 

How can I possibly know these intricate details and the depths of their conspiracies so vividly and how can I move them to the theoretical to the factual side of the law?  It's easy.  Because after being separated from the events and recovering from the disease (i.e. having succumbed eventually to intercurrent disease; Games People Play; Dr. Eric Berne), my analytical mind has been on overdrive ever since I awoke in another country, Hungary, from this chronic cycle.  Herein the truths and the bizarre nature of jealousy, sociopathy (or psychopathy), and narcissism within this group I was born into, a group that, as Mark himself put it, "is so dysfunctional"—which is true, and which is incapable of proper communion will be unraveled; this evaluation will be more than simple conjectured assumptions.  

It is my promulgation here and now, that in direct accordance “filled with the fruit of justice”—Philippians 1:11, that I have rebounded by my being boomeranged here to fascist Hungary in order to spread the good nature of the Holy Ghost and republican economic truths to a troubled land of socialists/Marxists, a land that is as troubled as the family of my natural siblings. So, perhaps it is through those experiences that I could endure just a little longer before I meet my maker by natural means or by artificial ones.  I now teach my students and others about the unalienable rights provided by a good and gracious God and why the U.S. Constitution “…was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.” – John Adams.  But in so saying and in so doing, I must also teach when possible that that means that it is wholly inadequate for dysfunctional families like ours, and that I am a refugee of some sort.  

Ironically, I am a teacher of logical reasoning and I claim for myself to be a (relatively successful) communications instructor, not just an English teacher, but not just for myself do I claim this, but my work is an evidentiary testament to these truths.  I teach, among other things, basic economics, law, history and I argue politics in both English and Hungarian, among other subjects.  I do translations from Hungarian to English, as well as proofread an array of technical works and am the last line of defense for mistakes as a medical text editor for research papers that are published.  I’ve worked for politicians, well-renowned writers and the list is long enough.  I speak, write, and read in Hungarian, and listen to anything in Hungarian that I'm interested in or have time for.  My website at has a long list of most of the subjects I touch on or delve into in my everyday lessons that are of course, in the English language. 

These members of the unscrupulous-siblings kind have told me time and again to come and join them, that as a victim of their whimsical fallacies, I should forgive and forget about “it”.  I think it would have been better for me to congratulate them on their most diabolically sinful performances.  And time and again, usually after many years, I did just that and their debaucheries never ceased to pioneer a new level of low.  I, an outsider from before I was 16, and Matthew, who stayed in for the duration, had a longing for love, friendship, and family, and their enticements ensnarled us for years, and me for the last time in 2002 when I made a series of rapid-fire decisions to abandon the land and friends that I loved, leaving my valuables, sentimentals, and memories behind as well.  Like bugs stuck in a spider’s web, Matthew didn’t escape, but Cecilia and I did, but not without deep wounds.

At the last moment in the last instance, the family tricksters suddenly gained a supposed-conscience, and Andy, as I was literally leaving Gene’s house with Gene, one foot out the door, my home emptied, ticket in hand, on the way to the airport to say goodbye to America, destination—Hungary, blurted out, “Do you know what I think?   I don’t think you should go.”  These were his exact words, and he answered his own first question before I could answer it, so it must have been a badly orchestrated rhetorical question contrived by the entire lot.  This is a picture instilled in the recesses of my unsettled mind because that visual set off an explosive fuse inside of me, watching his "togetherness" family climbing all over him in playful jubilation at the same time.  

I wanted to tell him to “fuck off”, but wasn’t sure if that would have had any effect on my driver to the airport, who happened to be a co-conspirator against me, I came to find out later—I was so blindsided that I was quite oblivious to these conspiratorial facts, and certainly not to their extents.  Why would he be so concerned now?  I think he knew that I would suddenly be out of their control and out of their manipulative reach.

My interactions with these maggots were very similar to Mathew’s.  As explained in Dr. Eric Berne’s book Games People Play, Andy’s favorite author (an ironic comment about my cynical brother Andy, an ironic orator, who makes derisive belittlements against one awesome psychiatrist, a psychiatrist who is from a very profession I myself have little positive to say about), “emotional deprivation can have a fatal outcome”, which is an unintentionally adopted phenomenon of mine—or is it intentional, and not more of a self-loathing death-wish?—and of Matthew’s, and will be comprehensively explained in my assertions.

“It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.”  –Voltaire.  This phrase is a snapshot of all of humankind’s lives in general, individually, nationally, as well as worldwide.

Expecting siblings and in-laws, I got them instead. I can now see that part of their intentions were to create the extremes in drama. Wouldn’t that be the ultimate if we had two victims of suicide, or even one victim of suicide and another a mass murderer, or a brother in jail for a long, long time?  Wouldn’t that have been a great read from a brother author?  It may be that my brothers would have liked to write and preach more drama than is now possible, to express more dismay, like a perpetrator who sheds no tears as his wanton lust for his incorrigible needs go unchecked and unfettered, all the while blaming his neighbors for the acts which he himself discharged, and then writes about all in a series of braided untruths.

When mom passed away on the 4th, June 2005 (aged 77), I had been in Hungary for over 3 years.  I came to find out that I wasn’t allowed to go to her funeral, not because of the expenses, not because of the logistics, not because of the timing, but because the other members—all of them, were scared of me. I wasn’t even uninvited, the details and conditions were simply concealed from me, but discussed in stealth that no one would go if I went because they were scared of me, because they didn’t want me there, like buzzards in the sky that you know are there, but that you can’t quite make out.

Yea, really, you’re fuckin’ scared of me?  You fuck my daughter and threaten her life, you conceal the evidence, and you’re scared of me?  You call the cops on me time and again or sick mom or dad on me time and again to whip me with a belt (or fist or rock or board, etc.) into submission for something you’ve manufactured, sometimes out of whole cloth, and you’re scared of me?  You snitch on me at every turn with more fabrications and you’re suddenly scared of me?  You think that it’s Ok if I lose everything again, and have perpetrated surreptitiously and conspiratorially against my welfare for 50 years, and you’re scared of me?  You bear no shame and are more fraudulent than Al Sharpton and Joe Biden and the Clintons and the entire Democrat party combined.

You would never have behaved with such callous evil regards for anybody, let alone me, if you were afraid of the consequences of God’s wrath or afraid of me.  It is true that psychopathic (or sociopathic) narcissists don’t have much regard for others, nor do they bear into account consequences, that’s true.  It is also true that I do hope you die by any torturous means, natural or unnatural, it doesn’t matter.  But please!  The evidence shows the truth, and the truth is that you’re not scared of me; you’re just punks (#4 in the urban dictionary)!  So mom passes peacefully while you all counterfeit your tears, while you tear into me on her funeral day and passing.  It is I, a victim without recourse, who is the one who’s discomforts you take solace in.  You care not if I murder myself or murder someone else; in fact, to you it would be better if I did, which is one motivation and reason for me to keep myself out of such predicaments.

For Mark, one who always wanted to write and sing and lead the clan, perhaps the need to feel worthy as a dignified son was so off-kilter that he became so impassioned for the need to eliminate others while aligning himself to the “chosen favored”, a syndrome that was perhaps exacerbated by his need to distract abusive disciplinarian parents through the art of redirecting that negative energy onto others more vulnerable—collusive perversions, while he pursues his own personal interests not only unfettered, but in fact with praise and unfettered support.

And for the finale, all of that is lost now as the seasons have changed and as the barrage of indelible cynicisms and snarks have festered an inevitable dystopia of discontent that has also created incorrigible fissures in any alignment that a harmonic community and proper conduct could muster, leaving the family liaisons as discarded, dilapidated, and shattered as ever, which I have had virtually nothing to do with since forever.

The only alignments that remain in the family now seem to be among those who are not fully saturated in these satires among siblings and parents.  It’s simple human behavior.  Congeniality is cohesive, and the opposite of congeniality is disagreeable, abhorrent, hateful, unpleasant, and unsympathetic, not to mention dysfunctional. Cecilia and family, Aileen and family, Margie and spouse (Her children are generally leftist communists, so they don’t much adhere to the solidarity of logical reasoning.), and me (And I have no contact with my children, which breaks my heart.), and that’s all, though there are fissures in this group too; that’s all who I have respectful feelings for, minus a couple of other siblings I barely know, and some associations with a reminisce of a pretense of clustered and snagged fishing lines that claim cohesion in all its form.

As stated earlier, in a moment much of what I’m going to be presenting is evidentiary based to a large degree on Mark’s writings, circumstances, and events, his writings mainly of his last Facebook blogs he wrote to me, that are somewhat known to the clan, and others on what I am telling you based on what has been stated to me through direct or indirect sources and logical reasoning through personal experiences.  Although some of that cannot be verified easily, the assumptions will put it into perspective.

I’m not saying that I’m not innocent in Matthew’s demise, or in my own alienations and undoings, but what I am saying is that it is, as Matthew’s was, our inabilities to interpret the game structures, and to react in a timely manner in the course of self-preservation, and the others who were able to execute their intrinsic, emotionally charged perversions due to their narcissistic sociopathy (or psychopathy) that has masked any sense of decency, remorse and wrongdoing, which in turn had / has immensely raised their odds at our demise, and their intentional inflictions against us, which proceeded to catapult their own progressions forward based on a world of deceptions that can easily be seen in hindsight.

And it is that within the perpetual flatulations from within this group, the family cockroaches, from some from the top and others from the bottom who have tried to kill the three of us in the middle, physically, emotionally, and financially, and mostly deliberately—but perhaps not always deliberately, however they could.  Whatever part I played in their charades was mostly that of an unwitting victim, a sucker, if you will—which may be why Mark calls me "uneducated", which is a misconstrued term on his account.  The charades are clear enough to not only me, but also to others—I will leave others out of this picture as far as I can with that element.  What I am saying here is of my own cognition based on piles of evidence and my own comprehension of applied assumptions, experiences and facts.

Mark has called one of my earlier writings, titled "A Family - Contempt", a diatribe of this family.  I would rather say that it would be more accurate to call it an assessment of facts pertaining to the relationships I had within the confines of this family.  Nevertheless, in the end, dad and mom and I reconciled and became friends.  How?  Why?   Well, it is part of my true character—forgiving when possible.  I made dad a promise to him on his last day, but I’ll keep that one to myself because it’s not sure that I will keep it.  So, it's not a diatribe at all, but simply me trying to figure out what all has transpired with my relationships within this family and why. 

Part 2: Redefining the Redefined: This part of my essay is to verify that my readers can understand certain simple definitions that are already assumed to be understood by the majority of the ‘Educated’, but are either misunderstood, disregarded, or have been redefined by the majority of the ‘Educated’ in this clan of desperadoes, of whom I will now refer to as “the overly under-educated, unlearned overly schooled.”  For it is this group of shrewd detractors to a conducive good-mannered ambiance, who have, through paradigmatic, epigrammatic shifts, implied or stated revisions of definitions that insinuate far-fetched notions for absurdities regarding certain events, memory-loss moments, or that elude logical reasoning with as much poignant ludicrousness on their surfaces as they are surreal in their depths, that a review of their standard definitions is warranted.

Correct!  Those things that seem to be clear are oxymora by their very existences.  Part 2 is a prelude to a list of the oxymora perpetrated throughout by the misfits (The definition of misfit is precisely the definition of what it is to be dysfunctional.) who convulse convolutions by claiming to be fit in all things Earthly and Heavenly while metastasizing these very paradigms throughout these pigheaded pinheads’ influential scopes.

So let’s first of all get started by defining these terms in the normal standards that apply to them:

1.       Psychopathy and sociopathy are not defined in medical handbooks, but I think that most people can understand their terms, which I find appropriate here. Nevertheless, here’s an adequate link that will help you recognize them: Sociopath vs. Psychopath: What’s the Difference?

“A psychopath doesn’t have a conscience. If he lies to you so he can steal your money, he won’t feel any moral qualms, though he may pretend to. He may observe others and then act the way they do so he’s not “found out,” Tompkins says.

A sociopath typically has a conscience, but it’s weak. He may know that taking your money is wrong, and he might feel some guilt or remorse, but that won’t stop his behavior.”

Both lack empathy, the ability to stand in someone else’s shoes and understand how they feel.  But a psychopath has less regard for others, says Aaron Kipnis, PhD, author of The Midas Complex.  Someone with this personality type sees others as objects he can use for his own benefit.”

2.       A definition of narcissism and the distinctions between narcissism and sociopathy are defined in a Psychology Today article called What's the Difference Between a Sociopath and a Narcissist?

Here is a summary of what the article defines are similarities and differences: 

“Shared traits: They both can be charismatic, intelligent, charming, and successful, as well as unreliable, controlling, selfish, disingenuous, and dishonest.  They share exaggerated positive self-images and a sense of entitlement.  For example, when they’re abusive, they believe they’re justified and deny responsibility for their behavior.  They lack insight.   Although they might feign appropriate emotional reactions, this is usually insincere, as they lack empathy and emotional responsiveness.

Distinguishing traits: While sociopaths qualify as narcissists, not all narcissists are sociopaths.  What drives them differs.  But the main distinction is that sociopaths are more cunning and manipulative, because their ego isn’t always at stake.  In fact, they don’t have any real personality.  They’re the ultimate con artists and can take on any persona that suits them.  Thus, they may be harder to spot, because they’re not trying to impress you or win your approval—unless it serves their agenda.  Instead of bragging, their conversation might center on you rather than on themselves, and they can even be self-effacing and apologetic if it serves their goal.”

Here is an article on more traits of a narcissist and how to deal with one: Narcissists Deny Flaws In Themselves And Put The Blame On Others

3.     Evil: morally wrong or bad; immoral; wicked: evil deeds; an evil life; harmful; injurious.  But, I don’t think this definition gives the word enough character, so I’m adding heinous, utterly odious, and repugnant to it.

4.    A Paradigm Shift: a situation in which the usual and accepted way of doing or thinking about something changes completely.

5.      Disability:
1. lack of adequate power, strength, or physical or mental ability; incapacity.
2. a physical or mental handicap, especially one that prevents a person from living a full, normal life or from holding a gainful job.
3, anything that disables or puts one at a disadvantage:
ex: His mere six-foot height will be a disability in professional basketball.
4. the state or condition of being disabled.
5. legal incapacity; legal disqualification.

7.   Disability Insurance: insurance providing income to a policyholder who is disabled and cannot work; insurance providing income to a policyholder who is disabled and cannot work.

8.   Education:  the process of facilitating learning, or the acquisition of knowledge, skills, values, beliefs, and habits. For more information, including its Etymology and the History, search for ‘education’ on Wikipedia.

9.  Asshole:  an inconsiderate, arrogant, uncaring, selfish, borderline sadistic, apathetic, mean, spiteful, dishonorable, bastard of a man who could tempt the Pope into a fight.

And last but not least, allow me, if you will, to lump the following terms together because they are so closely related in this context:

10.   A family; a business partner; a friend; a team:  clan, folk, group, house, household, blood, pedigree, affiliation, alliance, genre, fellowship, fraternity, gang, club, coalition, league, organization, outfit, partnership, union, society, sorority, union, partnership, blood, business asset, partner, affiliate, colleague, workmate, ally, collaborator, comrade, companion, buddy, pal, mate, sidekick.

Obviously, I’m not going to define the last grouping in more detail, but the implications can be huge if everybody is on the same page, or on different pages (i.e. team members, family members, business partners and friends) and working in harmony to advance the positive interests of each and every link.  A dysfunctional union might have a pretense of those characteristics, but it is based on superficiality, deception, and undesirable friction.  Being in business by its very definition and implementations explicitly means developing a system that creates profitable customer relationships through processes that create cooperative partnerships that have exchangeable interests.

It could be that Matthew and I have gone in and out of sociopathic patterns, but eventually we dropped that to a higher standard, and in fact both of us became socially overly sensitive and depressed with interpersonal social intercourse failed, smarter than most, but with emotionally low IQs: when falling in love, finding trustworthy relationships, or things went wrong, and were often later pushed toward the very edge, and in Matthew’s case, over the edge, by siblings, intentionally—and maliciously; when they saw our metamorphoses they saw weakness, and when they saw weakness, they encouraged and prodded our weaknesses and took advantage of a natural human longing for our needs to be a part of a loving position in the family that would never be, along with their tendencies to find favor when no favor was deserved.  

Part 3 A Mischief of Rats and The Unearned Moral Superiority Show:

Below is a list of my siblings and I. The ones with the stars have passed onto the next world and the ones in purple are of the Mischief of Rats and the Unearned Moral Superiority group, of whom not all are mentioned in this exercise.  Some of the listed varmints also include many of their spouses and children, which are not listed here. This is my perception to the matter, while others may have another list, understandably, but probably all of my siblings would have a list that could be marked similarly.  

1 Margie
2 Cathy *
3 Andy
4 Mark
5 Matt *
6 Chris
7 Cecilia
8 Dorothy
9 Paul
10 Gene
11 Greg
12 Aileen
13 Bryan
14 Becky

My initiatives for writing this piece were not only triggered by my eagerness to respond to Mark’s callous impracticalities and his dishonest rebukes to my response given to him, but to do it in a way that would seal the coffin on these utterly contemptuously riddled false arguments on matters beguiled. When he expected me to sympathize with my coming to know of his severed relations with Andy and his family, I hit him without him expecting it, and I hit him harder without the compassion I usually show—I’m tired of the compassion.  While it still has in no way alleviated the depression that lingers in me more than ever, my intent was to provide substantive reasoning, which he rejected, as I suspected he would.  Who is the biggest asshole in these perplexed vortices that embrace the enigmatic obstipation?

When I was made aware of my two brothers, Mark and Andy and their families, who were deemed to be close to each other by most outsiders as well as insiders (I think.) throughout their childhoods as well as their adult lives by anyone who knew them even ever so slightly, had severed ties with each other, and Mark’s take on the matter, I gave “a devastating counterattack. It’s the kind of counterattack that doesn’t leave anything standing”, as Bill Whittle has stated a person should do to leftists who “argue without arguments” (Thomas Sowell).

When I asked Mark about the breakup, he explained it to me in significant enough detail, and you can see that Facebook messaging below because I’ve taken the liberty to copy it in full.  He obviously expected me to offer him a sympathetic ear, but I instead wrote a rebuke of this group as a whole.  Since I did write something so far removed from what he had expected, he tried to tear me a new asshole with verbal abusive language beyond the pale, that showed me not only his true character and feelings about me, which I had already suspected, but his true relationship with Matthew.

It is through his private Facebook blog response to me that has provoked me to rev up and sharpen my cognitive motors and motivation, to do this one last thing that you’re reading now before I finalize my goodbye to most of you, the family members I was born with.

So, by bringing up a couple of these inconvenient truths that immediately pop up from his assertions, he blocked me from having any further communication with him.  Nevertheless, I am now going to analyze his Facebook messages in stringent detail and maybe make a comment or two about his writings.

Sometimes I whisper under my breath in a somber tone, “I thought we were friends (I thought we could have been.)”, but that could never be now—there is too much between us. God says to forgive these scoundrels but I’ve done that far too often, and like Mark says “I’m done”, I’m done with that idea as well.  God also says to stay clear of this sort, which I have finally done.  This is when I fired Mark and his wife (well, his wife long ago—a bit about that later) as recognized relatives, friends, as business partner collaborators, and as team members who could have also benefitted from my successes—I was furious to know what I now know, after my mind, in a spinning vortex of thought processes, began to decipher all of the tick bites of years of information bygone.

10 “Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much. 11 So if you have not been trustworthy in handling worldly wealth, who will trust you with true riches? Luke 16:10-11.

Certainly this Bible verse goes to say much about my character as well, and even mom’s character, as I’ve taken back or retaliated when I was wronged, and so has she.  So they are not alone in their shortcomings, but when we put things into more perspective, we’ll be able to see the triggers and some very distinct differences.

So Mark likes to write, and overall he’s not a poor writer, but I’m not here to talk about his writing style, only the content of his writings that are demonstrated in his style.  As is often the case, a writer’s writings reveal the character of himself/herself as much as, or more so, than of the characters in each piece.

The articles that Mark has written that I know of, along with a video, are as follows:

2.   Disability Does Not Mean Poverty (I don’t know if he wrote this one, but he referenced it to humiliate my economic status compared to his.)
and a video that others had a hand in as well:
7.   I also know he wrote about Aunt Pris and Aunt Margie, along with a family tree that goes back hundreds of years.  Well, hell, when you’re on disability raking in the cash by reinvesting the undeserved money, and have nothing else to do during the day, what’s a man supposed to do? 

It’s all interesting, and I’ve read all of them thoroughly far earlier than my decision to write this article, mind you, even though I know his interests in what I have to say or share weren’t by any measure reciprocated, even though he shams interests in the very same subjects that my own writings are in and even shares opposing biases through his many self-indulging blogs and writings.  

I’m confident that there are other writings, but I’m first going to analyze our Facebook message conversation we had this year in 2019, and also make a couple of comments on a couple of the above articles, followed by a conclusion.

The Facebook Saga

This is Mark’s blogging photo that is displayed when he responds to sympathetic bloggers on his article titled Suicide- A Brother's Decision - The Retirement Spot. It is the only photo available in his writings; in this case, it’s his remark photo that I’ve seen and doesn’t show up on any other of his stories as of yet.  It’s a bit of an odd photo to be presenting on his brother’s suicide because it is a display of a Mark who wants to be considered as an impressive, intelligent writer—a wannabe, perhaps, but not to impress upon his readers his sincere conviction toward his heartfelt compassion and mournfulness over his brother Mathew’s self-immolation—of a brother he misses.  Well, Ok, perhaps I’m reading too much into it, so let’s move on.

When I asked Mark about the breakup between his family and Andy’s, he opened up with things I was never aware of, but it was certain he expected a sympathetic ear—as evidence of his response to after I attached my In response.pdf  file, after which he first said, “Thks Chris will read today” before reading my response. 

I have always been bitter that I was left out of family support—never jealous, but bewildered about the hypocrisies, angry that I hadn’t severed ties when my “good job with stock options” came in, angry that I took Mark’s abusive language against my sister Cecilia and her husband James when he talked about how stupid they were for two years straight—non-stop, for not taking his advice, and angry at myself for seeking his advice and getting sucked into his dangerous and deadly games—this parasitical clique; nevertheless, dysfunctional functioning in a network of relationships is something anyone should want to be left out of anyhow—though I was almost wholly unaware of the article.  I am a true Scorpion, born in November, which means I like being left alone, but not a smart Christian, though perhaps more grown on the subject than even Andy, but now I’m furious as to the revelations.  It was at this time, the time when the functioning dysfunctions were revealed in full that I felt compelled to let off some steam by writing this documentation.

How can I present Mark’s Facebook comments in a comprehensive, understandable way, stay focused and not go off on tangents filled with angry conniptions myself?  Finding a solution to that question right now seems that it’s going to be one of the hardest parts of this essay because from here on out things become even more personal, more recent and more resentful for me; the oxymoronic nature of the deceptions in this theme is just so evil.

I’ve been leaving out and will be leaving out other family members from these exercises who were also involved in these or similarly conspiratorial matters, but for this writing and focus they don’t fit well into my train of thought and would detract from the elements, as of now.

I moved into Mark’s house and gave up my landscaping career and prior dreams for another new beginning—so many new beginnings that I’d need to sit down and count the epochs.  I have never once complained about that decision, though, but now I regret it immensely.

Mark responds to my “In response.pdf with:  I gave you a choice-the bedroom or the living room. Your choice was the living room and you could have purchased a cot for that matter to use.  It was your choice to sleep on the floor or for that matter you could have moved if you were dissatisfied.  It’s a free country but you chose the living room.  You are an adult.  Funny how you never complained until you left.

The above comment says, “Funny how you never complained until you left,” which implies that I’ve since complained, but the fact is that I’ve never complained about my stay there—not once, not now, not on the Facebook conversation, and not before.  That was my decision and my mistake, and to top that off, where I stayed there was never relevant to anything I’ve ever said.

Why would he say that?  He would only say that because he reads things, or reads into things that I've ever written or have had to say in the most perfunctorily, cursorily of ways, if at all; he makes presumptions without merit, and is slipshod in his march to prove a point, that can be noticed more easily if one were to look more closely at his actions and thoughts, as I’m going to show you.

Mark expects everyone he comes into contact with to read his shit thoroughly, but not once has he read anything I’ve ever sent him other than to make bodaciously incredulous notations from his half-baked ideas on any evidentiary subject I raise.  He is the definition of a true politician.  He should go back and be more specific, but like any leftist commie stubborn fool I’ve ever come across, he won’t because he can’t.

I now teach and research political matters here in Hungary and in the USA.  Am I an expert?  I wouldn’t say that, but what I would say is that I have gained a far better understanding of the issues than before, have accumulated far more facts and logical reasoning than most, and I am not keen on talking about things I don’t understand or know about well.  

To break for a moment, last night, October 13, 2019, for example, there were local elections across Hungary and my side won massively.  The common assumptions are that Orbán Viktor and his FIDESZ party are somehow right wing, when they are clearly not.  Fascism is a left wing phenomenon!  It is true that most all of the parties in Hungary are one flavor or another of left wing commie numskulls.  Nevertheless, what the last election did do is to provide competition and show that FIDESZ can be defeated.  We have a long way to go and there are no Donald Trumps (who I also have problems with and criticize often enough, but...) in the crowd that I can see, but we can now build toward that.  Hell, it took me more than 40 years of constantly fighting for the Mexican border wall and it’s getting done, so I’m doing the same kinds of pushing for other kinds of issues here in Hungary as well.  Freedom is not free!

During the last Trump vs. Hillary campaign, for example, Mark and I both argued about its transformations.  He claims to be a conservative of sorts, but I beg to differ on that one.  The day before Donald Trump got elected, Mark, who generally expects people to adore his astutely professional hypotheses about all things regarding the market and on all things political, shared in Facebook comments that Trump had a 1/7 chance to win.  

Nevertheless, I showed him and others many a time that the facts he claimed to be knowing often weren’t very accurate, though he refused—always refused, the clear evidence, but not only that, he refused my clear and concise read with clear and concise evidence—not just rejecting the evidence, but refusing to delve into it with any measure.  He seemed to do this most often to people he disrespected—namely, me. 

Margie’s son Nathan even blocked me a day or two after the election—perhaps because I was laughing too hard.  Mark suddenly got amnesia on the subject and he time and again brushed me off, not only for that, but for every disagreement, as I was still on his list, his little stupid brother list—but perhaps I was at the very bottom of his no-kudos list as well. 

I never made estimations as to whether the Donald was going to win or not, but what I did do was to push the facts.  Mark seems to have forgotten this prediction he made, among others, but I remember it well—1/7.  Donald Trump had a 1/7 chance to win against Killery.  So now, in his eyes it is he who is right and I who is wrong, as always; in this case, and in most all cases, except on rare occasions he has actually conceded, I’ll give him that.  He can do no wrong and I can do no right, marked by his baronial ostentatiousness.

So, in his Facebook blog he writes a long monologue of what had transpired between him and Andy, saying that he hasn’t slept in months, even bringing up Becky’s name once or more than once.  So, as any narcissist coupled with sociopathic (or psychopathic) disorders might do, he so expected a parallel response, that a compatible reciprocation between a child and parent might provide each other—and I’ll show you how I know that it is his inner child who is actually speaking when he pretends to be using his adult-self, or perhaps he actually did want to have a one on one adult to adult conversation—but I don’t see it that way.  

How and why can I fathom his degenerative communication skills?  Well, his response is the telltale sign of the true mode that the conversation was in in the first place.  If you don’t understand what I’m talking about, please study some basics of psychotherapy, particularly the one called Transactional Analysis (TA).  Anyway, I wasn’t in that mood for his attempt at a parallel communion, and I sent something more of an argumentative acumen—in TA, my response can be called a “crossfire.” 

Using inconvenient facts I scoffed at his fabricated prudence, but as I always do, with each statement I followed it up with an example, a reference, or both.  This immediately infuriated his inner rebellious child, who took charge with no refrains, and he let me have it, as would be expected when he would have confronted deceased Matthew. Now I’m writing this documentation to again appeal to not only my reconciliatory, logical mind, but to my readers’.

I lose just about everything in my life more than I care to share, more times I care to revisit, but my mind is never relieved of those poor decisions of mine, again and again, contemplating whether life is worth living or not, again and again, as they all know I have—or must have struggled with, and again just about everything when I came to Hungary: my children, my new home, my furniture, my friends, my savings, my occupations and the money I spent on developing them, and even my beloved country, not to mention some very sentimental items that can never be replaced; nevertheless, by chance—“But by the grace of God go I”, I found a woman and a country, fascist Hungary, on a whim of an accident and on a turn on a dime.  Or was it an accident, or simply the hand of God providing me opportunities as he promises in his Word?  

When I flew to the Ukraine to find love, I found love on the plane instead, with a girl I couldn’t speak with, for she was Hungarian with no English speaking bearings to speak of; besides, the girl from the Ukraine was a gimme-girl (a “give me this, give me that girl” type of girl), a high maintenance selfish bitch, so it was easy to choose the Hungarian girl, even though my knowledge of who she was was miniscule.  A few months later—destiny, Hungary! 

So here is Mark expecting me to sympathize with him on his breakup with his longtime—and fake—association with our Most High brother Andy (Most High because he’s a preacher of sorts at a church and has a long history of studying theology) and family after all that I’ve gone through, when only in the slightest of ways could Mark’s—and Andy’s—relationship and compassion for me be viewed as sympathetic to my condition and depression. 

Do you know that not one of these people has ever come around to any of my homes, places of residence, whether it be in jail or in a more adequate dwelling?  I stayed with Andy for a short time after I stayed with Margie after my stint at a halfway house after my 13.5 months in jail for armed robbery, but boy oh boy is he someone I’d never like to emulate.  Mark has never lost sleep over my predicaments, which he perpetrated on more than one occasion, deliberately and in stealth, whether he was directly or less directly influential in it.  A total ignominy!  A few hundred suppositories lost in my rectal canal!  

“What I said is the bond that held us together was Dad however thin that was. If dad were still alive and the Estate still around, trust me family would still be together.” - Mark

WTF?  First of all, not I or Cecilia or Matthew would have or could have ever imagined that we could do such diablerie in carrying on with such gestures devised by jesters years gone by in medieval set scripts unbeknownst to the betrayed, with garnished games in the labyrinths of a matrix for so long and that was so meticulously canvassed.  For someone to buy into such notions of make-believes and make-believers for eons relative to the lifespan of a person, only a famed Hollywood star could dream of such unabridged adulterations with the usage of such seductive motleys.   However, at some point Cecilia did learn to develop more reasonable insight than I into the years of this phony coaxing that these sycophants have all always been promoting.  Are they more cunning than us three in the middle, or simply vampires?

In one of Mark's writings, Mark writes "...the passing of a Great Man...", referencing dad as being that man, of course, but truth be told, he, nor the others felt that way at all, that dad was a great man—Exposed!   By their very own assessments of themselves, it is they, most of all, who are promoters of un-Christian Christianity, it is they who are un-Christian Christians, it is they who are the ones who the Good Book warns those of faith of.   It is they, by their very own definitions, who are the ASSHOLES, not I, not Cecilia, and not Matthew—Mathew being a person who even Mark, not to mention the rest, also used to scourge from time to time when he was alive; it is THEY and their fellow SERVILE MINIONS OF EVIL!   And I might add Turd-Brains and a few other modifiers to go along with their very definitions of themselves.  It is they who are the pretentious, pompous, outlandish, drug guzzling, perpetual motion sinfully disturbed puppet fucks of Satan, not—not us!  To summarize their indiscretions more clearly, as previously noted, I’ve already stated that dad thought that I thought that everyone was out to get me, but unbeknownst to him, I could prove it then and I am proving it now, but—yes, another but, now with all of this logical reasoning and these empirical deductions going around, I can now and do hereby declare that it wasn’t only me that they were after—to kill me, that is, but it was also him who they were after as well, not to kill him, but to milk him—and intentionally and systematically so—to delude his love and to inveigle his heart to their will, which they did most effectively and inappropriately, which was and is malicious by any measure, and malice to his honor and intentions of wanting to lead a Catholic family close to God, however right or wrong he—my dad—was in the things he did here on Earth.

The fissures between most of our relationships with each other had been gaping for a long, long time before our parent’s passings, though there were moments of what some would call a counterfeiting of a family celebration here and there—but in all of their forms they, by all of their very own clearly defined references, are diabolical hypocrites.  They’ve been pretending to like dad so that they can gain his favor?  But that’s just an indication of what they’ve all been doing all of their lives, and not only to dad, but as a general manner of indecorum in daily mannerisms, day in and day out, to any bloke or sheila that came through their lives, even in passing, as I’ve laid out, isn’t it?  

Oh, so, so shallow!  So now the descriptives for this condition: empty, flat, hollow, trivial, shoal, slight, a surface nuisance, a trifling of honor for dad, cursory—I’ve used this word ‘cursory’ once or twice already in this thesis, depthless, inconsiderable, superficial, and unsound in character, and of course, dysfunctional functioning shitheads—yes, these are just about all the synonyms for the expression for “shallow” that I could find. So, who’s the superficial asshole now?  Exposed! In fact, exposed again and again and again and again!

So, what are some patterns typical of that of dysfunctional people with all of their glorious triumphs in the forging of relationships?  Lying, a pretense for something that isn’t mostly true, disingenuousness, immorality, unethical behavior, stealing, maneuvering for position, the usual debauchery, sedition, and a gluttony for self-love, as well as a strong aversion to others and self, and such a smugness of a contempt to want to do things more manipulativelya guy who needs a sock in the face, an ass whooping and for all that would be worth, he’d have hopefully learned to either stay away or get along, but everyone in this world would know that that would never happen, are just a few that roll off my tongue without any hesitation whatsoever.  Besides that and in this case especially, no ass whooping would come because although it would be due—coming back to my family's specific case now, it was diverted to—get this, to Matthew, Me, and Cecilia—not necessarily in that order, of course, that’s just the order of our births.

These guys were 50 and 60 year old children who played the most deadly of life's games even at that time and they had never grown up past them.  Now they are even older children raising children and grandchildren and I don't mean this in any healthy sense.  In other words, this school of buffoons has been spreading their tragic disorders throughout their bloodline as well as throughout their communities.  I had only a teeny-weeny part in this fraudulent masquerade due to my long standing of staying away from their pretentious perversions, for one reason, because I had found my own way out away from these fools long ago, and they had slithered their way back into MY world to entice me back into their games for this last effort to destroy me again by any measure.  

For surely in one sense, Mark is right, I am a fool.  I am a fool for not learning how to play the Games of Cockroaches better and I should have because I grew up in them, but never learned from them well.  Or did I take the victimhood status role willingly again once I found myself in the game again?  I'm not sure.  It's all confusing.  Confusing forgiveness and forgetfulness, thinking that people do grow out of such destructive insidious appetites made only for the wretched was something I should have avoided and been aware of by all accounts.  

Andy then has the galls to tell me, “You know what I think?  I’m going to tell you anyhow.  I think you shouldn’t go (move to Hungary).”  I wanted to quip back with a “You know what I think?   I think you’re a complete fraud, a phony looking for something that doesn’t exist.   I think that you should go fuck yourself, that's what I think.”   As my house had already been emptied, distributed among a few people I used to consider as friends, my airplane ticket and passport to Hungary in hand, with Gene’s front door already opened as Gene and I were about to walk out to go to the airport, Andy portends my destination on his occasions, his unremitting desires to rip me clean from the rails I’m gripping onto that as of yet are keeping me in life. 

It is at this time that it has become apparent that he himself has no faith in his God, and that line that says: No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it. -  1 Corinthians 10:13.  I do realize that this phrase is meant for God to provide you with a way out of sin and nothing more, but for me, it was the sins of the family—the many multitudes of sins that I escaped from. The enticements of wanting to belong to a family unit coupled with a floundering urge to stay out of the water were grave enough for me. 

"When the Lord inquired of Cain, 'Where is Abel, thy brother?' Cain arrogantly replied with the question, 'Am I my brother’s keeper?' (Moses 5:34.)

Over the years that question has been asked numerous times. To that question, many today would respond with firm conviction, 'Yes, Cain, you are your brother’s keeper, and not only you, but each one of us is our brother’s keeper.'"

"Without counsel plans fail, but with many advisers they succeed." (Proverbs 15:22 ESV )

It is sure that such siblings such as mine committed to such debacles of a fellowship exercised in uncanny arrogance will earn some prestige while others will become losers; but nevertheless, God’s wrath awaits those who do such provocations that are so indifferent to and far removed from good manners, honor, respect for the “love thy neighbor as thyself” theme, and the Good Book as a whole.

Well, what are siblings and relative unities supposed to be like?   Like a community.  That's not just how I feel about it, but to the common understanding of a proper family structure, it should be like a well-oiled combustible machine.  All of the parts work for the operation of the vehicle that God has endowed with unalienable rights of freedoms oiled by the Holy Word.  Certainly fuel is unavoidably spent; this could be something like energy of a fuel source, or time and money spent on the project, but the outcome would far surpass anything spent because we are all working for the same purposes and in the same direction—and prospering together.  It would be a far better team for a football club if everyone drives the force forward in harmony with each individual’s abilities and talents.

On the contrary, a dysfunctional machine, if it even gets started, uses too much energy, causes undue friction gone berserk and is jimmy rigged from the get.  The true nature of Mark's language goes something like this: We’ll stay together so that dad will see us as good sheeple so that the best actors can get more money and other support before the old couple croaks—these are the rules for the wild's disingenuousness that's fraught with a warlock's concoctions, not for the rules of upstanding Christians, or any other kind of pillar of a society.  It is based on poor design, corrupted maintenance workers, and each part works for and on his own modus operandi.  In other words, if the parts could talk, they would call the other parts “assholes”, and on topic and true to form, these parts do talk, and they do call each other "assholes."

Let’s take Andy, Mr. Preacher Man Morality, and his family, for example.  So our Aunt Pris dies, but before she died, she asked Andy what she thought she should do with the money—it’s in the millions.  Andy the Preacher Man said that she should give it all to him, which she did.  Well, that was certainly his prerogative to say and her prerogative to do, but it’s certain that he would have known that this would alienate him from his siblings forever.

Why the fuck should that matter to anyone?  I never gave it a thought, much, but Mark supported Andy’s family newfound wealth and even wrote letters to others who complained about the blatant, abject estrangement and unfairness.  Nevertheless, Mark defended him from wanton jealousy, spending time and effort warding off the warty frogs, even after Mark’s and Andy’s dissolution.  

And as for me?  As for me, Mark gave no thought as to my demise—just like he never had. "Non-sinful", "bright and intelligent Master of all things religious and just", Andy and family are praised by all measures, and I, the young, irrelevant criminal-minded guy—not a chance.  Well, there’s no loss of sleep for him over me going back into my hole away from these sadistic psychopaths (or sociopaths), distraught and escaping homelessness like a starving dog covered with soot found in the middle of a rain storm in a storm drain for the umpteenth time, but he maintains his mournfulness nights, night after night, week after week, month after month, and in fact for "a couple of years" ("...actually a couple of years I have not been able to sleep. I have been depressed and at a time I needed him most....."), like a baby cub separated from his parents in a gust of fog and a blizzard of snow, crying for his boundless love for his other love-brother Andy, the other backstabber.  I am a non-deserving sinful peasant, unlike Andy, who is of noble stock and the first born male to boot, at least in Mark’s viewpoint.    

They all maintained their relationships to maintain a feigned honor with dad?  WHAT THE FUCK? And they came back into MY life again so that I could be a part of their shithole again?  Thanks, assholes!  Now, that’s the definition of asshole.  It is they, not I, who are the assholes!  I merely defined the provocations and betrayals of their sorry asses and I was nearly wholly ignorant of the whole stench before they came back and seduced me again; but of course I knew a lot of it, but not to the extent of it, and my own derangements of course didn’t help matters; after all, as far as I had known, these guys had been a part of that forever-click for decades, of which I now could become a part of.  We could have been like a fraternity house, but not the kind you see in the movies where certain uncouth clicks within it play tricks on others who are deemed too "uncool."  Well, now these transgenders, they’re all broken up—how was I supposed to know that the longevity of their deceptions were still in play and in existence and were still so persistent and persistently unpleasant that their own fissures would deny them of frank cordiality amongst themselves just a few short years after their attempts on my good nature came to an abrupt halt?

Yes, I knew about Dorothy, yes, about Greg, the serial child pedophile, and Cathy, and Gene’s support for Greg, and Mark’s support for Greg, and Andy’s support for Greg, and Andy’s support for Mark’s embezzlements, and Greg’s support for it, and Gene’s support for it, and I don’t know about who all knew about Mark’s incest with our sister Cecilia, but I do know that he has never felt ashamed nor has he even faked an apology, and all of those who supported it and knew.  I knew about some generalities of the whole lot, but I didn’t understand to the extent of their termite-group-plot that was, and had always been, well orchestrated and contrived, as the evidence shows.  Like a deadly virus: HIV, Rabies, Ebola, they have no mercy.  

Look, Mark is the financial guru who I thought could be a part of my financial team—only for the “smart ones”, it came to be, and I wasn’t included in that group, but then again, neither were Cecilia and James, nor was Matthew, of whom Mark has quite often implied were literally below him.  I saw him as a potential financial counselor, who I surely would have paid, of course, as I had done with all of those who have ever worked for, or with me. So, when I had the “good job” he was willing to translate and write confidential letters, as a favor, I received that were troubleshooting tickets that so happened to be in Spanish, but not tell me about his dirty little secrets of “knowing things that I should know”, about my shares of stock gifted to me.  No one on my team—at work in California, mind you, could do fuckin’ Spanish—fuckin’ odd, wouldn’t you say?  Well, Ok, Mark could have helped.  

It was Ok for him to involve himself with that one—the letter, that is, because it made him feel good, perhaps, but it could have only hurt me because it was against policy, even though I was expecting at least a pat on the back from work, but those incompetent assholes—them at work, that is—well, that’s another story on its own merit.  He could have helped me with financial matters, as I came into more than 200k, but only ended up taking out half of it, and storing the rest in the stock options themselves.  That help from him would have also not only made him feel good, me feel good, but it would have reaped dividends for both of us, not to mention the proper bonding mechanisms that would have developed. 

Mark has discussions with his wife, who told him not to give me advice—in secret, with Gene about it and so I presume Gene’s wife and Andy and his wife, to be a part of it, but whenever I came around, it was a hush-the-fuck-up moment for everyone until I was gone again.  No friends of mine, it’s clear, but hey, I’m supposed to sympathize with Mark’s wallowing in tears, while he tells me to go fuck off by saying that he’s done, “Go wallow in your tears”, Chris, get the fuck out, I’m done with you.

So when I come into stock options, a subject he knows I have absolutely zero knowledge of and he sees my world crumbling and he says nothing to my face but all gossip like locust to the ‘in’ group—they all conspired—evil fucks.  Even though it most surely would have benefitted them all, their jealousies overrode any chance for brother camaraderie.  I asked him once or twice more over the course of a short time before my world did actually start to crumble—I didn’t beg, I’m not a beggar, but I do fall into depression—and all the relationships and feelings about me I’m sharing, you can be sure that Matthew went through the same, but he was covered in the soot even more so.

Mark lets me live at his place for two years—for a fee, of course300 dollars, that included food, then I find work and am on my own for a few short years. Of course, he would take me back to live with him forever and ever after I lose all and have no more career or home or standing in the world, right?  It would have been my situation that would have been a bit closer to being disabled than his claim, for sure—mentally disabled, financially disabled, post-family syndrome disabled. 

These snarky pathogens, also known as my siblings and in-laws, had talked about me “if he loses everything” in secret, but of course they would be willing to take me back at the age of nearly 50, right?  They would enjoy the same shoes as I have been wearing, right?  They would wish the same for their children, right?  Everyone’s relationships with me turn into stealthy-secrets mode in an instance when they learn of my opportunities, as well as my disheartened demeanor that I created for myself due to my loneliness and their prodding of it. 

I expected Mark, at least, to be able to read what was going on with the company, to tell me how he did what he did, what I should look for, what my chances are.  He now says that I should have done what he did, but he never told me what that was—and in fact, refused to tell me what that was.  It was all a purposely stupefied, and contrived concoction of poison, is what it was.  He also recently told me how irresponsible Gene was with his money, but he knows that I would have had no way of knowing that.  Gene made big money, so how could he be that way as described?   All of this was after hearing Mark, day in and day out for the entire two years that I stayed with him complaining about and even bragging about—it now seems like it was bragging, Cecilia and James never listened to him when they had financial opportunities that were missed, and they lost because they didn’t consult his wise and noble ingenuous self.  

Cecilia says that his comments about her were to break my relationship up with her.  I thought that that was an odd thing to say since she lived in Washington and we were in Silicon Valley, California.  I had never been to her house—mostly due to my lack or resources and time, and I lived in California, though we did feel more connected than others.  She and James made every effort to come take me out whenever they were in the area, but that was rare; it was by any account a normal sibling relationship between my dear sister Cecilia and I.  Nevertheless, to me, what she said now seems to be the only viable purpose, other than Mark wanting to pompously put on display his astute prowess over financial matters compared to Cecilia and James’ ‘ineptness’—he was their gift from God and they ignored it and so they paid the price for ignoring it—just as I did, according to his stated thoughts, although I don't believe he believes what he's telling me at this stage.

I would expect a brother to be providing information ecstatically, according to good manners, especially when it was asked for, and not to rant and rave about “Why does Chris get the good job, I’ve been doing this for years (exact words)...”, with a wife from the once toppled Nicaraguan elite whispering to all of those others “Don’t tell him anything”… who saw the poor devastation that her own family directly caused by their elaborate money laundering schemes that provided them with a surrealistic lifestyle due to their unwavering support for the Nicaraguan dictator—the penury in her own country of Nicaragua.  Why didn’t I take their history into consideration when I made a decision to go live with them?  Was I so desperate or so ignorant?

Mark’s wife, Jeanine (Does anyone know her maiden name?), is from Nicaragua, from the politically elite class, whose father worked for the Somoza dictatorship (I believe it was under President Anastasio Somoza Debayle. This data is taken from one of Mark’s documented accounts where he boasts that his wife’s father worked for the president [name not given]); according to my calculations, the timeline would be under President Anastasio Somoza Debayle, who held an authoritarian family dictatorship.  At any rate, her family was forced to leave due to a coup d’état against them.  If I am wrong as to the proper President, it was still an authoritarian regime that Jeanine’s family supported; hence, they needed to leave the country rather quickly.  So, she grew up with maids, chauffeurs, etc., until the president’s overthrow in 1979, and so she was also in a position to understand the destitution on the other side of the street, which her family's co-conspirators permeated.

It is my interpretation of the matters unraveled herein that she is willing to see me on the streets again because I’m her age and I had found potential—she was jealous.  I don’t get it.  I thought we were friends, but friends don’t behave that way.  I asked Mark and Jeanine’s son Jonathan to pick up a couple of values I stored at a supposed friend’s after I moved to Hungary.  He did pick up my certificates that I used to get a work visa, but there were two, exactly two items that were in plain sight that I also needed—too personal and too regretful to speak about what they were anymore—after I moved here.  Mark said that Jeanine said that Jonathan was too busy—after I gave him my toolbox and bought her a gift from the Ukraine upon her request—on my time and on my dime—a value of more than a couple thousand bucks for the toolbox and tools, when I moved to Hungary.  I get no thanks, no nothing.  They know that I can’t do anything about this predicament—so, so abusive.

Then I have Gene, who lived next door to Mark, an IT professional with decades of experiences, and years of owning a home and money to spare—experiences, to say to me that he thinks “I should keep it where it is”, which was the polar opposite opinion of what he actually thought, who was the one who came over to MY house to tell me that the family was willing “to help me now.”   This guy was, or should have been one of my IT consultants, and he specifically came to my house with a “family message” to say that the family was going to help me now, which implied that my prison sentence for my sins had been paid, or at least abrogated, or even pardoned. He only saw outrage at the unfairness of my sudden position.  The truth is that he didn’t think what he said at all.

Then we have brother Andy—Mr. Ethics Andy, and preacher family, who all feel, apparently, superior to my dwarfism status, and for the dwarfism status of all of the other family members too, as it turns out, for it is Andy and his Most High family who are of the Most High calling.  This man feels these sexually overt impulsive allurements for the need to mingle with my girlfriend behind my back, shoo her away, but says nothing on the conspiracies mounting against me, because everything funnels through him by Jesus’ calling, 'in Jesus' name he prays for it'—impulsive allurements in full sexual orgy style on display for all to see—if you look for it, you can see it, that is—he hides these woeful schemes, but not deeply. “Don’t anyone invite Chris to our wedding”, says his son Tony, “I don’t want him to fly 6100 fuckin’ miles or so from Hungary to crash my Wedding Party,” he continues.

I don’t know, is it just me and my delirious concepts for brotherhood, for friendship, for fellowship, for unity, for good sportsmanship?  Since I was at that time hanging out with these jerks on a weekly basis, I would have expecting more openness, and more assistance.  I would have expected them to have offered their true thoughts normally and frankly.  I would have expected them to see the potential in me and in their own opportunities as well.  I had already made plans to give Gene and Mark Christmas gifts.  Mark and Jeanine, Gene and Valerie, Andy and Esperanza all perpetrated in unison the corrupt, licentiousness indignation that lurked behind me in an attempt to push me overboard, dead, if possible, for their nefarious gratifications are voracious.

In fact, as soon as I moved into my house and bought furniture I invited all three families to my house and not one of them took me up on the offer.  In tandem, Gene and Valerie cancelled our scheduled dinner at my house about 20 minutes after they were expected to arrive.  I thought that was quite unfriendly and inappropriate, besides me having had already spent plenty of time and money on groceries and grocery shopping.

To sum it up, I was set up, fired up and ready to go.  No other colleague had what I had: a financial guru, an IT guru, and a Religious guru all in one house and all at my beacon call, or so I thought.  So it goes that I was set up, alright, I was hoodwinked and bamboozled by these most condescending, duplicitous losers and they will have a lot to answer for when they meet their Maker, assuming that a Maker exists.

Well, a team, such as a family and friends play to win.  The team doesn’t win if they don’t work together.  Mark said that the family was “so dysfunctional” and he wanted to demonstrate just how much so by writing his Facebook monologue to me—which I read, but he doesn’t understand the irony in his expectations from me.  In the very same breath he wanted me to understand and sympathize with him about why he doesn’t sleep because his relationship with Andy and company was severed suddenly and completely.  Mark has never shown concern for not having me in his life anymore, and before that, had never given me a thought.  In fact, neither has Gene or Andy.

Mark said that “only a fool would invest in a company that doesn’t make a profit” (He hasn’t seen the Dragon’s Den or the Shark’s Tank on T.V., and besides that, there are many who invest plenty in start-ups that haven’t reached the for-profit zone yet.).  What the hell’s he talking ‘bout, man?

What it is he fails to see is that he wasn’t investing in a profitless business—oh, but he was talking about me investing in an unprofitable business by my keeping money in my company's stock options reserves.  Instead, he should have been considering that he would have been investing just a few minutes in me, you know, his brother, who he had betrayed and scammed for decades, a brother who came into stock options that grew exponentially, but of which he (me) couldn’t read because he wasn’t, at that time, one iota knowledgeable about how it was working and how it should work. He, and the rest all know that.  

So, of course that makes me a fool, but it also makes him a fool, for it would have been an opportunity for us all to make money, to make amends, to reciprocate amicably, to develop functional functions that would have reaped many rewards for not only me, but for all of them as well.  But Oh, no, these goat-headed misanthropes couldn’t have allowed for that.

A fool is someone who goes to church for weeks and years on end and doesn’t understand the purpose of the value for attending church functions.  A fool is one that promotes dysfunctional functions and not recognize that he is the biggest fuckin’ problem.  A fool is one who destroys his brothers over decades as an insult to their crimes while his own are far fuckin’ more.  A fool is someone who fucks his own sister and doesn’t feel any wrongdoing or damage he may have caused.  A fool is someone who cites my robberies for reasons for me to be excommunicated and then brags about his own robberies as a demonstration of proof of his closeness with the brother he had it in for, who eventually killed himself.

Who cares?  They got theirs and I became the butt of their jokes.  Only a fool would think that someone who has never had money or investments and stock options wouldn’t need or consider help from others who claim to be experts and objective thinkers.  Only a fool would hide behind his third-world wife’s skirt and refuse to be a normal brother, and not see his own potentials in the matter.  Only a fool would see the irony of the dysfunctional jimmy-rigged machine he drives, but somehow imply that his machine is better than mine.  Only a fool would refute illogical logic. 

“This is why there is insurance for uneducated like you.” - Mark
Yea, come to think about it. I was out getting an education making sure I had earning potential while you were on drugs robbing stores. So don’t give me any of your shit.”- Mark

So Mark calls me "uneducated" and sends me a link to his article Disability Does Not Mean Poverty and then goes on with a jab at me. His response is that of what a rebellious child might do when his hand is caught in mom’s purse (a jab back at ya).  Ok, so let’s take on each main subject separately: “uneducated”, “disability”, and “robbing.”

Well, it is my presumption that an “educated” person wouldn’t ever use this term “uneducated.” Since I am a teacher of communications, which includes a teacher of logical reasoning (How am I doing so far?), I teach my students—yes, I’m an educator, to almost never use absolutes, such as, but not limited to the following: never, nobody, everybody, everything, and “uneducated” (which means without any education whatsoever, and thus of which also falls into the same “absolutes” category), because these types of arguments can too easily be destroyed if there is any exceptions to the assertion.  Using a word such as “under educated” would be more easily and acutely workable, and of course is relative to a condition. “Under educated”, but not “uneducated”, because “uneducated” is a pure pejorative coming from a pure sociopath (or psychopath)—if you’re still confused at my defining examples of sociopathy (or psychopath) in this text and in this context, reread this story until you get it—if your desire is to get it, that is.

Ok, I’ve already included that word “uneducated” in the definition section above, so I’m not going to reiterate his moronic oxymoronic contempt here, but let’s now go through a few examples of what Chris, the “uneducated” educator does and has done.  Here is a list of things I have been teaching since my arrival in Hungary in 2002: English, but I don’t really call myself an English Teacher; I am a Communications Instructor—seem ironic?  Well, it might be, but it works and my students buy it because—yeap, you got it—it has more merits than these maggots give me credit for; by assessing my clients' successes it can be verified easily enough.  For one, I still have students who learn from me from my early days here in Hungary to this day; for two, I have students who have moved or traveled here and yonder, and all around the world (except Africa), of which I have played an integral part in; and for three, I have scores of students who have successfully reached their career path goals and college degrees with my assistance.

Well, a short list of the things I have been successfully teaching include, but are not limited to, the following: communications, basic economics, history, politics, basic finance, constitutional law and general law, logical reasoning, psychology, presenting presentations, the job interview process, English language test preparation, and of course, English, which includes reading, writing, listening, and speaking, from the most basic levels to the highest ones. Well, my website is, and it is there for all to see of the things I teach (Only the main pages are translated into two languages, Hungarian and English.). 

The students I teach are many: I have had students from ages 6 (twin girls) to 85 (a physicist headed to a conference in the U.S.A.).  Most of my students are elementary school, high school, college and professionals.  I teach or have taught the following people: the State Secretary for Administrative Affairs at the Ministry of Defense; X-Televízió; politicians; well-renowned Hungarian writers; police officers; undercover detectives; famous actors; film directors; business owners of many stripes, including CEOs of retail chains and CEOs of wholesale chains; retail and wholesale workers; lawyers and law offices; and at least one judge; IT engineers; CIOs; software developers; project and operational managers; medical professionals (i.e. mostly and lots of doctors and also nurses), some world renowned; bus drivers; artists; a famous and old movie star; amateur musicians and singers; secretaries; interns; mechanical, electrical and civil engineers; and I’ve taught or am teaching Austrians (I used to go to Austria and teach classrooms of kids.), Russians and Chinese who don’t know Hungarian (It’s easier to teach Hungarians English because Hungarian is the common language.), not to mention Slovakians, Ukrainians, Serbians, and if there’s any other profession or nationality residing in Hungary, they might be able to be included on this list, as well.     

One young student was presented in Forbes Magazine recently and another is in Palo Alto making boo koo bucks.  One of the politicians who I worked for for a few days gave me his name and either his address or phone number, but never added the normal personal information I usually ask for.  Just the day after our lessons were finalized I saw him in the News talking foreign policy that I worked with him on, but truthfully, my Hungarian language level wasn’t up to speed so I didn’t understand it much.  Some of my students are world renowned doctors and I helped one neurologist apply for and receive acceptance to a management course that accepts only 12 students from around the world per year.  “Funny how” all of these people are willing to be …to get…EDUCATED by an “uneducated” educator.

I do resumes (curriculum vitae) and motivational (cover) letters on a weekly basis, sometimes a handful a week, and I work with these students throughout the entire job hunting cycle; I guess my success rate can be between 70 or 80% in assisting my students in finding their jobs in a timely manner, providing that they are qualified for the jobs they apply for—and that they listen, because my unique method is not of a traditional European style, but does indeed appeal to employers’ brandings. Currently, I have two CIOs / Project Managers (sometimes they drop some of their top-level ambitions to be qualified for a wider range of jobs.) (One just got a job yesterday, October 29, 2019.).  You see, Mark, I am a mostly self-educated educator, with the help of resources drawn from other resources, of course; so of course, my work is not done solely, though I take pride in knowing that I was able to pick myself up again solely with my own initiatives. 

I not only train students for their language exams and correct their written and oral articulations, but I also translate and proofread documents from any field, including in the fields of law—I like law, and of course as you’ve already read, you can presume that I have more legal background than the average bear, and more not even suggested in this document, because I study it.  The first translation I did by myself was of legal orientation.  I proofread and translate technical medical papers, especially in the field of neurology and Parkinson Disease; I am the last line of defense before these PhD. papers are submitted for publication—I am the Editor in Chief; we have had a number of them published now and are currently seeking to publish in journals with higher impact factors; these research papers can take months or years to write and for me to receive, and then several more months or years after I send them back to my contact (who is a well-renowned Hungarian neurologist) to be approved for publication.  

Just this week, a week in September 2019, an old student from 2010 needed me to proofread a politician’s article that will be published.  Although I don’t know who the politician is or where the document will be published, because those things are on a need to know basis, and although I don’t agree with the political views for the most part, I did it as requested because it’s my job and because I’m an excellent writer and editor!  It is I who is the last editor in that line!  In that writing there was a very deep overhaul, though there was enough original content that I could accurately guess as to the original writer's intent—I’ve become a bit of a mind reader, you know, reading between the lines to be able to determine what was trying to be said; my student, who sent the document to me on behalf of the politician, said that my work was perfect.   

My first extensive writing started in 2008 and it took 6 or 7 years to complete because of the level of research involved in it and the development of events that also developed throughout that time, not to mention the fact that that work needed to be translated.  I was able to study many of the events and circumstances in Hungarian, but I could only write the article in English.  Then I had it translated, sometimes in bits, and with a handful of translators.  It was more expensive than I had been expecting because the work was so long and tedious and because most of the original translations, although technically proficient regarding Hungarian grammar and structure, weren't very accurate in meaning.   After some time I finally had the time to sit down and study the translations and once I was able to do that, it didn't take me long to realize that the translations were not accurate enough as to what I had said.  (As you can maybe deduct from the text in this document, you may be able to detect that my writing style wouldn't be the easiest to decipher if English is your second language.)  So most of the translations had to be re-examined and re-translated with a fine--tooth comb.  

With that work alone, I alone was able to change the Hungarian entertainment industry exclusively by myself, with the help of my audience that heeded my message.  I wouldn’t say that the entertainment contest industry necessarily changed for the better, but it did change, albeit, perhaps it simply moved sideways for awhile before it further continued its decline into the pits of darkness.  It is posted on my website’s front page at and has been there ever since it was relatively finished more than a decade ago.  Here’s that article in both Hungarian and English:

By the way, some of my work is confidential and must remain that way, so I have acquired a certain amount of trust from my students, as well.  I have been a psychologist at times, a legal advisor and advisor of other sorts at other times for both laymen and professionals in their very professions I am providing advice for. 

As I’ve already stated, I translate anything under the sun from Hungarian into English.  I’ve even translated a full-length book on Wing Chun on my own time, which took me a year and was promised to receive half the royalties.  I mostly did it for a good language exercise for myself and didn't expect royalties to amount to much.  I was just informed yesterday, October 11, 2019, that that book has just been published and is on The name of the book is Wing Chun Kyun I. The Basics, Saam Baai Fat (Siu Nim Tau).  I just started reading the first pages of it at with a student as part of our lesson and I can say that no one who isn't blind or can read English at any level will buy the book!  They fucked up and revised the translation with some of the most egregious grammatical errors imaginable.

I am now pissed off, so angry that I want to blow my top.  They put my name on the book as the translator, but the translation sucks because they revised it—Hungarians who don't know English very well, I suppose, trying to make changes to the English and then publishing it without getting an Ok from me regarding the changes.  Certainly editing may be warranted for a number of reasons, but they never asked me about whether the changes are proper.  Just in the first pages there are glaring mistakes that I never had anything to do with.  I checked my work 100 times to verify that everything was correct, thinking that I was the guy who knows English.  The book that is available in its current state is quite amateurish, but it isn't in the condition that I submitted it in.

Well, I've just written to the writer again for the third time.  At first he said that he can't do anything about it, but it just ticks me off too much, so I wrote to him again, but he doesn't answer now.  Well, then I told him that I've published the original translation myself and it will stay up until he changes this shit.  Here is my translation in full:

Wihng Cheun Kyuhn - I. The Basics, Saam Baai Fat (Siu Nihm Tauh), Written by Kiss Zsolt and Translated by Christopher J. Dias

I’d rather my name not be on it because they fucked it up—why?  I don’t know.  There is also another book I proofread, but I am confident that it’ll never see the light of day because the story isn’t very good—well, I didn’t write it, I just fixed it and made comments about it to the extent that I could; that book is too fanciful and unrealistic.  I also write and edit the lyrics for amateur singers.  The bottom line is that there is no English language work or Hungarian to English translation work I shy away from.

I have also enhanced legal arguments for lawyers preparing for court.  I speak, read, write, and watch anything in Hungarian, and I argue legal and political matters in both Hungarian and in English with precision.  Verbally, it’s more difficult, but my professional translations must be professional, and not just in an “about right” condition because legal arguments and technical texts must fully be kept to script and technical terminology and meaning.  Although the work in this area is sparse for me, I do it gladly. 

Is my Hungarian perfect?   No!   In fact, there is still much yet to be had, but truth be told, my knowledge ‘aint so shabby either.  It must be noted that income doesn’t equal education.  So, there is the array of hats that I have created for myself here in Hungary.  

So I must ask the question: Do any of the above mentioned experiences qualify me for having an education?  (I’m also wanting to take on Russian and Chinese simultaneously, so we’ll see how far I can go with that—more and more Russians and Chinese are coming here.)

How about these?  Do any of these conditions qualify me to be considered to have some form of education?  I have been teaching English in many subjects since 2002.  Does that give me an education?  To top off my “uneducated”-self, I have 3.5 + years of IT Networking schooling and 4 or 5 years of IT experiences.  Does that give me an education?  I have 20 + years of gardening, earned a landscape contractor’s license and chemical license.  Does that give me an “educated” status?   I have 4 years of precision machining, machining metals up to +/1 .0002 inch tolerances.  Does that give me an education?  I have 3 or 4 years of school maintenance as a janitor.  Does that give me an education?  (We’ll get to the question of how much a burglar can actually steal from a school in a minute, since Mark brought up his school robberies.)  I have a high school diploma and some college.  Does any of that give me an education?  I have 9 years of Taekwondo training and earned a black belt, plus a few years of kickboxing experiences.  Do those things give me an education?  I have been riding horses since 2014.  Does that give me an education? 

Then there’s the education of life and the old adage, “Don’t let your schooling get in the way of your education.”  Does even knowing this phrase, let alone what it means, qualify me as a person with an education?  You say that I am a survivor and in fact state that I can lose everything and still survive, again and again—which implies that you cannot, you know I can do "the Jesus”, or “the Rambo” or “the Darth Vader”, and you cannot.  Wouldn’t these abilities at least qualify me to be educated to an ounce of a percent, or something?   Do any of these experiences qualify me for being a person with an education?

And lastly, I have dual citizenship.  I have voted twice now in Hungarian elections and am actively promoting good-sense economic policies in both the U.S.A. and in Hungary.  I study the conditions of both countries, internally and externally.  I suppose I should have a level of educational awareness for being able to make my work credible, wouldn't I?  Would this stature make me educated?

Like any good teacher, or parent, or friend, or business partner, or comrade, or sibling, I strive to make my students more successful, more qualified, and have more opportunities than myself.  I wallow in their successes even when those successes become greater than my own, whether I am recognized for it or not.  That’s just called being a good educated educator and person, and nothing more.

An uneducated survivor that can make something out of nothing, which Mark has stated and implied of my character and well-being on more than one occasion—I’d call that outstanding and miraculous—and educated, and educational for Mark, “the overly under-educated, unlearned overly schooled!”  Isn’t all of this “uneducated” stuff really nothing more than the ultimate in Mark’s moronic oxymora to insult a man—me, who doesn’t need such petulance?  

I was a man who only wanted to reunite with a family that voluntarily offered its assistance on its own accord and I fell into the trap of mistakenly believing that these rugrats could have changed, and thus added value to my life, but there is no honor among thieves, as the proverb goes.  Those years of separation neither alleviated my longing for something that never was, nor did it alleviate their propensities for trying a new level of low. To try again to cling to a family that has never deemed me worthy of a lifestyle that this glorious Mark could attain was surely my undoing.  And why did Mark tell me about these conversations only after I told him I had to sell my house?  And why was the family’s promise to “help” so abruptly revoked?

You see, Mark has now finally revealed in open view, as I had at times known, then forgotten, forgiven, then remembered, then unforgiven, then forgotten that forgiving and forgetting are not the same, and then recycled the cycle all over again, again and again, that no matter what I did, I would never be as educated or smart or worthy of good fortunes like he has received, whether he has received his goods by stealthy scandalous perversions with false libel innuendos and the traducements of false statements galore—all built into one little package, or not.  

Well, he admits it!  Yes, he does, you just have to read between the clearly defined lines, of which has been confirmed by Andy, Cecilia, Dorothy, Gene, Greg, Aileen, Bryan, and Becky at different degrees and throughout different times and different stages in these people’s lives, even though most of those people are absolutely every bit as dysfunctional in their own lives and relationships.  My assertions here are far from what someone would consider to be in the realm of a normal course of family relationships.  Mark himself has remarked about how dysfunctional this family is, as well, though he takes on no credit in this pointedly defined stigma for himself.  A good analogy for this condition could be called autocannibalism—not in the physical sense, but in the dramatic and traumatic sense!

Now, let’s look at Mark’s educated self.  I would consider him as an “overly under-educated, unlearned overly schooled” sociopathic (or psychopathic), narcissistic chap, along with the other worms.  He has to contort definitions that he learned so hard that he actually unlearns them first.  I would consider Mark, however, far more schooled than educated, so I’m going to use the term ‘schooled’ in my assessments below. 

Although the terms “educated” and “schooled” are sometimes interchangeable, there are significant differences.  However, I would never use the term ‘uneducated’ because that would be far from accurate for just about anyone other than invalids and comatose patients, perhaps—and even inaccurate for them; it is an extreme association, but I could use the term ‘undereducated’ for certain things regarding Mark, like in areas such as ‘maintaining brotherly love’, ‘Christian values’, and the term ‘business’ itself.  If you don’t understand what I’m talking about, look up the differences in terms yourself, but I have even a more accurate term for this condition: overly under-educated, unlearned overly schooled. 

Mark is schooled in the English language, and is almost as good a writer as I am.  He is schooled in Spanish and French—that means that he’s—you guessed it, trilingual!  He is schooled in accounting to quite a significant degree, I hear, although one of my W-2 forms he did for me was corrected by the IRS, which resulted in me actually receiving a refund when he claimed that I owed money, which would have been the first time for me to have owed—well, that was a long, long time ago, so let’s forget that little mistake.  He is schooled in integrated tax return forms, and has “made his million” before he was forty through his adeptness in the stock market and the days decades gone by when he had a day job.  He also knows how to manage reconstruction projects, the addition to his home, being one of them.  He is quite good with all things Microsoft, financial programs, and is up to date with such things.  He’s even captured on Margie’s page with a group of wannabes in their attempt to prove that they can hold a weapon, which means a new skill, possibly, for this disabled old chap.  I’m sure that I forgot or don’t know about some things; but regardless, with all of these skills—HE’S NOT FUCKIN’ DISABLED!

So, anyone who reviews these two resumes could easily pick up on a couple of issues.  I do have significant business experiences; though not enough to make me rich, it has been enough to sustain my life.  Although my income has never been so great, perhaps partly because of the areas of business I have entered into and based on my near-bottom beginnings of my ‘nothingness’ status, I have credentials that show my ability to survive by finding services and prices that are needed to an extent that keep me afloat.  For Mark, he is competent in many areas—and not disabled, but he runs on dysfunctional business premises.  With my credentials, one can clearly see that my strong financial education—well, it isn’t strong, but Mark’s is. 

You see, that’s where brotherly love comes in, brotherly love that shouldn’t need a permit to survive.  I’ve always shared my skill-set whenever a friend or family member who I respected asked for it, including with Mark the Turd.  Mark the Snake squirms his way into a virulent hiss when he feels an unwarranted threat, of a threat like a fictional character even, for example, when he learns I had come into money, but then so does Andy, the Master of all things Heavenly, who hides his façade behind the pulpit, but then so does Gene, the Jealous Forever on Trumped-Up Make-Believes Computer Guru, runs and hides like his favorite serial pedophile, our brother Greg.   Our relationships turned 180 degrees—again, once I came into money and according to them, and this about face wasn’t anything I wanted, deserved, or expected.

The analogy is such that of having the door slammed in my face by a bunch of bratty rascals, and I fell into depression.  It wasn’t a wallowing in neither their betrayal nor a wallowing in the loss of a very special girlfriend they shooed away, or a wallowing in my son’s lack of care for me, or a wallowing in my daughter’s status, but a shock like a deer sees with the oncoming headlights.  Yes, I hesitated in my response, and I lost as they had hoped and predicted, but it is still Mark and Andy and Gene who are just-so assholes, not I, says the lone and lonely wolf.

Many of us in the family have the same disease as Mark: Familial Periodic Vertigo Ataxia, including me, which is one reason I decided to work for myself.   Through my need to progress forward, I picked up such things as roller skating, karate and horseback riding all to strengthen my legs, balance, and muscles at time of the onset of the disease.  Others have dealt with it in other ways, but only Mark is the abuser of the condition.  Sadly (sarcasm warranted) to the consequences of my own efforts I haven’t been sick in years, which is a normal turn of events according to the research I’ve read about it; whereas, Mark has done nearly the opposite and on purposely so; he even had a muscle taken out of his arm to be sent to a research lab—our family isn’t the only one who has this disease, but it is probably Mark who has taken on this venture capitalism opportunity to new heights. 

The details of this disease aren’t important, but it can be quite debilitating at times, I admit, but that doesn’t equal disabling.  Mark, on the other hand, has exploited it.  And no, Jesus wasn’t a socialist.  With his definition of what it means to be disabled, and the definition as written in any dictionary, anyone and everyone should be collecting disability Insurance, which by definition equates him to being a communist fuck and a flimflam man.  I’m a disabled accountant too.  Then again, my basketball talents aren’t so good either, so I’m a disabled basketball player.

Mark’s wife is also schooled in underwriting.  From her home condition in her home in Nicaragua she is not only educated in the lifestyles of the wealthiest in Nicaragua, but in the causes and effects that constitute abject misery.  So why would she believe that that position for my life—me being a person who has only been compatible and kind to her and her family’s desires, would be Ok? 

If any of these slimy undulatory flummoxing lackeys would try to resist the obvious blundering blunderbuss’ stately regurgitations, it’s too late because I’ve already written about their contemptuous assessments of me and other betrayals that were later divulged after I actually did almost lose everything and the severely corrosive nature of their other relationships—exposed!  So anything that I am saying here might be vehemently rebuked, but their assertions would only be lies, fabricated farts, or indigestion-induced amnesia.

Follow this link to see that article "A Family - Contempt"; finalized in February 08, 2011 and written over months and years—though paragraphing and grammar weren’t prioritized, to see what I wrote about it years ago.  Much of the information in it is redundant, but there are other angles on the matter. 

When I wrote "A Family - Contempt", Bryan sent it straight to my two children: Joshua and Jennifer via Facebook.  He gave some lame reason and I can't remember what it was, but it was simply to damage me in some way.  He's a pathetic little rat, and besides, my children and I have since become estranged for many other reasons, only a couple of which I put the blame on myself; in my children's eyes, perhaps I'm not even in their eyes, or perhaps I'm a loser; regardless, it's not Bryan's business to babysit my thoughts, just as it never was for the other goblins—Bryan should be more at peace to know this now; nevertheless, in many other eyes, I'm cool, I'm needed, and I'm quite successful enough. 

Ok, so how can I provide to my audience a more convincing argument as to whether I asked for help, as to why they refused to help, as to my willingness to cooperate and as to their dysfunctional functioning to deny me what people in normal healthy relationships would expect from each other?  It’s rather easy.  My record of working for others hasn’t been easy when I am a subordinate, but it has been great when I have been a partner with others, or I can be a manager of myself.   The trick?  It’s simply called Business 101—and the art of LISTENING comes in first in every case!  The ability to listen is the ability to learn beyond the confines of one’s own little head.

You see, when I started my gardening business back in 1984, or thereabouts, at the age of 28, or thereabouts, I was pretty much homeless—for the second time.  Well, I started the first couple of years from my parents’ home and stupid as fuck, or should I say, criminal as fuck siblings?  My 17, 18 year old brother was fucking my 6 year old daughter, Jennifer, until she was 8 years old and left my custody, all the while I racked up custody court battle costs to the tune of 9,000 dollars to save her life from her dingbat mom—and the evidence of her mom’s dingbat-ness cannot be more clear by the results of her neglectful raising of Jennifer, afterward.  

The chaos got so bad that while Jennifer was being taken to school, someone took her to the Children's Shelter instead.  I relinquished custody to her wicked mom by yelling over the phone, "Get her out of there" to the case worker.  Due to chaos in the household that one school morning, Jennifer was no longer coming home, after which she was kidnapped by her mom and step-dad for almost a decade.  My daughter was able to be kidnapped because the step-dad worked in the Navy, a top security institution that I couldn’t just barge into (She was later molested by her step-dad's friend, who spent a month—a fuckin' month only, in jail.) and I was too broke to carry on.  All of this was happening—well, it was worse than what could be described on paper, of course, all the while I'm working on my fledgling gardening business.  

Although my wife and I were still together for part of the duration of my living back with the parents, we weren’t living together because dad and mom never recognized our marriage and non-Catholic wedding (a bit on those comparisons and contrasts with others later).  They left me for greener pastures.  My wife blamed me for the chaos and I wasn't progressing fast enough, although she was sitting on her ass and eventually getting laid by others.  

When I first began living in the house of chaos I didn’t have much to go on except for some gardening experiences I had as a child, but I was focused, despite the abuse these calamitous clowns spewed on my good person, all the while targeting my daughter in secret for their sexual lust, which I had no idea about for almost the entire decade—but others knew; besides, Greg was feeling up other young girls—or was it downright full penetration sex?—who wants to garrote the bastard?, and was simultaneously supported by the majority within this ungodly disoriented dynasty they once called a family. 

Dad let me use his lawnmower and a few hand tools.  Even in the beginning the lawnmower didn’t have a grass catcher and so I raked the lawns by hand until I earned enough money to buy first a catcher, then my own lawnmower, then one tool after another.  I built up from there.  Roughly 14 years later I had an established business with an established reputation. 

So, it was a long road.  I built upon trusting relationships.  Listening to professionals in the supply business, to clients, and to others who had a mutual, collaborative interests was key—and there were plenty of keys and plenty of interests, and plenty who reaped rewards for working with me.  I also earned a landscape contractor’s license, a chemical license and a working permit for 3 or 4 cities.  In the beginning, there were some who laughed at my stupid questions, but it is they who lost because I went to others who were more forthright and professional instead.  I built what my clients wanted, or I maintained what they wanted me to maintain and they paid me for it, month after month and year after year. 

I paid lots of suppliers over the years.  After my daughter and wife and son abandoned me, I first carried on by starting out living in my truck while storing my equipment in a storage locker.  Then I carried my lawnmower and equipment up to the second floor of an apartment for several months.  All along the way, I used those resources to gain additional resources.  I also met some riff-raft who pulled me down from time to time, or it was just about sometimes employing careless people.

In the end, though, it was really a simple business model: treat others the way you’d like to be treated, give and take advice in the best ways possible and be trustworthy, learn and learn to develop, and to be dedicated to good workmanship.  In other words, running a business and finding counsel and being a counselor takes just about every opposite effort as my fool clown siblings say about me and about their own back-turning oxymora contortionisms of everything these stupid fucks say about themselves as well. 

It is they who are dysfunctional, but it is their dysfunctional attributes who have reaped benefits for themselves over the backs of others, causing havoc at every turn, that included impositions on Matthew’s back as well; it is I, Cecilia and Matthew who have / had suffered the most to various degrees for it is our appetites that hardly meet their voracious uncongenialities.

“Chris really you are an asshole.” - Mark

Mark wrote this in response to his reading of my In response: “I had to delete your comment” file.  In other words, Mark is an irrelevant—more detrimental than relevant partner, because he lies about and hides some very basic facts—family of church goers?  Give me a break!  Gene is irrelevant, and more than irrelevant, is detrimental to my desire to live among people who see the value of proper communion—obviously, he forgets his first communion and every other religious teaching that has ever been laid out and laid in front of him, even though he’s a weekly church goer. 

As for Andy, the preacher man, well, I could go on about some of his incoherent sermons, but all I can say is that he isn’t the person I ever thought he could be or was until these last years of knowing his true deceptive nature. He takes all of our Aunt’s wealth to horde all for himself, is just one.  None of them are good for (my) business and NONE of them are oriented in the teachings of the Good Book—by its very definition, dysfunction is the polar opposite of Christianity—no question to that!  But still, Mark calls me “such an asshole” and sees no irony in these perversions of facts.

The very premise of the functions of the dysfunctional are disorientation by any imagination—so these people go to church on a regular basis all of their lives and find no cynical nature in all of this?  Christianity in its very premise condones functionality and Satan promotes dysfunctionality in all of its elements, at least that's my take on the subject.  Dysfunctionality is incoherency and not cohesive, is rickety and not firm, frictional and not lubricatory, cracked and not durable, bent and not straight, twisted and mangled and not entwined meticulously, and is unbalanced at its very core, but yet in Mark’s eyes, it is I who is the asshole.  See how it works?  By definition, a functioning dysfunctional unit is a unit of assholes, which I hadn’t been a part of for a very long time, relative to the span of my life, of course, which eliminates me from this dysfunctional pool of assholes, at least—it is they, not I, who are the assholes.

Yea, come to think about it. I was out getting an education making sure I had earning potential while you were on drugs robbing stores. So don’t give me any of your shit. - Mark

Such a hypocrite, such a hypocrite!  We kids used to steal candy from the local 7-11 store before our teens, so I imagine—don’t remember, though, that it wasn’t just the one store.  Mark was sometimes the instigator and I was the younger brother.  Was that before or after my services as an altar boy?  I can’t remember. 

Mark was a regular at this project.  He also got caught with his hand in mom’s purse during his early teen years.  As mentioned earlier, it was he who snitched on me when I snuck back into the house, the downstairs where I found refuge in Mark’s room from the cold winter night after dad kicked me out of the house with no shoes, socks or shirt.  It was he who provoked the launching of my criminal odium.

All I needed was a warmer place to sleep, and it was on a school night; why would he snitch me off?   I could think of two reasons only.  He was jealous of me, he wanted to kill me or for me to kill someone else, he wanted to divert the violence away from himself, and / or he wanted to play Goody Two-Shoes as he had been doing all of his life—oh, perhaps that’s three or four excuses, depending on how they’re counted. 

Unlike Matthew, Mark never once acknowledged his part in my demise, which means that he also never apologized for it.  That was my first stay in juvenile hall.  I stayed there for three weeks or so, which is very unusual for a first timer, but not if it was for violence.  It was also the beginning of my giving up on life, on myself, and my schooling and the beginning of a series of not-so-well-thought-out felonies—all of my record was violent, minus a driving ticket or five.

So in Mark’s Facebook blog he brags, “And about Mathew, you didn’t know Matthew, I did. We were in the same grade. Heck, we even robbed a few schools together.”

Hey, hey, did anyone catch that?  Mark criticizes my stupidity for my legal infractions, and then boasts about his illegal disobediences to the law in the very next line—perhaps he should have worked for the National Lampoon.  Which is worse, robbing 7-11s or breaking into schools?  Na, mindegy (Hungarian)!  Is that the question?  Well, so Mark brags that he knew Matthew so well that “Heck, we even robbed a few schools together.”  So, in one breath he criticizes me for robbing stores and in the other he brags about his robberies to boost his love and alliance to our beloved and deceased by suicide Matthew, by claiming to have “even robbed schools together.”  You see how it works?

How many schools, Mark?  One?  Two?  Five?  Ten?  You used the word 'some', so I'm assuming you mean 3 or more.  And what exactly did you steal from them, brother Mark?  Mark sounds like it was 10 or 20 and it went on for a long period of time.  I really would like to know.  I believe it was two and on the second one Scott Smith was chased by the police, and I don’t believe Mark was a part of that one, nor the first one. 

I know that Matthew and his friend Scott Smith did it.  What the hell you gonna steal from schools?  Workbooks?  Balls?  School desks?  Well, if its sports equipment, you’d have to have inside information about where it was.  If it’s technical equipment, same thing, and those things are not often out in the open.  And it wouldn’t be for money!  Funny how I don't remember you coming home with anything extra and there wasn't any place at the house that would have been safe for you to store your stash. 

I worked for schools for more than 4 years as a janitor and I can’t imagine how much anyone’s going to heist from one.  Not only that, they have alarms, if my memory serves me well, at least for part of the school, and the janitor is there until about 11 pm, or thereabouts.  I know Matthew came home with a walkie-talkie unit, but I didn’t see anything else.  That project certainly would have been extremely high risk for such little gain, like mine was, and never went on for any conceivable duration, just as mine didn't.  So, these guys’ ability to think out of the box was just as shortsighted as mine was. 

Not only that, at that time I don’t remember Mark and Matthew liking each other very much and I don’t think Mark was ever with Matthew and Matt’s partner Scott Smith for any lasting time, and certainly not to do any capering.  Mark would have been too diffident for such an adventure, even with Matthew and Scott, and was considered a snitch and a klutz by all accounts, as far as I could see.

So it was Mark and Gene and Dorothy and Greg and others who superimposed their images over my progress in numerous ways, and these fools have free rein for any and every kind of support—and it was all contrived on a pretense of communal family commitments and cunning deceptions that enticed dad and mom’s unconditional love—except, of course, for the misguided and evil Chris and Cecilia and Matthew.

Mark says that I didn’t know Matthew like he did.  Well, on the contraire, my beloved Mark!  Mark was in the same grade as Matthew because Mark flunked; that meant that they automatically didn’t coalesce because Mark was always deemed as a clumsy klutz loser type and Matthew had other interests, such as wrestling, his girlfriend and friends and was considered to be far too cool for that by just about everyone who knew him, for the most part. 

Mark is interviewed about Matthew’s suicide, as seen in one of his articles listed above, and when he was asked why Matthew killed himself, Mark replies by saying that he didn’t know.  He then seemed to have taken a wild shot—or maybe it was a wild jab at him, by saying that it was because perhaps Matthew didn’t plan like he did. 

Matthew planned plenty.  He was an accomplished auto mechanic and had a home and dreams just like the rest of us, but those dreams were stomped on whenever someone in this family found a reason to do so, no matter how trite that reason could have been.

Below is an excerpt from one of Mark's articles:

By the way, somewhere in one of Mark's articles Mark tries to be professor Mark and states that people who commit suicide usually reveal their intentions, or something along those lines.  There are those who do and those who dream.  Matthew was always a doer, for example, and he did it.  Those who dream are often attention seekers and they can have a so-called attempt and wind up hospitalized or in some sort of trouble, like me, for example, sure.  Nevertheless, persons who really want to kill themselves don't usually talk about it.  If they talked about it, they could too easily be institutionalized, or worse, sent to the in-laws.  Not only is this my experience because I've been in a mental institution, but because I work with doctors who know and understand this mental condition and I myself have studied the issues.  People who really want to do it just make that break and do it!  They don't seek permission or help for it!  They just do it!

Matthew wasn’t supported by the family, just like Cecilia and I weren’t.  His girlfriend, Kathy Voester, who is the person Matthew referred to in his suicide note, was my classmate and used to have a crush on me, but I liked someone else at that time, so we never went out.  She was pretty, seemed nice and was into live performance plays, and although I didn’t know her well, we had talked on numerous occasions.  Mark can’t say one reason why Matthew might have taken his life and I could give you anywhere from 1 to 15, depending on how you’d like me to break it down—and much of that can be inferred by what you read in this essay.

Mark then writes of Gene, as he usually does with someone he fawns over: Gene when he lived next door to me was very prescient when he said and I quote ‘When dad dies, the family will break apart and never get together again.’ I didn’t believe him but he was right.  

So, even though Mark’s relationship with Gene is more than strained, but pretty much over, Mark writes of Gene’s "... very prescience, as always ...", promulgating with frankness of their very snobbish astuteness.  Ok, so why did these malfeascents invite themselves over to my house, at my young age of 40 or so, to say that they are (finally) going to help me, then turn on a dime 180 degrees, turn their backs on me when I came into opportunities—big financial opportunities, tell me to keep my money where it is, don’t worry about it, stating that they themselves are experts?—and indeed they are.  

It was because their interests and their retractions for helping me were exactly the opposite of what they felt and could see in the business forecasts when I asked them point blank what they felt; my loneliness, my years of poorness, and my depression—all implied and acknowledged by these tatterdemalions in mind, were never given an ounce of thought to, or thought of discomfort for them, but my world was merely abased to a rank less than private in the army.  This displacement reminds me of a time when a so-called friend showed me a marijuana bud the size of my arm and didn’t smoke any of it with me; but this instance was certainly far more serious.  Mark said he didn’t know, and Gene said leave it alone, don’t worry about it—and in secret—“What if he loses everything?” conversations.

You see, they never visited me or asked about how I was doing throughout all of my years of struggles or successes, of my incarcerations, of my short stint in a mental institution or under suicide watch, or even about my years stable, on my own, in a home, and building my business on my own.  They never acknowledged one bit about their deceitful conspiracies against my good nature.  Why?  

They were expecting me to kill myself or someone else and they never cared is why.  Why would Mark write something so compassionately sounding when his thoughts and actions are so far removed from this premise?  Because he is a narcissistic sociopath (or psychopath), but I call him in particular an “overly under-educated, unlearned overly schooled” sociopathic (or psychopathic), narcissistic chap.  If I were out of the picture, the better it would have been for them.   If Cecilia were desolate and out of the picture, that would, for some reason, be better for them, as well.  Matthew was out of the picture and that actually did prove to be better for them, certainly for Mark, because now Mark had no one else to "mess with" him, just like he implies in his very own writings.  

Well, I was out of the picture, but not out of the Will and Testament, anymore, that is.  I do know that I was removed from the Will and Testament once or twice, but not anymore, because I was somehow, at some point, reinstated by the good grace of God.  My guess is that they had a hand in my removal as well as my reinstatement—I've never said anything about it until now.  Although my daughter was to stand to gain 20 or 25% of my share of the pie because my parents blamed me for what had transpired, she was taken off at the last hours.  It is Greg who should have compensated her and me for all of the innumerable hardships he has imposed on us, but he was part of that fucked up chosen "'More Morality Group", and there was no way of getting around that.   

You see, Jennifer should have been getting her child molester Greg's lion share, but as un-luck would have it, he was one of the narcissistic, sociopathic (or psychopathic), devious protected ones.  The fact is that I still wasn’t dead and there had been no more drama in my life that they could express dismay over, so like the deviants they are, they devised a new scheme that would revitalize my despair.  They wanted something big and negative for me, but nothing big and negative enough ever transpired for them to leave me alone.

These medieval lowbrows also almost completely ousted Cecilia from the Will and Testament—well, I think she got a few peanuts out of it.  If Mark was so financially set in his economic position and if Andy was so set in his economic position, and the rest were also, why did they leave us who were most vulnerable out of it or cut our share so disproportionately?  We did not borrow more than our share or use family resources disproportionately.  Gene was even absolved from his 30,000 dollar debt to the Trust because he was of the “the overly under-educated, unlearned overly schooled” in-crowd group.  It is a fact that the ones who outsmarted us by their very deadly tactical games grew exponentially on the backs of others and by explicitly using dad and mom up in every fashion to the hilt.

Do you know that Mark and Andy even wrote a nasty letter to Cecilia to tell her not to marry James?  They didn’t know James and they didn’t know Cecilia either, for that matter.  I could never imagine myself doing something like that for the reasons and in the methods that they proposed, which are all on their presumptions that they know better, that they are morally and ethically astute and of sound mind, and we are not.  I must now concede that it is Cecilia who is the one with the most knowledge between her and I on such matters, for it is she who has always had the deeper insight into this system of perverted dysfunctional values within this family's dynamics.  It is they, not us, who are assholes!  Have I said "assholes" enough yet?  Maybe a few more times!

So, they came back to finish the job.  They steal my family away—yes, we had problems, but they capitalized on the opportunities, they steal the loves of my life more than a couple of times and they didn’t once understand or care to understand why I was still single—in fact they tantalized its very nature as a part of my punishment and inferred when Mark wrote in sympathy of me about my meeting of my Hungarian wife being “late in life.”  But I met my wife totally by accident, and I never gave them opportunities to do what they had always done in the past—sabotage!  I wasn’t having any of that!  

None of my existence was ever important to them. They didn't feel I was big enough to make my own decisions for myself on certain occasions on one hand, so they interfered in them whenever given the chance and they stayed out of others whenever given the chance because "I was a big boy", when they knew quite well that I actually wasn't "a big boy" in financial matters, but they did know the games they were playing.

They tell secrets about me behind my back when it suits them and they reveal secrets to my face or in a through-the-grape-vine approach to get a reaction from me that they themselves had meticulously calculated.  In Mark’s eyes, it was in his interests to interfere directly and indirectly in my girlfriend relationships and my wife’s and my relationship and my relationships with my kids and my jail sentences, both real sentence incarcerations and abstractly by denying me access to a supposed-family support unit because it was he who felt more morally superior in such things, because in his pea-brain I was too immature and too immoral in particular instances to make my own decisions, and he needed to play the superhero, unlike he who can make his own decisions, for it is he who is astute in all things; but when it came to financial matters, a field that he’s clearly an expert in, and I am clearly not, he says that I am a big boy and I need to take responsibility.  Besides, I was out of the picture through most of their scheming, as a result of most of their scheming, which these misfits thought were beneficial to themselves, but then at some point they realized that it wasn't enough—I needed to die.

These last matter-of-facts were revealed years after Mark told me that he didn’t have any opinions on the subject of my stock options and years after he told me that his wife told him not to say anything, and to not provide me with advice or say anything because I'm going to blame him for something—whatever that something could have been.

These secrets were all planned and discussed behind my back and must have included Andy and wife and Gene and wife, at minimal.  These jackals had the most to gain—especially Mark, from Matthew's undoing, as well.  This entire facade was masqueraded and pranced about behind my back not long after I had to bear Mark's two years of belittlements of my sister, day after day, month after month, year after year, of hearing about how stupid Cecilia and James were because they didn’t receive or ask for his good counsel.  If asshole-ism had a name, it would be called Andy, Mark, Gene, Greg, Dorothy, and Cathy, and Bryan Dias— yes. 

Getting back on topic, let me reiterate that it was Mark who started me on my path to the criminal underworld.  Do you know that not a one of them ever came to see me when I was in trouble nor when I was doing well, not when I was incarcerated, not when I was homeless, not when I had my own places?  And until this day, for more than a half a century, Mark kept his secret of snitching me off, and I kept the secret of knowing, until recently when he said that I was robbing stores and on drugs while he was going to college; his assessments neglect to mention his own undoings, that is, his robbing of schools as a teenager and decades of an embezzlement scheme that has raked in hundreds of thousands of dollars for him on an insurance fraud scam, that he has never had to answer to. 

Mark kept secrets well when he wanted to and leaked them well when he wanted to, as I’ve already stated, but for this one secret I’m sharing with you now—his sexual relations with his unwilling participant, his sister—my sister, well, that one is the most deviant and cruel of them all and I have to put it in here in its special place.  This secret must have also been revealed and kept with all the strategic underlyings of this degenerative bunch, as the family history in such matters would suggest.  They all supported Greg, a serial child molester and my daughter’s child molester.  This group—let’s take Andy’s family, for example, had supported all things Greg and had been supporting Mark’s incestuous perversions and fraudulent theft-scheme for decades, and of course, vise versa; Mark had been until recently supporting Andy’s unscrupulously greedy nature with our Aunt’s inheritance and the rest of Andy's family's other bizarre shortcomings, as well. 

Weddings: Mom went to my wedding, but dad did not because it wasn't Catholic.  Dad didn't go to Cecilia's wedding either, because it wasn't Catholic, so he wasn't there to give her away.  Dad did go to Mark's because it was Catholic and in Nicaragua, though that's probably the last time Mark ever stepped into a Catholic church willingly.  Dad even went to Bryan's second wedding, even though his first ended in a divorce; that wedding was when dad was very old, and it is said that when he got back home, it deteriorated his health so much that it is a root cause for his decline into death.   As for others, most, if not all, were attended by both parents, though I don't believe that any of their weddings were Catholic and I know for sure that not one soul in the family is Catholic; as far as Becky goes, who is my youngest and gay sister and twice "married", I don't know if mom and dad went to her gay weddings, but I doubt it—others probably didn't go based on principles

In my early years, I was an altar boy, I liked school and carried the Bible around with me in junior high school, even though I was bullied about the Bible carrying both at school and at home. I stopped that after dad confiscated my non-Catholic Christian materials that warm sunny day he caught me under the house under the staircase reading it; I think he was expecting me to become more Catholic, or even a priest, but I gave the whole thing up after that.  I did read a book called "Padre Pio" he recommended; the story was about a priest who miraculously suffered the Crucifixion as Jesus did, but the whole religious experience came to an abrupt halt at these turns of events that turned me into a real modern day martyr—my martyrdom days were finished off!

In high school I had dreams of becoming a lawyer or a doctor but those plans were averted.  Turning from altar boy to petty criminal to dreams of becoming a legal expert on the right side of the light to a more aggressive criminal I turned to becoming an outlaw and outcast.  From my days of wanting to be a doctor, I grew into days of learning a hell of a lot about all kinds of medications, "street drugs" is what they are usually referred to as; I did LSD every single week, and sometimes more than once a week when I lived with my aunt and uncle.  From those days of wanting to become a lawyer, I became an expert in legal matters without the salary.  Ironically, I now use those experiences extensively in my teaching practice.  Even today, I was teaching a psychiatrist, and was able to talk with him about his profession, candidly and intelligently, not quite as a professional might, but not quite as someone wholly ignorant of the topics at hand either. The sedition within this joke-of-a-family is something that can’t be described, but I've learned to use my experiences advantageously at some level.  

On my part here and in my disturbed life, I am guilty almost exclusively by ignoring some of these facts—not recognizing that most people change very little, and being confused with this “forgive and forget part.”  First of all, forgiving and forgetting aren’t the same.  Gene invited himself—his fucked up self and family—not me, back into my life.  So yes, if God were to take them out of this world in the most brutal of fashions, I’d have no qualms with that one.

“Show me your friends and I will tell you who you are!”

The diabolical family partnerships had been festering for years, like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre rerunning over and over—not in the physical sense, but in the psychological tormenting one, of course.  You don’t know what it is or where it’s coming from, but it’s there, it’s violent, and it’s evil, and there is a lot of it. I have sometimes referred to my predicament as that of Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.  You’re the only sane person in the mist of the crazies who say that they are the ones who are sane.

As for me, I had always felt uncomfortable around Andy and Gene, and in fact, most of the family, as Matthew had, although I was generally cordial with them, as Matt was. I was more comfortable around Mark, though he was arrogant and looked down on me—always, as his recent oblivious-to-the-facts statements also reveal. This is a forewarning for others to really evaluate their relationships.

In the Facebook blogs Mark states that he looked up to Andy and that Andy is a big reason why he started going to church, but then Andy responded in the most insensitive of ways, which I also agree with Mark on, the details of which you can read below, if you’re ever so interested.  For now, however, I’m not interested in digging up those details.  Perhaps this fawning condition is enough to what happens when people look up to each other—well, no, I must add “dysfunctional people”, not just people in general.   One becomes dominant and the other subservient.

When all is said and done, perhaps it was God’s hand that boomeranged me into the land of the unknown, the land of Hungary, where fascism and communism reign and where Mr. Donald Trump is labeled “a clown”—I just heard that "clown" bit again yesterday for the umpteenth time—I’m going to be writing to President Donald J. Trump to both congratulate him on his successes, and to also tell him that for the U.S. to support Hungary…well, that is a very bad idea, among other things.  I am here now, like I went through a wormhole and no one expected me to find a way out and to stay alive in the process.

So, Mark writes, “Chris had to delete your comment.  I usually don’t delete comments on my threads unless there is a remark disparaging another person (the Benes) they are the few family members I still talk to. J J

My response for the purpose of this writing: Well, I did not by any measurement “disparage” her kids. I don’t remember what I said exactly, but his comment is flat out Bull Shit!  I think that it might have been something to the effect that they de-friended me on FB because they don’t like arguing facts.  Even Margie knows that her children are leftists (a.k.a. people who don’t like arguing facts.).

Mark says, “For months actually a couple of years I have not been able to sleep. I have been depressed and at a time I needed him most.”

My response for the purpose of this writing: I’ve already shared some very personal things gone wrong in my life and the conspiracies against my person.  I lost my country.  I lost my kids and my wife and my homes, and my girlfriends and my business and my career, and Mark never intended on being a normal friend and brother.  He tells me to grow up and wallow in my own delusions.  I have no USA place to go to now.  I’ve lost it all on the premise that “The family has decided to help me now…” and he wants me to feel sorry for him for losing a family member and that member’s family when the whole relationship was based on dad’s inheritance?   He’s not just an asshole!  He’s a shit-fuck asshole!

No thanks for the help.  We could have been a team; you decided to push me out—all of you, time and again.  It certainly was fake from the very beginning.  Mark should have bet on me because I would have been far more appreciative, but it was he and his third-world-classy wife who surreptitiously decided against that positon.  In fact, I was so naive that I gave Mark’s son Jonathan my tool set worth more than a couple thousand dollars with tools I’d collected over decades when I moved here to the Land of the Unknown, and I received not one thank you.  As a favor, Jonathan goes and gets some of my much needed certificates from a so-called friend’s house where I stored a few things, but fails to retrieve a couple of very personal and valuable things from the same place; when I ask Mark if he could go and retrieve them Mark says that his wife Jeanine says he doesn’t have time.  So, I think this is quite indicative of the sociopathic (or psychopathic) narcissism.

In conclusion, this is the last most of you will ever hear from me.  It is a farewell of sorts, especially to all those who disinvited me to mom’s funeral, which is “everybody”.  It is certainly your excuses for doing what you do that doesn’t stand well under scrutiny.   It is also certain that you aren’t afraid of me and perhaps you believe that when you pose with weapons you can barely understand that you will intimidate me by showing me how you will protect yourselves from me, but I can assure you that nothing is further from the truth and I can also be assured that your self-indulgences for flatteries gone awry do nothing more than show your very dishonorable weaknesses that could never disavow your sorry-ass sins from the Almighty.  My fury could never be measured or compensated for and my disdain and disgust for you could never be greater than yours for me, but there’s a difference. Mine is warranted and yours comes from Satan himself.

Here within this family we have at least two pedophiles, at least one a serial pedophile who threatens his victims with threats for telling, and who is now married and was always supported by family and parents, the other was a young adult sibling, committing incest—a crime of sexual intercourse—with his virgin sister, and has embezzled money over decades and then flaunts that fact, another, a case of the most egregious neglect that left a child brain dead after a pool accident, who sees little shame for what had transpired, and yet another who is at least a twice-married lesbian (but I make no judgement on her, for in my own twisted mind I like [good looking] lesbians too), and of course, Matthew, just one suicide victim so far, along with other criminal dysfunctional deviant behaviors in the family, including my own, and a variety of psychological and physical abusers, including a preacher man and family, the “Most Morality of All” family, who should be pinned up—or rather hung up—as a role model on how to live a double standard.

Mark's stories are well-written, but are fraught with tremendous inconsistencies, and only a very good psychoanalyst, or an insider could evaluate the facts that he presents more analytically and accurately, like I have been doing. Mark expects others to read his writings, and to read them thoroughly without any deep analytical components, but it's too late for the latter because I've just and have already taken the liberties of deciphering many of them; Mark's arrogance inhibits his ability to truly understand what he assuages in any truthful assessments that a more keenly read into the fruitful stories could bear.

I've re-posted this blog about Mark’s comments because it is most telling.  I had been in debt all of my life and my debts started with his interferences in it.  He never once admitted it, or felt I should have felt betrayed, nor has he ever shown concern for me about it, regardless.  He has never felt his sister Cecilia should ever have felt betrayed by what he had done with his sexual appetite to her, nor has he or Andy ever felt stupid for writing stupid letters to her with the effort of keeping her single by encouraging her to not marry that guy James, or for bashing them for years on end about their refusal to ask for his financial advice.  He never felt that my death wish for myself was something he should concern himself with because it was I who was the criminal, not he, in his assertions, though the facts have been circumvented to the point of almost being unrecognizable, of which oppose his stated cognitions.  Gene said that he (Gene) owes me nothing.  Andy acknowledges no wrong doing, "In God's name we pray." The whole scene is certainly relative to their psychotic conditions.

OK, so let’s say that I’m wrong with my assessments and let's play the devil’s advocate.  They prevented and prodded dad’s dissolution with me when they knew I needed it, but they did that with Matthew and Cecilia as well.  Mark has the capacity to work, but perhaps not go to work, which is different.  He also can’t go to work because he chooses to make his condition "non-redeemable.

In conclusion, and contrary to popular belief, it is my assumption based on the overwhelming evidences in their invidious entanglements in my life and my sister Cecilia’s life that these varmints played a deliberate hand in Matthew’s demise as well.  It is this group of buffoons, who are misfits by any measurement, who by their very own admissions, are dysfunctional and devious deviants, that could only infuriate us who fell victim to this evil.  It is they who deliberately—most intentional, created Matthew’s condition that would have caused him to feel that he didn’t have another way.   It is they who perpetrated and exacerbated Cecilia's and my dismay, sadness and feeling of betrayal.  Cecilia is with us today because she, like I, escaped the clutches of their grasp in unexpected fashion.

When I was living at Mark’s we used to go get Power Breakfasts right down the street.  They were cheap egg, bacon and bread breakfasts.  We went to the movies on occasion.  We watched T.V. together, and although we always watched what he wanted, I didn’t mind much.  I minded Andy and his family who were like a flea infestation nuisance when they came over, but I tolerated it without complaint.  When Andy and his family came over, he often changed the channel because in his mind, the show that I was watching was less moral and more inferior than his undeserving-of-more-merit one.  Well, I spent 2 years together with these families after years of separation, and while I bonded with them, they did not at all bond with me.  Well, if Mark’s family and Andy’s family couldn’t bond with each other after a half a century, it certainly would stand to reason that our short time together wouldn’t have been a doin’ any kind of bonding either.  Nor he or Gene, who were next door neighbors for some years.

These assholes have been exposed time and again and I still don't know if there are more in this family that I haven't yet recognized as being as such.  My rhetoric in this document is complete now (or for now), but the rationality and turmoil that races through my head is never settled.  It is what it is, and this is just a chunk of my life’s story.  Since I’ve been living in Hungary I can recognize the intrinsic values of not having faith in self, or substance, or a God who you can believe in and rely on, because Hungary used to be a part of the Soviet Union and other regimes where those things were frowned upon.   After studying economics and Christian values, I can see that the intrinsic values of running a smart economy and running a smart Christian-valued family must run hand in hand, as George Washington has said (There are some who have said that there is no evidence that he said it, but I still like this presumption anyhow.): It is impossible to rightly govern a nation without God and the Bible.  I see a lot of murder documentaries, and a lot of them originate in so-called “Christian-family-values" homes of a sort.  Nevertheless, upon my exhaustive review of the calamitous residuals of Hungarian and European communistic cultures, it is still sure that good behavior in economic policies as well as properly maintained good behaviored Christian values will far surpass nutritional benefits than the atrophic destructions of the former mentioned, and is of which the family I grew up in runs counter to.

One of my students brought up some troubling quotes from the Bible, and I don’t know how to respond to them.  I guess the adage “Trust, but verify come to mind.”

Testing of Chastity - Numbers 5:13-22 and Deuteronomy 22:13-21
Stone a woman for not being a virgin?
34. A ti asszonyaitok hallgassanak a gyülekezetekben, mert nincsen megengedve nékik, hogy szóljanak; hanem engedelmesek legyenek, a mint a törvény is mondja35. Hogyha pedig tanulni akarnak valamit, kérdezzék meg otthon az ő férjüket; mert éktelen dolog asszonynak szólni a gyülekezetben22. Ti asszonyok a ti saját férjeteknek engedelmesek legyetek, mint az Úrnak.
Eféz. 6,6., Eféz. 6,7., 1 Pét. 3,1., 1 Móz. 3,16.5. Ti szolgák, engedelmesek legyetek a ti test szerint való uraitoknak félelemmel és rettegéssel, szíveteknek egyenességében, mint a Krisztusnak;
Eféz. 5,22., Kol. 3,22., Gal. 3,28., 1 Kor. 7,21., 1 Kor. 7,22., Fil. 2,12., 1 Kor. 2,3.1. Emlékeztessed őket, hogy a fejedelemségeknek és hatalmasságoknak engedelmeskedjenek, hódoljanak, minden jó cselekedetre készek legyenek,
Róm. 13,1., Róm. 13,2., 1 Pét. 2,13., 1 Pét. 2,15.
17. Engedelmeskedjetek előljáróitoknak és fogadjatok szót, mert ők vigyáznak lelkeitekre, mint számadók; hogy ezt örömmel míveljék és nem bánkódva, mert ez néktek nem használ.
1 Thess. 5,12., Ezék. 3,17. 18. A cselédek teljes félelemmel engedelmeskedjenek az uraknak; nem csak a jóknak és kíméleteseknek, de a szívteleneknek is.
Eféz. 6,5., Eféz. 6,6., Tit. 2,9.

Here is a video of a similarly deceptive and dysfunctional family: Who really murdered foster child Tiahleigh Palmer? | 60 Minutes Australia
For me to say more would be for me to put this paper and my status in jeopardy, so you, my audience, can from this point forward wonder about the voids that I haven't yet expressed in this paper, and in my life, and in the future of those mentioned within it.

"A szeretet az egyetlen dolog, ami az embert át tudja lendíteni a holt pontokon. Nagyon szeretem a bivalyokat. Isten tudja miért ragaszkodtam ezekhez a vadállatokhoz. Bizony amíg a ló egy menekülő állat, a bivaly egy támadó állat.

Eleinte ahol módjuk és lehetőségük volt, felökleltek. Csak a vizet tudtam berakni a boxukba, és már ahogy beért a vödör, csattant a szarv. Számtalanszor ökleltek föl, számtalanszor löktek föl, én mindig szeretettel nyúltam feléjük. Ez a közeledés, egy idő után megtörte az agresszivitást.

Hiszen ennek az agresszivitásnak a félelem volt a forrása. Nem bántottam. Mindig ugyanazzal a nyugalommal mentem utánuk. Egy idő után megszokták és érezték, hogy nem kell félni, sőt akár a barátunk is lehet ez az ember.

Mai napig mikor eljutok odáig, hogy kimegyek a legelőre, ahol áll ez hatalmas állat...

megsimogatom, letérdel, én odaülök mellé és a fejét az ölembe rakja. Ez a boldogság. Mindig az jön vissza, amit adunk. El kell fogadjuk, hogy mi is élőlények vagyunk, és nem szabad abba a hibába, abba a gőgbe esni, hogy mi izoláltak vagyunk a világtól. Mi emberek, semmit sem érzékelünk a világból, egymásból. Ha ez megtörténik - márpedig sajnos az ember a 21. században nagyon közel került ehhez a gondolathoz.

Akkor elvágja azt a faágat, amin ül. És bizony lefog zuhanni....

Nagyon sokan a világot akarják megváltani. Nagyon sokan ezt a nemzetet akarják jobb sorsra deríteni. De hát a legelső az, hogy saját magát tegye rendbe valaki. Az út az mindig a legkisebb, és a legelső lépéssel kezdődik: önmagunkkal. És ha rendbe raktuk önmagunkban mindent, akkor önmagunk körül rakunk rendbe mindent, és akkor a kis környezetünkben is rendben van, ez a dolog folytatódik, és hogy ha ez kitud vetülni a világunkra, akkor egyszer egy jobb élet lesz. De nem lehet ezeket a folyamatokat megfordítani, és nem lehet a feje tetején kezdeni soha" 

-Kassai Lajos


"Love is the only thing that can drive a person through dead spots. I love buffaloes so much. God knows why I insisted on these beasts. As long as the horse is an escape animal, the buffalo is an attacking animal.

At first, where they had the opportunity and opportunity, they were uplifted. All I could do was put water in their box and as soon as the bucket came in, the horn clicked. They hugged me countless times, pushed me up countless times, I always reached out to them with love. This approach, after a while, broke the aggressiveness.

The source of this aggression was fear. I didn't hurt you. I always went after them with the same calmness. After a while, they became accustomed and felt that there was no need to be afraid, even our friend could be this person.

To this day when I get to go out to the pasture where this huge animal stands ...

I stroke him, kneel, I sit beside him and put his head on my lap. This is happiness. Whatever we give always comes back. We have to accept that we are also beings and not fall into the mistake of being isolated from the world. We humans do not perceive anything in the world, each other. If that happens - unfortunately, in the 21st century, man came very close to this idea.

Then you cut the tree branch you are sitting on. And sure enough, it falls down ....

Many people want to save the world. Many people want to make this nation a better destiny. But the first thing to do is to fix yourself. The road is always the smallest and begins with the first step: with ourselves. And if we fix everything within ourselves, then we will fix everything around ourselves, and then in our little environment, that thing will continue, and that if it can project into our world, it will be a better life once. But you can't reverse these processes and never start at the top of your head " -Kassai Lajos

[In memory of dad, mom, and Mathew]


Mark’s and my Facebook Conversation

Mark: Chris had to delete your comment. I usually don’t delete comments on my threads unless there is a remark disparaging another person (the Benes) they are the few family members I still talk to. J J

Me: My response: Margie’s family is the last family I’d like to disparage. They removed me because they don’t like debating facts. That’s just stating the facts. Better you to have deleted it when I said I’d like to exact vengeance on family members, which doesn’t include anyone for simply defriending me.

Mark: Yea, I know I don’t care what people say but I don’t want them talking bad about people. Then defriending them is between you and them.

Me: What about Andy and family?

Mark: What about them?

Not sure what you mean.

Me: They aren’t your friends anymore?

Mark: Yea they are on FB but don’t say anything to them have only commented on Tony’s posts but I have friends with those who have not disabled Facebook on Facebook not in real life.

Me: I thought you guys were best friends.

Mark: Yea so did I

This is what I sent to Becky. Becky asked Have you taken responsibility for the conflict you caused with Andy?

Then this is what I wrote to Becky. Oh, you want a book, do you?

What I said is the bond that held us together was Dad however thin that was. If dad were still alive and the Estate still around, trust me family would still be together.

Still Mark: Gene when he lived next door to me was very prescient when he said and I quote “When dad dies, the family will break apart and never get together again.” I didn’t believe him but he was right.

Mark still talking about what Gene said: Conflict I caused what? Not sure what you are talking about. It was I Who acted as the buffer between Andy and the rest of the family with during the distribution of dad’s estate. Andy as the executor and helped him. His children kept calling saying how sick Andy was getting and how stressed so I was always contacting family members to lay off.

Mark: With Pris it was I who wrote two separate and long emails on defending Andy’s right to Pris’ money.

Mark talking to Becky or Gene: I have constantly defended Andy. It was I who helped Omayra with her homework. It was I who helped Esteban with his taxes on their rental unit. It was I who was there whenever they needed me. It was I who whenever we thought of doing something we thought of  them first, took the kids to the Gypsy Kings to les Miz and the list goes on ad-Infinitim.

Mark: When Andy was in Morocco I did his taxes (not easy) and he was audited. Dad took me to the IRS in a wheelchair. I was literally on my knees as the audit went through, especially when we couldn’t find one large receipt.

Mark: I thought I had an unbreakable bond and we would forever be a part of their extended family. They used to come up every Friday and we were always invited to their place for an event. Was I ever wrong.

Mark and the people who also see it are his wife, and kids: It’s not just me who sees it. So does Jonathan, Raeann and Jeanine. Raeann broke off all ties.

Mark: For some inexplicable reason they stopped inviting us to any type of event, parties, etc. and the list goes on.

Mark: Clara came to visit Andy. She was here for several weeks didn’t even bother to visit or call us. Pris would have never been treated like this but I don’t have a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Mark: Raeann even tried to organize a meeting at our house.  Didn’t really resolve much. The interesting thing is Esperanza didn’t even bother to come. That showed how interested she was in resolving it. She was half the problem and she doesn’t show up. Nothing changed after the meeting.

Mark: The one thing that sticks out in my mind in the meeting is that Andy jokingly all trying to figure out where to go one day and Andy suggested our house and everyone said “no”.  Even though he was joking about it it told me everything I needed to know.

Mark: We subsequently invited Andy and Esperanza up. I told Andy how lonely I was since his family disappeared from our lives, all he did was nod his head in agreement.

Mark: I don’t even know where to pin what happened and why.

Mark: All I know is we are no longer invited to their gatherings and they no longer visit us. Saw Tony and Anna at a party by Kim’s. It was if I was seeing two strangers. Andy lives 20 minutes away yet I have a closer relationship with Bryan. We talk on a daily basis.

Mark: There is no conflict I caused. If Andy wanted to fix this, he could.

Mark: I looked up to Andy all my life. He was actually the inspiration for me to becoming a Christian. I don’t even go to church anymore.

Mark: I told Andy this in the meeting in which case he said you are supposed to be looking at God not a person, huh? That is the standard cop-out.

Mark: When the person you have looked up to all your life turns on you it does something.

Mark: No one knows how this has affected me.

For months actually a couple of years I have not been able to sleep. I have been depressed and at a time I needed him most.

It’s not me who caused any conflict. It’s Andy’s family who totally excluded us from their lives.

And now although he had the right to Pris’ money. I believe it changed them and gave them freedom they didn’t have before.

I don’t need the money I am already financially independent but that does no good when you’re health sucks.

Something else which I think played a part. Where I come from my background we always talked about finances and you know where I stand politically

But I made a point never to talk politics nor finances at their house but it didn’t matter

Everytime I went to his house someone would ask my opinion on something political. I tried to dance around the questions without offending anyone. Andy was always sitting there trying to figure out his retirement and at the same time trying to guess how much money I had.  No matter how I skirted the issues, the subjects always came up. I felt like I was walking on egg shells.

It is interesting how Andy’s kids are now very vociferous politically.

Interesting too how I get along so well with the Benes’ and their views are so different. Doesn’t bother me or them. In the end its relationships.

But it’s also the reason I don’t talk.

Guess how many times I seen Jeremiah’s and Tony’s kids: 0. And Jeanine wasn’t even invited to Tony’s kids baby shower but it doesn’t bother her even though she and Esperanza were at one point very close.

We don’t know them yet we live 20 minutes from Andy.

Thought I would show you an interview I showed Becky.

Here is a recent interview I gave with a popular blog on wins and losses in my life. I talk about the first win with buying a duplex with Andy thought you might read
Becky replied

Hope you had a good thanksgiving

Here is a blind post I wrote on inheritance

Thought this might be of interest to you. It’s a blog I wrote on inheritance based on our experience
I then sent him a pdf file that I’ll upload and attach to this document: "In response1.pdf"

Thks Chris will read today.

His response is quite telling:
So this is what you write because I deleted a comment on fb because it might offend someone

Interesting Chris really you are an asshole. I am too old to read this crap anymore. I have no response. Don’t want to deal with it anymore. I tried with you as I tried with this whole fucking family

There is no point anymore

Your last paragraph with Ildikó’s daughter keeping that pregnancy from you maybe that set you off. I don’t know yeap bizarre I guess people behave in Hungary as they do in the US

Go wallow in your delusions I am done

Oh and you moron let me debunks one of your myths you love to tout.

First of all go look at the definition of insurance I retired at the age of 42 and before I received a dime I was a millionaire before I received a dime.

On a side not you actually write pretty well.

Now here is something you need to read.

This is why there is insurance for uneducated like you
Yea, come to think about it. I was out getting an education making sure I had earning potential while you were on drugs robbing stores. So don’t give me any of your shit.

I gave you a choice-the bedroom or the living room. Your choice was the living room and you could have purchased a cot for that matter to use. It was your choice to sleep on the floor or for that matter you could have moved if you were dissatisfied. It’s a free country but you chose the living room.. You are an adult. Funny how you never complained until you left.

And about Gene which was 25 years ago. Gene not only is a high risk taker but he takes unnecessary risks. I had already made tons of money on the stock market.

I told you exactly what I would do. So don’t give me that shit I never told you I didn’t push it because Gene has a convincing way about himself. You wanted to listen to him. You were trying to get rich quick.

I made my money slowly with prudent investments and the effect of compound interest and trust me I made a lot of mistakes along the way.

Just look at what Gene did he sells his house here buys a house with those stupid variable rates and then gets Greg to do it too.  Both lost money and when Gene was telling you this He was unemployed because he thought school was a waste of time

You are an adult I wasn’t going to push my agenda. You should have paid attention to what I did. I put my money in cash at the height of the Bull market avoiding the crash.

I even told you and so did Gene to take your money out to pay for the taxes. Only a fool keeps his money in a company that never makes a profit. You have only yourself to blame.

You knew the risks. I told you the risks. You ignored my advice but chose to follow someone who talks a good game but true success in his own right.

Everything he did turned out to be a flop. I was successful in everything I did and made my money before I went on disability. That is why I got an education.

So don’t give me your shit. Who has time to write 4 pages of nonsense you have already spouted off 100 times before.

It gets tiring after awhile.

Things must not be going well for you in Hungary for you to write that.

I have a friend in the UK who deleted a post of mine and she sent me a pm telling me why. I understood that it is protocol and we are still on friends.

Deleting your comment was not about you.

I am 66 now I don’t even give you a thought.  No time for that crap.

And about Mathew, you didn’t know Matthew, I did. We were in the same grade. Heck, we even robbed a few schools together.

I don’t know what you are talking about the bear. His bear is displayed on the coffee table in our new addition which will be passed on to Jonathan when I die. I am the one keeping his legacy alive and making sure no one forgets him. Everything you say about Matthew is pure shit. My blog about Matthew.

pictures of the bear are shown.

First shows bear displayed not in some dust place as you pointed out.

Second is a panoramic view.

Click on second photo to zoom around.

Oh, and another thing on the bear. I did not ask Redford to return the bear. I asked him to put it in his will. He suggested in returning it so get your facts straight.

I sent the "Again.pdf "file.


Mark writes:
This is suicide awareness month. I updated my post, edited and made it easier to read. When I first posted it. A lot of family members who commented. I would love for you to comment again on this post if you knew Matthew or if you didn’t what you heard about him, what you remember and what he meant to you.

My other blog did not get much much traffic. This blog gets a lot more exposure. I promote it and one of my blogs was featured in a popular financial forum, ten reasons why you don’t need a financial forum. That generated tons of traffic and 50 new subscribers.

This post will also be part of a contribution on a blog for suicide awareness. Backlinks are important for google search engines.

PS: If there are English writers out there who can think of a better way to write or edit something (JESSICA) let me know. I want this story to come alive.


Suicide – A Brother’s Decision; by TRS | Sep 12, 2018 | Suicide | 23 comments

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