Suicide, Schizophrenia, and Sploshing

Suicide, Schizophrenia and Sploshing: A Collection of Short Stories.

By David Estrada

Suicide, Schizophrenia and Sploshing

By David Estrada

Copyright David Estrada 2012

Published at Smashwords

David Estrada 2012 All Rights Reserved

IBSN 978-1-105-76239-0

I am a piece of shit

By David Estrada

Life has always been like ambrosia but my ambrosia is often mixed with capers. My name is David Estrada. I am the caper in the ambrosia of my neighborhood. Just by thinking about a caper one thinks of something tasty intrinsically…savory. But mixed with the fruit and sweets of the ambrosia they are both spoiled.

His name, his name is David Hume…he is a recent graduate from Fullerton College but this isn’t his real name. The real David Hume was a renowned philosopher. Isn’t that the way life is? When shit hits the fan white people blame the outsider, the scapegoat. This is a graduation party for a friend or just an acquaintance. I, David Estrada, like to drink and have very low self-esteem and ambition. We often think that everything is about us especially when we don’t know all the details of circumstances that we are not in control of but surround us like a murder of crows in park at dusk.

I could have walked to Hume’s house and start drink that afternoon I can’t remember that I didn’t. But around two the next morning they wouldn’t let me leave and I can’t remember if it was because someone stole the money for the strippers or was it that I had overdosed in the driveway and no one would call an ambulance so a private doctor was called. But that is the end and you are wondering how do I come to referring to the majority of my friends as though they were members of Hitler’s inner circle?

Adolf Hitler and I were workout buddies. We talked about racism and how I need to be proud of my birth heritage. I am adopted…My family is real…I am really Hispanic, unless you are truly a racist. Because of these people, I never want to meet my birth family. Adolf, his brother and I went to a racist bookstore in Costa Mesa one night during my indoctrination into the cult of Hitler Christ. One day he told me that Mexicans were like Jews and we needed to put them unto trains to death camps. I this time I learn of ZOG…the Zone Occupied by Germany or ZOG. Some people said that ZOG was the Jews taking over the world but I knew that America had never won the War and history had become Nazi propaganda since the Hitler won the war by making a deal to develop atomic bombs and bomb their former ally Japan.

Soon the AIDS Project would kill the remaining undesirables like the scientists had planned. The fear of physical love because of fatal disease would drive the lonely to suicide but depression is as contagious as herpes but twenty times more scarring.

Galeazzo Ciano had been my childhood best friend but I see that there are no such things as friends. His older brother Benito Mussolini had been one of my childhood tormentors spitting in my face when I wanted to play with the other kids. I was born with birth defects to my urinary tract that cause he to get punched in the face by bullies, piss my pants and have chronic kidney infections. I wish I had died as a child so I wouldn’t have had to live a life as mine. I wouldn’t have had to live through the Beer Garden putsch where I was thrown under the bus and I became the dirty spic scapegoat…

So there I was hanging out with Nazis talking about our love of a Nazi punk group Aggravated Assault but really I was a Spanish or Mexican Nazi sympathizer who just like getting drunk and asking this Adolf Hitler guy why he didn’t believe in God and why he hated Hispanics…my family. I mostly liked to drink and if I had thought about it too much I would have turned my gun on the Hitler’s and screamed FUCK WHITE POWER. Good Americans grieved at the news of the Oklahoma City bombing. Hitler’s father and mother kissed while the Nazi flag waved on the backyard flagpole.

I was at work and I was shocked most of this racist shit was almost a joke to me. This Mein Kampf that Adolf asked me to read. These KKK books he had me explain to him to test my comprehension. But the Jews are the evil people, he would explain; I wish life was that simple. Maybe I am evil because I think they are okay. Even if they never like me I still couldn’t see putting people in train cars destined for gas chambers.

Once at a party in Hacienda Heights Benito Mussolini yelled 88 thus saluting Hitler…Hail Hitler. The double eight either stands for the eighth letter of the alphabet HH or the 88 words of Hitler in the Mein Kampf declaring the White Race sacrosanct and affirming racist beliefs like the White Power Bible.

So there I am at a backyard party too shy to be with a girl and too stupid to just stay away from these white assholes. It is not that I hate all white people but I think the U.S. should have tested their atomic weapons on Berlin…I have no doubt of my growing unpopularity among my peers who went on to have nice lives with wives or husbands they love…I sleep alone like I have since I was a child. I am waiting to die. I just think that if a woman got to know me she would hate me and well if you haven’t been in love by the time you reach twenty five you should consider suicide as a solution to your low self-esteem. Maybe they gave me AIDS instead of a kidney transplant and only told the White Power girls…Maybe being Hispanic in a White Power Neighborhood is tantamount to AIDS or the untouchable caste.

But shortly after this real party the author was declared schizophrenic. I just wanted to drink…get smashed maybe smoke a little pot but this night was to be an intervention because every person who take prednisone or any kidney transplant medicine has schizophrenia. It is a scientific fact. I want to die every day because I see my life as worthless and unfulfilling because I was bullied by white supremacists no it had to do with kidney transplant medicine. And so now I am just waiting to die sixteen years of being jerked around by people in and out of the 12 step programs and psychiatry itself because my story is so far-fetched it must be fiction this story I am telling you now.

Aristotle and Emile Durkheim like to smoke pot and they are teachers at Fullerton College. I am shitfaced by three in the afternoon on a Saturday. I am right on schedule. This is going to culminate in a twelve step meeting or some sort of criminal investigation where the police fail to fill any paperwork and I overdose and no one calls for an ambulance. But I am schizophrenic because of kidney medicine. Or maybe I am just fucking screaming for love and all these undercover cops want to hook me up with is a whore. Yes I believe most of the Nazis in my neighborhood are officers of the law. But they are not here to serve justice. They aren’t even here to serve me a beer or a rum and coke. They are here to bully me like they always have and I will always salute Columbine I wish I had turned my gun on them in the desert. Columbine is no laughing matter and neither is what happened to me that day or the following days until I was locked in a mental institution. I don’t know who was worse that night the visit from Doctor Bob or the denial of Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini. Whatever happened, it was my fault.

As the night went along I became more drunk because this was in fact a college party with is a high school party on steroids. But I am pressured into drinking and that makes me an alcoholic…I smoke pot once or twice and that makes me an addict. But most of my insecurities come from my adoption and my sister who was adopted. She was friends with the Nazis…but they were the only people who wanted me around after high school. She was a shit bag…My parents did the best they could and she was under the assumption that white was better than brown. Or maybe when shit went down with her and my dad she was telling the truth and I wasn’t a witness. Or perhaps she wanted to put ideas into my head because the Estrada’s are evil people. A family that takes care of a kid with chronic kidney disease sounds evil to me but I am schizophrenic.

This situation happened before high school and I think to this day that most women would rather be lesbians than have sex or be in love with me because I am diseased. I am well into the keg and Hume’s father bought. Baseball was on the television in the dimly lit living room. The Dodgers are playing the freeway series against the Angels. I am sauced so everything looks interesting by 4 in the afternoon on a Saturday. It is early July and this is a graduation party for David Hume. It is the third inning and I am drunk. I don’t get baseball. It is the hick American equivalent to Cricket. The crowd begins to wave and I can hear the dull roar through the TV. But this time my brain is on repeat it is a symptom of being drunk. My brain is on repeat…reiteration in my synapse. I stumble outside, unaware who was batting or how many strikes had been thrown so far. I am drunk. This is a common occurrence…being drunk and drinking someone else’s alcohol.

For a party there isn’t much going on, they assure me that this is only the beginning and I may have arrived too early. I don’t remember if I ate today. Isn’t it the way it is when you drink too much you go to a party and they fail to feed you and if you ask for water they give you vodka…are there people in the backyard? I am too drunk to know if there are people here but there is my teacher Socrates he is burning a joint with Emile Durkheim. Would they kick down? When I have been drinking it is easier for me to ask for things. I become more social but who doesn’t? They smoke me out. Later everything that is and has been happening to me is going to be blamed on my kidney transplant medicine. It won’t be blamed on the marijuana, the beer or even