What's nice about 3-Pistoles and Chambly Noir is that they aren't as coarse as dark beers usually tend to be. Cool that you can get it in the States, even though Rochester is only a day's drive from the brewery. Give it a shot, it'll cost you a whole 4 bucks. :p
you-knee-broo. Sorry!
Thanks! Still have a couple left in my 12 of BGR, might need those later! Hahahaha
Thanks Jon. As long as that Jager comes with a bottle of Goldschlagger I'm all for it. Liquid Cocaine FTW. Your new hair cut suits you a lot better, BTW, even if ultra-long hair rocks. Screw BYOB, I've moved on to bigger and better (not really, but PM me your MSN and I'll send you some junk).
Thanks. Keith's is a good brew.
Haha, bragging rights. "Yeah, so I banged this totally murderous water-sports driven whore." LOL.
*gets ready for TL;DR posts*
The whole attempted murder thing is easier to understand knowing that about 2 months into our relationship she was diagnosed with severe borderline personality disorder. Much of our relationship was a battle with her to get help, suicide threats from her, and constant mood swings with a VERY (physically) violent temper. I suppose I stuck around because I wanted to help her get the help she needed and start a more normal and fulfilling life instead of the life of self-destruction she had been living prior to us meeting.
So yeah, the whole knife-attack happened the day after Valentine's (two months ago). We were living together. I had just gotten home from work (working 6am-4pm), with a roll of quarters that she had asked me to bring so that the laundry could be done (laundromat).
She's already in a *****y mood when I get in the door, and immediately got on my case to go do the laundry. I told her to give me 10-15 minutes to relax from work, get changed, check my email, etc... She says fine. I get changed from my work clothes, and just as I'm sitting down to check my messages she starts getting on my case again (this is like 1 minute after). I'm like "give me a ****ing break, I just walked in the door," and she starts *****ing that if I don't go now, I'll be complaining because it's late. I figure there's just no use arguing cause she's already in a bad mood, and I head downstairs in our building to go start the laundry.
Once the load is in, I head back up, and she's closed herself into our computer room with her music blaring. I figure **** it, and go to the living room to play GH3, which I had purchased not too long before. We lived in a small place, and her music was so loud that I could hardly hear the TV, so I in turn push the volume up. About 3 or 4 minutes later (I hadn't even finished a song yet) she comes storming into the living room, turns the PS2 off and starts *****ing that my music is too loud. I try to explain that it was only loud so I could hear it over her ****ing music but there's no trying to reason with her.
I figure I can play hard too. She heads back into the computer room, slams the door, and turns her music up even louder. I flip the breaker for the computer room.
She bursts out of the computer room, pushes me (the breaker box is right next to the computer room door), and punches me right in face. I start yelling at her, "VOYONS DONC TABARNAC QU'EST CE QUI TE PREND AUJOURD'HUI (WTF is wrong with you today)" to which she replies with a swift punch to the balls.
So I'm cornered in the kitchen, which is at the end of the apartment (the computer room is connected to the kitchen), and as I bend over in pain from the nut crunch, she grabs a knife from the butcher block, and is standing in the entrance to the hallway, locking me into the kitchen. The knife was enough for me to forget my aching balls.
I get up, and look at her, and she has this evil, almost-possessed look on her face. I tell her to put the knife down. She doesn't move, doesn't answer. I repeat to put the knife down. She eventually throws herself at me with the knife coming straight for my throat, screaming at the top of her lungs. I push her back, and she gets even madder.
Things after that are kind of harder to remember, side effect from the adrenaline I suppose, or maybe my brain that wants to suppress the memory. I remember her going through all of the knifes in the butcher block, one after another as I wrestled them away from her. I remember my forearm getting cut from a swift swing that I hadn't managed to catch. At one point I had grabbed the knife as it came for me, and snapped the blade clean off the handle with the handle remaining in her hand. She *****ed about me having to pay for her knife, to which I didn't bother replying, being too busy stressing the **** out.
The last time she lunged at me with the last knife (meat cleaver) I pushed her back hard enough for her to slam into the kitchen counter, the protruding edge of which hit her hard in the back and brought her to the floor. When I pushed her, I went flying back, slammed into the stove and knocked over a glass utensil-holder-vase-thing which shattered to the floor.
She starts crying, gets up, and walks around the glass *****ing that I could have handicapped her, and crawls into bed. I immediately lock myself in the computer room when she leaves the kitchen (when I should have ****ing run for my life).
I'm cleaning the blood off my hand and arm with my shirt when I hear a heavy THUD coming from the apartment. I walk out of the computer room, and the bathroom door is open. She's lying the the bottom of the bathtub, with the belt from her nightrobe tied around her neck. Not wanting to be responsible for her death, I untie it. She's breathing, her pulse is normal, but she's unconcious. **** it, I go outside for a cigarette. A few minutes later, I come back in, and she's crawled back into bed. She asks me, "why didn't you let me die?" I replied, "because no one is going to die here tonight, and there's nothing you can really do about it," and I head into the computer room and lock the door.
As I'm thinking about calling the cops, I hear her futz around in the kitchen, and hear the bathroom door close again. I run to the bathroom and break the door open, throwing all my weight into it. She's standing next to the bathtub, the belt around her neck again, with a knife in her hand. She holds it high above her head, looks at me, and lets out this infernal scream.
I bolt for the phone in the kitchen and dial 911. She runs after me, and tries to wrestle the phone away from me. As I try and remember my phone number and address for the dispatcher, Celyna starts punching me in the face repeatedly. Somehow I grabbed both her arms, and manage to get her to stop hitting me so that I can talk to the dispatcher, but she wrestles free and pulls the cables for the phone.
Working in close collaboration with the Montreal city police at work (I managed a store in a bad neighbourhood), I knew the cops would trace my phone number and would be there within a minute or two. She stands again between me and the hallway out of the kitchen, crosses her arms, and wields this over-confident smirk.
"I'm just going to tell them that you beat me. Who's going to believe that a woman beat her man?" Remember, I have a 4-5 inch cut on my forearm and the palm of my right hand is gouged out from when I broke the blade.
"You think they're not going to see through you? The minute they walk in they're going to see that you're nothing but a psycho *****."
She spits in my face. Relax stronger than my mind, my hand flew out and slapped her right on the temple. She's stunned but fine. First time I ever laid a hand on her, throughout this whole thing, and ever. I don't have an ounce of violence in me.
Cops knock at the door soon after, and she won't move. She's blocking my way to the door, and I can't go unlock it. I yell at them to break in. They bust the door open. There's two police officers. One immediately takes her by the shoulders and brings her into the bedroom to talk. The other asks me if I'm okay. The 2nd police officer and I go into the living room to talk.
She won't talk at all to the cops. They take my version as best as I can recall on the spot, and my nerves aren't helping. EMTs arrive soon after. One of them cleans up my cuts and bandages them, but my hand will need stitches. They take her off to the psych ward of a nearby hospital.
Once the cops leave, and I refuse to go to the hospital, I locked the doors, found my pepper spray (which I carried at work). Sleep would have been a luxury that night.
I went to file a police report the next day with her family (!). Her sister had helped me to get the apartment key off of her keychain, which was taken from her in the hospital. The cops told me that they couldn't really file criminal charges because she was mentally unstable when they arrive (the attempted suicide). Without the criminal charges, I couldn't get a restraining order without going to provincial court and demanding one.
Anyways... a lot happened in the few days after, she was discharged 3 days after the incident. A week later, I had moved 1000 kms away.
So yeah...
need more beer!
!!
Son of Krokodile XVI