Who Is This Guy?

REAL TALK: I wish this was funny

My brother has been out of prison for four weeks. His freedom has created interestingly frustrating challenges for me. There are obvious major differences in us. I'm smart enough to adjust. Unfortunately, he is not. Here's a little background which I believe is the root of the problem.

Y'A
I grew up in a quiet neighborhood in Queens the youngest of three adopted kids. I wouldn't say my mother was strict. I would say my mother was insane. She had rules for everything. When you eat; how you dress; when you can use the phone, etc. I swear that woman must have had OCD. While talking to my sibs as adults, I realize we all have OCD. Thanks mom. I was a very good student. I graduated college. I have a career. . . By no stretch of the imagination did my Mom and I get along. She died when I was 23. As I get older, I do realize that I miss subtle things about her. My mom let me be weird. She let my OCD grow to its full bloom. She let me dress the way I wanted to dress when I was a kid. I appreciate that now that I'm a thoroughly weird adult. As a kid, I viewed my mom's sensibilities as psychotic, but now as an adult, I'm slowly beginning to realize I'm turning into my mother. This is probably because I feel like I am raising my 37 year old brother. While in my house I told him to pull his pants up. I said you can't coming here looking like that and I had to repeatedly tell him to cover his mouth while he coughed. That does not bode well for Michael. My mom would have giving this guy the boot three weeks ago.

Michael
 . . . . . . .
Yup. That's it. I know as much about him now as I did four weeks ago. As much as I pepper this dude with questions, all of his stories are shifty. He never looks me in the eye and I told him he is the worst liar I have ever met. I told him we are supposed to be getting to know each other. I know HOW he is. I don't know WHO he is. Upon meeting me, it should take you about twenty minutes to realize that I will probably never get a drug reference and I don't speak slang. At all. I don't even understand slang. This means I understand about 30% of what Michael says. Every time I see him [which at this point is too many times], he talks about weed like I know what he is talking about. Michael's best friend is named "They". "They" and weed come up a lot. For example: I asked Michael about his Parole Officer. He said [I couldn't repeat it if I fucking tried cause I had to ask him several times to  repeat himself] "They" told him she is the best Parole Officer and she won't turn you in if you have a dirty piss test. I swear to fucking God he said this. I basically told him "They" will get his ass back in prison. He also told me about his friend from prison who is now "Pimpin' Hoes". His friend asked Michael if he wanted to be in on the action. Michael apparently being a feminist, declined because he "can't believe these women do not have self respect and that's not the kind of crime I want to commit". So I asked "What kind of crimes do you want to commit Michael?" Stammer, Stammer, Stammer. I asked him how often he thinks about smoking weed since I know more about that than I do about him. I told him he needs to stop listening to "They", don't pimp hoes, and maybe he needs a meeting about his desire to smoke a blunt. He said he only thinks about it once a week. Right.

My main problem with him is he has no concept of boundaries. He asked me to put his name on my mailbox and I refused. At this point, a whole bunch of shit started coming to my house with his name on it. He was pissed I wouldn't put his name on the box, but I don't care. I never gave it another thought. That is until I came home yesterday. I opened my mailbox and in there is a letter addressed to someone named Mark MY LAST NAME/Michael HIS FUCKING ALIAS. Michael 1-Y'A 0. I flipped my lid. This guy had his friend send mail to my house using a fake name that included my actual legal surname. This is just the tip of the iceberg of all of the things he has done that will eventually cause an aneurysm. If I met this guy under different circumstances, I would never speak to him again. The problem is I don't want to speak to him again. He seems to not give two shits about what my job is for him to do all of these things including using my name. He disrespects my hospitality and I'm running out of patience. The reality is, Michael has been looking for me since he was 5 years old. He made a promise to our birth mother that he would find me. He found me. Meanwhile, there is a huge divide. I am not 3. I am a responsible nerd that basically grew up in the suburbs and I don't understand how this man can roam the streets all day begging to get into trouble. You would think he would at least pretend otherwise in front of me. But like I said, he is a terrible liar. His "tell" is consciousness. If he is awake, he is lying. It is no wonder that he spent most of his adult life in prison. I have to figure out something fast or this will be a short reunion.