A Fool’s Paradise

April 2, 2012 at 8:45 PM | Posted in Personal | 2 Comments
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I might have tricked myself into thinking that I was actually writing, for a while.  But the truth of it became glaringly obvious when I saw all the empty folders–folders I had created, with plans to fill them.
I had been writing steadily, continually (not continuously, which is a different thing entirely) since 2005.  Hundreds of entries I’ve written.  In fact, my ridiculous blog keeps track of the statistics, and I’m numbering in the 700s.
Long about last summer, I discovered a website, Chuck Wendig’s Terrible Minds.  He had these flash fiction challenges, and I got sucked right in.  I participated fairly regularly, and whaddaya know!
–I had some readers.
And I wrote some pretty good stuff along the way, stuff I’m pretty happy with.  And I learned about writing on a deadline, and editing.  I also learned about honest feedback, and how to take it.  But more than that, I had people who read my shit.
In the olden days when I started the blog, I had readers.  If you go and look at my early stuff–most of which is grammatically horrific if not downright unreadable–you’ll see a host of comments from people who came to read and enjoyed what I had writ.  Over time…it all fades away.
I missed that.  In the meantime I poured my heart on my blog, exposing myself and my secrets, leaving me vulnerable.  I was harsh and honest.  But what if someone reads my dirty little secrets?  I wasn’t really worried about that.  The surest way to have privacy on the internet is to have a blog that no one reads.
I thought mayhaps I got away from my original goal…which is writing…by writing something else…
It’s all very confusing to me, and solipsistic in nature–this only matters to me, and all the voices in me head.
I decided long ago (and I realize now it wasn’t a firm resolve preceded by deep thought and heart-wrenching agonizing over the choices) that my blog would be defined sort of this way, in this style:
  “My blog is about my life.  It’s an on-line journal where I tell the stories of my life and what I’ve been through.  Not in the trudging, weary monotony of a diary, but essay style, wherein I pick a topic or theme or event and write about it.”
And then I added to the theme and expanded on it:
“I’m going to tell the stories of my life as they happen, but also dig into my brain and pull out the memories of things in the past, and write about them also.”
It sort of congealed like rancid grease into this:
“I’m going to collect all the stories of my adventures working in foodservice and management, because surely there’s a story there.”
There may, in fact, be a story there, but don’t call me Shirley.
And I’m comfortable enough with myself to play around with different styles of writing.  After all, it’s just my blog and no one reads it, right?  I’ve done the first person, essays, rants, third person, fictionalized essays, historical fiction, humor, drama, fantasy–
All  the while maintaining the highest grammatical standards.
I’m not sure what goal is or what it should be.  I guess I want to write, and be published.  I used to think it was for the money, but I’m too realistic for that.  Also, I’m too narcissistic.  I never thought I could be too narcissistic.  That’s like being too smart or too clever or too good-looking–and I am all of those things as well.
Because of the narcissistic thing, I crave attention.  I don’t want to write to be rich.  I want to write to be read.  I want people to read these words I put down and enjoy them.
I want to be on the escalator at the mall and over-hear two women:
“Oh, that new Bushong book is out.  I want to stop by the bookstore.”
“I’ve heard of that new one.  I really like his older stuff, though.”
“They’re going to make a movie out of that one–”
“Ugh.  I know they’re going to ruin it.”
Then I introduce myself to them, and one of them blows me in the food court bathroom.  (I may have confused two different fantasies there.)

I want to write, and yet this little bit right here is the most I’ve laid down on the screen in many, many weeks.  And I haven’t worked on my novel since November, doing that damned NaNoWriMo.  If you don’t know what it is, I’m not going to explain it.  But it sucked the writer’s soul out of me briefly.  Good thing the lint screen caught it, because I feel it starting to come back.  Kind of like the pilot light on the water heater, you know?  You have to hold down the button and wait, and hope it stays lit on its own when you let go.
I’m about to let go.
Dammit all, writing isn’t hard–not for me.  I’m not trying to sound elitist; I didn’t say that what I write is good.  But I can do it.  I can put the words on the screen.  I can lay down the tracks.  I can put on the miles.
I’ve had some distractions, which is not a reason or even an excuse, but more like a symptom.  I think I had some low-grade depression over the winter, compounded with real-life issues that are just naturally depressing, unless you’re a sociopath.
And I may still have it, but I need to funnel this shit somewhere.  Maybe it’s because I need to take a dump right now, but I feel like I have a cosmic constipation of my karmic energy.  I need to get this shit out.
I think I’m ready now.

  And yeah, I know.  I know without going back and looking that I’ve done this before.  This re-evaluation of my worth and examination of my heart’s desires and my deep meditation on the whole meaning of the universe and my place in it.
  I’m not going to say, “But this time I mean it.”
  What I am going to say is, “I know.”  And then I’m going to dig in my heels, roll up my sleeves, adjust my balls, and try again.


Well, Never Mind, Then

October 14, 2010 at 8:20 PM | Posted in Personal | 1 Comment

Well, I’ve been writing this ridiculous blog for about five years now, so maybe it’s time I started to track it right–
I started to say, “Do it properly,” but that maybe a bit much to ask at this late stage of the game. I yam what I yam.
But here’s the thing: I was on MSN spaces for all that time, and I liked it, for the most part. Lately it seemed to get bothersome, and some of the changes I didn’t like. I decided to move to wordpress, and leave the old MSN page up as an archive.
Then along comes MSN and says, yo, that’s a good idea you had, moving to wordpress. We’re going to make everyone do it. Well, it is exactly what I would have done, and they helped me do it. Last night I decided to take the plunge and migrate everything to wordpress. It was a fairly simple process. And everything came over, except my lists and things–but I had already saved those.
Even the comments on my blog came over, and as a consequence I stayed up way too late reading them, and reminiscing.
It seems that back in the day, I had a pack–a gaggle–a band of loyal readers. What happened to them all? One by one, they dropped of, dropped out, and lost interest–or realized they had lost. Detroit had explained to me that many of them were women who–perhaps much like herself–had been searching for someone. Someone to save them, take them away from their dreary, unhappy lives. They had been searching for a knight in shining armor…
Yeah, that would be me.
After she had captured my heart and reigned victorious over the intarweb’s elusive butterfly of love, the others congratulated us, said they were happy for us…and stopped coming around.
To be fair, there was a period there where I wasn’t writing on the blog as much, because I was busy being stupid in love. I know how annoying that is to see, so I can sympathize with those who saw it and said, “Ugh, no thanks.”
I know that I’m gullible, naive, innocent, and ever so slightly retarded, but I didn’t think that ALL of them were after my body and my shirt–both of which I am too sexy for, by the way. Some of them were genuinely friends, it seemed. And notwithstanding the flirting and the offers for everything from a hug and a kiss to participation in the threesome of my choosing, I did receive many compliments on my writing.
The theme running through them was that I was honest (truthfully, I don’t see it) and able to bring them into my world and my life with my words. The best example is one woman–not even a regular, but a casual reader–said that she didn’t even know me, but felt that she knew me, because of what I had written.
When I go back and look at it now, all I see is the occasional misspelled word and a propensity for horrible sentence structure. Over the past five years I’ve become a better writer (I hope), but hardly anyone reads me now.
I feel like I have Hair Band Syndrome. This is a new one, so let me explain:
Back in the 80s–the golden age of Pop music that was also the dark ages for Rock–lots of these no-talent hair bands were really popular. Loverboy, Def Leppard, White Snake, Poison, et cetera. Okay, I won’t say “no-talent.” But low. Or talented, but definitely not experienced, practiced, accomplished. Through luck and studio magic, they had some hits.
Twenty years later, after their rise and fall and individual internal crisis, they decide to learn how to play their instruments. Also, the age and experience has turned them into better performers, better musicians, better songwriters. They are better now than they ever were during their peak of fame.
And no one wants to see them. They can’t fill a bar, much less an amphitheater. A stadium? You’ve *got* to be kidding! Where did all the fans go? They grew up, and now they listen to Nirvana. Well, shit. Where did all the groupies go? You only had one, and you married her.

I’m now a better writer, technically speaking, than I ever was. I’ve also been through some serious shit, the flames of which have forged the steel that is my soul. Aged with experience and carved with cynicism, my failing eyes see the world through a bitter lens, and everything is grey and ashen to my jaded taste buds. I’ve also learned how to use a thesaurus.
Compared to the hack I was before, I’m Ernest Fucking Hemingway now. Where at go all my readers?
On one hoof, I’d like to recapture the glory and have readers again: The huddled masses, the hoi polloi, waiting desperately for my next post to give their pathetic lives meaning.
On the other hoof, we all know it’s not a good idea to encourage me too much, because it’ll just go to my head.

Happy Father’s Day

June 20, 2010 at 10:12 PM | Posted in Personal | Leave a comment
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It hurts if I think about it
So when I want to wallow in it
I can, with gusto
But I don’t want to talk it about okay?

Here’s the thing
I don’t want you to tell me its okay
I don’t want you to console me or
Try to make me feel better about it
I don’t want to hear that its not that bad
Or that things will get better

Because maybe they will and maybe they wont
And I don’t want to speak about
The thing I dare not say
My own admission of guilt is mine and mine
And how can I counsel others when I have failed so
How can I listen and empathize
When my own sins are so much worse
What have I done?  Oh, God, what have I done?

Maybe it’s not that bad but it feels that way to me
And to the ones I’ve done wrong-
My children-
It feels that way to them
I’ve tried, over and again, to make amends
Two steps forward and three steps back
Is such a funny cliche for such a horrible situation

Here I sit, on Father’s Day, alone.
Or surrounded by people other than my children
Which, today, is the same thing.
It’s not fair…it’s not
She has the kids
She has custody
She has their hearts
I have photos and memories, all outdated.

I could wait for a phone call, or
I could take the initiative
Like I haven’t done so many times before
I can place a call, or send a text, or write on Facebook,
Or I could drive the many miles
Or send up smoke signals
Or think happy thoughts

I don’t want any more of this pain
My chest–my heart–I cant take it
I don’t want
I don’t want any more holidays
I just…I surrender.  Please, no more.

Off The Grind

June 17, 2010 at 8:41 PM | Posted in Personal | Leave a comment
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I had no internet at home for a few days.  And at work, I’m using the force of my will alone to avoid getting on the Internet at work.  It’s been five days, and I haven’t clicked on it once.  Maybe not having it at home has made it easier…but eventually I’m going to have to log on somewhere and pay my bills.
Technology is an addiction.  Back in the day when I had the internet, I read about that on some blogs.  And listening to the radio the other day, I heard someone talk about it.  There are some YouTube videos as well about survival.
There is a movement–I’m not sure what you’d call them.  Luddites, maybe?  Trying to detox and separate themselves from the technology overload in our society.  As I sat in front of the TV watching just regular satellite because we couldn’t stream the Netflix, and at the same time I texted with my phone, I considered it.  No more tech…A simpler way of life.  I should post something on Facebook about it.
I could do it.  I’m sure I could.  I’m made of that stuff–what do you call it?–The pioneering spirit.  I had watched a special on the history channel about it.   Disconnect everything–the satellite, the cell phones, the internet.  Just give me a stack of papers and pens so I can write, and an ax to grind.  I’ll fill my time.  Or a chisel and some rock–I’ll start at the deep end. 

At first, I had resolve.  But then they turned it back on, and I plugged the cable directly into my vein.  Maybe I should get wireless?

Multiple Diagnoses

June 8, 2010 at 10:14 PM | Posted in Personal | Leave a comment
  In a case of deja vu all over again, here I am, going stir crazy.  Again.
  I remember writing about this once before when I was down to just one job, or just two but not working much on the second one.  I don’t remember.  The point is, I had too much time on my hands and started going bat-shit crazy.  BSC.
  Just a little while ago, I stood up and started pacing.  My mind was racing and my fingers were flexing with a twitch-like speed.  It was nine o’clock at night, and I needed something to do.  Fuck me.
  Detroit and I talked about it.  Sadly, she’s gotten to know me pretty well.  The bottom line is, I know why some people die shortly after they retire.  I’m going to have to work for the rest of my life, if only for my sanity.
  You know, I see some people…who can just sit.  Sit and watch TV, or sit and read, or just sit and veg.  For days on end.  Hell, *years* on end.  Her oldest son the troll would take root where he sits if he didn’t have to occasionally go to the bathroom or forage for food in the middle of the night like some kind of fucking nocturnal sloth.
  Her mom sits down and then there she sits.  That’s all she wrote right there. 
  And I know that normal people lead active lives, and so that is what I should be doing.  I am, however, completely certain that I have no idea what comprises "normal."  I go to work at my desk job, then I come home and I’m…lost.
  I almost feel like my medicine isn’t working?  I’m going to talk to the doctor about this.  Aside from the ADD, I know I have some kind of avoidance disorder, which is just a bullshit way of saying that I don’t do things that I should sometimes.  I go to great lengths and expend a lot of energy avoiding things until I get completely locked up; it’s a karmic constipation.
  As much of there is of the stuff I want to avoid, there is still so much other stuff that I want to do that I can’t seem to get to because I’m busy avoiding doing other things.
  I don’t have mania, I think.  But I see some hypomania.  That’s a mid-level mania, basically.  It means that even with mental illness I can’t excel. 
  I do know one thing–actually, I know several, but this floated to the top–The hornet’s nest of voices and activity is back in my brain again.  All the voices are me, don’t worry.  But all the bastards are histrionic and just chomping at the bit for my attention.

How Does Your Garden

March 9, 2010 at 11:04 PM | Posted in Personal | Leave a comment
  Even when I have nothing, sometimes I have something to say, and I’m not sure what it’s going to be until I see it appear under my fingers.  I had the entire weekend off–Friday evening, Saturday and Sunday.  I had plans–big, big plans.  I had a list.
  But I also had so much stress that I locked up and didn’t do anything. 
  Plus, Sunday I didn’t take my medication.  Detroit noticed, because she did an imitation of me.  Really?  Am I really like that?  Really?  I didn’t remember until 130 in the afternoon and by then it is too late.  I don’t get the buzz from my pill anymore, so that’s good.  But there is still a marked difference in my behavior that I am not always aware of but other people are.
  The stress came, ironically, from things I haven’t done, but I was too stressed to do any of them.  When everything is a priority, what do yo do first?
  And more than a little of the stress is from money.  Aren’t we all in that boat now?  I’m working two jobs but it still seems like I am short every month and getting more and more in the hole.
  Not to mention I’m sick and tired of my second job and could quit at any moment, and my day job is in a volatile situation and could disappear without warning.
  I am truly…what’s the word for it?–fucked.

Slap Me Around For Focus

February 18, 2010 at 2:54 PM | Posted in Personal | Leave a comment
  I learned a couple of new words the other day.  One is "polymath." The others are didactic (and autodidactic), and dilettante, and junto.  Oh, and generalist.
  I would like to be considered a polymath, but truthfully I may be little more than a dilettante.  I aspire to at least the middle ground–am I a generalist, at least?
  I am fairly knowledgeable on a wide range of subjects, and most of that is auto-didactic.  Or at least–not learned in school.  What fields or skills do I have, what interests do I maintain, what things have I done that I can list as polymathic?
  Let’s start with writer.  Writer, poet, comic.  Cartoonist, too.  Now radio personality and producer.  Sure, why not?  What else you got?  Inventor?  I’ve thought of a few things.  Self-taught on the carpentry, I know that.  Of course, most of these are self-taught, so I have an equal skill in most of them.
  If I’m a carpenter then I’m also a mechanic.  I actually went to school for computers, so put down computer tech as well.  Cook?  Sure.  Not a chef by any means, but definitely a cook.
  Anything I’ve built as a carpenter I designed first.  Designer and architect.  How about my driving skills, and ability to get around?  What would you call that?  Hmmm.  I can read a map.  Cartography analyst, professional driver.
  Oh, let’s put down martial artist as well.  I have awesome nunchuk skills, and a blue belt in tae kwon do, so very long ago.  What other jobs have I had?
  Forklift driver.  I worked on a farm.  But I’m getting away from the brainy-type stuff here.  Leo (Da Vinci, not Dicaprio) had solid skills in intellectual areas.
  Let’s add mathematician.  I like math, I’ve had more math than a large percentage of the planet–Up to Engineering Calc III–and I like math.
  Likewise I’m a fan of science and history.  Can I truthfully call myself a historian, or a scientist?  What does it take to be a scientist?  Not much, apparently, if Al Gore considers himself one.  Do I have to write or create an original piece of work in the study of history to be a historian?  It is my aim to do that.  Does that count?  I’m not a published writer but I’m still a writer.
  I think alot about these things and others–does that make me a philosopher?  Aren’t we all…philosophers?
  The Junto of which I spake previously is the one Ben Franklin started.  The more I read of him, the more I am impressed.  Junto was a group, a club he started.  When he was only 21, he drew together learned friends and acquaintances, and selected a choice few to be a part of this think tank.  This brain-trust.  They gathered and discussed high moral and ethical issues, and the politics of the day, and other weighty issues. 
  I’d like to start a Junto, or be involved in one.  I wonder what I would have to add to the discussion?  Any thing of value?  I’ve read about Mensa groups, and they are full of brainiacs from a diverse background–perhaps that’s what it is like.  I know I’m smart enough to join, I just have to find my proof.
  Although I’m not a real specialist in any of these fields, generalist are important, too.  I read about the idea in a science fiction book written in the 50s, so it must be true.  Basically, the idea is this:  as a specialist, you have such a narrow range of study and knowledge that something that might be obliquely related to your field you will most likely miss because it isn’t right in front of you.  A generalist can look at a wide variety of topics and information and see relationships between them that would normally be missed.  From there, new avenues of study and discovery can be created.
  I’ve wanted to pursue all these things for some time, but have always been too distracted.  On one hand I know–I KNOW–that some of the great thinkers of the past, like Franklin, like Da Vinci–had ADD.  But also…man, they found a way to harness it, and work it to their advantage.
  That’s the difference between a polymath and a dilettante. 

White River, Blue Water

December 26, 2009 at 9:53 AM | Posted in Personal | 1 Comment
  I like it when my dreams make sense…

  I was reading this book, and I became immersed in it, and for some reason I really identified with one of the characters.  However, as I explained to someone else–it might have been Detroit or it might have been Erica, my boss–I felt misled at the end.
  The story was some kind of romantic thing, where the woman had to choose between two men.  No, as a matter of fact, I have not seen "Sophie’s Choice."  Anyway, I had identified with one of the male leads, but in the end, he was not the one chosen, the other was.  As I described it, I felt there was not enough difference between the two men.  One of them should have been good, and one of them should have been evil.  To make it like this, where was no real clear difference, just seemed to me to be cruel to them.
  "But it’s ‘literature,’" Erica told me.  Maybe so, but I don’t like it.  I prefer pulp, where men in black are bad, men in white are good, and women in tight bodices get ravaged.  Plus, what was going to come of the young Samuel L Jackson, who played one of the men in the movie?
  I was discussing it with him–or someone–as we drove through the woods down some gravel and dirt roads.  Trying to light a cigarette, I missed a turn.  Instead of backing up I just turned through the young growth trees and found my way back to the road.
  We made our way down the hill to the river, and then we were in a boat.  It was more like a creek than a river.  And the boat was narrow like a canoe, but not quite a canoe, because I’m no good in them.  We made excellent time rowing, and even though we were going upstream we were traveling fast as though we were going down stream.  We came to a fork in the river, and went to the left because it was the larger the two choices.  Immediately we came to an area of rapids and trees and crap in the river.  We kind of rowed right over that, and then I was alone and I was in the lake above that fed the river.
  In dreams, I’m an excellent, tireless swimmer.  The water was clear and clean and blue.  The sky was a wonderful sky blue, and the trees that surrounded the lake were a lush, cool green.  I tried to estimate the size of the lake.  It wasn’t large, but still I was surprised to see a lake of this size where I was.  I estimated it to be about 16 to 20 acres.
  And where was I?  Obviously not in a real place.  My dreamscape places this area between the small wooded area in Collinsville that I lived near briefly as a child, and the woods and coal mine that were near some property my parents owned near what I considered my real childhood home.  Near it was going to be the forested area near my cousin’s house that we used to play in.  But that comes later.
  I swam with ease across the lake, and in this corner I saw the lake was fed from another river that flowed into it.  There were rock formations here, like part of a quarry.  I swam over, and stood up when the water became shallow, and then walked on the beach to the rock formations.  I climbed up and around, and when I got to the top I was looking down into a natural type of ampitheater.  There were people in there, about a dozen.  I gathered, and then a few explained to me, that they were an amateur explorer’s club.  Great.  We climbed together through the rocks and so forth.
  At one point, a middle-aged fat guy who looked a lot like me was struggling as he climbed down the rocks.  But I–a younger, more fit me–climbed down past him with ease.  As we went through this odd break in the rocks, some of us were beseiged with lady bugs and tiny spiders that were biting.  It wasn’t dangerous, but the bites were hurting.  I was getting bitten on my hands and fingers.
  Those of us being attached tried to shake them off as we continued to climb through and then down.  We were on the other side now, at a new beach.  The river flowed away, towards a train bridge, and then beyond it it split into two rivers.
  All the water in the lake and in this river was calm and still, by the way.  I picked up my bag and planned to part ways with these people.  I couldn’t remember if I had a bag before, but now it makes sense that I did, I guess.  It was a black canvas duffle.  Of course, now I was wondering how I was going to swim and not get it wet, because I was sure–although I didn’t open it to look–that it was full of expensive camera equipment.
  I had walked along the sandy bottom area and was now in the shade of the train bridge.  Some of the people called to me to wait a second.  I stopped, and from the rear of the group a young woman came up.  As it turns out she was Christine, from my high school class, and she had been a no-show at all the reunions.
  She said, well give me you number, and I can call you and get on your mailing list.  I opened my bag and tried to find something to write on.  I had a pen.  For whatever reason all I had was a clear plastic container that a toy or device might be packaged in.  I wrote the number on it and handed it to her, but she couldn’t read it.  I took the plastic and turned it towards the sun, so that the sunlight gleamed upon it, and the number was then legible.  "Oh, great."
  We turned to part ways.


November 10, 2009 at 10:12 PM | Posted in Personal | Leave a comment
  It does come at me from all sides.

  The Storm said my son had a breakdown, because he feels like I don’t love him and don’t want to spend time with him.  And he feels like he’s been replaced by Detroit’s two sons.
  My daughter had knee surgery the other day to correct her leg alignment.
  I am broke and getting broker, and stressed out as I try to figure out how to get more money into the house.
  I feel pressure from my brother to take care of the insurance money…something I should have done over a year ago anyway.
  I have no idea what is going on with my sister and I’m leery of asking because I don’t want to be drawn into her bottomless pit of despair and poor decision-making.
  I have vehicular troubles all over the house–the Mercedes needing an oil change is the least of my problems.  Detroit’s van has a possessed electrical system, the Saturn can’t pass an emissions inspection, Fred sits in the garage like a coma victim on life support, and Mitchell’s Intrepid sits in his driveway waiting for a drive-by shooting to put it out of its misery.
  My home improvement projects have hit a snag after things were going so well.  Aside from the minor issue of running out of money, these goddamn recessed fucking lights that I fucking put up in the unholy ceiling of the fucking shit basement don’t work.  And while I’m not an electrician, I am a thinker.  If there are six lights connected and there is power to EVERY wire but the lights don’t come on, I think there is something wrong.  I have a tester that shows current to all the wires.  It should be bright, but the darkness of the basement permeates even my soul, like a grape Kool-aid stain on a white carpet.
  Speaking of simile, my newly diagnosed ADD is like an old girlfriend who left town, got a degree and got diagnosed as psychotic and then came back for her BeeGee albums.  It’s familiar to me, and the only thing that’s different is that now I know what to call it.  It doesn’t mean I know how to deal with it.
  If only my son knew how much I missed him and wanted to spend time with him.  Between his schedule and mine, and his detached aloofness that patrols the walls he has up, it’s a wonder I can talk to him at all.  While I do like Alex alot, as far as Brandon goes the most you can say is that on the best days I tolerate him.  And neither one of them is Mitchell.  My firstborn male child, my progeny, my bloodline.  My younger and gigantic mini-Me.  The one upon whose shoulders my hopes and dreams for the future of the family lie.
  He doesn’t know, you know, that when I left Linda I wanted to take him with me.  I knew that I could never take Miranda, and to make a baby make that choice is wrong.  And it was the same for Mitchell.  I would never make them make that choice; it’s wrong.  I left them with their mother because it was best for them.  I sacrificed a piece of me for them.
  I know that makes me sound like a martyr and that’s not what I meant.  All I meant was, I wasn’t going to make a bad situation worse by doing that to them.
  My daughter’s knee surgery went well, even though I had to spend the whole day with my ex.  Aside from the painful awkwardness of sitting in a room with her for several hours, I also got several great reminders of how close she is to Miranda–a closeness that I will never have again.

  I just….grrr!  Fuck this pity party.

  I guess I need to sort me fuckin life out, mate.  Figure out what I can do something about, and what I can’t do anything about.  Draw a line down the middle, make two columns, and then fuck with both of them.

We Don’t need No–

October 19, 2009 at 3:12 PM | Posted in Personal | 2 Comments
  I just did the math, and it’s a little scary.  It’s amazing how far 2900 doesn’t go.
  I had a loan on my 401k, and it was just paid off.  It was automatically paid out of my paycheck.  I figured that I was already used to not having that money, so why not get a new loan, because I had some things to buy. 
  The max I could get was 2900 bones, so that’s what I took.  I got the money deposited Friday, and this morning I look at my account.
  I have 900 dollars left.  Fuck me, where did it go?  Well, the biggest part of it was actually yesterday when me and the ol lady bought a new bed.  One of the things I lost in the divorce (Aside from my…crap, I can’t really think of anything funny at the moment.  Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.  But you know how I think.  It would be something funny and ironic, yet poignant, because that’s exactly how I am.) was the King-size bed.
  I’ve been in a queen for these past three years and let me tell you, sharing a bed with Detroit is not the easiest thing in the world to do.  She hogs the covers, and the bed.  She takes the middle.  She tosses and turns alot, and she snores.  She gets hot and whips the covers off of both her AND me.  She wants sex all the time, no matter how tired I am, or how unattractive and bloated I feel.
  She won’t even make the bed in the morning, but that’s another complaint entirely.
  But I like a king bed.  I’ve had one since high school, essentially, when my parents passed their old one down to me.  A king is nice.  Lots o space.  No more of that icky touching and sharing and crap.
  We went to some store that sells beds–Mattresses and More, or some such crap–and the fine young homosexual salesman made us a deal.  The bed was 2100 dollars ("Compare at 2699!" whatever that means) but we worked a deal that involved me stripping at a party for him and we got it down to 1200.  With delivery and so forth, about 14 medium-sized ones.  If a grand is a big one, and 14 big ones is 14 grand, then maybe 14 little ones is 140 dollars, and 14 medium sized ones is 1400.  See, I just–never mind.  It was funnier in my head and there are more of us in here than there are of you out there.

  So that’s a good half of the money.  The rest I still have most of, but maybe I need to pay a bill or something.  Ugh.  Oh, I did spend some of it on the lumber and hardware, and started building in the basement.  The plans are, redo a wall in the bathroom to add a shower, add a wall to Alex’s room to cut out a small section for a storage room, and build the walls for Brandon’s room.  So far, I have Brandon’s walls framed up.  I need to add the wiring, and then we can drywall.  Detroit, meanwhile, painted the living room again, re-enforcing the belief I have that someday soon she will tire of me.  Either that, or she’ll want to slap a couple of coats of paint on me, like she did the living room walls.
  Anyway, that’s where the title came from.  Pink Floyd’s "The Wall."

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