Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Eye Twitch
You know those twitches you get in your eyelid that drive you crazy and don't go away for days and days? I've heard people say that they are caused by stress. How in the fuck am I supposed to rid myself of stress if my eye continues to spasm my face off?? What the fucking fuck??!!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Thoughts For Life
To insist on issues being one way or another-- things must be black, or they must be white-- is to insist that there are only two roads in the world. And if you've ever looked at a map, you can clearly see there is more than one or two roads.
To insist on issues being either black or white is to deny the entire rainbow.
The people who walk around saying they know everything is like a person saying they understand oceans after drinking a cup of water. The wisest people in the world are the ones who comprehend just how much there is that they simply cannot know.
The people who present themselves as people who know everything are people who are limited by their own ignorance. They either cannot see how much they don't know, don't have enough experience to teach them that they don't know everything, are lying or are stupid. These people cannot be trusted. And yet, these are the people who tend to run for public office. Which, then, guarantees our country to be run by people who are blind, stuck, stupid and lying.
I strike a match in a dark room and proclaim that I understand the nature of the room. I cannot see anything beyond the light of the match. How, then, is it possible that people will believe that I understand the room when I have lit only a portion of it and the majority remains unexplored, undiscovered, unknown?
Why would you want 72 virgins upon arriving at heaven? Do you know how much girls cry when you break their hymens? And the bleeding! Come on! If you want to improve your religious appeal, tell me there are 71 women in heaven who will cook me dinner every night and make sure I've got a cold beer in the fridge and one in my hand and 1 woman who is my wife. That would make me at least contemplate blowing myself up.
The funniest thing I've heard today: "I've changed my mind. I would like menopause for xmas. Thank you."
Do the people who cheer for college football teams know what a college is? And the answer "college is training for the NFL" indicates you do not understand what a college is. Perhaps these people should be fired from their current jobs and told that they must go to college before they can cheer for a sports team hosted by an institute of learning. When people get fanatical about collegiate sports, it's only because they are completely void of anything else. In fact, when people get fanatical about [blank], it's because they are completely void of everything else.
Whoever said, "you can't have too much of a good thing" has never heard of water poisoning.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Water_intoxication
You're welcome.
The person who came up with the shirt that says "My Dad Is Stronger Than Your Dad" was a wistful orphan.
If you only believe one thing all day, believe this: I'm fucking deep as a motherfucking Yoda Jedi and my cock is significantly above average in size, girth and performance.
And I'm stronger than your dad.
To insist on issues being either black or white is to deny the entire rainbow.
The people who walk around saying they know everything is like a person saying they understand oceans after drinking a cup of water. The wisest people in the world are the ones who comprehend just how much there is that they simply cannot know.
The people who present themselves as people who know everything are people who are limited by their own ignorance. They either cannot see how much they don't know, don't have enough experience to teach them that they don't know everything, are lying or are stupid. These people cannot be trusted. And yet, these are the people who tend to run for public office. Which, then, guarantees our country to be run by people who are blind, stuck, stupid and lying.
I strike a match in a dark room and proclaim that I understand the nature of the room. I cannot see anything beyond the light of the match. How, then, is it possible that people will believe that I understand the room when I have lit only a portion of it and the majority remains unexplored, undiscovered, unknown?
Why would you want 72 virgins upon arriving at heaven? Do you know how much girls cry when you break their hymens? And the bleeding! Come on! If you want to improve your religious appeal, tell me there are 71 women in heaven who will cook me dinner every night and make sure I've got a cold beer in the fridge and one in my hand and 1 woman who is my wife. That would make me at least contemplate blowing myself up.
The funniest thing I've heard today: "I've changed my mind. I would like menopause for xmas. Thank you."
Do the people who cheer for college football teams know what a college is? And the answer "college is training for the NFL" indicates you do not understand what a college is. Perhaps these people should be fired from their current jobs and told that they must go to college before they can cheer for a sports team hosted by an institute of learning. When people get fanatical about collegiate sports, it's only because they are completely void of anything else. In fact, when people get fanatical about [blank], it's because they are completely void of everything else.
Whoever said, "you can't have too much of a good thing" has never heard of water poisoning.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Water_intoxication
You're welcome.
The person who came up with the shirt that says "My Dad Is Stronger Than Your Dad" was a wistful orphan.
If you only believe one thing all day, believe this: I'm fucking deep as a motherfucking Yoda Jedi and my cock is significantly above average in size, girth and performance.
And I'm stronger than your dad.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Random Shit
My father told me that he had rebelled against his father when he selected what he was selecting his major for college. His father was a chemical engineer and wanted my father to become a chemical engineer. My father said that he rebelled by majoring in mathematical engineering. Which, according to my father, is, essentially, chemical engineering without the chemicals. And later, he became a biostatistician. So the chemicals came back at that point.
When I first met my fourteen-year-old stepson, he was coming out of a phase where he really liked Napoleon. Thought he was a great man who had done great deeds and it sounded like he looked up to the Frenchman. As he started to find out that Napoleon wasn't really a man who many considered did great things, but rather a military leader who killed a lot of people because he felt a certain way, his love for Napoleon started to fade. In it's place, he started to love Hitler. Great man who did great things. He almost took over the world. Nobody pushed him around. And then, just like before, he started to find out that Hitler wasn't really a person to look up to. And if you did look up to Hitler, people kinda think you're weird. So now he's starting to like Mussolini. I guess I shouldn't really be surprised by any of this. Except that he seems to continue to find out that these dictators aren't really great men. His father loves Hitler. Has memorabilia around the house and reads about Hitler on a regular basis. What I gather from my fourteen-year-old, it's something that he and his father have in common: history, war, and love for Hitler. I had a thought that my fourteen-year-old might be rebelling against his father by trying to love Mussolini or Napoleon rather than Hitler. "That'll show the old man! He thinks I should love Hitler? Well, what does he know, he doesn't even have hair! I'm gonna love Mussolini instead. That'll drive him nutz!"
I dunno. I rebelled against my father and grandfather who wanted me to "bone up on my math and science" by becoming an actor. And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I had a pretty good carreer as an actor. So I guess my personal definition of rebellion isn't as tame as my fathers or what I've imagined my fourteen-year-old to be doing. I'm not sure there's anything more opposite of an engineer than an actor. I dunno... maybe if you could live inside an elephant's asshole, maybe that would be more opposite and then I would've chosen to do that. Nah... there's science inside an elephant's asshole. And chemicals. Acting is as opposite engineering as you can get.
I think about what our kids are going to be when they get older. Our nine-year-old said something about Obama being a chain smoker last night. He was parroting his father, something most kids do without thinking about it. Of course, my wife and I are Obama supporters (my wife supports Obama primarily because I do and she gets her news through me, but I think she would've liked him even without me), and our nine-year-old's father is a supporter of all things Fox News-- so lies, commercialism, and Republicanism. So when our nine-year-old said that Obama was a chain smoker, I knew where it was coming from. My response: "Wow." And then I flash forward: both boys are going to be Republican. They will watch Fox News and be horribly, horribly misinformed. They will be racists who love war. They will desire that other people's children be drafted and fight for the freedoms that they enjoy in this country. They will have unsuccessful personal relationships as they are out-of-touch with their emotions and why they behave the way they do. They will be incapable of apologizing or empathizing. They will be their father. And they will be their father because I find myself slowly turning into my father, even thought I rebelled.
My father does nothing. He's a hugely fat fuck. Hugely fat. Gets-In-The-Way Fat. Knocks-Shit-And-Water-Glasses-Off-Other-People's-Tables-When-He-Walks-By-In-A-Restaurant Fat. He has retired from his job because he hated where he worked. He hated it for almost 40 years and did nothing to change it. Didn't look for something else, didn't put in applications, didn't follow through with any of the dreams or aspirations he would talk about with me when he was a kid. He simply went to his job and died there. And then, when he retired, he started voluntarily teaching at his children's school, and he hates that, too. He can't even enjoy retirement! He's just that miserable a person! He currently hides from his family by turning off his hearing aids or not even putting them in, making him deaf to what they have to say. Which is fine, becuase his wife doesn't have anything at all worthwhile to listen to. He has adopted two children in a successful attempt to take money from me. He doesn't write, call or come over to the house. He doesn't email, except to tell me that my 10 year old brother has abandonment issues which I'm perpetuating because I don't spend enough time with him and I should either schedule regular visits or he will have to explain to my brother why he will never see me again.
I mentioned Mother Theresa to my fourteen-year-old last night. He didn't know who she was. I've mentioned Gandhi to him before. He doesn't know who he is. He doesn't care.
My nine-year-old just had a birthday party. Nerf war was the theme. He and his friends shot each other with Nerf guns.
For our fourteen-year-old's fourteenth birthday, we took him to the paintball range. He and his friends shot each other.
They have toy guns around the house and act surprised when my wife and I shrug away from a gun that they're pointing at us. "It's not loaded," they will say indignantly, and then proceed to shoot somebody without realizing there was a dart in the gun, or the gun was cocked when they thought it wasn't.
And all of this is kid's stuff, I know. I did it too. In my lighter moments, I still do it, I'm sure. The last time I went to the arcade with our nine-year-old, I had a helluvalot of fun at the House of the Dead game, where you have a gun and you shoot video zombies and other undeadicles. I love that game.
I don't want to turn into my father. I hate my father. But I really have no choice, do I? We will all turn into our parents, even if we try not to. When I look at my father it's like I'm looking into my future. Like the terminators inability to kill John Connor, I cannot kill the whatever it is that's forcing me down this path. No matter what I do.
I have this idea for a movie. I keep trying to start it. But there's this voice yelling at me inside my head, "It will be shit! It will suck! You suck! And people will not only laugh at your finished product, they will laugh at your attempts! If you try to make this movie, you will fail! You will not finish! You will not succeed!" It's a big, loud voice. It's very powerful. It sounds like my voice. When I was a kid, that same voice sounded like my father's voice. It was easier to rebel against my father's voice than it is my own. And I try not to listen to that voice, but it's incessant. And relentless. "It can't be reasoned with! It can't be bargained with! It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear! And it absolutely will not stop! Ever! Until you are dead!" Kyle Rees, The Terminator.
I'm so fat my stomach brushes either the door or the wall when I get into my shower. And it's a great shower. But taking a shower reminds me of how fat I have become. What a failure I was at keeping off the weight.
I wear a black jacket every day to hide my body. Even in the summer. I would rather sweat and be hot than have people see my fat, fat fucking body.
I'm very quickly going bald. Every day, may head looks more and more like my father's head. I hate my father's head.
I hate my kids' father's head. He's another big fat fuck who should've been aborted. I hate him and wish nothing good for him. I hope he gets an itch behind one of his eyes and scratches it until he shreds his eyeball into little white strings of eyeball and he slowly bleeds to death from a self-inflicted eyeball scratching wound. I hope that he and my father get in a car together and start driving, and then I hope my father starts fucking him in the asshole while he gives my father a reach-around, and then they crash into an over-pass and the roof of the car gets imbeded in their chubby, hairy, disgusting chests so that they can feel the metal from the car scraping against their spine and ribs, and as the cops come to help them, all the policemen and firefighters are completely disgusted by this horrible act of beastiality-- becuase they're both beasts-- and they stand back and laugh as both of them cry and bleed and die.
I need to brush my teeth. My mother hounded me about going to the dentist yesterday. I hate going to the dentist. I don't brush my teeth enough.
I don't like pears. I liked the pineapple fruit cup better than the pear fruit cup. I don't even really know if they're pears or not. Whatever they are, I don't like it very much. However, I like it in my lunch that my wife packs for me. I hadn't been eating a very good lunch, and she asked me why, and I told her that I had tried and failed to make a sandwich the night before I went to work, and I certainly didn't wake up early enough to make a sandwich before going to work in the morning, and I had failed at that attempt also, so if she could come up with a way for me to have a healthier lunch than a bottle of honey roasted peanuts and a couple of granola bars, I would be more than open to hearing about it. She started packing a lunch for me. One of the sweetest things that has ever happened to me.
My wife is the one thing that stands out in the world of shit. In my mind, a huge whirlpool of feces and shit starts spinning around, blotting out every other image. It smells and it's chunky and it's spinning around and there's no toilet. And in the center of it, faintly backlit, is my wife, standing, untouched and clean. And there's a pathway to her. And I can see it. And if I focus on her as she smiles at me without judgement or conviction, just standing, neither impatient or waiting but standing because that's what she wants to do, if I focus on her, I can actually see my pathway to her and the spinning shit starts to become blurry and the edges fade away. It's still there and I have to concentrate really hard and it's really tiring, but there's a way out of that spinning shit world. And there's a safe spot. And it has my wife in it. And there's room enough for me next to her. And she's not rushing me. She's just standing. Smiling. Not pitying me at all. Just smiling until I get to her. I dunno. We might even stand there in the middle of it all for a while after I get to her. Just looking at the spinning shit. I mean, it would be kind of an amazing thing to watch a Spinning Shit World from the safety of your Clean Spot. If you knew that you weren't going to get hurt or dirty, wouldn't you be facinated by a Spinning World of Shit? I think I would. At least for a little while with my wife.
I did laundry last night. It's kinda nice to have clean underpants.
Under pants. Under shirts. No under socks. You might wear two pairs of socks. You might double up on the socks if it got cold. But you wouldn't put on your under socks. Or your under hat. There's never an under hat. Not even if you wear two. If you wear two hats, there's a hat on top of the first hat. No under bras, either. Or under shoes. Under gloves. Gloves are like socks in that you can wear two, but one pair doesn't become an under pair and the other is the over. Speaking of pairs, why do you have a pair of pants? It's only one garment. Sure, it's got two legs, so shouldn't it be pants with a pair of legs? And why can't you have one pant? You must always have a plural amount of pants! Even one pair of pants is still pants. Today, I must put on my pant and under gloves. You never hear anybody say that, because, technically, it doesn't exist. I have just created a fantasy. Like The Easter Bunny, Jesus and George Washington. You can't have a pant.
Well, I want a pant. Today, I've decided that I'm wearing pant. Wearing a pant? Wearing one pant? No... I think it's best that I wear a pant. After all, you wouldn't wear two pants, because then one pant would be an under pant, and there's absolutely no such thing as an underpant. Oh wait, I guess there is.
Underpant.
When I first met my fourteen-year-old stepson, he was coming out of a phase where he really liked Napoleon. Thought he was a great man who had done great deeds and it sounded like he looked up to the Frenchman. As he started to find out that Napoleon wasn't really a man who many considered did great things, but rather a military leader who killed a lot of people because he felt a certain way, his love for Napoleon started to fade. In it's place, he started to love Hitler. Great man who did great things. He almost took over the world. Nobody pushed him around. And then, just like before, he started to find out that Hitler wasn't really a person to look up to. And if you did look up to Hitler, people kinda think you're weird. So now he's starting to like Mussolini. I guess I shouldn't really be surprised by any of this. Except that he seems to continue to find out that these dictators aren't really great men. His father loves Hitler. Has memorabilia around the house and reads about Hitler on a regular basis. What I gather from my fourteen-year-old, it's something that he and his father have in common: history, war, and love for Hitler. I had a thought that my fourteen-year-old might be rebelling against his father by trying to love Mussolini or Napoleon rather than Hitler. "That'll show the old man! He thinks I should love Hitler? Well, what does he know, he doesn't even have hair! I'm gonna love Mussolini instead. That'll drive him nutz!"
I dunno. I rebelled against my father and grandfather who wanted me to "bone up on my math and science" by becoming an actor. And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, I had a pretty good carreer as an actor. So I guess my personal definition of rebellion isn't as tame as my fathers or what I've imagined my fourteen-year-old to be doing. I'm not sure there's anything more opposite of an engineer than an actor. I dunno... maybe if you could live inside an elephant's asshole, maybe that would be more opposite and then I would've chosen to do that. Nah... there's science inside an elephant's asshole. And chemicals. Acting is as opposite engineering as you can get.
I think about what our kids are going to be when they get older. Our nine-year-old said something about Obama being a chain smoker last night. He was parroting his father, something most kids do without thinking about it. Of course, my wife and I are Obama supporters (my wife supports Obama primarily because I do and she gets her news through me, but I think she would've liked him even without me), and our nine-year-old's father is a supporter of all things Fox News-- so lies, commercialism, and Republicanism. So when our nine-year-old said that Obama was a chain smoker, I knew where it was coming from. My response: "Wow." And then I flash forward: both boys are going to be Republican. They will watch Fox News and be horribly, horribly misinformed. They will be racists who love war. They will desire that other people's children be drafted and fight for the freedoms that they enjoy in this country. They will have unsuccessful personal relationships as they are out-of-touch with their emotions and why they behave the way they do. They will be incapable of apologizing or empathizing. They will be their father. And they will be their father because I find myself slowly turning into my father, even thought I rebelled.
My father does nothing. He's a hugely fat fuck. Hugely fat. Gets-In-The-Way Fat. Knocks-Shit-And-Water-Glasses-Off-Other-People's-Tables-When-He-Walks-By-In-A-Restaurant Fat. He has retired from his job because he hated where he worked. He hated it for almost 40 years and did nothing to change it. Didn't look for something else, didn't put in applications, didn't follow through with any of the dreams or aspirations he would talk about with me when he was a kid. He simply went to his job and died there. And then, when he retired, he started voluntarily teaching at his children's school, and he hates that, too. He can't even enjoy retirement! He's just that miserable a person! He currently hides from his family by turning off his hearing aids or not even putting them in, making him deaf to what they have to say. Which is fine, becuase his wife doesn't have anything at all worthwhile to listen to. He has adopted two children in a successful attempt to take money from me. He doesn't write, call or come over to the house. He doesn't email, except to tell me that my 10 year old brother has abandonment issues which I'm perpetuating because I don't spend enough time with him and I should either schedule regular visits or he will have to explain to my brother why he will never see me again.
I mentioned Mother Theresa to my fourteen-year-old last night. He didn't know who she was. I've mentioned Gandhi to him before. He doesn't know who he is. He doesn't care.
My nine-year-old just had a birthday party. Nerf war was the theme. He and his friends shot each other with Nerf guns.
For our fourteen-year-old's fourteenth birthday, we took him to the paintball range. He and his friends shot each other.
They have toy guns around the house and act surprised when my wife and I shrug away from a gun that they're pointing at us. "It's not loaded," they will say indignantly, and then proceed to shoot somebody without realizing there was a dart in the gun, or the gun was cocked when they thought it wasn't.
And all of this is kid's stuff, I know. I did it too. In my lighter moments, I still do it, I'm sure. The last time I went to the arcade with our nine-year-old, I had a helluvalot of fun at the House of the Dead game, where you have a gun and you shoot video zombies and other undeadicles. I love that game.
I don't want to turn into my father. I hate my father. But I really have no choice, do I? We will all turn into our parents, even if we try not to. When I look at my father it's like I'm looking into my future. Like the terminators inability to kill John Connor, I cannot kill the whatever it is that's forcing me down this path. No matter what I do.
I have this idea for a movie. I keep trying to start it. But there's this voice yelling at me inside my head, "It will be shit! It will suck! You suck! And people will not only laugh at your finished product, they will laugh at your attempts! If you try to make this movie, you will fail! You will not finish! You will not succeed!" It's a big, loud voice. It's very powerful. It sounds like my voice. When I was a kid, that same voice sounded like my father's voice. It was easier to rebel against my father's voice than it is my own. And I try not to listen to that voice, but it's incessant. And relentless. "It can't be reasoned with! It can't be bargained with! It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear! And it absolutely will not stop! Ever! Until you are dead!" Kyle Rees, The Terminator.
I'm so fat my stomach brushes either the door or the wall when I get into my shower. And it's a great shower. But taking a shower reminds me of how fat I have become. What a failure I was at keeping off the weight.
I wear a black jacket every day to hide my body. Even in the summer. I would rather sweat and be hot than have people see my fat, fat fucking body.
I'm very quickly going bald. Every day, may head looks more and more like my father's head. I hate my father's head.
I hate my kids' father's head. He's another big fat fuck who should've been aborted. I hate him and wish nothing good for him. I hope he gets an itch behind one of his eyes and scratches it until he shreds his eyeball into little white strings of eyeball and he slowly bleeds to death from a self-inflicted eyeball scratching wound. I hope that he and my father get in a car together and start driving, and then I hope my father starts fucking him in the asshole while he gives my father a reach-around, and then they crash into an over-pass and the roof of the car gets imbeded in their chubby, hairy, disgusting chests so that they can feel the metal from the car scraping against their spine and ribs, and as the cops come to help them, all the policemen and firefighters are completely disgusted by this horrible act of beastiality-- becuase they're both beasts-- and they stand back and laugh as both of them cry and bleed and die.
I need to brush my teeth. My mother hounded me about going to the dentist yesterday. I hate going to the dentist. I don't brush my teeth enough.
I don't like pears. I liked the pineapple fruit cup better than the pear fruit cup. I don't even really know if they're pears or not. Whatever they are, I don't like it very much. However, I like it in my lunch that my wife packs for me. I hadn't been eating a very good lunch, and she asked me why, and I told her that I had tried and failed to make a sandwich the night before I went to work, and I certainly didn't wake up early enough to make a sandwich before going to work in the morning, and I had failed at that attempt also, so if she could come up with a way for me to have a healthier lunch than a bottle of honey roasted peanuts and a couple of granola bars, I would be more than open to hearing about it. She started packing a lunch for me. One of the sweetest things that has ever happened to me.
My wife is the one thing that stands out in the world of shit. In my mind, a huge whirlpool of feces and shit starts spinning around, blotting out every other image. It smells and it's chunky and it's spinning around and there's no toilet. And in the center of it, faintly backlit, is my wife, standing, untouched and clean. And there's a pathway to her. And I can see it. And if I focus on her as she smiles at me without judgement or conviction, just standing, neither impatient or waiting but standing because that's what she wants to do, if I focus on her, I can actually see my pathway to her and the spinning shit starts to become blurry and the edges fade away. It's still there and I have to concentrate really hard and it's really tiring, but there's a way out of that spinning shit world. And there's a safe spot. And it has my wife in it. And there's room enough for me next to her. And she's not rushing me. She's just standing. Smiling. Not pitying me at all. Just smiling until I get to her. I dunno. We might even stand there in the middle of it all for a while after I get to her. Just looking at the spinning shit. I mean, it would be kind of an amazing thing to watch a Spinning Shit World from the safety of your Clean Spot. If you knew that you weren't going to get hurt or dirty, wouldn't you be facinated by a Spinning World of Shit? I think I would. At least for a little while with my wife.
I did laundry last night. It's kinda nice to have clean underpants.
Under pants. Under shirts. No under socks. You might wear two pairs of socks. You might double up on the socks if it got cold. But you wouldn't put on your under socks. Or your under hat. There's never an under hat. Not even if you wear two. If you wear two hats, there's a hat on top of the first hat. No under bras, either. Or under shoes. Under gloves. Gloves are like socks in that you can wear two, but one pair doesn't become an under pair and the other is the over. Speaking of pairs, why do you have a pair of pants? It's only one garment. Sure, it's got two legs, so shouldn't it be pants with a pair of legs? And why can't you have one pant? You must always have a plural amount of pants! Even one pair of pants is still pants. Today, I must put on my pant and under gloves. You never hear anybody say that, because, technically, it doesn't exist. I have just created a fantasy. Like The Easter Bunny, Jesus and George Washington. You can't have a pant.
Well, I want a pant. Today, I've decided that I'm wearing pant. Wearing a pant? Wearing one pant? No... I think it's best that I wear a pant. After all, you wouldn't wear two pants, because then one pant would be an under pant, and there's absolutely no such thing as an underpant. Oh wait, I guess there is.
Underpant.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Jane
My wife just finished doing her first art show.
It was for charity through my work, so she got to show her stuff to the people I work with.
Jane sits in the cube across the hall from me. Jane came to talk with me about my wife's stuff. She said that she was sorry she didn't get a chance to see my wife's art before she had to take off. I told her that my wife was awesome and there was a website that displayed her work. Jane mentioned her eldest daughter was also an artist in a little town near my office. It just so happens that my wife and I live in that little town, I tell Jane. Jane asks where we live. I tell her the cross streets. She doesn't know where I'm talking about. I ask if she knows were the Wal-Mart is. She says she does. I tell her we live close to there. Jane nods knowingly. She knows where I live. I ask where she lives. She says she lives close to the new hospital.
"Where's that?" I ask.
"You don't know where the hospital is? How long have you lived there?"
"Well, I'm kinda new to the state. I've returned after a prolonged leave, so I'm not too familiar with the state or our town yet."
"But you need to know where the hospital is. You don't know where the new hospital is??" she asks, her judgemental disbelief rising with every word.
"Well, I know where several hospitals are. I'm having difficulty with the designation of 'new', since I haven't lived in the town for more than a couple of years now."
"And you don't know where the hospital is?"
"Well, I live in the town because of my wife, and she's the reason why I continue to go back to the town every evening."
"But surely you get out of the house! How do you get to work?"
I tell Jane the route that I take to work, and she scoffs.
"You drive right by the hospital everyday! You can see it from the highway!"
"Well, yes, I know where that hospital is."
Another coworker walks up. Let's call him Big Fat Kenny. Big Fat Kenny likes to nose his way into everything, and then, like warm snot on a cool rag, you can't get rid of him and he makes you sick.
"What? The hospital?" Big Fat Kenny manages to sputter out through his Big Fat Lips that fold over on themselves.
"Yeah," Jane replies. Then she gestures to me. "He's saying that he's lived there for two years and didn't know the hospital was new. Has the hospital been there longer than two years?"
The two of them think. Has it been there two years? I don't know. Maybe. When was two years? Well, it was two years ago. Oh right. Maybe it has been there longer than two years. Maybe. My Big Fat Cheeks is dripping into my mouth. You should snack on it. I think I will. Mmmm... good cheeks.
Jane returns to me, a little smugly. I think she's trying to hide that she's been ridiculously hard on me for not knowing which hospital she considered the *new* hospital.
"Well, the new hospital is a great one, known for it's pre-natal center."
The Asshole Comedian in me decides to pounce on this bitch.
"Oh, well that's good, because I've been in need of some pre-natal care for a while now. I'm glad you brought that to my attention."
The precision timing and aim of my joke hits, and Jane laughs. Big Fat Kenny jiggles with Big Fat Laughter. Then they realize that I've just given them another reason why I wouldn't have paid any attention to where this fucking *new* hospital was located. And then they realize that I'm smarter than they are. And then they walk away.
My life is too short to make friends with assholes.
It was for charity through my work, so she got to show her stuff to the people I work with.
Jane sits in the cube across the hall from me. Jane came to talk with me about my wife's stuff. She said that she was sorry she didn't get a chance to see my wife's art before she had to take off. I told her that my wife was awesome and there was a website that displayed her work. Jane mentioned her eldest daughter was also an artist in a little town near my office. It just so happens that my wife and I live in that little town, I tell Jane. Jane asks where we live. I tell her the cross streets. She doesn't know where I'm talking about. I ask if she knows were the Wal-Mart is. She says she does. I tell her we live close to there. Jane nods knowingly. She knows where I live. I ask where she lives. She says she lives close to the new hospital.
"Where's that?" I ask.
"You don't know where the hospital is? How long have you lived there?"
"Well, I'm kinda new to the state. I've returned after a prolonged leave, so I'm not too familiar with the state or our town yet."
"But you need to know where the hospital is. You don't know where the new hospital is??" she asks, her judgemental disbelief rising with every word.
"Well, I know where several hospitals are. I'm having difficulty with the designation of 'new', since I haven't lived in the town for more than a couple of years now."
"And you don't know where the hospital is?"
"Well, I live in the town because of my wife, and she's the reason why I continue to go back to the town every evening."
"But surely you get out of the house! How do you get to work?"
I tell Jane the route that I take to work, and she scoffs.
"You drive right by the hospital everyday! You can see it from the highway!"
"Well, yes, I know where that hospital is."
Another coworker walks up. Let's call him Big Fat Kenny. Big Fat Kenny likes to nose his way into everything, and then, like warm snot on a cool rag, you can't get rid of him and he makes you sick.
"What? The hospital?" Big Fat Kenny manages to sputter out through his Big Fat Lips that fold over on themselves.
"Yeah," Jane replies. Then she gestures to me. "He's saying that he's lived there for two years and didn't know the hospital was new. Has the hospital been there longer than two years?"
The two of them think. Has it been there two years? I don't know. Maybe. When was two years? Well, it was two years ago. Oh right. Maybe it has been there longer than two years. Maybe. My Big Fat Cheeks is dripping into my mouth. You should snack on it. I think I will. Mmmm... good cheeks.
Jane returns to me, a little smugly. I think she's trying to hide that she's been ridiculously hard on me for not knowing which hospital she considered the *new* hospital.
"Well, the new hospital is a great one, known for it's pre-natal center."
The Asshole Comedian in me decides to pounce on this bitch.
"Oh, well that's good, because I've been in need of some pre-natal care for a while now. I'm glad you brought that to my attention."
The precision timing and aim of my joke hits, and Jane laughs. Big Fat Kenny jiggles with Big Fat Laughter. Then they realize that I've just given them another reason why I wouldn't have paid any attention to where this fucking *new* hospital was located. And then they realize that I'm smarter than they are. And then they walk away.
My life is too short to make friends with assholes.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Lunch Date!
My wife and the boys came to see me at lunch today! They're on fall break, so they didn't have to go to school or work today. I, however, don't get a [stupid] fall break because I have a [stupid] job that doesn't give me a [stupid] fall break.
I've been a little envious of their break this week.
But today they brought me McDonald's and we ate in our car and talked with each other, and I got really small snuggles from the boys and my wife kissed me a lot, and they got me a mushroom burger with fries and a cold, delicious diet Coke. And there was laughing and fun and we enjoyed each other.
And it was such a good break for me. Cleared my head. Energized me. Made me forget completely about anything bad or icky. We were all enjoying each other. And my 9 year-old had his Halloween costume on (full camo gear) and looked like a midget hunter.
The whole thing was great. Just great. Absolutely great!
It was a great lunch today. I love my family!
I've been a little envious of their break this week.
But today they brought me McDonald's and we ate in our car and talked with each other, and I got really small snuggles from the boys and my wife kissed me a lot, and they got me a mushroom burger with fries and a cold, delicious diet Coke. And there was laughing and fun and we enjoyed each other.
And it was such a good break for me. Cleared my head. Energized me. Made me forget completely about anything bad or icky. We were all enjoying each other. And my 9 year-old had his Halloween costume on (full camo gear) and looked like a midget hunter.
The whole thing was great. Just great. Absolutely great!
It was a great lunch today. I love my family!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
What Is Mean?
I'm not trying to belabor an issue, but my wife thinks that I can be mean sometimes.
Now she would tell you that she doesn't think I'm mean. She and I have talked about this before. And I usually start by saying, with a grin, that she thinks I'm mean. And she tells me that she doesn't think I'm mean. Last night, she clarified (again) that she thinks I have the capacity to say mean things on occasion. So I'm not mean, obviously. I just have the capacity to say mean things on occasion.
She has said that the only time I may have said anything mean to her is in the heat of some heightened state we were in at one point, but she cannot remember any specifics. I'm pretty sure there was a time when she felt I was being mean, and I backed down rather quickly after realizing that I was being taken as being mean.
But I think that's what I've come to understand "mean" as being in my life. It's not something that I do on purpose. It's something that happens as a result of something I've done which causes me to apologize to the hurt party, letting them know that I did not intend any malice or harm.
I wouldn't classify myself as a mean person. I would classify a mean person as somebody who intentionally tries to hurt somebody. And I don't think that I try to intentionally hurt people. Ever. I have tried to intentionally annoy somebody recently by shushing him when he was trying to talk. I have intentionally cut-down a person who was intentionally trying to cut me down. I have verbally tried to shut down people who are attempting to bully me. But I am not intentionally trying to hurt anyone. Ever. Even Crusty Shitface. I have not nor will I attempt to hurt him intentionally.
And I'm not even going to say that verbally shutting down people who are attempting to bully me or cutting down somebody who is trying to cut me down would be classified as intentionally trying to hurt somebody.
If somebody throws a punch at your face and you are able to, judo-style, wrestle them to the ground without putting them in significant pain yet neutralizing the threat of physical violence, would you call that person mean? I would not. If somebody throws a punch at you and you absorb the punch and say, "that's not okay," and then they throw another punch at you, are you supposed to repeat your words? I believe that if you say, "That's not okay," and the action persists, it is appropriate for some consequence to occur, say, you shut down the personal verbally without actually harming the person. They have been warned, yet they persist. You either do nothing and victimize yourself or you stand up for yourself.
I will chose to stand up for myself.
I am not mean. I do not go around intentionally hurting people. Ever. Not once have I tried to hurt another person. Nor do I believe I ever will. I also will not tolerate people trying to pick on me or those I care about. That is not okay. And what I mean by that is that I will do something should the picking continue. I will do something, and you have the choice to continue your actions and see what I'll do, or you can stop, and my contemplations will not become actions. It's your choice. And I will not feel badly should you continue to pick on me or those I love.
I don't walk into your cube and tell you that you need to act a certain way in my presence. I don't tell you that your life is over because you're married with kids. I don't tell you your ideas about sports aren't right because you don't appreciate amateur football. And if I did, you can bet I would expect a reaction of some kind.
You wouldn't punch a wall and then tell the wall that it's mean because you hurt your hand. Don't prod me and then tell me I'm mean when I react. It doesn't work like that.
Now, it would seem that this topic has gotten under my skin more than I thought it would.
I don't want my wife to think ill of me. Out of everybody in the world, it hurts most to think that she believes I have the capacity to say mean things upon occasion.
And I don't expect her to change her opinion.
And I don't expect me to change my actions. In fact, I feel like a pussy when I don't react to people pushing me. It feels bad, as if I'm allowing people to walk on me. To walk on my family. And I do not like that.
But I don't want her to ... oh, whatever.
It doesn't really matter what I say.
She's going to continue feeling the way she feels.
And that sucks. Cuz I don't want her to think of me as mean. Sorry, as having the capacity to say mean things upon occasion.
And I'm going to continue to stick up for my boundaries and the boundaries of my family, even when she sees it as being mean.
Now she would tell you that she doesn't think I'm mean. She and I have talked about this before. And I usually start by saying, with a grin, that she thinks I'm mean. And she tells me that she doesn't think I'm mean. Last night, she clarified (again) that she thinks I have the capacity to say mean things on occasion. So I'm not mean, obviously. I just have the capacity to say mean things on occasion.
She has said that the only time I may have said anything mean to her is in the heat of some heightened state we were in at one point, but she cannot remember any specifics. I'm pretty sure there was a time when she felt I was being mean, and I backed down rather quickly after realizing that I was being taken as being mean.
But I think that's what I've come to understand "mean" as being in my life. It's not something that I do on purpose. It's something that happens as a result of something I've done which causes me to apologize to the hurt party, letting them know that I did not intend any malice or harm.
I wouldn't classify myself as a mean person. I would classify a mean person as somebody who intentionally tries to hurt somebody. And I don't think that I try to intentionally hurt people. Ever. I have tried to intentionally annoy somebody recently by shushing him when he was trying to talk. I have intentionally cut-down a person who was intentionally trying to cut me down. I have verbally tried to shut down people who are attempting to bully me. But I am not intentionally trying to hurt anyone. Ever. Even Crusty Shitface. I have not nor will I attempt to hurt him intentionally.
And I'm not even going to say that verbally shutting down people who are attempting to bully me or cutting down somebody who is trying to cut me down would be classified as intentionally trying to hurt somebody.
If somebody throws a punch at your face and you are able to, judo-style, wrestle them to the ground without putting them in significant pain yet neutralizing the threat of physical violence, would you call that person mean? I would not. If somebody throws a punch at you and you absorb the punch and say, "that's not okay," and then they throw another punch at you, are you supposed to repeat your words? I believe that if you say, "That's not okay," and the action persists, it is appropriate for some consequence to occur, say, you shut down the personal verbally without actually harming the person. They have been warned, yet they persist. You either do nothing and victimize yourself or you stand up for yourself.
I will chose to stand up for myself.
I am not mean. I do not go around intentionally hurting people. Ever. Not once have I tried to hurt another person. Nor do I believe I ever will. I also will not tolerate people trying to pick on me or those I care about. That is not okay. And what I mean by that is that I will do something should the picking continue. I will do something, and you have the choice to continue your actions and see what I'll do, or you can stop, and my contemplations will not become actions. It's your choice. And I will not feel badly should you continue to pick on me or those I love.
I don't walk into your cube and tell you that you need to act a certain way in my presence. I don't tell you that your life is over because you're married with kids. I don't tell you your ideas about sports aren't right because you don't appreciate amateur football. And if I did, you can bet I would expect a reaction of some kind.
You wouldn't punch a wall and then tell the wall that it's mean because you hurt your hand. Don't prod me and then tell me I'm mean when I react. It doesn't work like that.
Now, it would seem that this topic has gotten under my skin more than I thought it would.
I don't want my wife to think ill of me. Out of everybody in the world, it hurts most to think that she believes I have the capacity to say mean things upon occasion.
And I don't expect her to change her opinion.
And I don't expect me to change my actions. In fact, I feel like a pussy when I don't react to people pushing me. It feels bad, as if I'm allowing people to walk on me. To walk on my family. And I do not like that.
But I don't want her to ... oh, whatever.
It doesn't really matter what I say.
She's going to continue feeling the way she feels.
And that sucks. Cuz I don't want her to think of me as mean. Sorry, as having the capacity to say mean things upon occasion.
And I'm going to continue to stick up for my boundaries and the boundaries of my family, even when she sees it as being mean.
Monday, October 18, 2010
a hard time
having a hard time keeping my head up.
feels like I'm close to drowning, but somehow i get just enough strength to keep treading water.
pretty lonely.
feeling alone.
feeling like it's not going to change.
knowing that these thoughts aren't right and trying to change my feelings and mood, but not doing a really good job with that.
sleep would be great, but it's hard.
drugging myself with Unisom every night for mediocre rest makes for a tough day the next day. and every day is the next day.
days are kinda running together.
want this era to end now so that i can start the next one.
want to sleep for a really really long time.
want to feel rested.
want to feel my wife again.
i haven't felt her in too long.
I'm wanting in this world now and i don't know how to alter that.
but i keep powering through.
at some point it must end, right?
feels like I'm close to drowning, but somehow i get just enough strength to keep treading water.
pretty lonely.
feeling alone.
feeling like it's not going to change.
knowing that these thoughts aren't right and trying to change my feelings and mood, but not doing a really good job with that.
sleep would be great, but it's hard.
drugging myself with Unisom every night for mediocre rest makes for a tough day the next day. and every day is the next day.
days are kinda running together.
want this era to end now so that i can start the next one.
want to sleep for a really really long time.
want to feel rested.
want to feel my wife again.
i haven't felt her in too long.
I'm wanting in this world now and i don't know how to alter that.
but i keep powering through.
at some point it must end, right?
Monday, September 20, 2010
Spine Shocks
I get these electric shocks sometimes. They feel like somebody has just hooked a battery up to my body. Most of the time I get them up and down my spine and in my neck. Sometimes they shoot out to my shoulders and even into my arms and fingers.
They happen when I remember things.
Things that I don't want to remember.
It's like my body is judging behavior that I have deemed unacceptable.
I was bad, and now my body continues to punish me for it.
I see this picture in my head of an ex-girlfriend and I feel guilty that I broke up with her. No, I feel guilty that I ever went out with her. I feel like I was lying when I told her that I wanted to go out with her. I obviously didn't want to go out with her, because we broke up. And so I feel like I lied. Or even-- a more sane thought-- I changed my mind about her. I initially thought I wanted to go out with her, but then I decided that I didn't want to anymore. I didn't like her enough to continue seeing her. And then I feel stupid, like, "Why didn't I see that sooner?" And now I have to hurt her. And I don't like hurting people. And then her friends write me emails telling me about how bad I am. Like they're confirming what I'm already thinking. They tell me I'm evil and a horrible monster. And even though I know in my head that they are going over the top, I just really hate hurting people, so I feel guilty. It's my fault that she's hurting, and so I must have done something bad.
And that was back in 2006.
And now I think about it and think that there's something wrong with me because I can't let it go. Because it still sends electric shocks up my back. And my wife tells me that I must be getting something out of it, and she tells me this because that's what I tell her. And I believe that's true. But I don't know what I'm getting out of it. And I don't know how to get rid of it. It feels like a sickness that I can't shake. I don't have medicine for it. I don't always remember it, but when it comes back, it's really hard to shake.
And I don't know when it's going to happen or what's going to set it off. And I don't know how to get rid of it.
They happen when I remember things.
Things that I don't want to remember.
It's like my body is judging behavior that I have deemed unacceptable.
I was bad, and now my body continues to punish me for it.
I see this picture in my head of an ex-girlfriend and I feel guilty that I broke up with her. No, I feel guilty that I ever went out with her. I feel like I was lying when I told her that I wanted to go out with her. I obviously didn't want to go out with her, because we broke up. And so I feel like I lied. Or even-- a more sane thought-- I changed my mind about her. I initially thought I wanted to go out with her, but then I decided that I didn't want to anymore. I didn't like her enough to continue seeing her. And then I feel stupid, like, "Why didn't I see that sooner?" And now I have to hurt her. And I don't like hurting people. And then her friends write me emails telling me about how bad I am. Like they're confirming what I'm already thinking. They tell me I'm evil and a horrible monster. And even though I know in my head that they are going over the top, I just really hate hurting people, so I feel guilty. It's my fault that she's hurting, and so I must have done something bad.
And that was back in 2006.
And now I think about it and think that there's something wrong with me because I can't let it go. Because it still sends electric shocks up my back. And my wife tells me that I must be getting something out of it, and she tells me this because that's what I tell her. And I believe that's true. But I don't know what I'm getting out of it. And I don't know how to get rid of it. It feels like a sickness that I can't shake. I don't have medicine for it. I don't always remember it, but when it comes back, it's really hard to shake.
And I don't know when it's going to happen or what's going to set it off. And I don't know how to get rid of it.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Snake On A Porch
There was a fucking snake on my front porch this morning!
My wife said something like, "garter snakes don't bite," and, "there's nothing to be worried about," and, "it's a small one, everything's okay." But I know better! That snake was waiting to eat me! Anybody else see "Snakes On A Plane"??? I rest my case! And he had the perfect time of day, too: when I've just awokened and am groozy and woggy from an unproductive night's (non) rest. That's the best time to jump me and eat me! Like the perfect killing machine that he is! All three inches of him ready for dinner at 7 am!
But my wife handled the situation perfectly.
"Would you like to leave through the side door?"
Yes I would, Brilliant Wife!
She totally saved my life today.
My wife said something like, "garter snakes don't bite," and, "there's nothing to be worried about," and, "it's a small one, everything's okay." But I know better! That snake was waiting to eat me! Anybody else see "Snakes On A Plane"??? I rest my case! And he had the perfect time of day, too: when I've just awokened and am groozy and woggy from an unproductive night's (non) rest. That's the best time to jump me and eat me! Like the perfect killing machine that he is! All three inches of him ready for dinner at 7 am!
But my wife handled the situation perfectly.
"Would you like to leave through the side door?"
Yes I would, Brilliant Wife!
She totally saved my life today.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
How Did You Sleep?
I could've answered her this morning.
She typically asks me this question when we wake up. "How did you sleep?" And I usually get a little frustrated with the question. I don't know how I slept. I was asleep. I don't remember how I slept. And then she explains that she's asking if I feel rested. I don't know. I'm just waking up. Of course I don't feel rested. I wanna go back to bed. I wanna snuggle with you. I don't want to be up. Do I feel rested? If I answer "no" can we go back to sleep?
She asks me these questions a lot. And we go through this same dance a lot. And I don't get, like, real real frustrated. I just want to have an answer for her, and I don't. I feel like I'm not doing it right because I don't have an answer for her. And I never remember that she's asking if I feel rested. Probably because I haven't really rested and so I'm still asleep, but she always explains herself calmly, as if she knows that I'm not upset with her. As if she knows about this dance, too.
Maybe she's just talking to me. We like to talk to each other. Maybe she's trying to find something to say first thing in the morning and has nothing else to say so she asks how I slept. Maybe she's asleep, too, and this is like a morning stretch for us: we go through this same thing in order to get our brains working. Maybe. I don't know.
But through my frustration, I like it. I like that she's talking to me. I like that she's snuggling up next to me. Sometimes, she asks me right in my ear so that I can feel her hot breath on my neck. I like feeling her that close to me. I like feeling her arm over me. Her feet tucked into my knee pits. I like her. More than I've liked anyone else. Ever. She was made for me.
But she didn't ask me today. "How did you sleep," did not come out of her mouth.
Because she was asleep herself. And I had to gently pet her head and kiss her chin before she took that deep breath in that signals her rising.
Had she asked me, "how did you sleep," I could have answered her today: like shit. I woke up several times during the night and looked at the clock with tired eyes that shouldn't be looking at a synthetic green-blue digital readout that's trying really hard to be welcoming and soothing but falls short of the mark. I couldn't find a good snuggle with her last night. And I woke up with aches and pains like I'm a geriatric. I had a hard time walking this morning. I felt like a large dude whacked me with a rubber mallet over and over again. All over. I feel awful.
I'm kinda glad she didn't ask me this morning. I wouldn't have had a good answer for her. And I only want to give her good things. Good answers. Good kisses. Good feelings. Good things.
Yeah, yeah, I know that I can't always give her good things, you Contradictory Asshole. I know that life is good AND bad. It's not like I was born yesterday and I certainly don't need you jumping in and giving advice which is not asked for and beside the point.
The point is, I WANT something, and that something is to give my wife the best of the world that I can give her. And today, my world wasn't very good, and had she asked about my world, it wouldn't have been very good.
Instead of asking the question, she groggily put her arms around my neck, and sleepily returned the kisses I flitted on her face. And she told me she loved me.
And some days that's all I really need. I'm so glad to have my wife in my life. It's the best thing ever.
She typically asks me this question when we wake up. "How did you sleep?" And I usually get a little frustrated with the question. I don't know how I slept. I was asleep. I don't remember how I slept. And then she explains that she's asking if I feel rested. I don't know. I'm just waking up. Of course I don't feel rested. I wanna go back to bed. I wanna snuggle with you. I don't want to be up. Do I feel rested? If I answer "no" can we go back to sleep?
She asks me these questions a lot. And we go through this same dance a lot. And I don't get, like, real real frustrated. I just want to have an answer for her, and I don't. I feel like I'm not doing it right because I don't have an answer for her. And I never remember that she's asking if I feel rested. Probably because I haven't really rested and so I'm still asleep, but she always explains herself calmly, as if she knows that I'm not upset with her. As if she knows about this dance, too.
Maybe she's just talking to me. We like to talk to each other. Maybe she's trying to find something to say first thing in the morning and has nothing else to say so she asks how I slept. Maybe she's asleep, too, and this is like a morning stretch for us: we go through this same thing in order to get our brains working. Maybe. I don't know.
But through my frustration, I like it. I like that she's talking to me. I like that she's snuggling up next to me. Sometimes, she asks me right in my ear so that I can feel her hot breath on my neck. I like feeling her that close to me. I like feeling her arm over me. Her feet tucked into my knee pits. I like her. More than I've liked anyone else. Ever. She was made for me.
But she didn't ask me today. "How did you sleep," did not come out of her mouth.
Because she was asleep herself. And I had to gently pet her head and kiss her chin before she took that deep breath in that signals her rising.
Had she asked me, "how did you sleep," I could have answered her today: like shit. I woke up several times during the night and looked at the clock with tired eyes that shouldn't be looking at a synthetic green-blue digital readout that's trying really hard to be welcoming and soothing but falls short of the mark. I couldn't find a good snuggle with her last night. And I woke up with aches and pains like I'm a geriatric. I had a hard time walking this morning. I felt like a large dude whacked me with a rubber mallet over and over again. All over. I feel awful.
I'm kinda glad she didn't ask me this morning. I wouldn't have had a good answer for her. And I only want to give her good things. Good answers. Good kisses. Good feelings. Good things.
Yeah, yeah, I know that I can't always give her good things, you Contradictory Asshole. I know that life is good AND bad. It's not like I was born yesterday and I certainly don't need you jumping in and giving advice which is not asked for and beside the point.
The point is, I WANT something, and that something is to give my wife the best of the world that I can give her. And today, my world wasn't very good, and had she asked about my world, it wouldn't have been very good.
Instead of asking the question, she groggily put her arms around my neck, and sleepily returned the kisses I flitted on her face. And she told me she loved me.
And some days that's all I really need. I'm so glad to have my wife in my life. It's the best thing ever.
Monday, September 13, 2010
What I Would Say To You If You Were The Therapists That I Don't Have Right Now But Probably Should Have
So BloodyCumster signed our 9-year-old up for football. Then he paid top dollar for brand new sports equipment which he could've rented for a fraction of the cost. Then he's got the vagina to ask for compensation. My wife, quite aptly, told BC that if he had told us about football in advance, we might have had the opportunity to prepare for such a large expenditure. However, with such short notice and without consultation as to whether it would be best to rent equipment for an ever-growing 9-year-old versus buying top-of-the-price-tag equipment for a boy that won't be able to wear that equipment next year, BloodyCumster would be on his own financially. I love her for that response. She's brilliant.
Then BloodyCumster buys cleats for our 9-year-old. They are cleats that are so slippery on regular surfaces (tile in homes and stores, cement, etc.) that our 9-year-old must walk as if he were traversing ice until he reaches the safety of grass, where he can ambulate normally. So BloodCum tells me that our 9-year-old "must" take flip-flops with him to practices so that he can change into them when he's done and won't slip and fall and hurt himself. In my head, our 9-year-old can just kick the shoes off and walk in the house. However, BloodyCumster feels it necessary to force foothing apparel, so I'm gonna let him do his thing, as he can't force me to do my thing. So my wife and I take our 9-year-old to practice. Everything goes great. We take him to another practice. Everything goes great. And no flip-flops either time.
Then our 9-year-old has a game. He does really well. After the game, BloodyCumster takes our 9-year-old to Target, where he slips and hurts his back and now he is going to the doctor today at 1 to make sure he's okay. He was with BloodCum, not me. I wasn't even aware of the trip to Target until my wife told me about it moments ago.
And here's the funnest part of the whole shindig: BloodCumster calls to tell my wife about our 9-year-old's injury, and the reason for the fall is because he TOLD me that our 9-year-old should wear flip-flops after practice so that he doesn't slip and fall.
Lemme recap for you, in case you missed this (because if you're sane, this will take a second to comprehend):
1. I was not at Target when the slip and fall happened
2. I did not know about the trip to Target where the slip and fall happened
3. Our 9-year-old has never fallen in my presence nor has he missed football practice because of a fall he's sustained while under my care
4. Our 9-year-old was in BloodCumster's care
5. BloodCumster had verbalized understanding of the great possibility of a slip and fall occurring due to the slippery nature of the cleats, even going so far as to making "rules" to prevent such an occurrence
And after all of this, the reason for the slip and fall, according to BloodyCumster, is because I hadn't made our 9-year-old wear flip-flops after practice over a week ago.
I'm at a loss as to what to say.
This is the man who is in charge of our children's care for more than half of their lives. Apparently he is unable to maintain their safety and is unable to provide a sane or logical reason for their injuries. It's like trying to parent with a lunatic who has completely lost touch with reality.
He fell because I hadn't made him wear flip-flops over a week ago??? What kind of bullshit is that??? How about this for more logical thoughts on the matter:
He fell because you bought him cleats that prevent him from walking on any surface other than grass.
He fell because you took him to a store that has not been floored in grass.
He fell because you didn't take him home after the game.
He fell because you weren't watching him closely.
Or maybe you want more neutral reasons:
He fell because gravity works.
He fell because all people fall and it was his time to go down.
He fell because he tripped on something that anyone would trip on.
He fell because his cleats weren't made to walk on slippery retail store flooring.
But BloodyCumster goes for the step-father blame. He goes for the crazy, Hail Mary bomb blame. Giving me more power than I'm deserving of. Completely stripping himself of any responsibility and, therefore, any power to prevent or help the situation. Making him look even insaner than he already looks.
Fuck, this man should have been aborted. What a waste of space.
...at this point in our therapy session, I would hope that you would offer me great drugs that would help me feel better and give me some great mental health treatment so that I could go about thinking differently so that I might use my cognitive therapy in conjunction with my prescription medication to alleviate my anger and frustration. However, you're just a silly blog and suck at writing prescriptions. I would really like some prescriptions right now.
Crap.
Then BloodyCumster buys cleats for our 9-year-old. They are cleats that are so slippery on regular surfaces (tile in homes and stores, cement, etc.) that our 9-year-old must walk as if he were traversing ice until he reaches the safety of grass, where he can ambulate normally. So BloodCum tells me that our 9-year-old "must" take flip-flops with him to practices so that he can change into them when he's done and won't slip and fall and hurt himself. In my head, our 9-year-old can just kick the shoes off and walk in the house. However, BloodyCumster feels it necessary to force foothing apparel, so I'm gonna let him do his thing, as he can't force me to do my thing. So my wife and I take our 9-year-old to practice. Everything goes great. We take him to another practice. Everything goes great. And no flip-flops either time.
Then our 9-year-old has a game. He does really well. After the game, BloodyCumster takes our 9-year-old to Target, where he slips and hurts his back and now he is going to the doctor today at 1 to make sure he's okay. He was with BloodCum, not me. I wasn't even aware of the trip to Target until my wife told me about it moments ago.
And here's the funnest part of the whole shindig: BloodCumster calls to tell my wife about our 9-year-old's injury, and the reason for the fall is because he TOLD me that our 9-year-old should wear flip-flops after practice so that he doesn't slip and fall.
Lemme recap for you, in case you missed this (because if you're sane, this will take a second to comprehend):
1. I was not at Target when the slip and fall happened
2. I did not know about the trip to Target where the slip and fall happened
3. Our 9-year-old has never fallen in my presence nor has he missed football practice because of a fall he's sustained while under my care
4. Our 9-year-old was in BloodCumster's care
5. BloodCumster had verbalized understanding of the great possibility of a slip and fall occurring due to the slippery nature of the cleats, even going so far as to making "rules" to prevent such an occurrence
And after all of this, the reason for the slip and fall, according to BloodyCumster, is because I hadn't made our 9-year-old wear flip-flops after practice over a week ago.
I'm at a loss as to what to say.
This is the man who is in charge of our children's care for more than half of their lives. Apparently he is unable to maintain their safety and is unable to provide a sane or logical reason for their injuries. It's like trying to parent with a lunatic who has completely lost touch with reality.
He fell because I hadn't made him wear flip-flops over a week ago??? What kind of bullshit is that??? How about this for more logical thoughts on the matter:
He fell because you bought him cleats that prevent him from walking on any surface other than grass.
He fell because you took him to a store that has not been floored in grass.
He fell because you didn't take him home after the game.
He fell because you weren't watching him closely.
Or maybe you want more neutral reasons:
He fell because gravity works.
He fell because all people fall and it was his time to go down.
He fell because he tripped on something that anyone would trip on.
He fell because his cleats weren't made to walk on slippery retail store flooring.
But BloodyCumster goes for the step-father blame. He goes for the crazy, Hail Mary bomb blame. Giving me more power than I'm deserving of. Completely stripping himself of any responsibility and, therefore, any power to prevent or help the situation. Making him look even insaner than he already looks.
Fuck, this man should have been aborted. What a waste of space.
...at this point in our therapy session, I would hope that you would offer me great drugs that would help me feel better and give me some great mental health treatment so that I could go about thinking differently so that I might use my cognitive therapy in conjunction with my prescription medication to alleviate my anger and frustration. However, you're just a silly blog and suck at writing prescriptions. I would really like some prescriptions right now.
Crap.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Two Days Post-Move
I'm exhausted.
I've returned to work after moving from our old house to our new house.
We moved some stuff on Friday.
We had movers come on Saturday to move our big stuff (like a piano).
My wife, mother, a friend and myself all moved other stuff while the movers were doing the big stuff.
After the movers left, the four of us continued to work.
Sunday, my wife and I continued to move stuff.
Today is Monday, and we'll be moving stuff later today.
Tomorrow is Tuesday. We'll be moving stuff on Tuesday.
At this point, I hate stuff.
All of it.
I want it all gone.
When I think of "stuff" right now, all I think of is sweat raining off my forehead, down my back and chest and pooling in my taint and asshole, and then chafing. And somewhere in there, my muscles feel like bowling balls dipped in really hot salsa, preventing me from moving quickly or with any comfort.
The upside of this is that we have a new, kickass house.
The boys are excited.
My wife and I are excited.
It's a great house.
Really great.
And I got to buy it with my wife.
And sometimes I'm still giddy that she's my wife.
That she married me.
That she likes me.
I'm overjoyed that she turned out to be my best friend.
But on top of that, she likes it when I kiss her.
And she wants to kiss me back.
And she makes me laugh.
And she's got a great butt.
And she is the only person I want to be with no matter where I am.
I love her more than this kickass house.
And the fact that she lives in this house with me makes a world of difference.
But today, my asshole has some kind of painful rash-thing going on with it and my muscles are screaming like infants being trampled. And I want to throw away everything I've ever owned. It all sucks. Except my wife. And our boys. And the house. And my mom. And the friend that helped us. And the movers were okay, too. And my wife.
I've returned to work after moving from our old house to our new house.
We moved some stuff on Friday.
We had movers come on Saturday to move our big stuff (like a piano).
My wife, mother, a friend and myself all moved other stuff while the movers were doing the big stuff.
After the movers left, the four of us continued to work.
Sunday, my wife and I continued to move stuff.
Today is Monday, and we'll be moving stuff later today.
Tomorrow is Tuesday. We'll be moving stuff on Tuesday.
At this point, I hate stuff.
All of it.
I want it all gone.
When I think of "stuff" right now, all I think of is sweat raining off my forehead, down my back and chest and pooling in my taint and asshole, and then chafing. And somewhere in there, my muscles feel like bowling balls dipped in really hot salsa, preventing me from moving quickly or with any comfort.
The upside of this is that we have a new, kickass house.
The boys are excited.
My wife and I are excited.
It's a great house.
Really great.
And I got to buy it with my wife.
And sometimes I'm still giddy that she's my wife.
That she married me.
That she likes me.
I'm overjoyed that she turned out to be my best friend.
But on top of that, she likes it when I kiss her.
And she wants to kiss me back.
And she makes me laugh.
And she's got a great butt.
And she is the only person I want to be with no matter where I am.
I love her more than this kickass house.
And the fact that she lives in this house with me makes a world of difference.
But today, my asshole has some kind of painful rash-thing going on with it and my muscles are screaming like infants being trampled. And I want to throw away everything I've ever owned. It all sucks. Except my wife. And our boys. And the house. And my mom. And the friend that helped us. And the movers were okay, too. And my wife.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The Spiral
So I'm pissed.
My wife and I were trying to buy a house so that we could start spending our money for us, rather than for our landlord, and so that when we go back to court, Pencil Dick can't say that we shouldn't have custody of the boys because we're in the wrong school district-- because we will be in the right school district.
So we found a lender. And we told him all about our credit history. I have bad credit, including defaulting on a student loan. My wife doesn't have any credit. And he did all the stuff that lenders do, and told us we were approved for a certain amount of money. My wife and I were ecstatic. Then we found another lender, who offered us a better deal, and we went with her. And then we find a house. And we like the house. And it's great for us. And it's in the right school district. And there isn't a busy street in the backyard. And the boys see it, and they like it. And we make peace with not living in our current house forever. And then we made an offer on the house. And it was accepted! And our realtor was happy and we were happy, and we signed the document saying that we were entering into a contract to purchase the home. And then we got a loan from the bank for moving our stuff and they put it directly into our account. And things are going about as well as can be expected.
And then...
Just today, the bank contacts my wife and tells her that they need to have me sign something. Seems there's some kind of default, they say, on a student loan that they didn't know about. Didn't know about?? We told them up front! We got this far, and now I feel like it's all falling apart.
And I feel stupid for having a student loan in the first place. And I feel stupid for defaulting on my student loan. And I start reliving all the humiliation and remorse that I had when I first discovered that I couldn't pay back the student loan like I thought I would be able to. And I feel even more humiliated because now it's become public. I trusted my wife with my embarrassing financial secret, and she married me anyway. But now bank people-- strangers-- will know that I'm a horrible person.
And they aren't going to loan us the money.
And then we won't get the house.
And then Pencil Dick will tell the Judge that we shouldn't be granted custody of the boys.
And the Judge will agree.
And it will come up in court that I have defaulted on my student loan.
And Pencil Dick will make fun of me about it, and it will hurt.
And the Judge will laugh.
And the opposing counsel will snicker a smug snicker.
And my wife will be tortured over the loss of her boys.
And I will hate myself.
And she will leave me.
And I will deserve it all because I defaulted on my student loan.
And there isn't anyone in the world as absolutely horrible as me.
Hitler will look like a box of kittens compared to me.
And I'll cry a lot.
And no one will care.
And I suck.
And then the tears will end, at some point.
And I'll get hungry.
And I'll need some food.
And I'll have to panhandle for food.
And it will suck hard.
And I'll sell plasma.
Oh yeah, I will have lost my job because of something horrible.
So I'll have to sell plasma.
So I'll sell plasma.
And I'll get $50 a week.
And ... I don't know what to do after that.
I can't see that far ahead.
I guess I would sleep in my car.
But I don't know where I would shower.
I guess I wouldn't shower.
And I would eat peanut butter sandwiches all the time.
And feel hungry all the time.
And I would feel good, because a person like me should be living in this way.
This is justice.
For my defaulted student loan.
And the complete destruction of a family.
Shit can really go downhill fast sometimes.
My wife and I were trying to buy a house so that we could start spending our money for us, rather than for our landlord, and so that when we go back to court, Pencil Dick can't say that we shouldn't have custody of the boys because we're in the wrong school district-- because we will be in the right school district.
So we found a lender. And we told him all about our credit history. I have bad credit, including defaulting on a student loan. My wife doesn't have any credit. And he did all the stuff that lenders do, and told us we were approved for a certain amount of money. My wife and I were ecstatic. Then we found another lender, who offered us a better deal, and we went with her. And then we find a house. And we like the house. And it's great for us. And it's in the right school district. And there isn't a busy street in the backyard. And the boys see it, and they like it. And we make peace with not living in our current house forever. And then we made an offer on the house. And it was accepted! And our realtor was happy and we were happy, and we signed the document saying that we were entering into a contract to purchase the home. And then we got a loan from the bank for moving our stuff and they put it directly into our account. And things are going about as well as can be expected.
And then...
Just today, the bank contacts my wife and tells her that they need to have me sign something. Seems there's some kind of default, they say, on a student loan that they didn't know about. Didn't know about?? We told them up front! We got this far, and now I feel like it's all falling apart.
And I feel stupid for having a student loan in the first place. And I feel stupid for defaulting on my student loan. And I start reliving all the humiliation and remorse that I had when I first discovered that I couldn't pay back the student loan like I thought I would be able to. And I feel even more humiliated because now it's become public. I trusted my wife with my embarrassing financial secret, and she married me anyway. But now bank people-- strangers-- will know that I'm a horrible person.
And they aren't going to loan us the money.
And then we won't get the house.
And then Pencil Dick will tell the Judge that we shouldn't be granted custody of the boys.
And the Judge will agree.
And it will come up in court that I have defaulted on my student loan.
And Pencil Dick will make fun of me about it, and it will hurt.
And the Judge will laugh.
And the opposing counsel will snicker a smug snicker.
And my wife will be tortured over the loss of her boys.
And I will hate myself.
And she will leave me.
And I will deserve it all because I defaulted on my student loan.
And there isn't anyone in the world as absolutely horrible as me.
Hitler will look like a box of kittens compared to me.
And I'll cry a lot.
And no one will care.
And I suck.
And then the tears will end, at some point.
And I'll get hungry.
And I'll need some food.
And I'll have to panhandle for food.
And it will suck hard.
And I'll sell plasma.
Oh yeah, I will have lost my job because of something horrible.
So I'll have to sell plasma.
So I'll sell plasma.
And I'll get $50 a week.
And ... I don't know what to do after that.
I can't see that far ahead.
I guess I would sleep in my car.
But I don't know where I would shower.
I guess I wouldn't shower.
And I would eat peanut butter sandwiches all the time.
And feel hungry all the time.
And I would feel good, because a person like me should be living in this way.
This is justice.
For my defaulted student loan.
And the complete destruction of a family.
Shit can really go downhill fast sometimes.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Venting Again
I think you should yell at me.
I think you should point out what I do wrong, and then yell at me for not doing it right.
Lord knows I do everything in my power to do things wrong, so it's important that you teach me that making mistakes is wrong. It's important that you address my incorrectness, my failings.
Please do not try to talk with me about how to do things correctly in the future. Please don't try to explain how you would like things done. Please don't try to understand where I'm coming from so that you can better understand what my next move might be. As a person in authority over me it would only make you weaker if you were able to understand where I'm coming from. As a person, it only makes you weaker to understand where I'm coming from.
I'm a bad boy, and I deserve to be yelled at. I deserve to be told that my wording is confusing. I deserve to be corrected by you, because you have it all worked out. Which is why you're so successful. You have achieved something, and so you're a success. And I am not a success, which is why you yell at me.
I don't copy papers right, so you yell at me, telling me I did it wrong. I don't fill out forms right, so you yell at me, telling me I did it wrong. I don't process cases correctly, so you yell at me, telling me I did it wrong.
I'm really glad you didn't tell me how to do it right. If you did, there might be some respect for you in me. There might be some gratitude that you helped me achieve success. But I'm glad I don't have respect for you. I'm glad I don't have gratitude for you. I'm glad that you have shown me that you are not here for me. You are not here to help. You are not here to encourage.
You are here to yell, because it's all wrong.
I'm all wrong.
So you yell.
I hope you get divorced, and your wife cuts your dick off and feeds it to you, and your children drown in a submarine accident and you have to watch them choke on their final breath as their eyes go lifeless and you see their souls leave their bodies and whatever hopes you had for them and for your future with them dies as they silently fall to the bottom of the sea, and your ex-wife takes all your money and you have to eat your toes to survive, and nobody gives you any free handouts or charity because your horrible, bleeding stumps of feet smell and prevent you from entering any place where people are because you're hideous soul has blackened your hideous face and then somebody sets you on fire with an errant cigarette and you feel your skin crackling and melting off your body and you don't die, but rather, you lie on the street in agony, begging for somebody to end your suffering, but they don't, because you're ugly and you smell like bile and hate.
losing sight of me
i feel you
i feel you creeping in
and it's creepy
i feel me
i feel me seeping out
i am weeping
and i don't know if i can stop it
but i damn sure won't go without a fight
i had things the way i liked them here
and i won't bark without a bite
i'm turning
i'm turning into you
and it's maddening
i'm losing
i'm losing sight of me
it keeps worsening
i will blow if i can't stop you
you're just smoke sign in the night
everything you touch turns mealy
i'll explode if pushed just right
i will die trying to stop you
you are wrong for all my right
your infection is your presence
and i'll end you if you try
i'll end you
i feel you creeping in
and it's creepy
i feel me
i feel me seeping out
i am weeping
and i don't know if i can stop it
but i damn sure won't go without a fight
i had things the way i liked them here
and i won't bark without a bite
i'm turning
i'm turning into you
and it's maddening
i'm losing
i'm losing sight of me
it keeps worsening
i will blow if i can't stop you
you're just smoke sign in the night
everything you touch turns mealy
i'll explode if pushed just right
i will die trying to stop you
you are wrong for all my right
your infection is your presence
and i'll end you if you try
i'll end you
panic attack
too much breathing
too much seething
every thing is
round and round and
crawling blindly
i can't see
the pounding
deafens every me
and scratching, scratching
searching, patching
latching down the
problem sea
my worries flood
a tidal wave
i'm breathing too much
suffocating
grasping, grasping
ever lasting
never ending
ending, ending
all i hear
is wrongful words
the hateful words
i can't make out
and all i smell
is acid hate
the panic state
the vomiting
i'm coming out
i'm coming loose
i'm falling out
i'm { } abuse
i'm down
my life
is bleeding
out
out of
control
i'm losing
hold
i'm gone!
and now i'm gone!
i can't be found!
i'm gone! i'm gone!
do not know
where i was then
i cannot tell
the world was bent
i came back now
but not for long
i don't know when
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
too much seething
every thing is
round and round and
crawling blindly
i can't see
the pounding
deafens every me
and scratching, scratching
searching, patching
latching down the
problem sea
my worries flood
a tidal wave
i'm breathing too much
suffocating
grasping, grasping
ever lasting
never ending
ending, ending
all i hear
is wrongful words
the hateful words
i can't make out
and all i smell
is acid hate
the panic state
the vomiting
i'm coming out
i'm coming loose
i'm falling out
i'm { } abuse
i'm down
my life
is bleeding
out
out of
control
i'm losing
hold
i'm gone!
and now i'm gone!
i can't be found!
i'm gone! i'm gone!
do not know
where i was then
i cannot tell
the world was bent
i came back now
but not for long
i don't know when
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
i will be gone
Thursday, July 8, 2010
The Passed Past
I remember the first time you smiled at me
And how it seemed to set my heart free
There was no way for me to know
That you wouldn't stay, you needed to go.
The time that we shared was so long ago
So many summer swims, so many winter snows
It's been so long since I thought of our tale
Reminded just now by your surprise email.
I got it before I took my nightly rest
Your email from Facebook, a friend request
A short little sentence from so far away
And like a flash in the night I knew what to say,
God, did you get fugly.
And how it seemed to set my heart free
There was no way for me to know
That you wouldn't stay, you needed to go.
The time that we shared was so long ago
So many summer swims, so many winter snows
It's been so long since I thought of our tale
Reminded just now by your surprise email.
I got it before I took my nightly rest
Your email from Facebook, a friend request
A short little sentence from so far away
And like a flash in the night I knew what to say,
God, did you get fugly.
there's a picture behind a bookshelf
why'd they put a bookshelf over the picture?
is it a picture at all?
just the frame is staring at me
peeking out from behind the bookshelf
is it some award that they're not proud of?
or an uncle that they're not proud of?
were they just too lazy to take it down?
or was the bookshelf something hurried?
why'd they put a bookshelf over the picture?
is it somebody they'd like to forget?
would they feel bad if they threw it away?
would others judge if they threw it away?
do they care what others think?
and do they care that the frame is staring at me
peeking out from behind the bookshelf
it whispers to me
yelling quietly
as it stares at me
peeking at me
whispering at me
"don't be me"
is it a picture at all?
just the frame is staring at me
peeking out from behind the bookshelf
is it some award that they're not proud of?
or an uncle that they're not proud of?
were they just too lazy to take it down?
or was the bookshelf something hurried?
why'd they put a bookshelf over the picture?
is it somebody they'd like to forget?
would they feel bad if they threw it away?
would others judge if they threw it away?
do they care what others think?
and do they care that the frame is staring at me
peeking out from behind the bookshelf
it whispers to me
yelling quietly
as it stares at me
peeking at me
whispering at me
"don't be me"
Saturday, June 26, 2010
sliding
i'm sliding
sliding down
down
down
i don't know
i'm sliding down
and down i go
i look around
i don't see what i see
i get a grip
that's when i slip
and slide
slide down
sliding down
i heard you say up
i saw my feet down
i heard you behind me
nowhere to be found
now i get a grip
but it all slips
sliding
i'm sliding
i'm sliding down
i don't know where i go
i don't know
maybe one of these
will be the last time i'm seen
maybe you'll find me
lost in the scene
lost in the air
lost on the ground
how will you know
if i'm lost or i'm found
i'm sliding
sliding down
here i go
i don't know
slow sliding
sliding
sliding down
sliding down
down
down
i don't know
i'm sliding down
and down i go
i look around
i don't see what i see
i get a grip
that's when i slip
and slide
slide down
sliding down
i heard you say up
i saw my feet down
i heard you behind me
nowhere to be found
now i get a grip
but it all slips
sliding
i'm sliding
i'm sliding down
i don't know where i go
i don't know
maybe one of these
will be the last time i'm seen
maybe you'll find me
lost in the scene
lost in the air
lost on the ground
how will you know
if i'm lost or i'm found
i'm sliding
sliding down
here i go
i don't know
slow sliding
sliding
sliding down
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Call Daren!
Goddammit!
Call motherfucking Daren!
Your arm hurts, and he can help you, and it doesn't cost you any money to see him!
So just call him now!
Call motherfucking Daren!
Your arm hurts, and he can help you, and it doesn't cost you any money to see him!
So just call him now!
News Blackout
I haven't listened to NPR in a while. Maybe a week.
I don't know what's going on with my president.
I don't know what's going on with the oil spill, or Iran's nuclear capability, or Korea's fight with Korea, or the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. I do know that the general has been replaced because he said negative things about the war effort and those running it in a Rolling Stone interview, but I didn't actively seek out that knowledge.
I don't know how the primary elections are going.
I don't know how the economy is doing.
I don't know any of that.
I haven't gone online to read anything at NPR.org.
I haven't listening to the radio.
I haven't downloaded a Podcast in quite some time. Maybe weeks. Possibly a month.
I haven't seen anything.
I haven't read anything.
I haven't listened to anything.
I haven't even watched "The Daily Show". I love that show. And I haven't seen it in some time.
This is really my wife's prescription. She has noticed that I get tight when I know what's going on. Probably because I can't do anything to change the situation and I start to feel helpless and powerless to affect positive change. Or maybe it's because I realize just how many retarded people there are in the world, and most of them are in high public offices. Many of them have been elected to their positions. And all of them are in charge of our general health and well-being. And so few of them give two shits about any of us.
But, as is typical, my wife knows what's good for me. I feel less pressure. I don't feel as powerless. I don't feel as doomed. As angry. As frustrated.
Yeah, I'm still depressed and I'm fighting really hard to get out of that. And my wife is helping with that, too. She found and-- essentially-- checked out an audio book from the library for me about cognitive therapy because she knows that has worked for me in the past, and she knows that I'm not a reader, and she knows that I have at least an hour in the car per day as I commute to and from work where I can listen to said audio book. But this depression that I'm in right now isn't caused by the stupid news. And it's not exacerbated by the stupid news. And, perhaps, the news was covering up my depression, making me think that I was really upset about the news rather than my brainal crap.
My wife is really good to me. And really good for me. I'm glad I've got her in my life. And I really wish that I could give her some idea about the depth and strength of my emotions. But if I did that, I might explode her from the inside, her frail body and weak frame wouldn't be able to withstand the emensitude of emotions. She's my best. I absolutely adore her.
What was I saying? Oh right. The news sucks ass.
I don't know what's going on with my president.
I don't know what's going on with the oil spill, or Iran's nuclear capability, or Korea's fight with Korea, or the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. I do know that the general has been replaced because he said negative things about the war effort and those running it in a Rolling Stone interview, but I didn't actively seek out that knowledge.
I don't know how the primary elections are going.
I don't know how the economy is doing.
I don't know any of that.
I haven't gone online to read anything at NPR.org.
I haven't listening to the radio.
I haven't downloaded a Podcast in quite some time. Maybe weeks. Possibly a month.
I haven't seen anything.
I haven't read anything.
I haven't listened to anything.
I haven't even watched "The Daily Show". I love that show. And I haven't seen it in some time.
This is really my wife's prescription. She has noticed that I get tight when I know what's going on. Probably because I can't do anything to change the situation and I start to feel helpless and powerless to affect positive change. Or maybe it's because I realize just how many retarded people there are in the world, and most of them are in high public offices. Many of them have been elected to their positions. And all of them are in charge of our general health and well-being. And so few of them give two shits about any of us.
But, as is typical, my wife knows what's good for me. I feel less pressure. I don't feel as powerless. I don't feel as doomed. As angry. As frustrated.
Yeah, I'm still depressed and I'm fighting really hard to get out of that. And my wife is helping with that, too. She found and-- essentially-- checked out an audio book from the library for me about cognitive therapy because she knows that has worked for me in the past, and she knows that I'm not a reader, and she knows that I have at least an hour in the car per day as I commute to and from work where I can listen to said audio book. But this depression that I'm in right now isn't caused by the stupid news. And it's not exacerbated by the stupid news. And, perhaps, the news was covering up my depression, making me think that I was really upset about the news rather than my brainal crap.
My wife is really good to me. And really good for me. I'm glad I've got her in my life. And I really wish that I could give her some idea about the depth and strength of my emotions. But if I did that, I might explode her from the inside, her frail body and weak frame wouldn't be able to withstand the emensitude of emotions. She's my best. I absolutely adore her.
What was I saying? Oh right. The news sucks ass.
relentless
what's that noise
coming from behind
sounds so familiar
feels like before
close your eyes, i'm not gonna stop
shut your ears, i'm not gonna stop
slam the door, i'm not gonna stop
cry out loud, i'm not gonna stop
beat me down, i'm not gonna stop
beat me down, i'm not gonna stop
beat me down, i'm not gonna stop
beat me down, i'm not gonna stop
going all the way
i'm not afraid of you
make it to the top
i'm not afraid of you
i'm not afraid of you
i'm not afraid!
growl your teeth, i'm not gonna stop
mash your fists, i'm not gonna stop
grind your feet, i'm not gonna stop
scream me down, i'm not gonna stop
push it all the way
i'm not afraid of you
push it to the top
i'm not afraid of you
try to back me down
i'm not afraid!
relentless
slap me around, i'm not gonna stop
push me down, i'm not gonna stop
face to ground, i'm not gonna stop
i'm not gonna stop
i'm not gonna stop
i'm not gonna stop
coming from behind
sounds so familiar
feels like before
close your eyes, i'm not gonna stop
shut your ears, i'm not gonna stop
slam the door, i'm not gonna stop
cry out loud, i'm not gonna stop
beat me down, i'm not gonna stop
beat me down, i'm not gonna stop
beat me down, i'm not gonna stop
beat me down, i'm not gonna stop
going all the way
i'm not afraid of you
make it to the top
i'm not afraid of you
i'm not afraid of you
i'm not afraid!
growl your teeth, i'm not gonna stop
mash your fists, i'm not gonna stop
grind your feet, i'm not gonna stop
scream me down, i'm not gonna stop
push it all the way
i'm not afraid of you
push it to the top
i'm not afraid of you
try to back me down
i'm not afraid!
relentless
slap me around, i'm not gonna stop
push me down, i'm not gonna stop
face to ground, i'm not gonna stop
i'm not gonna stop
i'm not gonna stop
i'm not gonna stop
stumbly
stumbly shoes
with no place to go
but to wait for me
hopeful glances
eye to eye
strangers waving
i've known you all along
stumbly words
not with me
he knows where he's going
leaping over and over and over
waving like strandeders thrashing to be rescued
i can lift you up
i can lift you all
and you'll see where the air is
stumbly bums
we don't care about the things we used to care about
we've known each other since before now
walking next to you without seeing you has been the hardest part
leaping over and over and over
waving like kids who know the answer
i can lift you up
i can lift you all
and you'll see where the air is
with no place to go
but to wait for me
hopeful glances
eye to eye
strangers waving
i've known you all along
stumbly words
not with me
he knows where he's going
leaping over and over and over
waving like strandeders thrashing to be rescued
i can lift you up
i can lift you all
and you'll see where the air is
stumbly bums
we don't care about the things we used to care about
we've known each other since before now
walking next to you without seeing you has been the hardest part
leaping over and over and over
waving like kids who know the answer
i can lift you up
i can lift you all
and you'll see where the air is
everything's fine
her sleep whispers across to me
every breath is saying
everything's okay now
everything's fine
and i want to give her everything
and i can't give her everything
but for now
everything's fine
i want to whisper across to her
but my head's a highway
but even still
everything's fine
snapshot that face
tuck it away for later
when everything is not
everything's fine
her sleep whispers across to me
every breath is saying
everything's okay now
everything's fine
every breath is saying
everything's okay now
everything's fine
and i want to give her everything
and i can't give her everything
but for now
everything's fine
i want to whisper across to her
but my head's a highway
but even still
everything's fine
snapshot that face
tuck it away for later
when everything is not
everything's fine
her sleep whispers across to me
every breath is saying
everything's okay now
everything's fine
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
My head won't shut up
My head won't shut off. It's distracting. It says stuff that I don't want to hear and I feel helpless to control it or stop it.
You're hot because you're fat. And you're not doing anything to get unfatter. And your job sucks and you suck at it and everybody there is a loser, which means you're a loser too. And you aren't able to pay for all the needs of your family. And you stopped performing because you suck and everyone around you thought you sucked, too.
And I try to ignore it. And that takes a lot of energy, because it feels like I'm trying to stop a leak in a bucket by using stick of butter. It just won't shut up.
And you wear your jacket all the time because you're fat and you're insecure about being fat and every time you try to work out, you can do it for three days and then you quit. You quitter. And your kids want to spend more time with you and you don't have any more time to give to them, so they're going to hate you. And your wife wants more time with you, and you don't have any more time to give to her, so she's going to hate you. And they're all going to hate you and resent you for not paying attention to them and then they're going to find somebody who will and they will forget about you like a used tissue. And you can't do a goddam thing right at your job, which you don't even like, so you're a two-time loser. And your lunch is peanuts. You must be a real loser if your lunch is peanuts. You see everybody else is getting their lunches from restaurants, but you're bringing your lunch like a big fat sweaty loser. And the lady next to you wants to buy a house. You're never going to buy a house because your credit sucks and you'll never be able to pay back your student loans and you can't get a job to make ends meet right now. How do you expect to get a job to make ends meet AND pay off your student loans? You can't. Because you're a loser. And when was the last time you wrote a song that you thought was good? Or a story? Or even had a witty line that you thought was decent? You're a fucking loser and a loser.
And I work to shut it off, because it's going to affect my relationship with my wife or my kids or my mother
but you know i won't shut up because i got batteries that never die and you gotta get tired sometime in the morning i'll be there and at night i'll be there and when you want to rest i'll be there letting you know about the miserable failure that you are
And I try to think about the cognitive therapy stuff
and i laugh because that was stuff that you learned when you were certain you were a loser and you had to have somebody help you because you couldn't do it on your own just like a child being dependent on others you fucking loser and you can't even do it now to help you out loser because you're a loser
And I try to work and maybe think about taking a pill tonight to get it to shut up or going for a walk tonight
and if you go for a walk then you're going to loser your wife and kids because they will think you don't love them and you won't loser any weight with the weak-ass workout you do anyway and sometimes it doesn't even make you feel any better to go workout so why do it loser and sometimes the pills work and sometimes they don't and how does it feel to be a doped up loser that can't get his mind to shut up unless he's taking medication i'll bet the meth addicts think of themselves as taking medication you fucking loser big fat fuck of a fucking loser
So I put it in the open, to see if getting it out helps, like steam from a teapot. Or not. I don't know yet. It doesn't feel any better. It doesn't feel any worse. It feels like it's a little better, but it's going to fill up again really soon. And my lunch break is over.
You're hot because you're fat. And you're not doing anything to get unfatter. And your job sucks and you suck at it and everybody there is a loser, which means you're a loser too. And you aren't able to pay for all the needs of your family. And you stopped performing because you suck and everyone around you thought you sucked, too.
And I try to ignore it. And that takes a lot of energy, because it feels like I'm trying to stop a leak in a bucket by using stick of butter. It just won't shut up.
And you wear your jacket all the time because you're fat and you're insecure about being fat and every time you try to work out, you can do it for three days and then you quit. You quitter. And your kids want to spend more time with you and you don't have any more time to give to them, so they're going to hate you. And your wife wants more time with you, and you don't have any more time to give to her, so she's going to hate you. And they're all going to hate you and resent you for not paying attention to them and then they're going to find somebody who will and they will forget about you like a used tissue. And you can't do a goddam thing right at your job, which you don't even like, so you're a two-time loser. And your lunch is peanuts. You must be a real loser if your lunch is peanuts. You see everybody else is getting their lunches from restaurants, but you're bringing your lunch like a big fat sweaty loser. And the lady next to you wants to buy a house. You're never going to buy a house because your credit sucks and you'll never be able to pay back your student loans and you can't get a job to make ends meet right now. How do you expect to get a job to make ends meet AND pay off your student loans? You can't. Because you're a loser. And when was the last time you wrote a song that you thought was good? Or a story? Or even had a witty line that you thought was decent? You're a fucking loser and a loser.
And I work to shut it off, because it's going to affect my relationship with my wife or my kids or my mother
but you know i won't shut up because i got batteries that never die and you gotta get tired sometime in the morning i'll be there and at night i'll be there and when you want to rest i'll be there letting you know about the miserable failure that you are
And I try to think about the cognitive therapy stuff
and i laugh because that was stuff that you learned when you were certain you were a loser and you had to have somebody help you because you couldn't do it on your own just like a child being dependent on others you fucking loser and you can't even do it now to help you out loser because you're a loser
And I try to work and maybe think about taking a pill tonight to get it to shut up or going for a walk tonight
and if you go for a walk then you're going to loser your wife and kids because they will think you don't love them and you won't loser any weight with the weak-ass workout you do anyway and sometimes it doesn't even make you feel any better to go workout so why do it loser and sometimes the pills work and sometimes they don't and how does it feel to be a doped up loser that can't get his mind to shut up unless he's taking medication i'll bet the meth addicts think of themselves as taking medication you fucking loser big fat fuck of a fucking loser
So I put it in the open, to see if getting it out helps, like steam from a teapot. Or not. I don't know yet. It doesn't feel any better. It doesn't feel any worse. It feels like it's a little better, but it's going to fill up again really soon. And my lunch break is over.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Texts, Emails and Phone Calls
Our 9 year-old's guitar Teacher has moved to an apartment about 30 miles away from us.
Typically, when our 9 year-old is at his father's house, Teacher travels the less-than-a-mile distance from his old apartment to AssCan's house to give the lesson to our 9 year-old. When our 9 year-old is at our house, my wife or I will travel the over-five-mile distance to Teacher's old apartment to get 9 year-old to the lesson. We will sit in the car and wait until the lesson is over, as we're sometimes not invited to come in to Teacher's apartment to watch the lesson, or sometimes the 9 year-old doesn't want us in there. Whatever the case, we normally sit in the car for 35 minutes and wait for the lesson to end before making the over-five-mile distance trip back to our house.
Guitar Teacher moved to an apartment about 30 miles away from us.
So last night, my wife contacts Teacher via text on the cell phone. She asks if guitar lessons are still on. Teacher texts back, saying that he had talked with AssCan about this and he was "surprised" that he and my wife hadn't talked about the arrangements, but that, due to AssCan's busy schedule, our 9 year-old wouldn't be able to do guitar this summer. Teacher said that he didn't want "guitar to take a back burner", and it sounded like guitar would take a back burner because of the schedule, so they were going to stop and see what happened in the fall. My wife said that she had hoped for more communication, as AssCan's schedule is only 50% of our 9 year-old's schedule, and neither my wife nor our 9 year-old had been told about this adjustment, however she understood and would see Teacher in the fall.
She then emailed AssCan and told him that Teacher had texted and repeated the words that Teacher had said. She then added that she had hoped for more communication between AssCan and herself regarding 9 year-old's schedule. She also mentioned that 9 year-old hadn't been told about this change and it would be good to tell him about those changes also.
AssCan then telephones our home number twice, only leaving a message once, saying that he wanted to talk with my wife and our 9 year-old. He has the cell phone numbers of my wife and our 9 year-old. My wife then calls him on the cell phone, and immediately he starts yelling at her and cursing, and my wife says that she will not be spoken to in this manner and they can resume this conversation when he's more calm. He called back less than a minute later. My wife put him on speakerphone. He said that she was lying about all the information contained in her email. She stated that she was merely repeating texts from Teacher, and that if communication had happened, none of this would be happening. He then told her that she was lying to him about the texts, and that he had already spoken about changing guitar teachers with my wife's mother (who is paying for the lessons). I asked our 9 year-old if he knew about his father's plans to change teachers, and 9 year-old said no, he liked Teacher and didn't know of any plans to change teachers. AssCan continued to tell my wife that she was lying about the text messages between Teacher and herself and that she was "going to use this" against him-- presumably in court. When my wife (yet again) told AssCan that she always welcomed communication between the two of them, AssCan insisted that she always had snide comments for him and didn't provide a place for him to feel comfortable communicating with her. AssCan then talked with our 9 year-old and told him that the two of them would talk more when 9 year-old returned to AssCan's house tonight.
A few minutes later, Teacher called my wife's cell phone. He said that AssCan had just called him and spoken with him about the situation and said that he was sorry that my wife and he "had gotten their wires crossed" regarding guitar lessons. He said that if our 9 year-old still wanted to do lessons, he might be able to do them this summer, although Teacher was busy and it sounded like our 9 year-old would be busy with sports. We didn't know about any sports that our 9 year-old was involved in, so we asked our 9 year-old. He said he didn't know of any sports that he was involved in. Teacher and my wife said that they would continue to talk, and the conversation ended.
My wife then emailed AssCan and told him that it was inappropriate for him to curse and yell at her over the phone, and from now on they could communicate in person or through email.
That was how we went to bed last night.
This morning, my wife has already emailed me and told me that she has received 3 emails from AssCan concerning this incident. She states that the emails "are crazy". She has attempted to contact our lawyer via email and telephone, but, as yet, no response.
Tonight, AssCan comes to pick up the boys.
I'm nervous that he will cause harm, physical or emotional, to somebody. I really hope that doesn't happen.
Typically, when our 9 year-old is at his father's house, Teacher travels the less-than-a-mile distance from his old apartment to AssCan's house to give the lesson to our 9 year-old. When our 9 year-old is at our house, my wife or I will travel the over-five-mile distance to Teacher's old apartment to get 9 year-old to the lesson. We will sit in the car and wait until the lesson is over, as we're sometimes not invited to come in to Teacher's apartment to watch the lesson, or sometimes the 9 year-old doesn't want us in there. Whatever the case, we normally sit in the car for 35 minutes and wait for the lesson to end before making the over-five-mile distance trip back to our house.
Guitar Teacher moved to an apartment about 30 miles away from us.
So last night, my wife contacts Teacher via text on the cell phone. She asks if guitar lessons are still on. Teacher texts back, saying that he had talked with AssCan about this and he was "surprised" that he and my wife hadn't talked about the arrangements, but that, due to AssCan's busy schedule, our 9 year-old wouldn't be able to do guitar this summer. Teacher said that he didn't want "guitar to take a back burner", and it sounded like guitar would take a back burner because of the schedule, so they were going to stop and see what happened in the fall. My wife said that she had hoped for more communication, as AssCan's schedule is only 50% of our 9 year-old's schedule, and neither my wife nor our 9 year-old had been told about this adjustment, however she understood and would see Teacher in the fall.
She then emailed AssCan and told him that Teacher had texted and repeated the words that Teacher had said. She then added that she had hoped for more communication between AssCan and herself regarding 9 year-old's schedule. She also mentioned that 9 year-old hadn't been told about this change and it would be good to tell him about those changes also.
AssCan then telephones our home number twice, only leaving a message once, saying that he wanted to talk with my wife and our 9 year-old. He has the cell phone numbers of my wife and our 9 year-old. My wife then calls him on the cell phone, and immediately he starts yelling at her and cursing, and my wife says that she will not be spoken to in this manner and they can resume this conversation when he's more calm. He called back less than a minute later. My wife put him on speakerphone. He said that she was lying about all the information contained in her email. She stated that she was merely repeating texts from Teacher, and that if communication had happened, none of this would be happening. He then told her that she was lying to him about the texts, and that he had already spoken about changing guitar teachers with my wife's mother (who is paying for the lessons). I asked our 9 year-old if he knew about his father's plans to change teachers, and 9 year-old said no, he liked Teacher and didn't know of any plans to change teachers. AssCan continued to tell my wife that she was lying about the text messages between Teacher and herself and that she was "going to use this" against him-- presumably in court. When my wife (yet again) told AssCan that she always welcomed communication between the two of them, AssCan insisted that she always had snide comments for him and didn't provide a place for him to feel comfortable communicating with her. AssCan then talked with our 9 year-old and told him that the two of them would talk more when 9 year-old returned to AssCan's house tonight.
A few minutes later, Teacher called my wife's cell phone. He said that AssCan had just called him and spoken with him about the situation and said that he was sorry that my wife and he "had gotten their wires crossed" regarding guitar lessons. He said that if our 9 year-old still wanted to do lessons, he might be able to do them this summer, although Teacher was busy and it sounded like our 9 year-old would be busy with sports. We didn't know about any sports that our 9 year-old was involved in, so we asked our 9 year-old. He said he didn't know of any sports that he was involved in. Teacher and my wife said that they would continue to talk, and the conversation ended.
My wife then emailed AssCan and told him that it was inappropriate for him to curse and yell at her over the phone, and from now on they could communicate in person or through email.
That was how we went to bed last night.
This morning, my wife has already emailed me and told me that she has received 3 emails from AssCan concerning this incident. She states that the emails "are crazy". She has attempted to contact our lawyer via email and telephone, but, as yet, no response.
Tonight, AssCan comes to pick up the boys.
I'm nervous that he will cause harm, physical or emotional, to somebody. I really hope that doesn't happen.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Pent
there's this cat who comes into our big room when it's break time.
i know it's break time because he comes in to sit with his friends behind me and talk.
usually about sports.
basketball.
and sports players.
and i wanna shove my fist through his face.
just sorta push his nose through his brain and out the back of his skull.
like a human Playdough Fun Factory.
and there's this chick who walks around like she's the boss.
because, well, she is one of them.
and she's really mean.
she was talking with the woman who used to sit next to me.
and she asked the woman something.
and the woman answered.
and she said, in the most degrading tone i've ever heard, "That's the wrong answer!"
i don't care who's boss you are, that shouldn't be allowed.
and she should be strung up and left to dry in the hot sun.
tied up to a really high fence by her hands and ankles and just left there.
and people would pass by and look and wonder what she did.
and she wouldn't be able to be mean to them.
and if she was, the people passing by would be provided a rock to throw.
and the rock would have sharp edges and pointy parts that would hurt and cut her.
and then there's PantyStain.
he made my wife angry today with more stupidity.
and i can't tell if i'm just over him or if i'm at a really good place in my coping skills...
but her anger didn't make me angry.
normally it does.
today, it didn't.
and today, i feel like he's just an annoyance.
a trifling.
something like a gnat or a fly that i have to deal with.
and he keeps trying to eat my burger outside, but he keeps pestering me.
so i stay outside as long as i can, and if he continues to annoy me, i either go inside or squish him with a rolled up newspaper.
we have a court date.
it's in november.
our 13 year old is happy with that date.
my wife is happy with that date.
i wanted it to be sooner, like next wednesday.
but for some reason, our court system moves excruciating slowly.
who cares about the sixth amendment.
that's the one that guarantees anyone accused of a crime the right to a "speedy and public trial".
i guess it's not a crime to be a horrible person and father.
did you know that the second amendment, the one gun-nuts love to quote as protecting their right to bear arms, is associated with keeping a militia to protect the state?
Here's the 2nd Amendment: "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."
it's no wonder to me that they forget to mention the "well regulated" part as they're ranting.
it's no wonder to me that they forget to mention the "Militia" part as they're ranting.
people are stupid.
and we're cutting educational programs because of economic conditions.
ensuring that we'll be dumber.
and we're buying the smart people in china, india and japan because we can't think for ourselves.
we'll just pay somebody else to do it.
and here's another thing.
"Pent" describes how i'm feeling.
as in "pent up".
it also has it's origins in Latin
deriving from the word meaning "five".
which is how many paragraphs i've written.
i'm so smarty-pants.
i know it's break time because he comes in to sit with his friends behind me and talk.
usually about sports.
basketball.
and sports players.
and i wanna shove my fist through his face.
just sorta push his nose through his brain and out the back of his skull.
like a human Playdough Fun Factory.
and there's this chick who walks around like she's the boss.
because, well, she is one of them.
and she's really mean.
she was talking with the woman who used to sit next to me.
and she asked the woman something.
and the woman answered.
and she said, in the most degrading tone i've ever heard, "That's the wrong answer!"
i don't care who's boss you are, that shouldn't be allowed.
and she should be strung up and left to dry in the hot sun.
tied up to a really high fence by her hands and ankles and just left there.
and people would pass by and look and wonder what she did.
and she wouldn't be able to be mean to them.
and if she was, the people passing by would be provided a rock to throw.
and the rock would have sharp edges and pointy parts that would hurt and cut her.
and then there's PantyStain.
he made my wife angry today with more stupidity.
and i can't tell if i'm just over him or if i'm at a really good place in my coping skills...
but her anger didn't make me angry.
normally it does.
today, it didn't.
and today, i feel like he's just an annoyance.
a trifling.
something like a gnat or a fly that i have to deal with.
and he keeps trying to eat my burger outside, but he keeps pestering me.
so i stay outside as long as i can, and if he continues to annoy me, i either go inside or squish him with a rolled up newspaper.
we have a court date.
it's in november.
our 13 year old is happy with that date.
my wife is happy with that date.
i wanted it to be sooner, like next wednesday.
but for some reason, our court system moves excruciating slowly.
who cares about the sixth amendment.
that's the one that guarantees anyone accused of a crime the right to a "speedy and public trial".
i guess it's not a crime to be a horrible person and father.
did you know that the second amendment, the one gun-nuts love to quote as protecting their right to bear arms, is associated with keeping a militia to protect the state?
Here's the 2nd Amendment: "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."
it's no wonder to me that they forget to mention the "well regulated" part as they're ranting.
it's no wonder to me that they forget to mention the "Militia" part as they're ranting.
people are stupid.
and we're cutting educational programs because of economic conditions.
ensuring that we'll be dumber.
and we're buying the smart people in china, india and japan because we can't think for ourselves.
we'll just pay somebody else to do it.
and here's another thing.
"Pent" describes how i'm feeling.
as in "pent up".
it also has it's origins in Latin
deriving from the word meaning "five".
which is how many paragraphs i've written.
i'm so smarty-pants.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Last night...
No TV while eating dinner.
No video games during or after dinner. The boys had already had their screen time.
I had things on my mind-- Fartknocker was finding out that his boys wanted to stay with us.
But if anyone else had that on their mind, it wasn't evident.
We talked. We played. We laughed with each other.
My wife put it really well: when the week starts, the Countdown starts.
It's a countdown to when the boys are leaving, and we all feel it.
The week feels so short to all of us, but we try not to think about it. Even though we do think about it.
But this week, there is no Countdown.
The boys are staying with us through Sunday because they are allowed to stay with us for the Mother's Day weekend.
So we get them for 10 days.
And I can feel everybody relax.
They're so much different from normal.
They're taking life so much less seriously.
They're having fun.
They're smiling.
They're enjoying... everything.
They're living.
And I'll bet that I was doing the same thing, but I was so focused on the change in my family that I didn't really pay attention to what was going on with me. But I know that I was enjoying them, and they were enjoying me.
My 9 year old asked me when I wake up.
I told him 5:45. His smile faded.
He said, "If I get up at 6:30, would I still see you?"
"We would run into each other at that time, yes," I said with a smile, understanding what he was asking about.
He smiled and ran off to his room.
This morning he was up before I left.
He told me about the new Halo game we got for the XBox. I didn't care. I liked seeing him at that unreal time of day. And I liked seeing him smile at me and enjoy that I was talking with him.
I sure do love my family.
And beer.
But mostly my family.
No video games during or after dinner. The boys had already had their screen time.
I had things on my mind-- Fartknocker was finding out that his boys wanted to stay with us.
But if anyone else had that on their mind, it wasn't evident.
We talked. We played. We laughed with each other.
My wife put it really well: when the week starts, the Countdown starts.
It's a countdown to when the boys are leaving, and we all feel it.
The week feels so short to all of us, but we try not to think about it. Even though we do think about it.
But this week, there is no Countdown.
The boys are staying with us through Sunday because they are allowed to stay with us for the Mother's Day weekend.
So we get them for 10 days.
And I can feel everybody relax.
They're so much different from normal.
They're taking life so much less seriously.
They're having fun.
They're smiling.
They're enjoying... everything.
They're living.
And I'll bet that I was doing the same thing, but I was so focused on the change in my family that I didn't really pay attention to what was going on with me. But I know that I was enjoying them, and they were enjoying me.
My 9 year old asked me when I wake up.
I told him 5:45. His smile faded.
He said, "If I get up at 6:30, would I still see you?"
"We would run into each other at that time, yes," I said with a smile, understanding what he was asking about.
He smiled and ran off to his room.
This morning he was up before I left.
He told me about the new Halo game we got for the XBox. I didn't care. I liked seeing him at that unreal time of day. And I liked seeing him smile at me and enjoy that I was talking with him.
I sure do love my family.
And beer.
But mostly my family.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Today He Finds Out
Our lawyer recently talked to Buttmunch's lawyer. It was three days ago. It was a Friday.
Our lawyer told Buttmunch's lawyer that our 13 year old wants to live with us full time.
Buttmunch's lawyer said that Buttmunch was a "laid-back kind of guy" and he was sure that "if it's what's best for the boys, he wouldn't have a problem with that [arrangement]."
Our lawyer told us that she believes Buttmunch's lawyer was, essentially, saying that we would be going to court because Buttmunch wouldn't believe that it was in the boys' best interest to stay with us full time.
Even though one of them has said so. Legally.
Buttmunch's lawyer said that Buttmunch would be told sometime on Monday.
Today is that Monday.
I'm a little nervous about what's going to happen today. Or on Sunday when we see Buttmunch again and give the boys back to him.
Our lawyer told Buttmunch's lawyer that our 13 year old wants to live with us full time.
Buttmunch's lawyer said that Buttmunch was a "laid-back kind of guy" and he was sure that "if it's what's best for the boys, he wouldn't have a problem with that [arrangement]."
Our lawyer told us that she believes Buttmunch's lawyer was, essentially, saying that we would be going to court because Buttmunch wouldn't believe that it was in the boys' best interest to stay with us full time.
Even though one of them has said so. Legally.
Buttmunch's lawyer said that Buttmunch would be told sometime on Monday.
Today is that Monday.
I'm a little nervous about what's going to happen today. Or on Sunday when we see Buttmunch again and give the boys back to him.
Dad
Yesterday, my 13 year old told me that sometimes he forgot that I wasn't his real father.
"I just feel like I'm yours," he said.
I told him that I referred to him as my own, even though I struggled at times with making sure people had all the information-- that he and his brother weren't my biological children, however, I felt as if they were-- but recently I'd stopped caring how much information other people had. I told him that I loved him very much and I didn't think I would feel differently about he or his brother if they had actually come out of me.
He patted my head (that's something he does) and said, "I love you so much. You're my best friend and family."
I just don't have any more words. Maybe later.
"I just feel like I'm yours," he said.
I told him that I referred to him as my own, even though I struggled at times with making sure people had all the information-- that he and his brother weren't my biological children, however, I felt as if they were-- but recently I'd stopped caring how much information other people had. I told him that I loved him very much and I didn't think I would feel differently about he or his brother if they had actually come out of me.
He patted my head (that's something he does) and said, "I love you so much. You're my best friend and family."
I just don't have any more words. Maybe later.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Die Hard on my mind
I've been having these horrible dreams lately.
Don't want to sleep.
Get really tired.
But still don't wanna sleep.
They're dreams where Ass-Bag shoots me and kills me and my wife. Just last night it was a dream about my 13 year old being shot by drug dealers after he had followed me to my undercover-sting-operation-gone-bad.
I have this really great dream book that my wife got for me because I kept checking it out of the library. It's pretty good at helping you decipher your dreams. It's helped me quite a bit. But I don't think there's much to interpret about these dreams. No hidden meaning or signs. Just shitty dreams where the people I love get shot because they know me. And I get shot because I know me. And really horrible people end up winning.
That's pretty crap. Thinking that the horrible people end up winning. I guess sometimes they do. You know, now that I think about it, I guess most times they do. That's why we love movies where the good guy wins, because most of our days are spent watching the bad guys win. Bad bosses. Unfaithful wives. Mean people. Damaging Fathers. Kids that won't stop crying because they've trained their parents to give them attention when they do. It's nice to escape that bucket of shit and watch somebody win. Somebody good. Like John McClain. He didn't think his wife's job was going to turn into a great career for her, so he let her go, and when she didn't come back, he felt like he made a mistake and went to talk with her about it at her job in the almost-completed Nakatomi Plaza in California. Little did he know that Hans Gruber was on his way to steal 346 million dollars in bearer bonds from the Nakatomi Plaza safe, and what was supposed to be a reconciliation trip turns into a date with disaster where nobody but his wife believes that he's doing something good. And in the end, John defeats the bad guys, gets the cops to believe that he's a good cop, and gets his wife to realize that he's a man of character.
In real life, John would have told his wife that her job wasn't worth moving the family from New York to California, she would've disagreed, he would've stayed, she would've moved, and Hans Gruber would have taken the 346 million dollars in bearer bonds as John tried to pick up a 22 year old in a bar who didn't look anything like his wife and, therefore, would make her extremely jealous when she found out he was nailing this almost-underage co-ed.
That story is boring. I like the one where Hans Gruber falls to his death at the end. It's funner. Yup. Funner. And the people are better. The good guys are gooder. The bad guys are badder. It makes life more interesting. More worth living.
I'm gonna try to be a good guy forever. Hell, I might even try for a super hero. Why settle for becoming John McClain when you could be Wolverine? I mean, *if* it's possible, why not try for it, right? And how do we know if it's possible unless we try for it? Unless I try for it. They told the Wright Brothers that humans couldn't fly. And then the Wright Brothers said, "Oh yeah? Watch."
Oh yeah? Watch.
Don't want to sleep.
Get really tired.
But still don't wanna sleep.
They're dreams where Ass-Bag shoots me and kills me and my wife. Just last night it was a dream about my 13 year old being shot by drug dealers after he had followed me to my undercover-sting-operation-gone-bad.
I have this really great dream book that my wife got for me because I kept checking it out of the library. It's pretty good at helping you decipher your dreams. It's helped me quite a bit. But I don't think there's much to interpret about these dreams. No hidden meaning or signs. Just shitty dreams where the people I love get shot because they know me. And I get shot because I know me. And really horrible people end up winning.
That's pretty crap. Thinking that the horrible people end up winning. I guess sometimes they do. You know, now that I think about it, I guess most times they do. That's why we love movies where the good guy wins, because most of our days are spent watching the bad guys win. Bad bosses. Unfaithful wives. Mean people. Damaging Fathers. Kids that won't stop crying because they've trained their parents to give them attention when they do. It's nice to escape that bucket of shit and watch somebody win. Somebody good. Like John McClain. He didn't think his wife's job was going to turn into a great career for her, so he let her go, and when she didn't come back, he felt like he made a mistake and went to talk with her about it at her job in the almost-completed Nakatomi Plaza in California. Little did he know that Hans Gruber was on his way to steal 346 million dollars in bearer bonds from the Nakatomi Plaza safe, and what was supposed to be a reconciliation trip turns into a date with disaster where nobody but his wife believes that he's doing something good. And in the end, John defeats the bad guys, gets the cops to believe that he's a good cop, and gets his wife to realize that he's a man of character.
In real life, John would have told his wife that her job wasn't worth moving the family from New York to California, she would've disagreed, he would've stayed, she would've moved, and Hans Gruber would have taken the 346 million dollars in bearer bonds as John tried to pick up a 22 year old in a bar who didn't look anything like his wife and, therefore, would make her extremely jealous when she found out he was nailing this almost-underage co-ed.
That story is boring. I like the one where Hans Gruber falls to his death at the end. It's funner. Yup. Funner. And the people are better. The good guys are gooder. The bad guys are badder. It makes life more interesting. More worth living.
I'm gonna try to be a good guy forever. Hell, I might even try for a super hero. Why settle for becoming John McClain when you could be Wolverine? I mean, *if* it's possible, why not try for it, right? And how do we know if it's possible unless we try for it? Unless I try for it. They told the Wright Brothers that humans couldn't fly. And then the Wright Brothers said, "Oh yeah? Watch."
Oh yeah? Watch.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Gotta Get Motivated
Gotta get motivated.
Gotta get my script written. Shit, not just "script" but "scriptS".
Sundance is around the corner and I've lost my camera man.
Anybody wanna be a camera operator?
Can't rely on you. I don't know you.
Gotta get motivated.
Do something.
"If you don't like it, change it."
Listen to the music.
Let it help you. Push you forward.
Don't give in to the voices.
Walk. You gotta get out.
It starts with the first walk.
And that becomes the first walk of your second day.
And that becomes the first walk of your third day.
Just walk.
You'll lose weight if you walk.
And you'll be happier.
Gotta get motivated.
Sell your classes.
People talk about them.
Probably still do.
You're good. And you know you're good.
So what if the idiots don't see that?
So what if they never see that?
Since when should an idiot keep you down?
Talk to people about what you have to offer.
You offer classes. You have a plan. You have the experience.
You're not asking for a handout.
Just an opportunity.
Call your mother.
There's something you need to talk with her about.
Get on the ball. Why can't you keep it all straight?
Don't beat up on yourself and don't listen to those voices.
Gotta get motivated.
Need that lottery.
NEED that lottery.
It will happen with that lottery.
All of it will happen, but it will happen significantly sooner with $252 million.
Okay, so you take out the amount for selecting the lump sum= $126 million.
Now take out taxes (1/3)= $84 million.
That's what we'll have on Wednesday.
Eighty. Four. Million. Dollars.
And school loans are gone.
And credit score is returned to normal.
And we could own our house and paint the walls.
And paint the garage.
And make that house comfortable to hold all four of us.
And I could get an oil change.
And get the door paint on my car fixed.
And I could stop worrying about how we're going to afford to feed ourselves in a month.
Will my wife and I have to eat Ramen noodles again? Nope.
84,000,000.
Dollars.
And Captain Butt-Puss is still there, but I'm certain that there are groups of people who could be purchased to march outside of his house with signs and chanting slogans about how the world would be a better place if he was to treat his children with respect and stop hurting the people he's supposed to care about.
And my mother gets taken care of. No more worries for her.
And no more worries for the boys. Either of them.
They can go to college if they want. They don't have to worry about affording that.
And my wife and I get a bedroom.
Just hit those numbers.
That's all that needs to happen.
And it all goes away.
Melts like your sugar in your bowl of raisin bran.
And it's all gone.
And I would workout just like I used to.
And get back the body that I was working to build.
And I could HIRE a camera operator.
And crew.
And I could make the big movie.
And I could stop working so that I could make the smaller movies.
And I could stop being around the people I don't understand and who don't really understand me.
I don't like...
And just like a magic trick, my phone lights up and I see that my wife has texted me:
"i am so in love with everything you are. Even the parts you don't like. Every speck of you is my favorite."
I love those texts.
They don't make all the clouds go away.
But they do help me feel her hand wrap around mine and stay with me as it starts to rain.
And I know she's not going anywhere.
Not because she has to stay with me because it was in the vows.
Not because she's scared to get another divorce.
Not because I'm a major source of income for her.
None of that even comes to her mind.
She holds my hand
And doesn't leave me
Because she likes me
And she wants to hold my hand
And I don't know how I got so lucky that a woman like her wants to hold my hand
But I'm gonna hold that hand of hers
And I'm gonna enjoy it for all it's worth
And I'm gonna thank her when the rain is over
Thank her for staying with me
And let her know that if it ever rains where she is, I'll be holding her hand just like this
Because I like her
And I want to hold her hand.
Gotta get my script written. Shit, not just "script" but "scriptS".
Sundance is around the corner and I've lost my camera man.
Anybody wanna be a camera operator?
Can't rely on you. I don't know you.
Gotta get motivated.
Do something.
"If you don't like it, change it."
Listen to the music.
Let it help you. Push you forward.
Don't give in to the voices.
Walk. You gotta get out.
It starts with the first walk.
And that becomes the first walk of your second day.
And that becomes the first walk of your third day.
Just walk.
You'll lose weight if you walk.
And you'll be happier.
Gotta get motivated.
Sell your classes.
People talk about them.
Probably still do.
You're good. And you know you're good.
So what if the idiots don't see that?
So what if they never see that?
Since when should an idiot keep you down?
Talk to people about what you have to offer.
You offer classes. You have a plan. You have the experience.
You're not asking for a handout.
Just an opportunity.
Call your mother.
There's something you need to talk with her about.
Get on the ball. Why can't you keep it all straight?
Don't beat up on yourself and don't listen to those voices.
Gotta get motivated.
Need that lottery.
NEED that lottery.
It will happen with that lottery.
All of it will happen, but it will happen significantly sooner with $252 million.
Okay, so you take out the amount for selecting the lump sum= $126 million.
Now take out taxes (1/3)= $84 million.
That's what we'll have on Wednesday.
Eighty. Four. Million. Dollars.
And school loans are gone.
And credit score is returned to normal.
And we could own our house and paint the walls.
And paint the garage.
And make that house comfortable to hold all four of us.
And I could get an oil change.
And get the door paint on my car fixed.
And I could stop worrying about how we're going to afford to feed ourselves in a month.
Will my wife and I have to eat Ramen noodles again? Nope.
84,000,000.
Dollars.
And Captain Butt-Puss is still there, but I'm certain that there are groups of people who could be purchased to march outside of his house with signs and chanting slogans about how the world would be a better place if he was to treat his children with respect and stop hurting the people he's supposed to care about.
And my mother gets taken care of. No more worries for her.
And no more worries for the boys. Either of them.
They can go to college if they want. They don't have to worry about affording that.
And my wife and I get a bedroom.
Just hit those numbers.
That's all that needs to happen.
And it all goes away.
Melts like your sugar in your bowl of raisin bran.
And it's all gone.
And I would workout just like I used to.
And get back the body that I was working to build.
And I could HIRE a camera operator.
And crew.
And I could make the big movie.
And I could stop working so that I could make the smaller movies.
And I could stop being around the people I don't understand and who don't really understand me.
I don't like...
And just like a magic trick, my phone lights up and I see that my wife has texted me:
"i am so in love with everything you are. Even the parts you don't like. Every speck of you is my favorite."
I love those texts.
They don't make all the clouds go away.
But they do help me feel her hand wrap around mine and stay with me as it starts to rain.
And I know she's not going anywhere.
Not because she has to stay with me because it was in the vows.
Not because she's scared to get another divorce.
Not because I'm a major source of income for her.
None of that even comes to her mind.
She holds my hand
And doesn't leave me
Because she likes me
And she wants to hold my hand
And I don't know how I got so lucky that a woman like her wants to hold my hand
But I'm gonna hold that hand of hers
And I'm gonna enjoy it for all it's worth
And I'm gonna thank her when the rain is over
Thank her for staying with me
And let her know that if it ever rains where she is, I'll be holding her hand just like this
Because I like her
And I want to hold her hand.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Good Mother
My wife likes being a good mother. And she's very good. Just one of the things that makes her good is that she cares about what her kids eat.
Our 13 year-old eats pizza and french fries every day. He does this for several reasons. One: it's easy to plan for, as that's what's served in the school cafeteria every day. Two: he doesn't have to think about it. Three: he doesn't have to pay for it. Four: he likes it.
It used to drive my wife nuts that he would eat this crap every day at lunch. She would really get concerned for his health, saying that eating the same thing everyday was going to give him some disease. And then I didn't help her at all when I told her that one of my students came down with shingles because he refused to eat anything but Mountain Dew and Nerds. Or maybe it was Skittles. Point being: he came down with shingles and it hurt him. And my wife used that to fuel her ever-growing frustrated concern.
I tried to tell her that I ate 2 biscuits and a cheeseburger everyday for lunch in high school. She responded with, "Well I'm not *your* mother," or something like that, and continued to worry. I tried to tell her that we have control over the things we have control over and we don't have control over everything else. We simply cannot make him eat "the right food" when he's away from us. Hell, we can't *make* him eat the right food when he's around us. But when he's at school, he can choose to eat the pizza and french fries every day and there's nothing we can do about it.
My wife and I finally found something that suited all of us: if our 13 year-old chooses to eat pizza and french fries every day at lunch, that's fine. And we will provide a healthy vegetable of our choosing for him to eat at dinner. He's agreed to that. My wife has agreed to that. It makes me happy to see them agreeing to things, especially when they're good for everybody concerned.
I write about this pizza and french fry thing today not because it's weighing on my mind or because there's something wrong with the fact that our educational institutions are teaching our children that it's okay to eat pizza and french fries every day, but because I just realized that every day at my job we all know it's lunch time when we hear the announcement over the PA system, "Pizza is now being served in the break room." This announcement happens every day. This lunch is served every day. And I work for the state.
Our 13 year-old eats pizza and french fries every day. He does this for several reasons. One: it's easy to plan for, as that's what's served in the school cafeteria every day. Two: he doesn't have to think about it. Three: he doesn't have to pay for it. Four: he likes it.
It used to drive my wife nuts that he would eat this crap every day at lunch. She would really get concerned for his health, saying that eating the same thing everyday was going to give him some disease. And then I didn't help her at all when I told her that one of my students came down with shingles because he refused to eat anything but Mountain Dew and Nerds. Or maybe it was Skittles. Point being: he came down with shingles and it hurt him. And my wife used that to fuel her ever-growing frustrated concern.
I tried to tell her that I ate 2 biscuits and a cheeseburger everyday for lunch in high school. She responded with, "Well I'm not *your* mother," or something like that, and continued to worry. I tried to tell her that we have control over the things we have control over and we don't have control over everything else. We simply cannot make him eat "the right food" when he's away from us. Hell, we can't *make* him eat the right food when he's around us. But when he's at school, he can choose to eat the pizza and french fries every day and there's nothing we can do about it.
My wife and I finally found something that suited all of us: if our 13 year-old chooses to eat pizza and french fries every day at lunch, that's fine. And we will provide a healthy vegetable of our choosing for him to eat at dinner. He's agreed to that. My wife has agreed to that. It makes me happy to see them agreeing to things, especially when they're good for everybody concerned.
I write about this pizza and french fry thing today not because it's weighing on my mind or because there's something wrong with the fact that our educational institutions are teaching our children that it's okay to eat pizza and french fries every day, but because I just realized that every day at my job we all know it's lunch time when we hear the announcement over the PA system, "Pizza is now being served in the break room." This announcement happens every day. This lunch is served every day. And I work for the state.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
A lot of Angry
I really love those boys.
Right now they're at their father's house.
And right now, he makes them feel like they have done something bad all the time.
How do I know? Because he has taken their cell phones and told them that they cannot use them. If they want to call their mother or me they have to ask permission. And what did they do to cause him to act this way? They were born. That's it. He won't let them paint their own models for their games. Why? Because they can't do it right. He won't let them play outside because they will get dirty and ruin their clothes. He keeps the home telephone locked in his bedroom because... I dunno... somebody might use it to let the world know what he's doing to them. And that's just the stuff that's been brought to my attention this weekend.
When he was married to my wife, he wasn't engaged in their lives at all. He would go to work, stay late, come home, go to his room and watch TV away from the three of them. He was simply not involved. Sure, he ate meals with them. And at those meals, they were using their silverware incorrectly, and slouching at the table, and her meals weren't to his liking and their chatter was too loud, and loud temper tantrums would be thrown if something fell on the carpet, and if he spilled something it was blamed on everyone but himself: the boys moved the table causing the glass to spill, or the wife moved the boys who moved the table causing the glass to spill, or the three of them were around causing the glass to become frightened and spill. Vacations were oppressive, as nothing was right. Life was oppressive, as nothing was right. But at least he would go to his room at the end of the day and they had some peace.
Upon inspection of this man, you would say that he shouldn't be a father. And if he absolutely must be a father, he should stay as far away from his children and wife as possible. He is bad for them. He is bad for her. Hell, he's bad for himself, but that is actually a positive if you consider that his having to live with himself might actually shorten his life. He's bad for people. He's bad for you.
Now, this man is involved in his children's lives in all the wrong ways. Our 9 year-old was sick, and instead of calling us, he took the boy to his grandmother's house over 30 miles away in another city. Not because this was better for the boy, but because he didn't want talk with us. Never mind that the boy would obviously feel better with his mother, who is less than 5 miles away. The 9 year-old was bitten by a dog. We had to hear about it a week later from the 9 year-old because dad didn't want to tell us about it. Our 13 year-old fell and hit his head on the concrete surrounding a public pool, a doctor happened to be there and made sure he was okay, and we didn't find out until the following week when the 13 year-old came to stay with us for the week. Again, he didn't want to tell us. Those aren't the reasons he gives, of course. He tells us that he didn't want to bother us. He tells us that it was no big deal. He tells us that the boys are fine. Our 13 year-old told his father that he wanted to kill himself on Saturday. On Monday, the psychologist called and asked if we had been made aware of this situation, which we had not.
What am I supposed to do?
Rage?
I wanna smash every house on our block and then stuff my bloody, flesh-torn fists down that bastard's throat until he chokes to death.
I wanna torture him.
I wanna hurt him so badly.
And then I stop. Mostly because it's no good for me to think thoughts like that. But I also think about the boys and what my rage would do to them.
I need to teach them that there are people who can handle themselves.
I need to teach them how to deal with feelings like this without going to jail.
Without harming others.
"The first person to resort to violence is the first person to run out of ideas."
And a whole bunch of other shit like that which never makes me feel as good as it's supposed to.
I guess I just keep blogging until I can breathe without anger.
Until then, fuck that fucker.
Right now they're at their father's house.
And right now, he makes them feel like they have done something bad all the time.
How do I know? Because he has taken their cell phones and told them that they cannot use them. If they want to call their mother or me they have to ask permission. And what did they do to cause him to act this way? They were born. That's it. He won't let them paint their own models for their games. Why? Because they can't do it right. He won't let them play outside because they will get dirty and ruin their clothes. He keeps the home telephone locked in his bedroom because... I dunno... somebody might use it to let the world know what he's doing to them. And that's just the stuff that's been brought to my attention this weekend.
When he was married to my wife, he wasn't engaged in their lives at all. He would go to work, stay late, come home, go to his room and watch TV away from the three of them. He was simply not involved. Sure, he ate meals with them. And at those meals, they were using their silverware incorrectly, and slouching at the table, and her meals weren't to his liking and their chatter was too loud, and loud temper tantrums would be thrown if something fell on the carpet, and if he spilled something it was blamed on everyone but himself: the boys moved the table causing the glass to spill, or the wife moved the boys who moved the table causing the glass to spill, or the three of them were around causing the glass to become frightened and spill. Vacations were oppressive, as nothing was right. Life was oppressive, as nothing was right. But at least he would go to his room at the end of the day and they had some peace.
Upon inspection of this man, you would say that he shouldn't be a father. And if he absolutely must be a father, he should stay as far away from his children and wife as possible. He is bad for them. He is bad for her. Hell, he's bad for himself, but that is actually a positive if you consider that his having to live with himself might actually shorten his life. He's bad for people. He's bad for you.
Now, this man is involved in his children's lives in all the wrong ways. Our 9 year-old was sick, and instead of calling us, he took the boy to his grandmother's house over 30 miles away in another city. Not because this was better for the boy, but because he didn't want talk with us. Never mind that the boy would obviously feel better with his mother, who is less than 5 miles away. The 9 year-old was bitten by a dog. We had to hear about it a week later from the 9 year-old because dad didn't want to tell us about it. Our 13 year-old fell and hit his head on the concrete surrounding a public pool, a doctor happened to be there and made sure he was okay, and we didn't find out until the following week when the 13 year-old came to stay with us for the week. Again, he didn't want to tell us. Those aren't the reasons he gives, of course. He tells us that he didn't want to bother us. He tells us that it was no big deal. He tells us that the boys are fine. Our 13 year-old told his father that he wanted to kill himself on Saturday. On Monday, the psychologist called and asked if we had been made aware of this situation, which we had not.
What am I supposed to do?
Rage?
I wanna smash every house on our block and then stuff my bloody, flesh-torn fists down that bastard's throat until he chokes to death.
I wanna torture him.
I wanna hurt him so badly.
And then I stop. Mostly because it's no good for me to think thoughts like that. But I also think about the boys and what my rage would do to them.
I need to teach them that there are people who can handle themselves.
I need to teach them how to deal with feelings like this without going to jail.
Without harming others.
"The first person to resort to violence is the first person to run out of ideas."
And a whole bunch of other shit like that which never makes me feel as good as it's supposed to.
I guess I just keep blogging until I can breathe without anger.
Until then, fuck that fucker.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Things I Like
In no particular order:
- my wife
- Barack Obama
- Marilyn Manson
- ice cream
- iPods
- my computers and the Internet
- free things from Craig's List
- the feeling of my wife's feet on me... anywhere on me
- our boys
- my rad Civic
- my mother
- making movies
- watching movies
- feeling the sun on my face
- Fire!
- the smell of pinon wood burning
- finding a frog in the street on a rainy night and putting it next to a tree
- touch-typing
- thinking about speaking Spanish fluently one day
- opening my own entertainment venue with my wife
- LaBatt Blue draft beer in tall, frosty mugs!
- playing rock music
- listening and singing along with rock music
- walking
- stroking my wife's hair
- hearing the boys tell me that they love me
- taking off my shoes after a long day at work
- letting go of that one, enormous fart that's been trapped in my colon and I've been squeezing it in all day
- air conditioning
- swimming
- watching horses eat and play with each other
- George Carlin
- Nine Inch Nails
- the movie "Up"
- eating my wife's cooking, no matter what she makes
- snuggling my wife at the end of the day
- talking with my wife about whatever
- laying in my hammock
- knowing that my wife will know if it's "laying" in a hammock or "lying" in a hammock, because she's got some kind of school-girl rhyme that tells her which is which
- pancakes
- Collin's liquor store, not because his prices are the best or he's got the best liquor selection, but because we like Collin himself
- my wedding ring
- sodas from Taco Bell because they give you a straw that makes you gulp your drink and it's really fun
- playing with bubbles in the summer time with my youngest
- listening to all the boys jumping on the trampoline
- the painted deer in our backyard
- our lawnmower
- my wife's eyes
- the sound of my wife's laughter
- the touch of my wife's fingers on my back
- a brand new pair of sweat socks
- sand on a beach on my bare feet
- draft beer
- my wife's... parts
- music, music, music
- the original Star Wars trilogy (1977, 1980, and 1983)
- the Daily Show with Jon Stewart
- performing
- prime rib from Outback Steakhouse
- sushi from Gai Jin!
- watching my wife get excited
- feeling like I'm taking care of my family financially
- feeling like I'm taking care of my family emotionally
- the smell, look and feel of shopping for and wearing antiperspirant/deodorant
- Monty Python
- the dream book that my wife got for me that lets me interpret my dreams
- our bed-- it's the Best Bed In The World
- the song "Lose Yourself"
- Eminem
- french-kissing my wife
- laughing
- making people feel good
- my sunroof
- the tiny tree in my front yard
- the goofy-ass walk that my 13 year-old does when he's feeling particularly happy
- hearing my 9 year-old laugh sincerely
- Robert Rodriguez
- Michael Jackson
- Michael Jordan
- National Trivia Network (NTN), especially when played at Buffalo Wild Wings
- pickles
- drinking beer with my wife
- the jerky dances my wife does when she's feeling spunky and happy
- over-sized hoodies
- knowing that someday very soon I will have a great, fulfilling workout again
- those markers you used when you were in school that smell like cherry and lemon and you couldn't wait to use them so that you could smell them and you would always put them too close to your nose and get a little marker-stain on the bottom of your nose
- the phrase "it's like driving with your eyes closed"
- starting a path
- the sound of the wind
- some kinds of incense, but I don't know their names
- Gandhi
- fall and winter
- really warm and firm brownies
- puppies
- my comforter
- sitting with my wife in the rain
- sitting with my wife on our back porch in the rain
- sitting with my wife on our back porch and making a fire
- sitting with my wife on our back porch
- grilling hamburgers
- making food for my wife
- Tilex
- the pictures of the frog that was in our toilet on our honeymoon!
- my wife's fingers in my hair
- watching my wife eat
- hearing my 9 year-old scream my name when I walk in the door after work
That's just a few that I could think of now.
What do you like?
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