I woke up in a black cloud this morning. No, that's not entirely accurate. I woke up as I always do, with the alarm rousing me into a stumbling haze of limbs as I get up and dressed for work. But I felt blank. I know that kinda goes against the black cloud metaphor. You'd think I was in more of a white void. Oh crap, there I go again mixing metaphors. And yet, it works in my mind, so fuck it. Rolling with it and all that.
I never intended for this blog to be so similar to my last blog, but here I am, documenting my latest bout of depression. I have to admit that there have been many bouts since the last time I blogged about a bout. (ha ha...) Last weekend, I archived my old blog onto my external hard drive, and I glanced at a couple of blogs in the process. Seeing the spaces between bouts gave me a real sense of... well, reality. Sometimes, I think I'm over-exaggerating my depression, but when I look back at what I've documented, I see that there has certainly been many ups and downs. And I documented them all. I stopped when I found more happiness doing something else than blogging. That is to say, I found things that made me happy, and my bouts of depression began decreasing in frequency to the point that I no longer felt like "wasting" my time documenting them. I was wrong to do that. I realize that now. I need to document. Not only that, but I need to document online. Not for any sort of attention-seeking, woe is me crap, but for anyone to put their two cents in. Call it cheap therapy. It certainly worked the first time around, and I'm certainly much better for it than when I was PAYING someone to do the same. I need to do it for the same reasons I did the last blog:
1) Document the frequency
2) Free advice
3) For anyone who happens upon this blog, maybe they have the same problems, and now they'll see they're not alone. I'm not wanting to make myself out to be a savior, but if someone gains some hope from my blogs, I'm happy.
What I won't do this time around is go into such specific detail that people know the how often I take a crap and what color and consistency it was. That sort of thing. Instead, I'm going to focus on the feelings and the images. Hence the hack n slashed metaphors.
Fuck all, if that wasn't a major diversion...okay, not a MAJOR diversion, but certainly a diversion nonetheless.
Black cloud, white void. Check.
At work today, I saw things, and I just didn't care. Nothing special happened. But I felt.... a distinct (or indistinct, if you wanna get picky) lack of feeling. Apparently, I freaked a lot of people out. I guess I'm normally a lot louder than I thought possible. When I'm not loud, people notice. I know this now. I told them it was because I was tired, and I'm pretty sure no one bought that, but no one pressed further, thankfully. After all, how do you describe blankness? It's not there, so you can't. Or if you can, then you're a far better writer than me, and that's just fine with me. I can't do it, and that, too, is fine with me. I know it's depression, even if I don't have that usual aching feeling in my chest. I'd say it's a mild case of depression, but that's not true. It's just a different kind. I'm here, and I am existing. That's about all that there is to it.
Now, it might be indicative of an end of the depression by my having the (for lack of a better word) desire to blog about it. That's certainly not a neutral or blank feeling. So maybe things are looking up. In either case, here I am, I'm documenting another bout. Fuck yeah...
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Boobs & Batman Intrusion
Fuck, I hate myself sometimes. Okay, that sounds a bit more emo than even I can stand. What I mean is, I have these sort of episodes or phases or whatever where the itch and desire to write becomes so strong, I have to talk/write about the strength of the urge, and then....nothing. I get all of these ideas floating around, and nothing happens. Then a buddy of mine starts in, rattling off all these ideas that he has that he thinks he'll do nothing with himself, and so he gives them to me, knowing that I'll probably not do anything with them except kick them around in my head for 5 minutes before I start to think about boobs or Batman again.
Sometimes, I just get the urge to write. What do I want to write? Fuck if I know, but I just want to write. So I blog. And I bitch. I make up any excuse NOT to write. The most common stumbling block is I worry about form. How should I write this line, how should I write that line? What should this guy do next? What should he say next?
Fuck it. I've got to write something, even if it kills me. This itch always comes back for more. It never goes away. I'm not going to make a resolution that I know I'm not going to keep. I just need to write and shut the fuck up. I need to say to myself, yeah, I have these excuses, but I'm going to ignore them because they aren't helping. They only make matters worse. So, fuck it. I'm gonna write whether it kills me or not.
Sometimes, I just get the urge to write. What do I want to write? Fuck if I know, but I just want to write. So I blog. And I bitch. I make up any excuse NOT to write. The most common stumbling block is I worry about form. How should I write this line, how should I write that line? What should this guy do next? What should he say next?
Fuck it. I've got to write something, even if it kills me. This itch always comes back for more. It never goes away. I'm not going to make a resolution that I know I'm not going to keep. I just need to write and shut the fuck up. I need to say to myself, yeah, I have these excuses, but I'm going to ignore them because they aren't helping. They only make matters worse. So, fuck it. I'm gonna write whether it kills me or not.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Feast on the Cat
Last night... or I should say early this morning, I had a dream...
It might have been around Thanksgiving time, or at the very least, around some time where my family and my sister's in-laws got together to make a huge fucking meal together. There was something about all of us going out and hunting chickens. Why we weren't hunting turkey instead, I don't know. It's why I'm not sure it was around Thanksgiving or not. Also, my family doesn't hunt, but my brother-in-law's family does. In the process of the hunt, we killed many chickens. My sister and her husband, on the other hand, did not kill a single chicken. Instead, for whatever reason, their fat-ass cat was out in the area we were hunting, and, again for whatever reason, my sister and her husband decided to trap their cat. The next moment, we're all sitting at a huge table. I'm sitting between my sister and her mother-in-law. We're all preparing our kills for cooking. I'm watching as my sister is holding down their cat and my brother-in-law cuts a small hole in the cat's stomach. A lot of air (or some other type of body gas) is released, but the cat's stomach does not cave in. While this is happening, my sister and her husband are saying something, but I can't remember what they are saying. The cat struggles and almost gets away, when my sister grabs a cleaver and chops off all the cat's legs up to about an inch from the body. There's no blood. As a matter of fact, it looks like the nubs are completely healed over. The cat struggles to move, struggles to run away. But it only falls and flounders. Around this time, I realize that the entire family is in the middle of discussing my sister's mother-in-law's past marriages and how her first marriage was just a marriage of convenience. At first, they just got a civil union, but later on decided to get really married. She then goes on to say that she married her current husband because it seemed like it would be.... and then I woke up with a start.
I'm not much into believing a dream has any specific meaning, if a meaning at all. Having a dream about fucking your dog does not mean you forgot to take the trash out last Tuesday. It just means your synapses fired in a specific yet random pattern. I've yet to see anything to the contrary.
It might have been around Thanksgiving time, or at the very least, around some time where my family and my sister's in-laws got together to make a huge fucking meal together. There was something about all of us going out and hunting chickens. Why we weren't hunting turkey instead, I don't know. It's why I'm not sure it was around Thanksgiving or not. Also, my family doesn't hunt, but my brother-in-law's family does. In the process of the hunt, we killed many chickens. My sister and her husband, on the other hand, did not kill a single chicken. Instead, for whatever reason, their fat-ass cat was out in the area we were hunting, and, again for whatever reason, my sister and her husband decided to trap their cat. The next moment, we're all sitting at a huge table. I'm sitting between my sister and her mother-in-law. We're all preparing our kills for cooking. I'm watching as my sister is holding down their cat and my brother-in-law cuts a small hole in the cat's stomach. A lot of air (or some other type of body gas) is released, but the cat's stomach does not cave in. While this is happening, my sister and her husband are saying something, but I can't remember what they are saying. The cat struggles and almost gets away, when my sister grabs a cleaver and chops off all the cat's legs up to about an inch from the body. There's no blood. As a matter of fact, it looks like the nubs are completely healed over. The cat struggles to move, struggles to run away. But it only falls and flounders. Around this time, I realize that the entire family is in the middle of discussing my sister's mother-in-law's past marriages and how her first marriage was just a marriage of convenience. At first, they just got a civil union, but later on decided to get really married. She then goes on to say that she married her current husband because it seemed like it would be.... and then I woke up with a start.
I'm not much into believing a dream has any specific meaning, if a meaning at all. Having a dream about fucking your dog does not mean you forgot to take the trash out last Tuesday. It just means your synapses fired in a specific yet random pattern. I've yet to see anything to the contrary.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Anger Rant
Today's blog is brought to you by a conversation that was more or less unrelated to the topic at hand, but that's how I roll.
Anger is a difficult emotion for me to express. Most often, it comes in bursts that quickly fizzle out, only to become sadness which usually seems like home to me. I'm used to being sad as I'm one of those Emo kids. No, I don't mean those AFI-loving, all black-wearing wussies who constantly threaten to slit their wrists. The Emo I'm talking about is the quiet guy writing shitty poetry about his feelings and the world as he sees it. I'm the Emo that hides many of his emotions by deflecting situations with humor, but could cry at the drop of a hat when my guard is down. But there has always been an undercurrent of anger in me. I like to think that it's my intellect that has kept me from being the violent individual I think I could become if I were less aware of the consequences of my actions. I never picked physical fights because I knew I was weaker than most guys, and I knew that I could vent my frustration with writing and moping about. Anytime I felt a physical fight coming my way, I would run like a motherfucker. Also, pain hurts, you know, so I tend to avoid it at all costs. There's that, and the fact that I've never seen much point in physically fighting when I could just belittle the fucker into a corner that they would just give up trying to have anything to do with me. I'm getting a little off topic, so I'll steer this fucker back before I veer too far off on a tangent. Like I stated earlier, when I get angry it would more often than not lead rather quickly to sadness. And so I've never really given myself the chance to adequately express the emotion of anger. I've been thinking about that for the past few hours, wondering if maybe I could find a way to express it more, to explore it. I need to find a way to keep myself from taking that next inevitable step into sadness to do it, and that's no easy task. But I can't help but wonder if maybe I'd find out something about myself if I focused more on what's making me angry rather than the aftermath of that anger. I love to study my navel, even if I'm about as deep as the kiddie pool in the backyard. I find my complete lack of interest in most anything rather interesting. I often feel like I'm observing myself from the inside out trying to get back inside. I love heavy music. When I listen to it, I don't really feel like I'm experiencing someone else's pain, I feel like I'm accessing some part of me I'm not normally aware of. When I watch movies, I love horror. I love the violence inherent in most of them. When I read books, I love reading about people in horrendous situations doing unspeakable things to other human beings. And I don't know why. I've got a great life with little to nothing to complain about. But the anger is still there. Maybe it's just the material I'm subjecting myself to. But maybe it's not. Further investigation is needed.
I'd say that I'm determined to find out, but more than likely later in the day, I'll happen upon a video of a kitten doing something cute, and I'll forget all about my anger question.
Anger is a difficult emotion for me to express. Most often, it comes in bursts that quickly fizzle out, only to become sadness which usually seems like home to me. I'm used to being sad as I'm one of those Emo kids. No, I don't mean those AFI-loving, all black-wearing wussies who constantly threaten to slit their wrists. The Emo I'm talking about is the quiet guy writing shitty poetry about his feelings and the world as he sees it. I'm the Emo that hides many of his emotions by deflecting situations with humor, but could cry at the drop of a hat when my guard is down. But there has always been an undercurrent of anger in me. I like to think that it's my intellect that has kept me from being the violent individual I think I could become if I were less aware of the consequences of my actions. I never picked physical fights because I knew I was weaker than most guys, and I knew that I could vent my frustration with writing and moping about. Anytime I felt a physical fight coming my way, I would run like a motherfucker. Also, pain hurts, you know, so I tend to avoid it at all costs. There's that, and the fact that I've never seen much point in physically fighting when I could just belittle the fucker into a corner that they would just give up trying to have anything to do with me. I'm getting a little off topic, so I'll steer this fucker back before I veer too far off on a tangent. Like I stated earlier, when I get angry it would more often than not lead rather quickly to sadness. And so I've never really given myself the chance to adequately express the emotion of anger. I've been thinking about that for the past few hours, wondering if maybe I could find a way to express it more, to explore it. I need to find a way to keep myself from taking that next inevitable step into sadness to do it, and that's no easy task. But I can't help but wonder if maybe I'd find out something about myself if I focused more on what's making me angry rather than the aftermath of that anger. I love to study my navel, even if I'm about as deep as the kiddie pool in the backyard. I find my complete lack of interest in most anything rather interesting. I often feel like I'm observing myself from the inside out trying to get back inside. I love heavy music. When I listen to it, I don't really feel like I'm experiencing someone else's pain, I feel like I'm accessing some part of me I'm not normally aware of. When I watch movies, I love horror. I love the violence inherent in most of them. When I read books, I love reading about people in horrendous situations doing unspeakable things to other human beings. And I don't know why. I've got a great life with little to nothing to complain about. But the anger is still there. Maybe it's just the material I'm subjecting myself to. But maybe it's not. Further investigation is needed.
I'd say that I'm determined to find out, but more than likely later in the day, I'll happen upon a video of a kitten doing something cute, and I'll forget all about my anger question.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Ever-changing Reality of Why I Am an Agnostic
Nothing in this life is certain. Of that, I am certain. I was once convinced I was going to be a big-shot Hollywood director, only to find that film-making is actually quite boring and tedious, and working with that many people at one time is a horrible experience. I once believed I could read people's personalities pretty well, only to find myself married to a crazy bipolar person I couldn't get a proper read on even when she was lucid. I used to believe Jesus of Nazareth was my personal lord and savior, and then I found out about these little things called paranoid-schizophrenia and delusions of grandeur. I used to believe fantasy books were outside of my realm of enjoyment, only to find myself almost finished with the seventh book in a 13-book fantasy series, seeming to enjoy every book more than the last. What I'm vaguely getting at is, the whole "older and wiser" thing may actually have some validity. It certainly doesn't mean I know everything. All it means is I know more now than I did when I was younger. I've learned a lot about myself over the years. And I'm only now learning about these walking fleshy things around me some guy deemed "humans". I'm beginning to realize that my own proclivities for anything and everything are truly shared only by a certain group of people, while other proclivities are shared by other certain groups of people. I think the endgame for humanity is when we finally understand one another. That's a very very long time from now. Then again, it may never happen. I'm basing this idea on what I see before me in the world today at this moment. Chances are, I'm going to change my view with the times. I like to think that I adjust my worldview constantly. I'm given information on any number of subjects every day, so why shouldn't my worldview change? That is why I am an Agnostic.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Truth, Relatively Speaking
Is it possible for someone to be too honest? I used to think that it wasn't. Now, I'm not so sure. In general, women say they want a guy who is honest and upfront with them. I may not be the most honest person on the planet, but I know that I'm far more honest than many people. So, why is a ravishing hobo such as myself finding himself sans woman? Well, there's the whole "not going outside and mingling" thing. Then again, I found my last two girlfriends on the interwebs. So maybe going out into the big scary world these days is not so much a requirement to find love. It wouldn't hurt, but it does require pants, and fuck pants. I don't do that shit unless I have to.
It may come as a surprise to no one that I currently have profiles on two free dating sites. I would try the dating pay sites, but that requires money and feels almost like prostitution (not an entirely undesirable option at this point, really) and I'm all about the free stuff. Granted, my chances of finding a match would probably increase exponentially if I paid for it, but again, it's not my style. I'm a cheap bastard like that.
On both sites, my profile is full of lots of words and truths. Some truths are far from flattering. I admit that I'm hairy, sweaty, obscene, lazy, and generally strange. Those in and of themselves aren't necessarily dealbreakers, but they just might be when it's all there in the introduction to me. But I'm rather convinced those aren't the reasons I haven't gotten a response from a woman in months. The reason above all others, I believe, is that I state that I live with my parents after having gone through a divorce. Even I, a rather honest guy, considered that to be TOO honest. And yet, it's right there in my profile, for all to see. Ever since I put that in my profile, I've considered and re-considered deleting that. But it's still there.
Recently, a few friends have suggested that maybe I ought to put that I live at home because I am taking care of my elderly father. At its most basic essence, this is completely false. But when I stand back and look at the big picture, the claim becomes truth. My father is far from an invalid, but he's in his early 70s now, so he's no spry little fucker any longer. In some more or less involuntary ways, I AM taking care of him. My friends claim that, since my dad is as much of a social retard as I am, my presence in the house alone, even if I'm always up in my room and nowhere near my father, makes him happy. I CAN see that, but that doesn't really scream "taking care of my elderly father".
But then there's days like today where I went with him to go grocery shopping. I pushed the cart, while my dad filled it with the necessary foodstuffs. Again, not so much a big deal. However, when we got to the checkout line, I started unloading the cart and my dad said to me, "I'm gonna let you unload the cart from now on. It's easier on me if you do." Again, not a big thing, but given what he said, it has made it more obvious to me that maybe I'm not literally wiping his ass and changing his diapers and feeding and clothing him, but I'm doing the small things for him right now. It's as if I'm being trained to help not just him, but my mother, who works hard all day. By helping her husband maintain things, I'm helping her as well. I read over what I just wrote, and it still seems like bullshit, but it also seems kinda true. Again, it's that whole "not true, but becoming true" thing.
I'm not saying that I'm "doomed" to be my father's nursemaid-person-guy until he knocks off. I'm saying that I DO help him when he needs and wants it. It's not often that he needs or wants help right now, but the future may be a different story. I'm saying that maybe I need to not look at a situation so coldly and basically. I'm saying that maybe I COULD put in my profile that I live with my parents to help take care of my elderly father because I do, even if it's in mostly inconsequential ways for the time being.
Then again, I could just be rationalizing to make myself feel better about not having a full-time job and a place of my own, like I'd like to have.
It may come as a surprise to no one that I currently have profiles on two free dating sites. I would try the dating pay sites, but that requires money and feels almost like prostitution (not an entirely undesirable option at this point, really) and I'm all about the free stuff. Granted, my chances of finding a match would probably increase exponentially if I paid for it, but again, it's not my style. I'm a cheap bastard like that.
On both sites, my profile is full of lots of words and truths. Some truths are far from flattering. I admit that I'm hairy, sweaty, obscene, lazy, and generally strange. Those in and of themselves aren't necessarily dealbreakers, but they just might be when it's all there in the introduction to me. But I'm rather convinced those aren't the reasons I haven't gotten a response from a woman in months. The reason above all others, I believe, is that I state that I live with my parents after having gone through a divorce. Even I, a rather honest guy, considered that to be TOO honest. And yet, it's right there in my profile, for all to see. Ever since I put that in my profile, I've considered and re-considered deleting that. But it's still there.
Recently, a few friends have suggested that maybe I ought to put that I live at home because I am taking care of my elderly father. At its most basic essence, this is completely false. But when I stand back and look at the big picture, the claim becomes truth. My father is far from an invalid, but he's in his early 70s now, so he's no spry little fucker any longer. In some more or less involuntary ways, I AM taking care of him. My friends claim that, since my dad is as much of a social retard as I am, my presence in the house alone, even if I'm always up in my room and nowhere near my father, makes him happy. I CAN see that, but that doesn't really scream "taking care of my elderly father".
But then there's days like today where I went with him to go grocery shopping. I pushed the cart, while my dad filled it with the necessary foodstuffs. Again, not so much a big deal. However, when we got to the checkout line, I started unloading the cart and my dad said to me, "I'm gonna let you unload the cart from now on. It's easier on me if you do." Again, not a big thing, but given what he said, it has made it more obvious to me that maybe I'm not literally wiping his ass and changing his diapers and feeding and clothing him, but I'm doing the small things for him right now. It's as if I'm being trained to help not just him, but my mother, who works hard all day. By helping her husband maintain things, I'm helping her as well. I read over what I just wrote, and it still seems like bullshit, but it also seems kinda true. Again, it's that whole "not true, but becoming true" thing.
I'm not saying that I'm "doomed" to be my father's nursemaid-person-guy until he knocks off. I'm saying that I DO help him when he needs and wants it. It's not often that he needs or wants help right now, but the future may be a different story. I'm saying that maybe I need to not look at a situation so coldly and basically. I'm saying that maybe I COULD put in my profile that I live with my parents to help take care of my elderly father because I do, even if it's in mostly inconsequential ways for the time being.
Then again, I could just be rationalizing to make myself feel better about not having a full-time job and a place of my own, like I'd like to have.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Ketchup Farts
Fuck it. I'm having a hell of a time getting my thoughts together for one blog, let alone a blog as often as I planned. So I'm gonna try something else. I'm gonna try truly rambling. The first thing to come to mind, I'll write down. No matter how absurd. As a matter of fact, the more absurd, the better. So let's go with that.
I can't seem to make up my mind very easily these days. I choose one option, and then wish I had chosen another. I'm fairly certain this is another indicator of my ever-loosening grip on whatever amount of sanity I have. Then again, it could just be the smell of my beard. I'm certain something microscopic and sentient is growing in it. It might finally be time to shave. Or perhaps I'll wait until it grows a countering group. That might be interesting. I've always wanted to see a battle waged over me. But I'll take having my beard-space being warred over instead.
I love how bat-shit insane some people are becoming over the whole health care bill. I'm even more amazed at how many haven't any idea what it actually says outside of what they've heard in the news. Doesn't anyone do their own research anymore? It's not armageddon, people! Obama's not the anti-christ and neither is Sarah Palin. Calm the fuck down and be reasonable. And while we're at it, let's drop the violence and name-calling, shall we? Yes, let's.
I can't seem to get the A/C to work properly. I'm sure this is the work of some sort of Satan or other. That or Mitt Romney. I'm sweating. That's all I'm saying.
Pants are overrated and they must be abolished! Damn the pants! Save the empire!.... wait, that's not right. Fuck.......
Sometimes, after I've finished peeing, I stand and stare out the window at the people living their lives out in the street by my house. I like to imagine they're committing the sins I've seen on "Desperate Housewives" the handful of times I've watched it.
Life is much more interesting when all the blood is rushing to your head because you're hanging upside down. Hey, I didn't say it was a good thing. I just said it was interesting.
I wish Spring would stop being such a damn schizo. It's cold. Spring should not be cold. It should be moderately warm. Stupid weather.
I've watched two episodes of the first season on "Dollhouse" and so far, I am far from impressed. But I'm told the first half of the season sucks anyway, and that I should stick it out til the end, 'cause it's supposed to get better. Allegedly.
I'm fairly certain my hair grows at an unnatural rate.
Does god have feet? If so, what size are the feet of such a deity? I imagine they're quite large. They'd have to be to haul those massive testicles he has, if the faithful are to be believed. After all, how else would you get to smite people and then expect them thank you for smiting them as a lesson in humility? That shit requires big balls, I assure you.
Today, my farts smell like ketchup. Or so a co-worker told me this morning. But he's old and I'm certain he's senile, so I should just be happy he hasn't crapped his pants in my presence in retaliation for my gas emission. I've been farting with some degree of frequency throughout the day, but he's the only one who noticed. Or, at least, the only one who made mention of it. Bastard.
I can't seem to make up my mind very easily these days. I choose one option, and then wish I had chosen another. I'm fairly certain this is another indicator of my ever-loosening grip on whatever amount of sanity I have. Then again, it could just be the smell of my beard. I'm certain something microscopic and sentient is growing in it. It might finally be time to shave. Or perhaps I'll wait until it grows a countering group. That might be interesting. I've always wanted to see a battle waged over me. But I'll take having my beard-space being warred over instead.
I love how bat-shit insane some people are becoming over the whole health care bill. I'm even more amazed at how many haven't any idea what it actually says outside of what they've heard in the news. Doesn't anyone do their own research anymore? It's not armageddon, people! Obama's not the anti-christ and neither is Sarah Palin. Calm the fuck down and be reasonable. And while we're at it, let's drop the violence and name-calling, shall we? Yes, let's.
I can't seem to get the A/C to work properly. I'm sure this is the work of some sort of Satan or other. That or Mitt Romney. I'm sweating. That's all I'm saying.
Pants are overrated and they must be abolished! Damn the pants! Save the empire!.... wait, that's not right. Fuck.......
Sometimes, after I've finished peeing, I stand and stare out the window at the people living their lives out in the street by my house. I like to imagine they're committing the sins I've seen on "Desperate Housewives" the handful of times I've watched it.
Life is much more interesting when all the blood is rushing to your head because you're hanging upside down. Hey, I didn't say it was a good thing. I just said it was interesting.
I wish Spring would stop being such a damn schizo. It's cold. Spring should not be cold. It should be moderately warm. Stupid weather.
I've watched two episodes of the first season on "Dollhouse" and so far, I am far from impressed. But I'm told the first half of the season sucks anyway, and that I should stick it out til the end, 'cause it's supposed to get better. Allegedly.
I'm fairly certain my hair grows at an unnatural rate.
Does god have feet? If so, what size are the feet of such a deity? I imagine they're quite large. They'd have to be to haul those massive testicles he has, if the faithful are to be believed. After all, how else would you get to smite people and then expect them thank you for smiting them as a lesson in humility? That shit requires big balls, I assure you.
Today, my farts smell like ketchup. Or so a co-worker told me this morning. But he's old and I'm certain he's senile, so I should just be happy he hasn't crapped his pants in my presence in retaliation for my gas emission. I've been farting with some degree of frequency throughout the day, but he's the only one who noticed. Or, at least, the only one who made mention of it. Bastard.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Reading Outside the Comfort Zone
Recently, I decided to read outside of my comfort zone. Normally, I'm big into thrillers and horror. But it dawned on me that I also do enjoy the occasional romance novel by Nicholas Sparks. And I'm quite partial to the non-fiction works of Richard Dawkins. So why not go way out there and try something I've not really tried before: fantasy.
I've read the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and I love those books. Them were good readin'! Also, I'm a big huge stinkin' fan of A. Lee Martinez. Whenever I get wind of his newest release, I'm quick to pre-order. So I've read SOME fantasy. Not a whole lot, but some.
So now I'm trying out the likes of Terry Goodkind, Terry Brooks, Terry Pratchett, and Tad Williams. Okay, so I TRIED to read a Terry Goodkind novel already, and discovered I needed something a little bit lighter to read. After all, starting out with a nearly 900 page novel, all in extremely small type that hurts my eyes I might add, isn't really the best idea.
My next attempt was almost as quickly thwarted, as I picked up the first book in the Discworld series and nearly lost my shit when it dawned on me how much the story jumps around. I now think I have the hang of Pratchett's writing style and format, but it really wasn't easy. Thankfully, the book is around 200 pages, so if I should feel myself losing my shit again, I'll console myself with the fact that it'll all be over soon. Okay, that makes the book sound like shit, which it really is not. It's just different from anything I've read up to this point, so I'm having to adjust more than I thought I'd have to.
I encourage anyone who is reading this blog to go out into the big scary world and pick up a book they wouldn't normally consider reading, and read it!
I've read the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and I love those books. Them were good readin'! Also, I'm a big huge stinkin' fan of A. Lee Martinez. Whenever I get wind of his newest release, I'm quick to pre-order. So I've read SOME fantasy. Not a whole lot, but some.
So now I'm trying out the likes of Terry Goodkind, Terry Brooks, Terry Pratchett, and Tad Williams. Okay, so I TRIED to read a Terry Goodkind novel already, and discovered I needed something a little bit lighter to read. After all, starting out with a nearly 900 page novel, all in extremely small type that hurts my eyes I might add, isn't really the best idea.
My next attempt was almost as quickly thwarted, as I picked up the first book in the Discworld series and nearly lost my shit when it dawned on me how much the story jumps around. I now think I have the hang of Pratchett's writing style and format, but it really wasn't easy. Thankfully, the book is around 200 pages, so if I should feel myself losing my shit again, I'll console myself with the fact that it'll all be over soon. Okay, that makes the book sound like shit, which it really is not. It's just different from anything I've read up to this point, so I'm having to adjust more than I thought I'd have to.
I encourage anyone who is reading this blog to go out into the big scary world and pick up a book they wouldn't normally consider reading, and read it!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Making Something From Nothing
I knew this would happen. I'd get all excited about writing a blog again, only to find that I have nothing to say. Well, that's not entirely true. I have some things to say. The words, they just like to hide from me. That's my excuse, and I'm sticking to it!
Literally thousands of scenes and ideas float through the Dr. Pepper ether that is my brain every day , but rarely do anything come of them. They're their own scenes, and to put them with other scenes seems like a bad idea. I've thought about sucking it up and putting a number of random scenes together to see if they can make a story come to life. That's as far as it gets, though.
I seem fairly adept at non-sequiturs. Trouble with those are they are only a sentence or two in length. Can't very well write a story that is only a sentence or two long. Nine sentences, yes. Maurice Sendak proved that. I love that man. He's written some good stories.
Where does this leave me, then? Well, it leaves me writing a blog about how I have nothing to say in my blog and then briefly writing about that very thing. I've almost deleted this blog a number of times in the 10 minutes it's taken me to write it. It's more or less meaningless. Then again, my intent in writing about not being able to write was to flex my brain muscles to find a good subject to write on by admitting to myself that I can't think of something to write about. Did your brain just die after that? Yeah, mine too.
My end goal here is to make my brain open so that the words flow. If that means writing a blog like this, then so be it. Hopefully it works. If it doesn't, well, at least I took some amount of effort to try to make an effort to make this blogging effort worth the effort. And that's a lot more effort than I've put into anything in a long time. I deserve a goddamn cookie!
Literally thousands of scenes and ideas float through the Dr. Pepper ether that is my brain every day , but rarely do anything come of them. They're their own scenes, and to put them with other scenes seems like a bad idea. I've thought about sucking it up and putting a number of random scenes together to see if they can make a story come to life. That's as far as it gets, though.
I seem fairly adept at non-sequiturs. Trouble with those are they are only a sentence or two in length. Can't very well write a story that is only a sentence or two long. Nine sentences, yes. Maurice Sendak proved that. I love that man. He's written some good stories.
Where does this leave me, then? Well, it leaves me writing a blog about how I have nothing to say in my blog and then briefly writing about that very thing. I've almost deleted this blog a number of times in the 10 minutes it's taken me to write it. It's more or less meaningless. Then again, my intent in writing about not being able to write was to flex my brain muscles to find a good subject to write on by admitting to myself that I can't think of something to write about. Did your brain just die after that? Yeah, mine too.
My end goal here is to make my brain open so that the words flow. If that means writing a blog like this, then so be it. Hopefully it works. If it doesn't, well, at least I took some amount of effort to try to make an effort to make this blogging effort worth the effort. And that's a lot more effort than I've put into anything in a long time. I deserve a goddamn cookie!
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Kicking Myself in the Nuts, One Quarter at a Time
Looking for full-time work is seriously tough business. Most times, I think my time would be better spent kicking myself in the nuts on a street corner for quarters. I heard/read somewhere at some point that some seemingly downtrodden hobos are actually well-off middle-class people. I mean to say, they stand on street corners, begging for change, and in some cases, that change adds up to thousands of dollars. So maybe I could leave the self-nut kicking out and just beg on a street corner. I certainly have the look down.
Hmmmmmm..... could I?
Monday, March 22, 2010
My Golden Compass
I am not a believer of the Christian god. I used to be. I used to be for a pretty long time, more or less over a decade or so. In that time, I was happy that my happiness depended solely on my doing good things so I wouldn't burn in hell, and that was sufficient enough for me. Nowadays, I realize that my morality did not come so much from the bible, but from the way my parents raised me. Yes, my parents are Christian, but they rarely ever related any morality to the Christian way of thinking. For them, it was always "this is right" and "this is wrong". It was never "Jesus said this was wrong" or "Jesus said this was right".
That may be why, after I had come to terms with my doubts about religion once and for all in my early twenties, it was easy for me to accept that morality comes not from some sky-being, but from inherent values people are born with. I think the best morality lesson came from my public school education from the start of it, when my kindergarten teacher informed me of the "Golden Rule". If you don't know the Golden Rule by now, you should probably go ahead and kill yourself. Then again, you've probably been a practitioner of it for quite some time now, without even realizing it. So, okay, you can live since you are now aware that what you are doing is all part of the "Golden Rule" business. I've heard and read about people who claim you can't have morality without God. I think the Golden Rule sufficiently debunks this claim.
Now, I'm really not here to debate religion with anyone, even myself. I only talk about the Golden Rule because it's my whole take on morality, and my two cents are worth something. Specifically, two cents. I think that the world would be a better place if people would stop claiming a divine intervention in their actions and took responsibility for their own actions. It's what makes the most sense to me. Granted, I'm far from the most logical person on the planet, but I like to think that my reasoning ability is ever growing, and so at the very least, I'll have my moments of sound reasoning.
In the end, I try to be good to people in the hopes that they will be good to me in return. If they are not good to me, well, I live in the comfort that I was good to them, and sometimes that's more than enough for me.
That may be why, after I had come to terms with my doubts about religion once and for all in my early twenties, it was easy for me to accept that morality comes not from some sky-being, but from inherent values people are born with. I think the best morality lesson came from my public school education from the start of it, when my kindergarten teacher informed me of the "Golden Rule". If you don't know the Golden Rule by now, you should probably go ahead and kill yourself. Then again, you've probably been a practitioner of it for quite some time now, without even realizing it. So, okay, you can live since you are now aware that what you are doing is all part of the "Golden Rule" business. I've heard and read about people who claim you can't have morality without God. I think the Golden Rule sufficiently debunks this claim.
Now, I'm really not here to debate religion with anyone, even myself. I only talk about the Golden Rule because it's my whole take on morality, and my two cents are worth something. Specifically, two cents. I think that the world would be a better place if people would stop claiming a divine intervention in their actions and took responsibility for their own actions. It's what makes the most sense to me. Granted, I'm far from the most logical person on the planet, but I like to think that my reasoning ability is ever growing, and so at the very least, I'll have my moments of sound reasoning.
In the end, I try to be good to people in the hopes that they will be good to me in return. If they are not good to me, well, I live in the comfort that I was good to them, and sometimes that's more than enough for me.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Hobos and Me
How many people do you know who have a fascination with homeless people, or as I like to call them "hobos"? You know at least one, and I bet you didn't even know it! Yeah, okay, so the jig is up: hobos fascinate me. They've been a curiosity for me since my childhood when my dad and I (and sometimes the rest of the family as well) would feed the homeless breakfast at the church we attended at the time. I remember playing many different kinds of games with some of them. I remember card games and chess were big among them. They were all male, and they all, for the most part, were at least nice if not downright gregarious and kind. I realize that my church probably picked the ones who were the most lucid and least likely to go ape-shit and kill everyone with a spoon, but I never felt like I was in any danger (that I can remember) and I always liked going and doing that particular church-sponsored event. Thus began my fascination with hobos. It's yet another thing I "blame" my parents for.
Not too long ago, I was doing some temp work for a major medical center, and I took the train to and from it every day. The train station wasn't exactly all that close to where I was temping, but it was easily within walking distance, and so I walked. It seems that hospitals and medical centers have their fair share of hobos camped out on the sidewalks around them. When I first started walking that route, I had feared that I would constantly be begged for money. But that was far from the case. Interestingly enough, most of the hobos (there were about 4 or 5 along my walking route on any given day) didn't even acknowledge my existence. But there were one or two who, every so often, would say "Good morning" or "God bless" to me, with a smile on their face. Sometimes, they'd be the ones holding cups out to collect loose change from passersby, and sometimes they'd just be sitting on top of everything they own and watching traffic go by. In the days where I had temp work, I rarely had a waking moment where I wasn't working or going to and from work. So in those days, I actually envied the hobos. They had all the time in the world to observe the world, to take everything in. Of course, they were also probably starving like Ethiopians and hating every minute of their lives, wishing they could just take a shower or end it all. There were probably a fair number of them who were so mentally ill they thought Elvis was a giant Chinchilla and that Hillary Clinton was going to eat the babies they didn't have, and so the world at large was of little concern to them. When I was done envying their free time, I'd come to realize how lucky I was to have the one permanent job as well as temp work. Fuck, I'm going to stop now before I become one of those "be thankful for what you have" pricks, those people who think you can't envy someone for something. I can envy someone for something and I will envy someone for something whenever I want.
One of my favorite movies is about a hobo: "The Fisher King". If you haven't seen it, see it. If you have seen it, I hope you enjoyed it (though I know of one person who didn't think too much of it) as much as I had. I really have nothing more to say about this. I just thought I'd point out that I like a movie that's about a hobo.
Some friends and family and co-workers have taken to telling me that I look like a hobo these days. And I have to say that I agree with them. With my unkempt beard and wrinkled clothes, the only thing that separates me from an actual hobo is that I've got a roof over my head, and it isn't made from cardboard, either. I'd say it's from some sort of feeling of solidarity with hobos that I don't shave or perform the necessary upkeep of my beard, but that isn't why. I don't shave because I don't like to shave, and I don't keep it all nice and neat for the same reason. I wear wrinkly clothes because I don't like to iron, and I lay around but fidget a lot as well. When you're laying down and you keep moving, you're bound to get a fair amount of wrinkles. It doesn't bother me to look like a hobo. I look like one because I don't care not to look like one.
I don't think hobos are the scourge of society like some people. Yes, I realize they're not aesthetically pleasing in any sense of the word, but I've always believed that they are human like me. Fortunately, I can back up this believe with irrefutable proof. Don't believe hobos are human? Give 'em a shower and a shave and you'll see they've got the same human characteristics as you and me. Something else I believe is that if everyone in the US had health care coverage, then the homeless "problem" would significantly decrease. It should come as no surprise that many of the homeless are hobos because they are mentally ill did not receive the proper care because they couldn't afford the coverage. But that's a blog for another day (maybe even tomorrow's blog, what with health care being debated at this very moment as I write these words.)
Not too long ago, I was doing some temp work for a major medical center, and I took the train to and from it every day. The train station wasn't exactly all that close to where I was temping, but it was easily within walking distance, and so I walked. It seems that hospitals and medical centers have their fair share of hobos camped out on the sidewalks around them. When I first started walking that route, I had feared that I would constantly be begged for money. But that was far from the case. Interestingly enough, most of the hobos (there were about 4 or 5 along my walking route on any given day) didn't even acknowledge my existence. But there were one or two who, every so often, would say "Good morning" or "God bless" to me, with a smile on their face. Sometimes, they'd be the ones holding cups out to collect loose change from passersby, and sometimes they'd just be sitting on top of everything they own and watching traffic go by. In the days where I had temp work, I rarely had a waking moment where I wasn't working or going to and from work. So in those days, I actually envied the hobos. They had all the time in the world to observe the world, to take everything in. Of course, they were also probably starving like Ethiopians and hating every minute of their lives, wishing they could just take a shower or end it all. There were probably a fair number of them who were so mentally ill they thought Elvis was a giant Chinchilla and that Hillary Clinton was going to eat the babies they didn't have, and so the world at large was of little concern to them. When I was done envying their free time, I'd come to realize how lucky I was to have the one permanent job as well as temp work. Fuck, I'm going to stop now before I become one of those "be thankful for what you have" pricks, those people who think you can't envy someone for something. I can envy someone for something and I will envy someone for something whenever I want.
One of my favorite movies is about a hobo: "The Fisher King". If you haven't seen it, see it. If you have seen it, I hope you enjoyed it (though I know of one person who didn't think too much of it) as much as I had. I really have nothing more to say about this. I just thought I'd point out that I like a movie that's about a hobo.
Some friends and family and co-workers have taken to telling me that I look like a hobo these days. And I have to say that I agree with them. With my unkempt beard and wrinkled clothes, the only thing that separates me from an actual hobo is that I've got a roof over my head, and it isn't made from cardboard, either. I'd say it's from some sort of feeling of solidarity with hobos that I don't shave or perform the necessary upkeep of my beard, but that isn't why. I don't shave because I don't like to shave, and I don't keep it all nice and neat for the same reason. I wear wrinkly clothes because I don't like to iron, and I lay around but fidget a lot as well. When you're laying down and you keep moving, you're bound to get a fair amount of wrinkles. It doesn't bother me to look like a hobo. I look like one because I don't care not to look like one.
I don't think hobos are the scourge of society like some people. Yes, I realize they're not aesthetically pleasing in any sense of the word, but I've always believed that they are human like me. Fortunately, I can back up this believe with irrefutable proof. Don't believe hobos are human? Give 'em a shower and a shave and you'll see they've got the same human characteristics as you and me. Something else I believe is that if everyone in the US had health care coverage, then the homeless "problem" would significantly decrease. It should come as no surprise that many of the homeless are hobos because they are mentally ill did not receive the proper care because they couldn't afford the coverage. But that's a blog for another day (maybe even tomorrow's blog, what with health care being debated at this very moment as I write these words.)
And So It Begins.....Again
With the creation of this blog, I decided to create a semi-anonymous existence to speak my mind without resorting to cutting off anyone and everyone who wants to read my blog. So, if you know me in real life or in any of my handful of online dopplegangers, I ask that you help me keep my air of mystery (not to be confused with the air of my ass) and try not to refer to me by my real name. Just call me... "R.H.", "His Royal Rambliness", "El Ramblino", or something along those lines.
I'm starting this particular blog because I had let my other blogs become too transparent and specific. So with this blog, I'm gonna try to keep it as vague and muddled as possible, much like an actual hobo. So if I make less sense to those who know me, then I will have achieved my goal.
I'm here to have a good time with writing again. It's been a long time since I tried to blog regularly, and even longer since I attempted to write something worth anything. I'm gonna try to do those very things with this blog. As I am prone to changing my mind at the drop of a dead baby, I may not blog or write as frequently as I wish. Not that I have anything better to do. I'm just lazy, I suppose.
So, for those of you who know me, welcome back to the good times. For anyone new who may come along, welcome to awesomeness!
And remember the ground rules, my little IRL coat hangers:
-Please keep any references of who I am IRL to a minimum. Preferably, no references to my identity at all, but as I will inevitably refer to something going on in my life, I ask that you keep it as vague as you can. Consider it my writing challenge for you.
-This is the one blog where I will not hesitate to delete comments I think may be too specific or whatnot. I don't like to delete comments, but in the interest of keeping my "air of mystery", it must be done.
-If you have a difference of opinion with me or with anyone who leaves a comment, that is between you and to whomever you are responding. If you can't take the criticism, GTFO!
-Have fun. Say what you want, do what you want, but be sure to have fun.
Okay, I think that covers it. As I said/wrote before, I'm likely to change my mind at any given moment, so if the rules are not clear to you....well, there's nothing I can do for you. Just try and keep up if you can.
I'm starting this particular blog because I had let my other blogs become too transparent and specific. So with this blog, I'm gonna try to keep it as vague and muddled as possible, much like an actual hobo. So if I make less sense to those who know me, then I will have achieved my goal.
I'm here to have a good time with writing again. It's been a long time since I tried to blog regularly, and even longer since I attempted to write something worth anything. I'm gonna try to do those very things with this blog. As I am prone to changing my mind at the drop of a dead baby, I may not blog or write as frequently as I wish. Not that I have anything better to do. I'm just lazy, I suppose.
So, for those of you who know me, welcome back to the good times. For anyone new who may come along, welcome to awesomeness!
And remember the ground rules, my little IRL coat hangers:
-Please keep any references of who I am IRL to a minimum. Preferably, no references to my identity at all, but as I will inevitably refer to something going on in my life, I ask that you keep it as vague as you can. Consider it my writing challenge for you.
-This is the one blog where I will not hesitate to delete comments I think may be too specific or whatnot. I don't like to delete comments, but in the interest of keeping my "air of mystery", it must be done.
-If you have a difference of opinion with me or with anyone who leaves a comment, that is between you and to whomever you are responding. If you can't take the criticism, GTFO!
-Have fun. Say what you want, do what you want, but be sure to have fun.
Okay, I think that covers it. As I said/wrote before, I'm likely to change my mind at any given moment, so if the rules are not clear to you....well, there's nothing I can do for you. Just try and keep up if you can.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
