Fuzzy Storytime

Things often smell like butter around these parts. It's entirely possible I will tear an entire ream of computer paper into tiny 1-inch squares, just to say I've torn an entire ream of computer paper into 1-inch squares. Today I took a shower in the parking lot of my job. It was completely against my will. Honest. Fred Astaire can go fuck himself. If you read everything backwards, an interesting story will eventually develop. Right now I'm reading "Feed" by Mira Grant. It's a zombie story where zombies feature very little. It's actually more of a story about a news blogger in a zombie apocalypse. It's really quite a good read. I'm enjoying it. I have now changed the title of this blog three times. I'm liable to change it another half dozen times before I'm done "writing" this blog. I just typed an extra "o" in blog, so it read "bloog". Made me giggle-snort. If a clan of ninjas offered you protection, how would you know they were doing what you paid them for? I hate twitter, but I love this shit. What's up with that? I generally don't do things unless I have to or want to. There's this large gray area, though, and I've never been good with that area. If you want something from me, I usually have no problem with anything. People have these expectations of me, and I'm just far too centered on thinking about Batman and boobs (as stated in a previous post). Also, I realize that human interaction is an inevitability, even if I'd rather avoid it whenever possible. Generally, I'm happiest when I'm left alone to my own devices. When I want human contact, I go out and get it. The fact that I don't go out and get it all that often? Yes, that means something. It's important. I have the sudden urge to build things out of mashed potatoes. Good news! Now that I'm tired of rambling, I can honestly say that I have not changed the title of this blog since I mentioned it earlier. HUZZAH!

Straight Guy Likes Musicals?

I'm listening to Tool's "Ænima" as I write this. It has nothing to do with my blog, but there you go. Maybe it'll add a layer of WTF to the proceeding blog...

I saw "Chicago" today. You know, the musical? What's that? You've never seen it? The hell is wrong with you? It's awesome!!! Okay, so it's not super-fucking awesome, but it's good fun, and that's important. Some people seem to think it strange that a straight male such as myself happens to enjoy musicals. For many, musicals are for the exclusive enjoyment of women and gay guys. I suppose I'm an exception to that rule. I enjoy them. Not all of them. But then again, I don't enjoy every movie ever even though I call myself a "film lover". I suppose I've never understood why there should be this exclusivity when it comes to anything, let alone musicals. Perhaps, in this case, I enjoy them because I grew up childhood best friend of a flaming homosexual who introduced me to musicals. But I don't think that's the real big reason. Sure, it's part of it, but not the BIG part. Watching "Chicago" today, I had a revelation when I thought to myself, "Why do I like this shit?" For the record, I say "this shit" with the utmost respect and love for musicals. It's not derogatory in anyway (which should be rather obvious at this point, but I thought it best to point it out anyway, so there's no room for misconception). Anyway, I think I enjoy musicals because, aside from the catchy songs, everything about a musical is over-exaggerated and WAYYY over the top. More often than not, it borders on the absurd, and I'm all about the absurdity of anything and everything. In "Chicago" many of the reasons for the women being in jail are overreactions to certain situations. The set of the whole show is virtually non-existant, instead, relying on the performers and a few small props (chairs mostly, and some ladders). Oh, and there's this giant platform where the backing band sits (which isn't seen all that often in musicals) and the performers run through the band throughout the performance. But that platform is painted black. So all you have to look at is a more or less blank stage filled with people dressed (barely) in black clothes. But the dancing and the singing are all over-the-top and over-exaggerated so much so that you really don't notice any of that. Right there is something else that I admire about musicals, "Chicago" specifically. Back in my "younger" days, I was a theater nerd (that in and of itself probably plays a part in my love of musicals), so I appreciate that there's so little on stage, but what little there is is very lively and never boring. In other words, they take very little to create something much, much larger. I'm a fan of a single person/small group doing something in a new way that makes them seem like a much bigger thing than they are.

Also, the snappy songs. I've only seen "Chicago" three times total (including the movie) and I remember most of the songs, if not by name, then by music and lyrics. For this muddle-brained man-child, that's a big deal--a very big deal. Really, it has nothing to do with the songs so much as the fact that I love being able to recall something without having to commit that much effort and time to. When you're a mush-brain like me, it takes a lot of both time AND effort to remember the simplest things.

It is the opinion of this Rambling Hobo that many people are missing out when they discount musicals as anything but a good time. Sure, it's not everyone's thing, but there are many people out there who would benefit in some way by taking a chance on musicals.

Dear Wendy: The Bullet Points

I swore from the beginning I wasn't going to do this. But here I am. Writing down my thoughts on a more or less public forum. Fuck. Also, fuck it. It's my damn blog, right? I'll do what I want. That should be read in Cartman's voice, by the way.

I'm thinking of writing this piece that is a more or less autobiographical (?) letter to someone and yet no one in particular, based on a situation I've come across. I've tried time and again to write something that isn't intensely personal, but I don't seem entirely capable of it. I can get started on something non-personal, but it more often than not very quickly ends up in personal territory.

Anyway, enough with that twaddle. I gotta get this shit out and I gotta get this shit down before it becomes a regret.

How do you counsel someone, when you're often the one in need of counseling? How do you show someone the beauty of life beyond just the breathing when you couldn't care less whether or not you lived another day? How do you handle feeling like listening is not enough, even though you know for a fact that, at this point in time, it's more than enough and means the world to that person that you didn't say a word but just listened? How do you keep yourself from becoming emotionally invested in someone when your instinct is to protect?

How do you convince someone that everything is going to be okay when you don't have a clue?

How do you tell them you care and you'll listen but that's as far as it goes because, while you care, there are red flags popping up like popcorn in hell telling you to run the fuck away?

How do you buck your nature?

Blank

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...

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.

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.

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.