It Still Matters

Despite my belief that the end is near, I also believe our choices still matter. Some would say, “If it’s all going to be over soon, who cares what we do? Let the good times roll! Let’s run the clock out, and have as much pleasure as we can.”

Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of the following truth: There is a God, none of us are Him, and He sets the “best standards” for human behavior, without so much as a consultation with a single one of us. (I know! How inconsiderate, right?)

He also sets the standards for what happens after the clock runs out. Your choices matter, until then. Choose well. Search for the Truth. You may hate knowing I’m right; you may want to scream at me to shut up, but the Truth is still there even if I’m not.

Find the Truth.

No Change (Excepting/Accepting) No Change, Until It’s Over

“There is nothing new under the sun.” So it says in The Text.

I’ve realized I’m at an impasse in my marital relationship. I’m not sure how it’ll pan out. I’m not leaving; I promised I wouldn’t. But it is an ongoing lack, an issue I wish didn’t exist. And it is a primary source of depression for me.

I can’t fix what I want, and I can’t fix what she doesn’t want. It’s not like crossing an item off a list. Without being too explicit, I made the mistake of asking, she requested I meet a list of demands as conditions of her incomplete surrender, I couldn’t meet the list in a timely manner, I got frustrated, and the moment was gone.

Sorry for being vague, but not sorry. Long story short, it was due to a lack of readily available resources, which I was apparently supposed to have been stewarding, but which I hadn’t seen since giving them to her to surprise me with. I’ll try again under better circumstances, and she’ll say “no,” again, for whatever reasons seem relevant, if the trend continues. Which really sucks. Or doesn’t, if you know what I mean. You know what I mean? Well, now you probably do.

I should be more considerate, and never ask. But the heart, as with the flesh, wants what it wants. Is love supposed to be easy? Is love supposed to be reciprocal? Is love supposed to even exist? I’ve read “Love is a Choice,” and “Love is a Decision,” and I agree. Then there’s a song teaching, “Love is a Verb.” All this does is cause me further frustration.

In love, one chooses: to ignore faults & failures, to do what needs to be done, to not complain, to speak (as it were) a different language in order to communicate its existence, to jump at the opportunities without any expectations. But what if it doesn’t pan out that way? Unfortunately, I’m tired, and after years of trying to meet her expectations, I now have expectations I think are reasonable, more reasonable than hers.

I’ve read “Inter-Act,” co-written by a married couple, followed a few years later by “Communicate!” written by a single member of said (I presumed formerly-married) couple. First, that made me look twice. Then, it made me laugh.

So, what else is new? After more than 10 years, my employer recently informed me I needed to find a new employer. It was technically my own fault. Mix depression, new medication for depression, insomnia and near-blackout exhaustion from insomnia, unpredictable emergency bathroom runs because that’s not an event one can schedule, and the moving targets of metrics and micromanagement, and suddenly I became an “attendance problem.”

This is a second source of depression. The absolute kick? I was 3 minutes late, on my last day. Not a half hour, not an hour, but 3 minutes. And in the course of the 3 months they were tracking, after changing my schedule, I’d been less than 5 minutes late to start, a few times, but never more than that. And the rest of of those times, it was because the work systems had failed to let me start quickly enough to meet their micromanaged metrics. Password updates, system updates, cookie blocks, and system outages, apparently for 3 months, I was responsible for I.T., and on call 20-30 minutes before my shift started, and after it ended, but they never told me or changed my pay grade!

They sent me an email with their terms of kicking me to the curb, that started “Dear Name.” Nice, right? Yeah, and depressing. So, I’m back to looking for a job, hoping for better, and different, than what I had. The job market is, allegedly, a seller’s market. Sure, but who’s buying what I want to sell?

So, in short, it’s my fault. I can’t meet impossible expectations. But if that’s the metric, can anyone succeed? In work, the metrics kept moving and changing, so I was made to look like a bad employee.

In marriage, it’s also my fault. I’m supposed to self-sacrifice without any expectations, and I’ve failed: I’m not dead. But I made a vow, and so did she. You can’t just break a vow as easily as you can quit a job. I want what I want, I can’t have it, and I’m supposed to accept this without being frustrated in my marriage. If I truly love her, I’ll gladly do all the things she wants me to do, without a murmur or an expectation, and this should make me happy. For some reason, this doesn’t work both ways, and for some reason, it doesn’t have to. I know this, but I don’t understand it.

Do you know anybody who’s hiring, for a work-from-home writing and/or editing position? Let me know. Do you know a hypnotist who works cheaply? Let me know. If I can find both, and it works out, I will be happy. If I can find a really good hypnotist, and win the lottery, I will be deliriously happy.

I promise to come back to WordPress, for each and every one of my loyal follower. But I make no vows before God, to do anything, ever again. It feels like that one vow has caused all sorts of complications: feelings I can’t sort out, towering emotional highs and even lower lows, trying new things like plumbing and automotive repair and then having to hire mechanics and plumbers, and exciting adventures, meeting new people, and traveling, to recover from, etc.

Oh, and if you’re wondering where I’ve been wasting all of my time, I’ve been being ignored on Twitter (@deonmumple) and murmuring about life, the universe, and the small ants that have taken up residence in my house’s walls, the little bastards. The kids are adult loafers who’ll be more successful than I’ve been, so I’ve been watching them achieve goals. I almost hate to admit, I’m proud of them.

I’ve also become nearly convinced the whole shit-show will be over soon. That’s right, I’m a sandwich board, a bullhorn, some paint, and more motivation away from becoming the guy on the street proclaiming “the end is near.” My guess has to be at least as good as all of the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ many guesses, or the late Reverend Camping’s, or anyone else’s.

When is the “blessed event,” that sets in motion the 7 year Tribulation promised by Daniel, Jesus, Paul, & John? (George & Ringo came along MUCH later, people! Come on!) All right, I’ll tell you, but you have to get right with God, and join me in heaven when I’m right.

When I’m right, Jesus is coming in the clouds to rescue us from this and what’ll be even worse that’s yet to be, on:

September 16, 2023, 11:45AM EDT.

You can bank on this as much as any other doomsday prophesy. Except I’m right. This is a well-informed, educated guess, after careful Bible readings and detailed calculations I won’t bore you with.

Having said all this, loyal reader, I hope you get everything you want, and I hope I figure out how I’ve somehow already got everything I need and find contentment with it. And then, or sooner, like, now would be good, I hope abundance surprises me with everything I want. I’ve said these things before, so again, nothing new except change.

Sorry! But at least the end is near! Do NOT be late, not even by a minute, for this one. Seriously, having calculated this out, even I’m feeling a bit spooked. Be ready. Maranatha. Amen.


“Fuck You” Syndrome Triggers Alarms

Sociologists and psychologists have recently become aware of a new trend emerging in contemporary, first-world society, particularly noticeable among the digitally-enabled. Dubbed “Fuck You Syndrome,” it is the complete rejection of any labels, assigned to one individual by another individual, with the intent of causing social anxiety and inducing feelings of inferiority. “This independent thinking is very dangerous to a rather large group of people, who have grown accustomed to gaining the benefit of a free, extra advantage for themselves and their social group, through the use of accusatory labelling,” said one scientist.

Accusatory Labelling includes, but is not limited to, assigned groupings such as:

Privileged. Racist. Islamophobic. Mysogynistic.  Homophobic, and its’ cousin, Transphobic. Mentally Ill. Conservative. Liberal. Prejudiced. Religious Fanatic. Gun-Rights Fanatic.

Most, if not all of these terms are being used to either attribute or exaggerate character flaws, giving them seemingly indefensible, negative implications. Consider the following “definition” from the popular, crowd-sourced Urban Dictionary:

Trumper:  “A person who is usually uneducated, ignorant, misogynistic, close minded (sic), racist, sexist, homophobic, white supremacist, conservative, pro-life, anti-poor, pro-war, anti-science and hateful. Is usually white, redneck, selfish and blindly supports Donald Trump.”

The labelling here shows a somewhat extreme example of accusatory labelling. “Fuck You Syndrome” rejects and refutes nearly every single label in this “definition,” apologizing for nothing.

A contemporary sociologist staunchly defends the practice. “Accusatory labelling evokes an appropriate response. We’re the first generation to recognize a long history of enculcated advantages given to some, at the expense of others. The responses that these advantaged people should have is to feel remorse, to realize the ways culture has promoted them and continues to promote them, to own a sense of indebtedness, and to set the present, and future generations on a course of reparations.”

Enter “Fuck You Syndrome.” “Fuck You Syndrome” calls this entire line of “reasoning” unreasonable, illogical, and ridiculous. In an open-ended survey of people with “Fuck You Syndrome,” the most common response to accusatory labelling was, “bullshit!”

Sample responses to the accusatory labels included, to cite a few,

“Do we hate, or abuse, or oppress women? Ask our wives. I’ve washed more dishes, done more housework, changed more dirty diapers, while we both hold down full time jobs. Ask our bosses. I’ve watched, and celebrated, when deserving, qualified women were promoted over me. I was taught to treat women with respect, and to be chivalrous.”

“Privileged? I respect the law, I work hard, and I watch people walk in knowing less, who politic and ass-kiss their way into positions over me. They either don’t last, or they walk in on good people who know and do their jobs whether some idiot tries to micromanage their jobs, while learning what their team is doing, or not. More often than not, they’re applying for the next job before they’ve started mismanaging the one they just lucked, or charmed, into. I’m qualified for more, but I’m not privileged enough to get it. I’m glad I have a job, but I sure as hell wish they’d pay me what I’m worth.”

“If I were privileged I’d be a lot better paid than people I supposedly have some privileges over. If I’m privileged, why do I have to work so hard, and still not receive any tangible benefits that are any different than anyone else?”

“Phobic? I’m not afraid. I have religious, social, and philosophical reasons for rejecting the lifestyle choices, beliefs, and behavioral choices I’m accused of being ‘afraid’ of. It’s not fear. It’s believing that there are absolutes in life, right and wrong, that all human life is valuable and has purpose, and that what people do can have either detrimental, or beneficial impacts on other people, whether done in public or in private. We are spiritual beings, and all human life is interconnected.”

“Racist? I don’t hate people at all. My friends at work and church, and my neighbors, are great people, from all races. What I hate is when I see people treating other people with disrespect, or disregard. For example, presuming I’m racist and privileged, without even looking at how I treat people, and without looking at my life and my career opportunities.”

“I’ve tried to make smart choices, thinking through the consequences. I show respect for authority and other people’s property. I think I show a reasonable degree of awareness and sensitivity to others, just as I expect from others, regardless of race or beliefs. Would I change how I act based on someone telling me I’m in this group or that? No. I’m not in the wrong, here. The label, if it’s not accurate according to how I perceive myself, must be wrong.”

“Why the fuck do some psychologists, and the SCHOOLS, for fuck’s sake, support and defend children, who are a) in denial of reality and basic scientific facts, b) rejecting their own identities, desiring to be someone, and something, that they’re not, and c) slapping their parents in the face, against norms and mores and deeply held religious beliefs? What happened to a parent’s right to raise their children, and to guide them and protect them from self-destructive behaviors and life-choices? Teachers are forced to deny the real, verifiable scientific classification, to deny the very science they should be allowed to teach, and to accept, embrace, and positively reinforce a child’s fantasy, delusion, or psychosis. This isn’t anti-science, ignorance, homophobia or transphobia. This is rejection of plain, foolish, stupidity!”

“Why is the person formerly known as Bruce Jenner revered in the media as a hero, just because he has lots of money, had his natural sex organs chopped off, bought fake boobs, takes chemicals to look less manly, put on a dress, and picked out a new name? That’s not ‘courage.’ ‘Courage’ is running into danger to save people. Courage is doing the right things when everyone is doing wrong, or doing nothing. Courage is speaking the truth when others want you to shut up, while they broadcast their lies, and demand that everyone believe them.”

The news media is also fond of blanket labelling. It’s almost as if they are part of a movement of subterfuge, telling their audience they are fair and unbiased, but by inspection, demonstrating a social slant through the divisive accusatory labels used to report stories.

Consider the following two examples:

1- The news media seems bent on grouping a large group of people under the blanket term “mental illness.” The problem with that blanket is that it covers symptoms ranging anywhere from mild, circumstance-driven depression or anxiety, to severe paranoid schizophrenia, hallucinations, dangerous, destructive impulse-control disorders, psychopathy and sociopathy. The “mental illness” label is trumpeted whenever there is a school shooting. The media reports often say “the shooter suffered from bipolar disorder,” failing to adequately research what bipolar disorder is, failing to understand what it causes in most sufferers, thereby failing to accurately report the cause of the escalation to violence. A fairly well constructed, broad overview of various classifications of mental illnesses is found on WebMD, reviewed in April 2019 (

Most bipolar sufferers, just to clarify, are not ticking time bombs, dangerous people, prone to random, violent outbursts. On the depressive part of the wave, milder sufferers may just want to cry, stay indoors, lie in bed, and be left alone, and severe sufferers may be self-destructive or suicidal. On the manic side, sufferers may have energy to spare, and may clean, complete projects, be more socially active, shop, gamble, indulge in bingeing behavior, and/or feel increased sexual desire. At either extreme, the behavior is more self-destructive than outwardly destructive.

The “mental illness” label may fit people, but it is not socially constructive, nor adequately descriptive. On the contrary, a person diagnosed and treated for their specific, non-violent mental illness may be unfairly categorized or even deprived of certain constitutional rights, just because in their struggle, they sought professional help, even just once. When the media refers to “mental illness,” they almost always imply “out of control, and crazy,” These words cannot, and should not, be equivocated. It’s unfairly stigmatizing.

2- The news media is more obvious than not, in efforts to support the gun-control lobby. It is truly horrific and tragic to hear about people going on murderous rampages. It is terrifying to think of innocent children, just going to school, who may face one of these psychopathic lunatics. However, news reporters seem poorly focused on fact, and sharply attentive to hype. Following any such report, there are always interviews with witnesses or family. Statements from activists inevitably follow, blaming legislators and politicians for these terrorist attacks, and demanding greater restrictions on guns. At the top of their hit list, “assault rifles,” or “assault-style rifles,” for which the activist has no specific, clear definition. Minimal research offers that an assault weapon can be switched from semiautomatic to fully automatic. But fully automatic guns are not legal for civilian use in the United States. Additionally, the much maligned AR-15 is often misconstrued as an “Assault Rifle,” although “AR” is short for “ArmaLite Rifle.” It is a semi-automatic, and cannot be switched to fully automatic. The gun control advocate has no practical suggestions for how enacting new, more strict laws will stop law-breakers from obtaining firearms, and demands restrictions that will only impact law-abiding gun owners.    (

Those who practice advantage-seeking accusatory labelling could be responded to in kind. The accused could easily resort to name-calling. Terms like ignorant, power-grabbing, closed-minded, racist, gender-confused, liberal, pro-baby-murder, anti-science, society-and-values-destroyer, hateful, selfish and lie-propagater, might easily be tossed back.

But perhaps there is a better approach. Refusing to kowtow to social pressure by just accepting these labels is not sufficient in itself. While the label-thrower hands out accusations, the response cannot be one in kind. It must be firmly rational, well-researched, and even somewhat understanding, in sharp contrast to the rabid, intolerant, illogical name-calling being done by those who are forcing their destructive views onto society, demanding that any other opinions, religious beliefs, or scientific data, be silent.

Conservative might be a fine label. But if the so-called progressive sociologists, pseudo-scientific psychologists, and other squeaky wheels want to try to mis -label those who stalwartly, and courageously, hold to traditional beliefs, rational thinking, and time-honored societal views, they may end up with a simplified, distilled, concentrated response:


Fuck You.

Decade-Dent Disappointment

Well, 2020, for a fresh start all full of hope, you suck so far. And for a fresh start all full of hope for clarity and renewed vision, you really suck. And for the hope of getting things on track with renewed energy, …

I think you should have gotten the idea, 2020, that is, if you gave a shit and had a clue.

I am nowhere, getting nowhere fast. I live at home; thank God I work from home, and I don’t go out unless my family strong-arms me.  So how the hell, about 2 weeks before the CoViD19 death-inducing “arse-spraying mayhem”(1) reached the vicinity of my bunker, did I pick up some alternate mayhem? It’s not fatal, at least not yet. But it progressed from one day of a sore throat to a week-and-a-half of relatively breatheable chest congestion, with no fever, to today’s chest congestion and intestinal …shit?

Sorry. I mean, “arse-spraying mayhem.” But, before you laugh at my predicament, as fortune would have it, I’ve had so many years of training as a <i>financial</i> tight-ass, my sphincters have that shit under control. And the rest is being half-owned by dextromethorphan and phenyleprine.

I’m wasting the acetaminophen the dealers threw in, since the only headaches I’ve had were from over-taxed sinuses from blowing my nose from allergies, since this off-brand virus hasn’t given me nasal congestion or a fever.  Except, of COURSE, the one that’s ONLY cured by… MORE COWBELL!

So yeah, the new year COULD be harder, but I sure as hell hope it stops trying so damned hard. I thought last year sucked, but this year is ridiculous.

I confess, the conspiracy theories are amusing, and I’ve seen how things that would have been worse if people were not under quarantine. But seriously, can we stop inciting panic, encouraging anxiety, and showing off how stupid some people are when pandemic becomes pandemonium? I promise my single loyal follower, reader and friend, more on this to come.

I wish I’d have been informed, and financed, well enough in front of this, to have listened to the apparent wisdom of the comedian who suggested it years ago, and bought that pallet of toilet paper before hoarding it became de rigueur.

Have a great mayhem… I mean a great day. Wash your hands, and sanitize your surfaces often. Most important, keep breathing.


1- This expression, among other colourful epithets and free-flying, profanity-dripping insults, I first heard on “In The Loop,” a movie and tv series featuring the late Doctor Who actor Peter Capaldi. It referred to diarrhea.

IV – My “Darksome Path”

I walk down a road of failures,
Leaving behind broken dreams,
Waiting, hoping, struggle, cry,
Warriors walk beside me, falling,
Unseen demons, dying screams,
Praying, wishing, asking why,
Dropped to my knees, you won’t kill me!
Stand again, walk through the pain,

Dropped to my knees, blinded, can’t see,
Stand again, walk through the pain.

-DM, 3/2/2020

Deon Who?

Gone but not forgotten… I mean forgotten but not gone, I am the always late, never great, Deon Mumple.  Since I’ve last written, there have been lows and lowers, I don’t get high, OR highs. Sure it’s depressing, but I’m on medication for that, which doesn’t do shit except cause insomnia during which I should be writing,  but instead I’m busy accomplishing nothing of any lasting value or actual worth.

So, I’m late again, by which I mean still.  Sorry for causing any alarm for anyone who followed this blog.  Oh. Nevermind.  Unless you’re the one who read with more than clinical disinterest.

Since I have last written, cars have broken down and been minimally repaired, and my own lovely money pit is only $2K behind, but runs without the things that would make it actually be safe to drive.  Other things have broken down and also have been minimally repaired, and we’re still alive but still in a general state of irreparable or unaffordable decay.

For unknown reasons and/or medication side effects, I have almost no energy and almost no manic days during which to catch the chaos.  I’m still doing mostly the same things I was doing including forcing myself to go to work every day and putting up with the bullshit.  Home isn’t exactly the same, I’m putting up with  significantly less bullshit at home, for which my family has well-overcompensated.  The less bullshit I accept as something I can tolerate, or shovel away for my own sanity, the more bullshit there is.  Too much to write about or shovel.

The boss has me back on a stupid mid-day shift start, which puts shift end at a stupid late time.  Still sucks just as bad as the last time.  I finally got a day off and washed a shit-load of laundry, my own for a change, in between hot flashes and sleeping and washing all the fucking dishes.  After which Mrs M got home and bitched about what wasn’t done and how what was done was inadequate, so no changes there, either.

The point of the article though, was to be that I had a paradigm shift.  All this time I’ve kept visualizing myself as a tool on a shelf collecting dust, but I was wrong.   I’m not a tool, except for not realizing it.  I’m dead and buried like a seed trapped underground.  That’s not necessarily a bad thing.  I know I’m supposed to leverage whatever good I can, except I’m still not sure how to properly leverage whatever good this is, in this position.

All this said to say, I’m alive, still facing the stupidity and my specific brand of insanity.  Good luck with yours.

Holy Shit! What a Day!

It all started when Mrs. M. woke me from a deep sleep, wearing only the best grin and the most mischievous eyes.  For a solid hour, she did everything I already knew she could, and everything I always dreamed but never thought would ever be in her love vocabulary.  And then, she promised there would be a lot more days like this because she wanted to make up for lost time.  Then there was a quick shower and we ran out before the kids woke up, to grab breakfast at that place I really like.

We got home and the kids were already up and dressed for school.  My daughter had walked and fed the dog, and was getting herself ready to commute to college.  My son went out early to catch the bus, and had turned in all of his homework last night, including getting caught up on all of his late assignments.

I clocked in to work and the boss had sent me an email saying she was giving me a raise, both to adjust to cost of living, and, because so many of my customers have sent in rave reviews of my service already this year.  My callers were all really polite and pleasant, and I even had time to clear my queue of things i needed to catch up on, and follow up on.

I mean, everyone usually is upset about the weekend being over, and having to get back to the first day of the daily grind.  Today was a Monday, but for me it was a Monday like none other.

It was April 1st.

And Where The Hell Have You Been?

A much younger me watched and enjoyed television, particularly as much British humour (lol) as I could stay up late to watch.  I don’t recall how many shows featured the angry wife demanding of her guilty-looking, penitent-but-innocent husband, “and where the hell have you been?”  He stammers and explains and by the end of the episode, all is resolved as the truth is revealed as truth, supported by smirking witnesses.

Anyway, I haven’t been anywhere.  I wish I could tell you everything was explained and resolved.  I’m still in the same exact exactness, wrestling with everything, daydreaming of being set free just enough to help other people with their wrestling matches, just a little bit to encourage them to keep fighting.  Nope.

I suck as a father, revealed in my kids’ disrespect.  I suck as a husband, revealed in my wife’s ongoing wavering between passive-aggressiveness, controlling, disrespect, seething anger, and disappointment, and my continual trying to succeed, effort that ends up confirming I suck even when I manage to break even or one thing actually goes right.  And they all take such great delight in telling me that I’m wrong and they’re right, even when I accidentally somehow stumble into higher moral ground.

I suck as an employee, as the annual performance review was yesterday.  But not enough to fire me, just enough to keep me where they want me to do better, while the clients absolutely love the way I take care of them when I’m given enough time to do it, or when I steal time from breaks and lunches and after or before work to do it.  The review said I meet the company’s expectations, and one area they actually admitted I exceeded them, this year.  The management has obviously mistaken my complete brokenness for a gentler, meeker and cooperative spirit.

The truth is, I should be the happiest man who ever lived.  I actually want what I have.  The trouble is, I want what I have to treat me differently than it ever has, better than it ever has, and that is psychotic because I can’t change anything on my own.  I can only keep struggling and hope the struggle resolves in a good way.  Would a financial windfall help me, or would I end up more miserable?

A decent job with decent pay, might result in me being able to pay bills on time, fix the fucking car money-pits that keep breaking in various ways and degrees, all with the goal of draining any extra money we might have to fix my teeth and buy some new glasses.  It might get me farther away from minimum wage so that whenever the idiots raise it to what I currently earn, I’m not shoved back down to the lowest possible working poverty wage.  With my luck, the percentages would result, once everything in the economy adjusts to the new, higher lowest low, in me being at the same damned place I was before I got the new job.

A windfall, on the other hand, might result in me writing more, finishing my books not having to worry whether they’ll sell or not, helping out friends and family, and quitting my job and not bothering to tell them why I hate the cheap-ass, tightwad, corporate bullshit they spew and insist the lowly peons thank them because it’s champagne.

On the other hand, it might result in me losing friends who were in fact acquaintances, who think somehow I owe them something in exchange for the value of their friendship, but who never really gave a shit about me before the increased cash flow.  It might result in estrangement from my otherwise perfect and loving children, who naturally would only want affordable, rational, realistic and reasonable things, considering “our” newfound economic strata, when I tell them “no,” and the reasons why I won’t pay for whatever self-destructive shit they want to buy.  I swear, if I bought an auto shop and hired good mechanics who knew what the hell they were doing and did a fair and reasonable business, our cars alone would bankrupt the place, or turn it into a lovely tax dodge, if I made them fix them on our profits.

I think, given my current situation, I’d still prefer a windfall, just to see how it would go.

Where the hell have I been?  In the same boat, basically expectantly hoping that a certain Someone would wake up and realize I’m drowning here, in between the brief respites of merely treading water and waiting for the sharks to eat my lower extremities.  In other words, the same fun as always.  Sorry I’ve been away so long.  I can’t claim complete innocence and just complicated circumstances that made me look like I was in the wrong.  And I can’t fix anything yet, but I’m working on it.

The other part of my apology is this:  Words can sometimes be encouraging and I’m sorry I’ve been so very stingy, for a long time.   You’re all still very much appreciated, and I hope I can get to a place where I spread encouragement like my company’s corporate bulls spread what they spread.

Which reminds me of a really stupid joke:

Q.:  Why do cows walk on hooves?

A.: Because they lack toes (lactose, y’all.)

III – Wisdom and Innocence

Wisdom and Innocence, 11/23/2018, Deon Mumple

I’m here living in a world where all the innocence is lost
We all said we didn’t want it, but we didn’t know the cost
I gave it up too cheap; I can’t afford to buy it back
Now the interest is so high no one bothers keeping track
But I wish I could have known it, without having ever known

Wisdom is for sale,  pray it doesn’t drive you insane
All that wisdom ever costs is higher premiums in pain
Mum tried to instill grace and faith, and some patience to wait
We gain wisdom looking backward, can’t go back ’cause it’s too late
But I wish I could have had it, before my bad habits had grown

I have no more time for patience.  Quick, my time is running out
The answers to life’s questions can’t all be brokenness and doubt
I want what every other broken person wants to find:
Some love, a little comfort, and a stack of peace of mind,
A few more answers to my prayers, some rest while I’m exhaust-
ed, while living in a world where all my innocence is lost.

Brain Blender

No poem today. Maybe later if I can escape long enough to actually write something I’m not embarrassed to publish.  I am struggling with a rhyme scheme and meter.  Not to mention, the topic is me, so, it’s not great to start with.  Whatever.  I’ve been taking my pills faithfully.  I went to the doctor today to report side effects- nausea and hot flashes, which, as I am a guy and not a woman of a certain age and I don’t take that particular number of vitamin B, was not expected.  He is, therefore, changing my brain blender to a new, improved one, with sharper, faster blades.  I can hardly wait to run out of the other med, so I can go back to more nausea and hot flashes and probably helplessly watching my brain turn into watery pudding.

Meanwhile, my family is still critical, lazy, not engaged in any agendas except their own, but they still like to criticize and express how their opinions and answers are better than mine, even when they’re wrong and I’ve shown them their error and tried to provide gentle correction.  I’m the Donald Trump of my family, I suppose.  Sorry, should have advised a trigger warning, as there are devout Trump-haters out there I may have upset.  I’m saying, I am aware that my kids don’t think I know anything; that’s completely normal.  They are both teens, one trying to go away and be independent while still being waited on hand and foot, and the other trying to decide what and who he wants to be, and how, and how badly, he wants to rebel.  I think it’s probably also normal for a woman to decide she’s right and a man is wrong, but it still hurts my feelings a little bit more than when the kids are sassy.  At least some of the time the kids are trying to be funny.

Mrs. M., bless you a million times, but you are the worst, harshest critic I have ever had.  It’s not about being constructive.  It’s about being critical, and after I get it and I know you’re right, you go for the extra, cutting, bitchy dig that demoralizes me and discourages me and makes me not want to do shit, when I almost had a shred of energy to invest in doing whatever it was.  Thanks, and fuck you very much, but I don’t really need most of that.  Don’t wonder why I shut down, don’t wonder why I push away.  You’ve been pushing away for years, maybe I’ve finally learned whatever lesson your push off was for.  So celebrate, Mrs. M, you win. I lose, but it doesn’t matter.  Even when I’m right, or at least trying to work on our relationship, I’m still wrong because of whatever shit I did moments ago while trying to either help us or help you or help me mentally, or whatever shit I did yesterday or a month ago or ten years ago, or whatever shit I didn’t do that you wanted me to do right now right now rightnow rightnowrightnowrightnow.

The problem is, despite the ADD medication you insisted I go on, that gives me insomnia until sometimes 3:30 or 5 AM, and the anti-depressants you insisted I go on, that make me sick to my stomach and have hot flashes, I still have an attention span of a gnat, I still want to do what I want to do, which is the same as what you want but in a different order of priority, I never get to do what I want and I don’t get what I want, I’m still poor and thus far unable to escape the poverty cycle, and I’m still fucking depressed because life is fucking depressing.  And if I don’t do whatever it is I’m focused on I’ll never get it done and I’ll never go back to doing what I wanted to accomplish because something else will distract me or be more important, or I’ll be too frustrated to think clearly, so I’ll never have a sense of personal accomplishment because I’m not doing what I wanted to do, and I am not doing what you wanted me to do to your level of satisfaction.  And on that battle front, you’ve informed me of your disappointment in everything to the point where you expect to be disappointed and I expect to be disappointing and we self-fulfill that prophecy.  I lose, and you get the smug self-satisfaction of winning but remaining harsh and critical instead of loving me the way I want to be loved.  There’s a wide, wider, next-to-impossible gap to bridge between you being harsh and critical and you loving me like I want to, or need to, be loved.

I’m afraid it will require your investment and realization of how cut, wounded, damaged, frustrated, depressed, and angry I am about life, and how you add salt to the rejection wounds and then hit the psychological bruises twice just so they stay fresh in my mind and I want to give up on everything because nothing is working.  And since I run away instead of hitting back verbally (or, God forbid, physically, which I’ve never been driven to so far), you use that as another way of hitting me verbally, adding to my demoralization.  Again, fuck you very much, that is not what those marriage vows you and I took were supposed to look like.

If I, in a fit of mania, do the dishes, walk the dog, take out the trash, sweep the kitchen, do two loads of laundry which means to me wash dry fold and put away (but to you means wash, dry and fold, or leave in the dryer, or leave in the washing machine), and vacuum the carpets downstairs, you want to know why I did the laundry and if I did it wrong, why, and why the bathrooms weren’t cleaned and the floors mopped and the ceiling fans dusted and the upstairs wasn’t vacuumed and why the vacuum cleaner wasn’t emptied and why dinner wasn’t cooked all while I was working for 8 hours during a weekday.  Because I’ve had bigger fits of mania while I was not depressed and accomplished more very occasionally, in the past 26 years.  And why don’t I have a better job that pays more money.  And why I sleep on the couch so often.  And why I don’t want to lock the dog in a cage overnight.  Blah, blah, blah.  It’s never stopped; it’s only gotten worse over the years.

I started reading self-help books: a book about dealing with anger, a book about dealing with clutter, and a book about marriage enrichment.  Because these are what I want help with.  I’m a chapter into each one, and I’ll wait and see, and decide what’s potentially realistically applicable, and what’s ridiculous and impossible, on all topics of study.  Mostly it’s you trying to gently communicate your hopes and dreams for our future and how you think we (meaning I) can work toward those goals, and then overstepping and crushing my spirit, and then telling me yet again how I’m inadequate and a disappointing dissatisfaction, and me trying to explicitly communicate what I want and you telling me to fuck off because you’re not going to do that and then again, wondering why I sleep on the couch so much.

I finished the dishes and swept the kitchen after I dropped a glass on the kitchen floor.  There was a kind of mercy in it:  I hadn’t washed the glass.

Someone asked me what I accomplished this year so far.  I thought about it, and came to realize  that I survived, and that’s about it.  Maybe the progress is that I’m medicating, or maybe the progress is that my soul is that much further crushed, which I suppose, makes it easier on everyone around me.  If they didn’t want me to clean house and if they didn’t need someone to bitch at and tell how they are intellectually superior, more right in their approach to life, and better at everything, and how worthless, stupid, wrong, and inferior I am, I’d probably just end it because I wouldn’t have any useful purpose in life.


Find your purpose and your worth apart from anyone, because no one is going to give you anything but shit.  And if money is involved, get it in writing or you’re screwed.  That’s my takeaway.  That’s my wisdom from 26 years of being worthless, underpaid, underappreciated, and not getting what I want from anyone.  I’m still trying, I’ve survived, and that may be a bigger accomplishment than anyone really realizes.

Sorry for the bitch-fest.  It had to come out.  And Mrs M wants me to move my ass now because her family is waiting on us.  Have a great day if you can, and if you can’t, have an OK day even if that just means surviving and getting through what you can.