Awareness

There’s an old Peanuts comic strip featuring Lucy and Linus, in which Linus announces he is aware of his tongue.  Now you’re aware of your tongue, it’s sitting there in your mouth, and you.  are.  aware. that.  it.  is.  there.

Exactly Charles Schultz’ point.  You can suddenly become aware of something small or  irrelevant and your focus diverts to it for a while until life distracts you away from it.  Your fingernail.  Your rear.  Your elbow.  Your knee.  And having announced his awareness to Lucy, she suddenly becomes aware of her tongue, and calls Linus a “blockhead.”  And after the over-awareness, we get back to life.

So this is my hope for today.  I know I haven’t written in a while.

Honestly, I’m depressed and life hasn’t been great and nothing has really changed.  I’ve been making myself busy in the hope of distracting myself from the depression, which is my go-to.  And over the past maybe three weeks or so, it’s gotten worse, circumstantially and emotionally.  It’s not getting any better, despite prayer, work, anger, relationships, and other things I’ve tried in order to distract myself from my awareness of my depression.

Further awareness advises me that another “awareness” is just my depression talking, so take it with a grain of salt:

I am aware of my irrelevance.

In Christ-follower circles, people reassure each other that they matter.  In this recent wave of depression, I’ve become aware of, and focused on, my personal irrelevance.  I’m waiting for God to show me whether my irrelevance should continue letting other people suffer from it, or whether He can set things up such that my irrelevance doesn’t continue to interfere with other people.  I have a specific prayer for a specific answer.  If the answer is affirming to me, to show me I’m wrong about my irrelevance, or perhaps minimally, I’m blowing my irrelevance out of proportion, then I hope to receive the specific answer I’ve asked for, or something better.  If the answer is not affirming, I can expect to hear nothing, and to see further evidence that I should continue in despair.

This depression has lasted longer than “normal.”  I was getting used to a 4 month depression, but my circumstances haven’t changed and I feel like I’ve been depressed now for about 5 or 6 months.  It lends further credence to my theory that my depression is partially circumstantial and not just chemical.  I’m still getting up and going to work and coming home and doing housework and watching the kids grow up and telling Mrs M I love her, but it feels mechanical, and I’m not able to do anything more.

These pills only make me move, an animated angry mummy, still feeling dead inside these wrappings.  But I want to be like Lazarus (John 11), after they took the wrappings off.  I want God to show me that I matter to Him.  I want to be alive, and free.

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Recent Things

Where have I been?  To those who have been missing me, both of you, I offer my rare but genuine heartfelt apologies.  Honestly I don’t know whether I’ve been hiding for fear of something adding to the things I kvetch nonstop about, or taking a break, as if venting here just amplifies my own stress, or just shutting the fuck up for a while.

I think maybe a combination.  And I’ve been reading and not reading,  and watching and not watching, and it’s been not good and good.  And I’ve been quiet, which is always good.  You’re welcome, WordPress readers.

My laptop battery went from “plugged in, not charging” to “no battery detected,” and today I decided to check again rather than buy a new battery, and mysteriously it says “Plugged in, not charging, 96%.”  I did the Windows fix where you disable the idiotic driver one of the geniuses who manage the automatic operating systems updates, more than once.  It just keeps reinstalling itself, the little shit.  So yesterday, catching it at “plugged in, not charging, 96%,” I disabled two of the little shits, and today, another one!  When Windows itself is a virus that drains your laptop of power… what the hell can you do when what you think you should be able to trust turns out to be handing you shit that hurts you?  That’s a huge question I’m continuing to wrestle against in other realms, not just with my laptop.  On the plus side, the fucking battery was detected and is still there and still working, although Windows seems to want to hide it and make me worry about one more damned thing that I shouldn’t have to worry about.  Anyway, since I found out the battery isn’t the problem, I bought relatively cheap new shoes with a tiny bit of the money I would have had to spend on a new battery.

Will I ever get to a point where I have enough money I can give it away without worrying what bill I can’t pay?  I certainly hope so.  I was watching some poor schmuck on Youtube whose brain decided to not allow him to look at and recognize people’s faces.  So he, a doctor, decided to close up shop, quit the office, and go fucking roller skating.  He loved roller skating, and it became an obsession to him.  He would sometimes roller skate all night rather than sleep, and then go in to work the next day, and he had the mansion and the cars and all that, and it happened that one day he decided he didn’t want to do the office any more, so he just roller skated every day, all day.  I’d love to have THAT much money, and not just do something obsessively because I was obsessed about it.

I started working on taxes and it looks like somehow we’ve managed to screw ourselves there too.  After all we paid in, not quite enough out of every paycheck, we owe about a thousand dollars to Uncle Sam.  Bastard.  He’s a great guy when you’ve paid in enough.  But when you feel like you’re scrimping saving, and debating over every fucking dime you spend unless it’s for the cheapest non-air-fluffed ice cream you can afford occasionally, or the occasional half priced or quarter priced seasonal chocolate in the week or 2 after a holiday, or getting a bottle of something cheap to drink when it’s on sale, and feeling guilty going to buy new shoes because your old ones have worn out heels and toes because the stupid shoe manufacturers design them to wear out after six months and you’ve worn them for a year and a half, realizing you haven’t paid in enough the past year kind of sucks.

This parsimonious lifestyle sucks.  Worrying about money and wishing you could just pay the fucking bills and have enough left over to celebrate life a little, and then have enough left over after that to give to someone in need, sucks.  I really try not to obsess about it.  I don’t go to websites of the obscenely rich and famous, or go to LotteriesAreAwesomeButPeopleAreStupidAndSometimesEvenRichPeopleGetHandedShit dot com type websites to see how people go from fixing their teeth to fixing their mum’s old house to helping their church to helping their friends and then start the downward spiral until they’re losing briefcases full of money, stolen out of their huge pickup truck which was mysteriously (how the fuck did that get THERE?) parked outside Pole Dancers Local #516 Union Hall, or the other downward spiral of neighbors finding out you won enough to climb just barely out of the shit, coming to pay you a visit with shotguns.  I saw those two stories unfolding in the news, so I didn’t have to go to lotteriesareawesome dot com or whatever.

If you’re worried about me, two things:  1) don’t be.  I’m not OK, but don’t worry.  This one-post-a-month sucks, but remember, it was shit when I posted a couple times a week. Just trust that although I’m not OK, eventually the shitstorm will pass.

https://embed.vevo.com?isrc=USREV0400139&autoplay=true

I’m Not Okay (I Promise) (Video) (Dialogue/MTV Version) (Official Video) by My Chemical Romance on VEVO.

I’ll be fine, trust me.

Oh. And the second thing: 2) When and if you decide out of the merciful goodness of your hearts to pray for me, pray twice. Once for the answer, and the second time, for the good thing you prayed over me to be two or six times “enough.” The universe fucker likes to take the good thing and make it insufficient or use it up too fast. Like, in a desert, if a rainstorm comes, the sand drinks that up or the heat evaporates it before it can do any good. So now you know. My life is a desert. And if mine is a desert, how deserted are others who have even fewer first world problems than I do, but a much harsher treatment because the universe fucker REALLY works overtime to fuck with them? So this brings up a third thing: 3) After you pray for me that second time, know that I’m unspeakably grateful, and then pray three times for the person you know is out there, whose desert is dryer, and hotter, who needs even more rain.

https://giphy.com/embed/5fBH6zoAQg9dHK2ttsc via GIPHY

I need the rain to be consistent and persistent enough so I can grow enough to start to give enough to make a difference.  The little that I tried to give away last year felt good, and I want to give more.  So, like every other time I’ve prayed lately for a greater margin in life, that margin has frayed like the bottom edge of the pants leg that was just a little too long and I kept stepping on it.  Every time I’ve prayed lately for “enough,” another hole appears, like the ones at the bottom of those cheap shitty shoes I wore for about a year too long because I didn’t want to spend the money on new ones because I wanted to fix my teeth.  3 of which, by the way, are now in need of either crowns or implants to repair correctly, and I can’t go to the dentist because that’s another $5K of debt, and we just had to get a car.

Pray for rain.  If what your life is full of splashes out, then I’m afraid I’m splashing out debt and sadness, which is why maybe it’s a good thing I’ve shut the hell up for a while.  I want to splash out blessings and helpfulness and goodness, instead of hot, dry, vacant wind.  So if you’re the praying kind, pray for me to get three refills now and more on a schedule of what I really want, and even if you’re not, know that I’m praying for you- you know who you are.

I may be grasping at the last straw of hope, but if hope splashes out then I hope you find hope from my hopefulness that the shitstorm passes swiftly and things get immeasurably better, for each of us.

Survived Hell Week.

Fuck, what a dumpster fire of a week.  I didn’t write shit in my blog because I didn’t have three seconds to myself.  You’re welcome, everyone.

My parents and one of my sisters kept having serious, life threatening not-health situations.  I went to the hospital a couple times to visit, and ended up just staying until visiting hours were over because who knows how long I’ll have the chance to just hang out with mum and dad.

I hate fucking doctors and doctors’ offices and hospitals and how health declines when we get older.   Rotten teeth, rotten disposition, rotten finances, messy house, messy relationships.  These things do nothing to encourage me.

I passed the routine physical and probing tests the doctor ran for my permission to go camping with the Boy Scouts for another year if I can find the time.  Oh yeah, that was another part of my personal hell week.

I took some more shit from Mrs. M about how I don’t make enough money last weekend while we drove around looking for another car because the newest one we had went to shit and was going to cost more than 75% of its’ value to fix.  Last time we needed a car and tried to borrow money, the banks wouldn’t even lend us $2K, those fuckers.  We were deeper in debt back then, and we’ve been working our asses off to keep paying it down.  A small miracle occurred and a friend gave us the one that just fell apart. But I still hate being told I “just” need to find a better job that pays double-or-more than what I currently earn.  If it’s not from outsiders, which is bad enough, it’s from Mrs. M, which is more than two times worse.

I confess, despite my stress and rage at the work-as-hard-as-you-can-to-keep-up-but-still-shit-falls-apart-then-you-go-broke-and-people-steal-what-little-you-have-left world I live in, that somehow another fucking miracle occurred and we got a newer car fairly cheaply.  So say a prayer it holds together longer than it takes to pay THIS one off.  Because a bank lent us the money for this one.  I could use a financial miracle right about now to pay off these miracles that keep costing me money.  I’d love, for the next 40 years of my life, if I live that long, to have enough to not worry about money any more, since I feel like the last 30 have been debt-ridden.  Debt sucks ass.

Speaking of which, it’s about time for one or two of our creditors to start calling every fucking day while I’m at work to remind me they want their money and they’d damned well like it before the due date.  Ass holes.  They can fucking wait.  I hate that shit, and I’d like to have enough to tell people what they can do with their shitty treatment of other people, starting with me.  See, if you have enough money, people LOVE to practically just fucking GIVE you money to spend or invest or whatever.  But if you don’t have money, people make you pay more to borrow what you need to survive.  The interest on the damned house is more than the principle we’re trying to pay down.  We couldn’t afford an extended warranty on the car, but the salesman kept pushing that shit and wanting to add an extra $90 a month on the car payment in exchange for security.  It’s already more than we have the budget for.  I wonder what they’d do if I picked up when they rang and told them, point blank, “Thank you for the reminder.  We’ll make the payment on time just like every other month, and not early.  Now fuck off until next month.”  Instead I’ll sit at work trying to earn enough to afford those payments and not answer the damned home phone.

During the health scares, I lost track of a few things I actually like, like blogging and reading other blogs, so for that first thing, again, you’re welcome, and for the second, I’m sorry and I’ll try to catch up with everyone.

To add insult to injury, and cap off my personal hell week, this morning there was a damned ice storm.  I was scared shitless driving to church this morning, praying we wouldn’t slide off, or slide over, get in a wreck and trash another car and toss ourselves off another financial cliff onto the rocks below.  I hope to God the next 7 days are a HELL of a lot less HELL than the previous 7 were.

And although I suspect everyone ELSE’S week held its’ share of hell for all, I hope you’ve endured well enough to tell the universe fucker, who was way too busy in my life and I’m sure in yours, to fuck off.  Flip that ass hole a big fat bird for me.  I also hope to God the next 4,000 weeks are prosperous enough to more than make up for the drought.

Long Time, No See, “The Silence is Slowly Killing Me.”

Apologies to Maroon 5 for the title, I suppose.  Whatever.  Adam Levine will no doubt tenderly and sensitively weep all the way to the bank or tattoo parlor.  And then write another song about a woman who treated him badly and how he secretly fantasizes about her death, but paradoxically, also misses her.

I’ve just been recovering from the holidays.  So, you know, it’s work, and at work, get bitched at for not doing enough work, or not doing everything according to exact standards because there’s so much it’s hard to balance getting it all done on the clock, then work off the clock and get bitched at for not doing enough or finishing enough on their timetables.  The clients send in the compliments about the quality of work and followup, the management rips it up and says it wasn’t done fast enough or right, so I don’t deserve a raise.  Then it’s home, and get bitched at for not making enough money, and for not doing any, or enough, housework, do some laundry, get bitched at for doing the laundry, do some dishes, get bitched at for not doing enough dishes, do all the dishes, take out the trash, vacuum floors and staircase, sweep and mop the floors, bleach the toilets and sinks, and hear crickets in response.  Oh, and being told I’m unattractive and then I try to clean myself and I hear how the wash cloth I left behind smells bad, not that I smell good or that the lighter workload at home is appreciated, although I’ve just washed the 10 wash cloths everyone else left in or on or around the shower, in the laundry I just got criticized for washing.  And it’s watching the cars I’m not driving fall apart at a rate more costly than our combined incomes can repair, not to mention my teeth which still need repair.  Yeah, life is good.

The miracle, or the insanity, is that I’m able to get out of bed, which I have to do every day or the dog would have to crap in the house somewhere.  We go for walks in the sunlight, if the sun is shining, so shut the fuck up, all you people who think the fucking cure for depressive episodes is to just go for a walk in the sunlight.  Mrs M shoves the vitamin D at me too, so shut the fuck up about that too.  Because sure, it must be working  or I might feel even lower, I guess.

The curse is, I can’t keep up with shit, so the small things get attention and the big things go to shit until they require a balloon payment I can’t fucking afford.  It’s falling apart around me and I can’t do enough fast enough, or earn enough fast enough, to fix or replace.  I’m broke and I’m broken and I’m tired and can’t sleep well.  I was up all night Saturday night and well into Sunday afternoon before I allowed myself to take a nap, only to hear shit about how I slept for hours.  Instead of what?  Saturday I recalled the sting of hearing how dismally tiny our checking account balance was last weekend after fixing a car and finding out how bad the other car is (which you have to pay to know), and then paradoxically, on Saturday, she wanted me to be all upbeat and happy about going shopping to find and assume payments on a new set of someone else’s problems.  Joy.  So we test-drove two that were fine, but I said I wasn’t ready to commit to anything, (because frankly we didn’t have the money) and mercifully we went home without grabbing at another $6K to $10K of debt, not that our credit would have allowed that.  Last time we asked some ass hole creditors wouldn’t even lend us $2K, fuckers.  We pay EVERYTHING back, it just takes a while on our incomes.  The proof is our credit score, which wasn’t enough for those ass holes.  We’re still paying down our debts, slowly but hopefully, while I watch the inexorable decay of cars and teeth and furniture and carpets and external wood accents on our house.  Fuck.  More work, more work, more work.  And yet, Mrs M persists in hope.

It’s kind of a sideways compliment to Mrs M that she is so very hopeful still, and that she hasn’t kicked me to the curb.  I don’t honestly know how the fuck she does it.  I understand the insults.  They’re half true, and half, frustrated bitch.  And I made her that way, it’s my fault.

I’m sorry for not writing, but when all I have to say is the unfortunate reality of it, you’ve probably got enough of that to share in your own life.  Positive thinking?  I’m positive this sucks.  Prayer?  Well, if the definition of insanity is doing the same things and expecting different results, then my prayers are insanity because I keep asking and I keep genuinely hoping that I get the answers I want and need, I just keep waiting and watching as things approach the otherwise inevitable.

I actually called the doctor yesterday, because I ran out of medication.  I was on a break from my shit schedule, and remembered to do it.  So of course, they were closed for lunch.  I’ll try again shortly, before I have to get to work.  Hooray.  Work.  Let me get a cup of coffee, because bourbon isn’t a good idea before work, not to mention I’m almost out of the small bottle she bought a while ago for me.  Before Thanksgiving.  I’ve been trying to make it last.  One plus was that she made a pecan pie that called for a little, which makes it taste great.  It’s a little too sweet and sticky, but in extreme moderation, like, one or two bites, it’s great.  Oh and believe me when I mentioned the diminished quantity of bourbon, I heard about how “It’s going fast; maybe you’re drinking more than you should,” from those perfect, beautiful lips she keeps mostly to herself.  And my mind responding quietly, “but not enough.”

Well, let me call the doctor and see if I can get an appointment because it’s time again for the boy scout physical so I can help on camp-outs if I sign up to go, if I can get a new tent because mine broke.  And I need some medication I guess.  It must be hope–  It’s another gesture against the feelings of futility.  If I didn’t have a gesture to brandish at the feelings and the universe fucker, may he be banished to the darkest, iciest, hottest, smallest corner of hell available and have to share it with someone who’s truly awful, someone could stick a fork in me, because I’d be done.

I hope things get better for all of us.  Fucking soon.

NEWS MEDIA: YOUR STUPIDITY AND BIAS AGAINST MENTALLY ILL PEOPLE ARE SHOWING! AGAIN! STFU!

bipolar shooter

First, let me apologize for taking this harsh a position because I don’t know the actual facts of the situation.

But second, FUCK ALL YOU STUPID IGNORANT ASININE NEWS MEDIA OUTLETS! 

And third, FUCKING STOP IT!  YOU ARE IGNORANT of ALL ASPECTS OF MENTAL HEALTH, so FUCKING STOP MISREPORTING AND SUGGESTING BULLSHIT when you DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE BLABBERING ON ABOUT because all you want to do is fill your pages and your news reports with horrid news wherein you malign people with labels that are fucking “possibly” true (and equally “possibly” complete fucking BULLSHIT), and give the mainstream audience an explanation that in some supposed-to-be-comforting-to-mainstream-audiences way, says it’s WE vs THEY, and THEY are mentally ill people.

The truth is that the late accused shooter is dead and can’t be properly diagnosed, the family has no clue what the fuck went down, and conspiracy theorists are already saying he wasn’t alone in the room and someone else was probably shooting from the other window that was broken, and eye-witnesses described two people walking calmly down the hall away from his room before the police had control of the room, who may have shot the guy themselves after shooting down at the concert-goers.  The authorities did not find and detain these two for questioning or a gunshot residue test, so THEY DON’T KNOW!

And, as I have already expressed, from my experience and all the genuine hearsay evidence and personal testimonials I have ever evereverever ever seen, bipolar people are not the enemy.  When we’re up, we’re up and we love life and people and have the ability, most of the time, to ignore a great deal of stupidity and bullshit circling in our orbit.  When we’re down, we doubt ourselves, we’re anxious and prone to panic attacks, the bullshit piles up around us until we feel hopelessly and helplessly buried and someone hid the fucking shovel and all we want to do is stay home in bed and be left the fuck alone.  And there’s the rage, sure, but it’s not something I’ve ever heard being used against people except in words (see also… this fucking article), maybe occasional screaming or throwing plates, cell phones, and other relatively harmless and avoidable objects.  And then there’s the hypersexuality, but I don’t hear MY victim bitching about THAT.  For the record, I don’t throw things, except piles of assorted clutter, and I don’t throw them AT PEOPLE.  I’ve never thrown a knife (but I think I’d like to learn and practice that).

Criminals are the enemy if you want to play it like that, and I haven’t heard any plausible reports that mental illness in general, nor bipolar disorder, are undeniably proven as causal of criminal behavior.  “Mentally ill” in any given news report, is bullshit.  It is a pall to put over any given dead criminal, such as a bomber, mass shooter, bank or gas station robber, or whomever the news wants to protect, portraying them as helpless fucking idiot lame-brains who seem to have had no choice but to turn to the dark side and go somewhere to kill people until the police come to shoot back and then scrape their eyes and what’s left of their heart off the walls and their brains and liver off the floor for the autopsy, and hose the blood out of the carpets.  And the fucking mysterious and poorly represented and totally not understood people with bipolar read or hear the reports and we collectively know it’s utter BULLSHIT.  Even at my worst rage I still know I have choices of whether and what to throw and in what direction, and if there were any, the people I might actually want to throw shit at aren’t anywhere close enough for it to serve me any real benefit.

Mrs M (bless her heart) turned on her choice of news channel today, looking for the temperature after sending me to take the dog for a walk, and then I endured the reports of two fires in a neighboring city’s low-rent downtown-ish area (here, if you dare, read “shithole”), with “THOUSANDS OF GALLONS OF WATER FLOODING THE STREETS!!” like it’s the beginning of the end of the fucking world because the firemen PUT OUT THE DAMNED FIRE, and USED WATER TO DO IT!!  That’s the idiotic sensationalism I CAN’T STAND!  I honestly don’t think the fucking weather ever came on before we left the house this morning.

All that and I had already told her it’s not raining, and the temperature is in the mid 40s or low 50s.  FFS.

Oooh, (if we’re to believe it) the Vegas shooter was a germophobe!  I’m fucking terrified, because Howie Mandel is too, and he hasn’t been locked up yet.  And oooh, (if we’re to believe it) he was bipolar too.  Well, if that’s true, then when will the authorities send the fucking rubber truck over, give me one of those NICE fucking robes that let me hug myself because no one else will, and feed me and do all my chores and give me a nice warm bed to sleep in, and don’t hold me responsible for MY actions (or inaction)?  I loved Howie Mandel from back in the day- the adorable “Bobby’s World” cute little fucker, the actually funny, not forced-funny, guy with the rubber glove on his head, before all of this damnable “reality TV” gameshow formatted so-called “talent” shit started overtaking anything that might have actually been a tolerable alternative to the news.

I shut off the damned TV and my son took it over to play his time-wasting video games for a while.  It’s off again, but now on my computer the news feed is shoveling out this shit.  And “normal” “mentally healthy” people are comforted with the “possible” explanation for the alleged criminal’s alleged behavior so they can ignore the conspiracy theorists theories and eye witness accounts of the other things that might have happened.  If the conspiracy theorists are right, the gun control advocates who engineer (YES, I FUCKING SAID IT!), and/or manipulate, reporting of such events have won again, the “normal” people still have their shallow opinions and misconceptions about mental illnesses in general and bipolar in specific, the criminal or criminals in the hallway get away with it again, and live to do it all over again somewhere else, and people with mental illness in general and bipolar in specific, lose yet again, in a battle they didn’t pick to fight, and they’re relegated to the “special-needs” room.  And the news media ass holes get away with reporting bullshit-as-fact AGAIN, give a smarmy smile through their straight, bleached, capped, perfect teeth, and tell us all to “have a nice day.”

I dread Monday morning already, because I know the news will be on (I love you, Mrs. M., but your choice of morning programming is awful!), and we’ll all be served thick, “gravy” covered slices of creamed bullshit on toast, to go with our coffee.  Fuck.  If it’s all the same, can I skip breakfast and just have my damned coffee?

Mumple’s Spiritual Laws: Lex I

Thursday and Friday I was saving up energy for Saturday and Sunday.  Sure, I still cleaned and vacuumed and washed dishes.  Sure I cleaned out the top part of the kids’ sink, because dear daughter’s hair clogs the tub AND sink drains.  But I was saving up.  Saturday I wanted to do things I HAD to do, Sunday I wanted to do things I WANTED to do, so I was saving up the energy and praying my back wouldn’t start hurting.  It’s not terribly painful, but it’s been cramping lately right where the chiropractor needs to adjust it.  And I’m not certain if it’s radiating downward from lower back, but it’s also bypassing THAT ASS, and attacking my left leg right at the top of the femur.

I have explained to my family, repeatedly, that they are in the habit of verbally correcting everything I say, which they immediately deny because when I say that, I am obviously wrong and need to see things more correctly…  The kids probably picked up the habit from their mother, who seems to think everything I do is incorrect, insufficient, inadequate,  and inane.  That’s Latin for “stupid.”  No, I’m only kidding.  Inane is Latin for “void,” or “empty.”  Probably some damned Latin teacher said that about his students, like, “…habitus et crania est inane.” Their “habits and skulls are void,” and it stuck until we say “inane” and mean “stupid.”  Except we Americans misproblounce it. Say “in- ahh- ne.”  “In- ayyn” must make the ancient Romans spin in their graves, but fortunately, many Americans are too inane to choose to use the word inane to describe anything, not to mention, it would probably be labelled as “bullying” the average dumb American.

They’d just call me “stupid” for suggesting anything was wrong because it’s less than it could be. Or wrong, so they’d match my familial contempt for all things Deon.  So there you go.  So far, the family doesn’t yet understand that constantly being told “you’re bad/wrong/stupid” does NOT motivate me toward success.  What’s it been?  26 years?  I was going to say there was a honeymoon period, but she hated our beach rental which we found while driving sight unseen.

I’m not trying to be a bully.  I’m trying to educate and entertain.  Sorry, I already know the attempt is feeble.  But fuck it, tit for tat.  So bully me and I may figure out a passive-aggressive way of bullying you back, or a snarky way to tell you you’re stupid (which is probably bullying).

I was saving up, and it didn’t matter.  I had goals for the weekend and they didn’t matter.  There’s a law of nature I experienced, or two, but I’m only getting to one today.  Because I have stuff to do and then work for work.  I got SOME of the things that needed to be done done, and ran out of energy and felt the pain in my hip and leg.  I took frequent breaks, to the dismay of Mrs M, who thinks one should gut through and finish whatever the task is before taking a break.  She’s right, but I can’t until this whatever it is, heals.

The law of nature is, “a nearly empty container will tend to remain nearly empty until you fill it, especially when steadily draining from it.  I put oil in my wife’s car, and the container is now empty.  It was a metaphor for me.  Or is it a parable?  Whatever.  If I fill a gas tank a quarter-full, it empties quicker than if I fill it the whole way.  I told my daughter her car wouldn’t start in the cold, not because it was cold, but because her phone charger was draining the battery.  She didn’t immediately accept my recommendation, and responded like she normally does under these circumstances.  I don’t know what I’m talking about, that can’t be the answer, etc.  But after criticizing my suggestion, she unplugged the damn thing and wouldn’t you know it?  Her fucking car STARTS now.  Because if you drain the battery, however insignificant you think the drain is, eventually it won’t do what you want it to do because it’s dead.

My emotional oil tank is running on empty.  My task-completing battery is nearly drained.  It chugs and tries to start, and sometimes it just won’t.  Something needs to happen to recharge them, or I’ll die.

The bills aren’t paid.  The bank account won’t handle the house payment until next weekend.  Sorry, home loan holders, although I know you desperately NEED some cash, you’ll have to wait until closer to the due date than you want.  So they’re going to call me while I’m trying to answer my work phone.  Every.  Day.  This. Week.  I can’t fill that tank fast enough, because the hole at the bottom is so much bigger than the trickle at the top.

The tasks aren’t done.  I can’t fill my energy tank fast enough because people keep borrowing from it, asking me to do shit that wasn’t already on my list.  I have to do that, and then try to focus on what I wanted to do, or what I thought I needed to do.  I can’t fill my energy tank fast enough because what I’ve already done was inadequate, insufficient, or done incorrectly so it needs to be done again, or done right.  Criticism drains the tank.  It doesn’t fucking matter if it’s so-called “constructive criticism.”  It still drains the tank.

Life goes on, and I got up again today and took the dog out for a walk, and then wrote this that’s been in my head all weekend.  I’m going to schedule a day off, and if I can get it, it’ll be this week or next week.  I need it already, and we’re only in the second week of the year.  Of course, you can’t fill the time-off tank fast enough because the company stole all the leftover time off hours they decline to roll over into the new year, so I’ll be told I’m not eligible for time off because there’s none in my “bank.”  Fuck it, I’m going to ask anyway.  I may ask for two.  In a row.

My tanks have been running on empty for a LONG time.  It’d be nice to be able to fill them.  I have a little hope, or maybe I’m just delusional still because everyone is telling me it’s a brand new year that’s supposed to be full of possibilities.  Anyway, I still feel kind of running-on-empty, but I’m riding that wave, and we’ll see.  I hope you can fill your tanks to the top and enjoy a little margin and a little peace.

Brain Brunch Buddy

zombie love

I felt weirdly obligated by the suggestions above in the wordpress feed.  Sorry (a little) in advance.  And, Come Party at Deons!  First poem of the new year:

Brain Brunch Buddy
Deon Mumple, 1/6/2018

It’s Sunday, I’m hungry, what’s around to eat?
Not lunch yet, brunch, I’ll bet, will make a great treat.
My make-up is messed up! I look like I’m dead!
I’m starving, I’m searching, but not for just bread.
I want friends to descend upon my Sunday,
Satisfy cravings, try, there’s nothing to pay,
Just trust me, though you see yourself in a gamble
I limp, so you should know not to say I shamble
I’m quiet, but don’t let that deter your visit
We don’t need words to feed our relationship
You can bring gifts or drinks, come in cars or by trains
Don’t bring your z-whackers, just bring me your braaaaains!