Moody

Does this happen to the whole family?  My kids are both moody to the point one of them bursts into tears when the smallest thing happens.  She dropped a food dish.  Her “friends” are mean.  He forgot to write down his homework assignment or missed the bus.  The teacher hates me.  I have too many chores and not enough free time. Stuff like that.  Damn.  I’m moody too.

I wish I was more emotionally stable, but fuck me if a James Taylor or Jim Croce ballad (which I dearly love), or even Fleetwood Mac, can make this six foot two, two hundred and something pound, grown man, burst into tears.  I think I’ll pull out some Led Zeppelin or The Doors, something.  Maybe Metallica, but even they sometimes get to me.  What. the. hell…?

And yeah, I drop a dish or a cup and it pisses me off, but I clean it up, and possibly sweep the shards up, and move on after hopefully not hurting myself in the process.  And yeah, “…there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them.”  Shit.  (dabbing a tear away)  And yeah, my “friends” are mean.  Fuck them, that’s why I got a new set of friends who seem to get me here on the blog.  (And if you don’t, well, read another blog if you think this one sucks.  And fuck you if you’re only on here to troll and discourage.  It might suck, which means you don’t have to read it, and you’re an ass hole if you’re here to tell me it sucks.)  I didn’t have time to write my blog because I’m too fucking busy with housework.  Or I have to run an errand.  Or I have to do anything other than sip something libatious and be to myself.  Shit.  I hate when that happens, there’s no stress relief in sight.  And sorry to tell you this, kids, but the teacher hates me, too.

What we need are coping mechanisms.  I’ve got a long history with this.  But it took me forever to learn if your friends, church people (frequently the worst), boss, work ass-hole-ciates… associates, it just came out that way, neighbor, stranger on the street, are mean to you, you can give them an enormous “FUCK YOU” and move on.  God I wish I had the cash sometimes to tell an employer that.  For now I’ll just reserve it and wait patiently until the opportunity comes along, or until my situation improves and I don’t want to say it any more.  Either are possible.

My kids are too young to learn the fine, Scottish martial art of Fa-KYU!  I think I’ll wait until they’re in college and teach them that.  For now I hug the crying one because they need a hug; I might even cry along with them, and tell them they shouldn’t associate with the playground bully, and they need to try to at best, respect, or at worst, report, the teacher’s actions and decisions in the class, since they need to graduate.

It took me a long time to learn it isn’t the end of the world when the mower doesn’t start, or something breaks, because just, shit falls apart and you can’t do shit about it except repair or replace if and when you can, or do without.  Still feels like the end of the world though.  Because sometimes it sucks.

I think Led Zeppelin AND The Doors AND Metallica and maybe even RATM (“Fuck You, I won’t do what you tell me!”) will be on my playlist tonight while I do the fucking chores, and maybe, just maybe, my kids will be strong enough emotionally to do their fucking homework without breaking.  Believe me, I felt the same way and wanted to cry enduring MR. FUCKHEAD’s Algebra class with all the hours of repetition, but to this day I can do that shit in my head.  And maybe, just maybe, I can get them to help with the house shit after I prepare and feed them dinner.  Because sometimes I feel the same way I did in algebra about washing all the dishes and taking out the trash, and vacuuming the floor:  why do I have to keep doing the same shit again, and again, and again?!  I don’t think I’ll share the rebellious RATM song with them just yet.  And if my wife doesn’t want to get along, I’ll just play “She Fucking Hates Me (, la, la, la, la!)” at the top of my headphone volume until I can laugh about it and try again.

I’m done crying, “Sweet Baby James.”  Don’t call me, “Operator. (Just forget about this call.)”

So, that’s several of my personal coping mechanisms.  I like to cook, as I find creating something good is a stress relief.  Plus I like to eat.  Thank God for my kids, because I can’t possibly eat all of that or I’d weigh 500 lbs and be unable to move.  Mangia, my darlings, MANGIA!!   I like to write.  I like to write a lot.  I can escape in characters, fiction, ranting, even working through poetry formulas to write what I think might be a good one. (Damn, Mr. Fuckhead, is poetry mathematical too?) I can also find escape through rage-expressive music, and sometimes even James Taylor, et al., can help me when “nothing is goin’ right.”  I can escape through (frequently dark) humor, escape through swearing, through immature name calling (sorry, “Mr. Fuckhead,” you know who you are.), and other silliness.  I like to clean, still, if I get started, in spite of the repetition of it.  If I get started cleaning I get happy with the progress and the clean and the smell of fucking BLEACH! God I love that.  I can sometimes escape through delegation, or ignoring the shitlist, I mean chore list, or just gutting through it on my own and dealing with whatever I can in the time permitted.

Quick, before, you know, it’s the end of the fucking world or some other shit falls apart.  Thank God for Scottish Martial Arts and for laughing along with Mike Myers and others, too.  God, I do love silliness.  Wait.  What are YOUR coping mechanisms?  What are YOUR favorite angry/happy/whatever songs?  What movies make you laugh or improve your mood?  What are your favorite foods/recipes?  “Inquiring minds want to know.”  Plus, maybe it’ll help me.

C’mon already!  DISH!

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