I don’t know what I feel.  I think I’m in between everything.  I’m stretched in the middle of everything.  Life isn’t letting me up, life isn’t letting me down, I’m just hanging.  And because of hanging, I’m stretched beyond what I would like.

I bought a lottery ticket when it was a billion fucking dollars, figuring even if I split it three or even four ways, fine.  I bought another when it was 200 Million.  I haven’t checked, but a snowballs chance in hell?  I know what to expect, even though hope springs eternal.

I went to a mechanic who assessed Mrs. M’s car and said after the oil change, $1300 would set it right.  After looking at my car that was the price he put on tires and something else for my car too, but then add the same amount again for another part that needs fixing.  Add the heat we’ll need to replace whenever it gets cold again.  Add the teeth I need to fix, and we’re doubling down again.  I’m not winning.  And I’m not bankrupt.  I’m between.

I hate this.  I’m angry and bitter that I can’t get out from under the shit that keeps falling apart, I’m happy it’s not worse.  I’m frustrated Mrs M can’t or won’t do what I want.  And I’m happy she’s with me and I don’t want anything different, I just want more of her.  What the fuck?  It’s half a shit storm. Because a whole shit storm would kill me.

I don’t want the other half of the storm to hit.  I want to be free.  Instead of life letting me down some more, or stretching me some more on this stupid rack,

how about let me fly?  Some days I wish I had a few fewer scruples and I could just go wild.  But who knows what consequences would come of that?  OK, it’s not “ultimate suffering,” but I’m getting old while the suckage gets older.  I’m tired of this shit and I can’t figure out a good way out.  Why does the only answer seem to be money, and money I don’t have and can’t get?  I mean, FUCK!  Really.  I contemplated titling this post the same (“FUCK!”)

The HVAC people aren’t doing anything wrong.  The mechanic isn’t doing anything wrong.  He’s only telling me what normal people would be able to fix or more likely just buy a new car.  He isn’t even a cheat like a couple other mechanics I’ve had the misfortune to do business with, back in the day when I had money.


Some mechanics are ass holes.  On purpose.  Ask me why I’ll never go to two specific car shops.  Long to short, one was frisky with my credit card and had my numbers on file because “the machine won’t work and the guy who can work it will be in later today.”  Another left bits and screws out on the engine and lost a fan cover and then the shop acted like the stuff was like that before I brought it in, bull shit, you ass holes. (And then fired one of their mechanics because he was doing this kind of shit to people with money. But the guy I went to see this past time was right and the reason I know he’s right is because we had the same diagnosis from two other mechanics.


It just majorly sucks that it’s all piled up stretching me all at once, and I’m going to tear like Stretch Armstrong after a yard and a half and a double twist, or my stress is going to kill me.  If you pray, pray harder.  For me.  Please.  If you don’t pray, fuck, pray anyway.  It can’t hurt.

To Market

He had never been good at striking a bargain
His mother should have known
Better than to send him to market
Never know what you’re going to get

Worried, he told himself these things,
Not wanting to be a disappointment
He had coins in his bag she said should be enough
But no candy or fluff

He wasn’t smart, he told himself, a lie
But he was strong, willing to learn and try

At the markets’ edge he met a man
Who said, catch the pig, and if you can,
He’s yours to keep, but if you fail
I get your money and the pig, tip to tail

Back at home he talked to animals
So he whispered to the pig about future meals
And shook the strangers’ hand
Who oiled the pig with a grease can

The man was surprised to watch the pig
Jump into the boy’s arms, jiggety-jig

He bought a little candy for him and the pig some corn
The happiest boy who’d ever been born
Walking home with his prizes and the cash
Surprising his mom, dancing  a dance

Look, mum, look at my pretty hog,
Jiggety jig, jiggety jog.



More, 5/28/2016, Deon Mumple
Inspired by Jessica

Her beauty
And terrifies me
And fills me
With intrigue.
I want more
I fear more
The closer I want to get
The more I fear
Doing or saying something
I’ll regret
And yet
I want everything
That she might give
And I want her tomorrow
For her smile
Or her sorrow
Whatever she feels
I want to be there by her side
Along for the ride
To cry
By her side
If she cries,
To encourage her to always rise
On her own power
She can.  She can.
And when she can’t, doesn’t know,
I want to be her story’s hero
Then to watch her grow,
And blossom, you know
For her to find her best, become more
For me to adore
And for her to love me
And be held as much in captivity
As she holds me in
Bonded beyond skin
And yet
To feel completely
To see her beauty
The way my eyes see
The closer I want to be
The more I fear that we
Will swallow everything that’s me
Or I’ll make
A mistake
And lose we
Because stupidity
Trips me
Like, what if I need space
And lack grace, and erase
Something she treasures and needs
Her soul bleeds
Oh, God, what if she leaves?
But she
Is everything I want to see
She’s imperfect
But she’s perfect
And I want her to realize
In my eyes
The whole universe of matter
Doesn’t matter
Without her.


Unknown, 5/28/2016, Deon Mumple

She doesn’t know
I love her so
We’ve never met
At least not yet
I’m in disguise
A life of lies

She wouldn’t know
I love her so
If we did meet
She’s very sweet
I can’t love how
She wants love now

I wish she knew
My love is true
Could I reveal
What I conceal
I hide, afraid
In darkness, fade

It’s innocent
A love that’s meant
To be left pure
So she’ll endure
When existence
Feels like nonsense

I hope she’ll stay
Another day
Another day
Another day
My love to learn
I’m left to yearn

I wish I could
Give something good
A closer dance
Than my romance
At this distance
Were there a chance

Her soul, I know
Sets mine aglow
With every word
I’ve never heard
Her sweet lips tell
But my heart’s fell

She’ll never see
The real me
Since she can’t know
And I can’t show
She doesn’t know
I love her so

Please won’t you say
That you will stay
Another day
Another day
For I adore
And I want more

Death of Heroes

Disclaimer:  This post is rambling, if you’re not up for it, give up now.

When I was younger, the character Spock from Star Trek was a hero to me.  He had superior intelligence, superior strength, and something like psychic powers.  I knew I was smart, but I lacked a sense of personal vision, and I had absolutely NO wisdom.  I envied his direction through life.  I am still the same person I was, with the same self-irritating lackings.  When I was younger, I wasn’t very strong physically.  I was a scrawny kid, taller than average, and lighter than average.  There were bullies.  I survived by my wits and my strong sense of self-preservation.

Looking back, I was an idiot.  Looking in the mirror, still an idiot, just old.

I also admired the way he treated humans.  He was gentle unless force was called for.  He was soft spoken (except in that awful pilot episode).  He was a team player who demonstrated support for his fellow team mates and respect for authority or rank.  He never lied.  And, he controlled his emotions, except in a few awful episodes.

When I was younger, after I was told how weird, weak, and worthless I was by bullies for the umpteenth time, I looked in that mirror, and I was indeed, weird, weak and worthless. I had experienced depression before, and the bullies triggered it again and again.  Fuckers. I wanted to be more, and better, but I didn’t know how.  I still don’t know how.

I thought getting a college degree would help, but fucked if I could find a career I liked in the field.  I missed, because I decided wrong going into college.  It was a coin flip, I gambled, and lost.  I went back to college and in a different direction, and fucked if I could find a career in the second field I chose to pursue.  I’m old, I’m fucked, and I never figured out a way to get unfucked.

I have grown, though.  While I still appreciate the gentle strength of Spock, more lately I envy the character Gary Mitchell (“Where No Man Has Gone Before”).  Hilariously disrespectful, he even put an “R” on Kirk’s gravestone instead of “T” for Tiberius.  And then the plot leaves him supposedly dead in the grave intended for Kirk, as if he wasn’t quite powerful enough to move the rocks like he tossed aside Kirk’s phaser rifle.  I couldn’t stand that he turned just evil, but I also couldn’t stand that they just presumed he was dead and didn’t pursue that further.  I mean, if he could force-move the mountain to fall onto the top of the grave, if he could force-dig a perfect grave by just disappearing the dirt, then certainly he could force disappear the rocks over his head, or just make himself walk through as floating, or appear above, the dirt.  I hear you.  “Suspend your disbelief, Deon.” Well I can’t.  I don’t want to.  Gary let those people go because they were beneath him and not worth the effort.

Just like my aspirations of lottery-winner status, I have a plan.  If imbued with large sums of cash, I plan to fix my own situation and then see about helping others.  I’ve got quite a lot to fix about myself, which is why I’m hoping for a large jackpot.  I don’t usually bother with buying a ticket for the prizes under $200M.  Somehow I have it in my head that that is the magical barrier to life-changing cash.  But if imbued with incredible cosmic powers I don’t plan to live in a damned oil lamp for sure.  Nor a box made of rocks.

If given incredible cosmic cash flow, there are a few people I’ve thought seriously about telling honestly how I felt about their lack of value to the human race.  A guy who lied and cheated me out of what would then be petty cash, but why bother then?  The companies I worked for who paid so woefully inadequately, but again, why bother then?  It’s not like they’d change. Fuck that, it’s a waste of time.  It’s more worthwhile and personally rewarding to fix my shit and then help other people with their shit in SPITE of monsters like these ass holes.  In fact, TO spite those monsters

If given powers, I would have to really hold them back not to end certain people when they irritated me.  After all, one swats mosquitoes, doesn’t one?  With limited powers, (like a cash prize under $200M) I’d be like the pre-reformed Hancock  Except, why bother fixing a beached whale’s problems?  Why bother stopping a train?  If I could fly over traffic, why help?  People need to figure out they are supposed to be considerate on their own, which is why God gave us a free will and doesn’t force us to help others.  If I could Hancock, but felt that humanity was basically all a bunch of morons, it might be too depressing to bother to intervene.  If I could Gary Mitchell, though (which is like the cash prize of $200M or above), then I might be having some fun.

I loved Spock.  Given his powers, he set the standard for what I aspired to in my life: helpful, team player, respectful of rank, humble, strong enough to fix it if strength was called for, smart enough to figure out anything else, basically  merciful, and in control of his emotions.  I grew up appreciating those values in spite of the many and varied villains-in-real-life.

On days when I feel more normal, I’m fine.  On days when I’m depressed it would be nice to just be in control of my emotions.  But if even Spock struggled, I am fucked.

Unless there’s a cosmic field I can walk through.  I wonder if Gary was depressed after his old friend tried to kill him and maroon him, and maybe that’s why he just stayed in the hole.

I wonder what sum of money it would take for me to become sick of money.  I would like to learn the exact number.  The only lesson I have learned about money in my life thus far is that never having enough to pay bills and live an ordinary, average, American (U.S.) life, sucks dirt.  I’ve said it before, and until I’m put to the test, I’ll say it again:  I’m ready for the test of excess.

Wonder if I’d just go on a bender to end all Benders, or if I could actually do what I daydream of doing with the requisite levels of self control and moderation, even though I’d be free to have that bender…

Alas, Spock is dead.  I suppose when one hero dies, if you go in for such things, a new hero will be selected.  Gary Mitchell’s looking pretty good.  If I had that kind of powers, I’d probably still be an idiot.  I wonder if I’d still have depressive episodes.  I wonder if the trigger would be stupid humans.

The best thing to do with excess money may well be to go incognito.  Wonder if anyone would figure it out.  If Gary Mitchell is dead he was far more puny than he let on.  I need a hero who doesn’t die.

Heavenly Serial

responding to a challenge aptly handled by syd7t5, I’m continuing the story I started after promising it wouldn’t be a serial.  You’ll recall I broke all the rules for submitting a story and then said it wouldn’t be a serial, well I changed my mind because… reasons and inspiration, and I’m exempting myself from all the rules Syd7t5 so neatly submitted to, because I’m special. I’m not really special, I just can’t do really really short stories because I tend to ramble…  It’s because I’m not as good as I wish I was.  If I WAS as good as I wish I was I wouldn’t ramble, I could follow rules while expressing brilliance, and when given rules to follow I wouldn’t say “FUCK THE RULES,” I’d instead admit I’m not really good at following them and then I’d labor laboriously to write something that followed the rules and was of real quality.  Instead, this shit:

Heavenly Serial (or, “Heavenly Cereal,” continued, as “Deal With the Devil”)

“It’s almost lunch time.  Is the dishwasher guy here yet?!”  Mr. G was starting to feel less than gracious, and less full of mercy as the minutes ticked by.  Mr. G was known for episodes of holy wrath and righteous indignation.  Some people accused him of being moody.  So He made a guy named Moody to throw everybody off.  And he also gave Moody a great message to share.  Not everybody got it, but it was a great message, and it was all true.

“We called and he’s on his way.”

“Jesus, can’t anyone up here already fix this thing?”

Jesus said “There’s a guy but he’s off doing contractor work already, I’d hate to pull him off that job.  We’re on deadlines.”  Jesus laughed.  “Get it?!  Dead-lines?”

Mr. G groaned audibly.

B.S., in the basement, couldn’t resist a laugh.

“I thought I told you to shut the hell up?!”

“You did.  I’m sorry.  I’ve got a guy if you want to make a deal.”

“I always hate your deals, B.S.”  Mr G replied.  “But it’s not like I have a lot of options here, unless I want to hand wash all of these.  What’s the deal?”

“It’s crowded down here.  I’ve got lots of contractors down here.  Promise breakers.  Embezzlers.  Liars.  Cheats.  So here’s the deal.  I’ll send you a guy, and you keep him.”

Mr G could hear the smile in B.S.’s voice.  “Oh, all right.  We’ll keep him as long as he wants to stay.  Deal?”

“Deal!!”  In a puff of awful smelling sulfur and methane smoke, who should appear but B.S. himself, in all his devilish glory.  Beside him, cowering, but smiling, was the contractor.  The proper documents were signed, triplicates were made, one on file, one for each of the parties (except the contractor, who was just ecstatic to get out of hell free).

“Jesus, (ugh, he still smells!) take this guy to the kitchen.  AFTER he gets a hot shower.  The SHOWER still works at least!”

Jesus took the contractor to the shower, got him all laundered and pressed and even got those little gauzy booties over his boots, before taking him to the kitchen.  “Can you fix it?  We’re on a deadline.”  Jesus chuckled remembering the joke.

“I heard that joke all the way from hell.  Believe me, it should have probably stayed there.  Let me take a look.”  The plumber climbed into the gargantuan dishwasher, swore so loudly it echoed all over heaven, and started making a racket with tools and tubing and solder.  But, he had the  problem fixed in a jiffy, not taking his usual extra breaks because he was so happy he got into heaven after all the wild, wanton sinning he had done on earth, without so much as a moment of repentance.  He had had a guilty conscience ever since his death.  He climbed out and turned on the dishwasher to test it.  He took a look around the kitchen and dining area, and couldn’t contain how impressed he was with how lovely everything looked.

“Jesus Christ!  This is some of the most beautiful woodworking I’ve ever seen!” said the contractor, whistling approvingly.

Jesus said, “thank you.  I did the work myself.”

“No shit!  All this detail?  I’m impressed.  Even though your hands…”

“Yup.  And I did it all without getting a single splinter.  This is, after all, cedar.  And it is heaven.  So it has to be perfect.”

The contractor looked around trying to find anything out of line.  An angle cut wrong.  A rough edge.  A drop of stain.  Nothing.  “I’ll be damned!” said the plumber.

POOFFF!!!  The plumber appeared back in the basement, right in front of B.S., almost scaring him to death.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!”  yelled B.S.

“What?!” responded Jesus.  “It’s not my fault!  HE said it!”

Mr. G laughed so loud the rafters of heaven rattled.  “Just in time for lunch!  Thanks, B.S.!!”

I Thought the Headache, Congestion & Depression Were Enough

I thought the headache, congestion, and general misery of being sick while being depressed were enough.  I thought I was sick enough.  This is a “normal” cold, I suppose. Without getting graphic, getting the crud OUT of my system is the WORST part of this.  I don’t want the flu, where flu-ids are coming out of EVERY bodily orifice, that’s for sure. So thank God for small favors.

It’s mostly only sinuses and chest congestion.  I had the worst headache over the past 3 days, and I just hurt all over.  Thank God the headache is ALMOST gone.  But today it started coming out, worse than before.  This is SO gross.  I hate being human, isn’t there a better alternative that doesn’t involve being dead?  I’m trying not to be mysophobic, really, but everything that comes out is gross.  If I’m made up of the things that come out…  Hair, sweat, blood, vomit, shit, gas, spit, snot, phlegm, earwax, urine, sperm, and dead skin cells.  And occasionally bits of these broken teeth, although that’s been a while I guess.  All tolled, though…  I. Am. So. Gross.

This morning when I was trying to get out of my house, the snot reached a new high, at least it’s not pneumonia or I might be afraid I was mostly dead.  It just kept coming out, yellowed, sticky, like some kind of choking-me-t0-death mucosal demon that had been cast out, and for me personally, altogether too slowly.  It’s not the cute looking thing on the commercials, ohhh, no.  Strings of it.  You’re probably puking a little.  And now, even this late in the day, there’s vestiges lurking behind my nose, and chunky bits hiding in my lungs waiting their turn in the queue.  I feel them.

I’m sitting at work in an office, I even have to spit discreetly.  And I have to talk to people, which just sucks.  I want to tell them all I don’t care.  I want to tell them all to just shut up.  It’s probably the depression speaking, after all I feel this way about the people I have to talk to every day.  I just don’t like forced interactions with people.  Just leave me the fuck alone.  I don’t mind it when I invite it, but when I don’t, go away.

I want a shower, inside and out, to just wash all of this away.  What the fuck causes a random headache that feels like someone is stabbing my brain and my eyes from the inside, lasts for a while and ceteris paribus (nothing being different) just as randomly quits hurting for a while?

And after my shower, I want a week away from everything, just hibernating at home with my friends.  You know a few of them are on this list:

Oh, and Mrs. M and the kids, as long as they’re doing what they’re supposed to do:  kids can clean the house and vacuum and do laundry, Mrs M can be bringing me steak and wine and ice cream, and otherwise waiting on me, hand and foot and everything in between.  ::raises hands to be out of her way::  “Waiting” is a euphemism for something more graphic.  I’ll let the reader decide whether to speculate. I’ll just say, Mrs. M can choose her euphemism, or indulge my favorites… mmmm.

Like that’s ever gonna happen.  Let the reader know it doesn’t matter how sick I am, I still want Mrs. M’s affections.  Even if she doesn’t indulge my favorite euphemisms.

Faithful readers (are there any?) already know damned well that when I got bored I would be up and cleaning whatever needed cleaning, and fixing that stupid drywall patch.  Given enough time I’d be renting the carpet shampooer too.  And changing the cars’ oil.

I hate hair worst of all.  Not the hair that’s where it’s supposed to be.  The odd hair growing where it shouldn’t, and the hair on the floor.  Can’t. Stand. It.  Because it’s always there, it gunks up the vacuum cleaner on the carpet, and it won’t come up when you sweep, and when you mop, it’s still there staring at you and you have to pick it up to be rid of it.  And tomorrow, when my wife and daughter brush their hair, it’s ba-ack.  Like the demons in Matthew 12:44 or Luke 11:26.  And I didn’t even mention my own hair, which is almost as bad.  What the hell causes the hair to adhere to a bare floor, clinging despite the efforts of a good sturdy broom?!  It’s almost worse than whatever’s in my lungs and sinuses.  Almost.

Pardon me, I have to cough.  And probably spit.  Discreetly.  Sorry.