Fuck, Yeah, It’s Friday!!

Happy Friday, everyone.  I did a few things last night after work that I don’t do enough.  I actually took some time to meet a few friends and we just hung out.  We had a few light snacks that I didn’t provide, we met at a place that wasn’t our houses, and none of us really expects anything except to just hang out and be friends.  We discussed our medications, talked about our writing and other creative adventures and misadventures, and we supported each other.  I haven’t done that in three months, because I have been too far down.  This is the first thing I’ve done since we lost Ulla.

I’m probably premature with a “fuck, yeah, it’s Friday” post, because I don’t  really feel a “fuck, yeah” level of enthusiasm.  But I really want it, so again, if you can’t have it, fake it like hell.  So maybe I’m faking some, but yeah, I have to say I’m glad it’s finally Friday, and maybe I’ll figure out how to do some productive things this weekend, and maybe I can rest a little, too.  I’m 14 or more hours behind on sleep this week and I don’t feel it because the medications are giving me insomnia.  Another thing I did last night was sleep almost six whole hours, after I took some melatonin to fight the insomnia.

I’ve been walking in a haze, mostly  undisguised by the obvious shit in my blog (hey, that’s self-effacing humour, another friendly face I haven’t seen much for the past several months.  Welcome back.)  Sorry for all the shit, readers.  I’ve done my best, and my best sometimes sucks, so if you’re actually reading this, first, thank you for not giving up on me and second, um, sorry for everything again.  The haze may be lifting, but one doesn’t know whether to attribute that to time, or to medication.  The doctor wants to give the credit to medication of course, and it may be helping, but I think time helps us to process life’s events and it has been a little time and a process.

The other thing I did last night was sleep for possibly more than five hours, which I haven’t done all week.  I’m hours behind because insomnia is one of the effects of the medication.  And I’m wondering if this is like a rubber band and it might snap back and force me to sleep to catch up.

If you’ve been experiencing anything like this haze I’m in and out of, I hope you can do the good things more, experience the shit less (my blog notwithstanding), and I pray the weekend leaves you a few good feelings:  peace, patience with yourself (remember, “love is patient.” And “love your neighbor as yourself,” which means we are supposed to love ourselves), success, however limited it may be, and a chance to rest.  And maybe even a good laugh, something I still haven’t done for a long time.

Life events drag us into, and through, the shit.  But through it all I don’t want your events or emotions in response, to blind you to a few things:  You matter.  You are loved.  You are priceless and important and irreplaceable.   I don’t have many aspirations in life, because events keep smashing down and don’t seem to show “any signs that they are slowing.” (thank you, Willie Wonka and Roald Dahl).  But if I have an aspiration it is this:  I want to be a n encouraging force in your life, and I want you, in spite of and to thumb your noses or give a great big flying free bird to, life’s events, to do life as successfully and as happily as you can.  And I want you to share whatever that experience is, and vent, and share happiness, in your blogs.  Be you, and I’m praying you find all good things.  And when you don’t, we can cry together.  In my little get together, I shared my tribute poem with my friends and I pray they all get it.  And I pray you do too.

Here is the link to the poem I shared last night.  It’s to you too.




Escaping My Clutches

Escaping My Clutches, 9/28/2016, Deon Mumple

She keeps trying to escape my clutches,
Not realizing, not thinking,
That there, right there, happiness
Is ours for the taking.

Held, firmly, securely, skin to skin,
That’s where I want her,
And she hides, as if it were a sin,
To enjoy the surrender,

Flirting, teasing, it goes back and forth
Sadly, I notice less back,
Escaping, hiding, behind invisible doors
Fortified against attack.

But that smile sometimes still crosses her lips…
Sometimes when stars sweetly align
I’m caught in drunken delight, from tiny sips
Craving more fruit from that vine

After what feels like a drug addict’s fix,
I wait, wish, and hope, for more,
Feeling love and rage and wanting, mix
She’s the one my heart beats for.

Writing in the Morning

There’s not enough time.  After two hours of sleep Tuesday morning I forgot to take my meds yesterday, so that was a fun one.  I was pretty tired but managed to not do enough at work, and not accomplish as much as I wanted at home and out at a social/volunteer obligation I basically let other people do most everything and I watched and only carried a few things instead of actually working.  After the not-doing-much at the event I finally ate some chicken chili in a moment between nausea waves, and fell asleep.

So what’s the cure for my insomnia?  Insomnia!  Hooray.

Except it just makes me feel the rage until I can go to sleep.  This is just a side effect of actually taking the meds, but I’m hoping that’ll stabilize after a few days of taking them.  I may be seeing you at 3 Thursday morning, but I’m sorry to confess, I hope I don’t.  It’s not you.  It’s me.  I like sleep, at least sometimes.

I don’t want to write in the morning.  I want to write at work but they’re flexing their security muscles and I can’t do anything extra at work.  I can’t even visit some sites I need to visit to help the clients, because they’re blocked.  It’s over the top, but I understand if lazy fuckers at work aren’t meeting their productivity goals and they’re spending all day streaming cat pictures on Pinterest and looking for another job because the one they have sucks.  I’m waiting for the employer to realize that restricting me doesn’t improve my productivity. It only makes work more stressful because being able to play some Led Zeppelin at lunch just relieves the tension, and being able to blog at lunch and breaks improves my productivity by relieving my stress from the customers.

I marvel at the stupidity.  You’re supposed to be working, and you’re watching a fucking movie online on the company computer.  Not a 3 or 4 minute song on Youtube, but a movie.  Or, you’re chatting up your friends on fakebook.  And you do just enough work to make it look like you’re working, but you’re not working so I get the honor of working harder to carry your fucking weight, and they underpay me for it because I’ve been at the company longer than you, but somehow you make more than I do.

Corporate America, you’re all fucking idiots if you can’t figure out what the difference between a little stress relief between tasks, and professional loafing, is.  If I’m making my goals, meeting my numbers, every day, I’m not the problem.  If you had people who actually supervised people, instead of people who fail at micromanagement of employees in an attempt to squeeze that last drop of blood out of the rocks, you might see the one who is stressing out and needs a little break from helping everyone and carrying the loafers’ loads, and you might notice the ones who are busy “like-“ing their friends cat pictures and watching fucking MOVIES on the company computer on the company time.

So I have to write this in the morning instead of as a stress reliever during the day it’s a stressor while I try to squeeze out the creativity (such as it is, not very creative-feeling, sorry readers) before I have to run out to work for the corporate idiots.  We’ll see what happens with the new restrictions.  Maybe it’s temporary.  Or maybe it’ll actually make the people who hopefully can’t watch the movies and go to fakebook at work, fucking WORK.

I suppose I should be grateful.  Thanks, boss.  But while I struggle to adjust because it’s change and I really hate change, it’s very stressful.  And if I have stress and rage and insomnia and rage, I might have to strangle the ladies social club that now talks more during the day about their family and their family criminals  and their medical issues and their pets, because they can’t vent that on fakebook like they used to.  They talk and talk, and when they’re on their phones I just wish I had high cubicle walls and a door I could shut to seal myself off from their noise, because I can’t yell at the chatty chats, but I wish I could

I wish they would SHUT THE FUCK UP!!

End of rant, I’m off to have fun at the office.  Hooray.

I hope in spite of corporate, and the general American, stupidity, that you all have a great day.  Maybe someone will get a raise or a promotion.  If you do, tell fakebook, and if you tell me, I promise to not be in a jealous rage.  Meh.  It doesn’t matter. Tell me, because you probably deserve it.  But if you work in my office, SHUT THE FUCK UP, I DON’T WANT TO HEAR YOU BRAG.

Fuck You, Monday.

I hate Monday.  I’m sorry, Monday, but it’s your own damned fault.  On Mondays there are more heart attacks than any other day of the week.  Clearly, Monday is a stressor that it would be better to avoid altogether.  Sure, there’s speculation that alcohol consumption may contribute to causality of the heart attacks.  But I call Monday out.  Monday, you suck.
Ending the weekend, having to go back to shitty jobs, repeating the cycle of hopelessness and thankless grief, it’s a wonder more of our hearts don’t just give up.  Fuck you, Monday.  I want an extra day that offers rest and peace and hope.  Many of us don’t even really get that on the weekends any more, hence the alcohol consumption.  Because if you can’t get rest and peace and hope, pretend like hell.  Alcohol is a central nervous system depressant, offering an illusion of happiness to us.  At least, the illusion of stress relief.

Monday is almost over.  In 10 minutes the whole thing is over.  But before it goes away and I go into the insomnia of Tuesday morning, let me just say again, fuck you, Monday.

According to recent data, Wednesday is  the most common day for suicides, so Wednesday, fuck you, too.  I hate you for friends who decide to quit and I don’t even care if they quit on Wednesdays.  I hate you almost as much as Monday, but you’re not getting me, you grim fucker.

I love the next song, in spite of myself.  Or maybe it’s just that voice.  Maybe it’s the faith and hope of the stories the song tells, I hope those stories are actually true.  Someone do the research, I can’t.  I want it to be true.

I mean, that voice, these lyrics:

What I hate most of all is death in general.   Fight that shit, people.  Let’s all fight it together.

It’s Tuesday morning, I’m hanging between possibly the two most grim days of the week, with stress ahead of me today that probably exceeds the stress of Monday morning.  Fuck.  But damn it, I’m going to fight.

The show must go on.

Get Down the Words and Expose the Context

Young Miss M enjoyed “The Get Down,” Netflix series about the origins of hip hop, so she introduced me to the show.  It’s a love story, mixed with politics, religion, crime, drugs, music,  complications, family conflicts, hero worship, role models, and dreams.

I’ll let you decide for yourselves if you like it.  I actually liked the story line of the show except for observing one tiny little thing.  By doing it, the writer played everyone for chumps, unless they noticed it.

This show was about the origins of hip hop and disco musical styles starting back in the 70s.  It only had six episodes, set in New York, and Netflix is rumoring they’re going to cancel it.  Or they’re cancelling it, depends on who you read it from.

The show has a brilliant cast including Daveed Diggs, the world’s fastest rapper, from Alexander Hamilton fame whose voice was apparently dubbed in for no reason I can figure out, Will Smith’s kid, and a great soundtrack.  There’s a climactic performance by a girl in a church and a guy confronting another guy for stealing music, and the score blends the two events perfectly.   You can see it unless Youtube removes it, here:

I’m honestly surprised they’re pulling the plug on the show.  Or maybe they’re just thinking Netflix was a good starter medium, but not suitable for long-term profitability for the continuation.

Everything on the whole show was great.  She sang the stuff that sounded like a devotional on John 8:38.  And then she sang something else.  You can defend the lyrics as technically biblical, inasmuch as they are a direct quotation of Isaiah 14.  But I found that quote disturbing, and I was surprised the character of the pastor wasn’t shouting over the lyrics for his daughter to stop singing.  Here’s why:

Isaiah 14:14-  “I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will make myself like the Most High.”

Sounds great, right?  Not so much.  The quote of Isaiah revealed the pride of Satan himself. And the following verse, in that prophetic weird way of telling something that has happened, is happening, and will happen, until the final event, spoke of his downfall.  In selecting the verse, the writer either revealed something about the character of the singer, or the writer reveals something about the foolishness, or the ignorance, of his general audience, and it’s played out like an inside joke.

We’re the fools if we listen to things like this and just think, “oh, that’s nice, look at the pretty girl singing in her daddy’s church.”  If you want to know if something is truth, you have to take it apart, analyze carefully, hold it up against a standard of truth, and see if it matches or not.

I can’t “make myself like the Most High.”

I can’t make myself like the Most High, but Satan has been telling everyone that lie since the very beginning.  Consider Genesis 3, especially verse 5.  It’s the exact same lie, and there it is mixed in with a little bit of faith or truth in the song.  In Genesis Satan allowed Eve to mix in her little extra additions to the truth, and then caused her to doubt.  In life he does the same  thing to us, and look at the mess.  Prideful people who think they’re righteous and God is on their side, who are no different, and no better, than the Pharisees of Jesus’ earthly days.  They have no real love for people when push comes to shove.  They’re out for themselves.

And, truth?   They’ll sell you a lie for a buck, and send you on your way to eternity, separated from God and you’re still blind to it, thinking you’re going to be just fine.  There is a standard of truth, and Christ followers are supposed to speak that in love.  You can’t have one or the other and be all right. You have to have both.  Without the truth, all you think is that you’re well loved and you’re fine.  We love those pastors but if I’m fine and God loves me but doesn’t need me to work at getting better, why would Jesus say I needed to “repent” or “follow?”  Without the truth, why do we need their message?  Without the love, you think there’s no hope because all you hear about is how your sins condemn you.  We hate those churches because they hated us first, and they think they’re righteous, just like the pastor on “The Get Down” actually hated his brother (see the other , good and true verse from the song, here.) .

People love to quote John 3:16, and that’s all well and good.  But just like the verse from the song, there’s an important context.  Here, Jesus speaks:

11 Very truly I tell you, we speak of what we know, and we testify to what we have seen, but still you people do not accept our testimony. 12 I have spoken to you of earthly things and you do not believe; how then will you believe if I speak of heavenly things? 13 No one has ever gone into heaven except the one who came from heaven—the Son of Man. 14 Just as Moses lifted up the snake in the wilderness, so the Son of Man must be lifted up, 15 that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him.”

16 For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. 17 For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him. 18 Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already because they have not believed in the name of God’s one and only Son. 19 This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light because their deeds were evil. 20 Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed. 21 But whoever lives by the truth comes into the light, so that it may be seen plainly that what they have done has been done in the sight of God.

We do what we do.  It’s not like God doesn’t know about it.  Old habits die hard, and some old habits feel good.  They may even feel right.  It doesn’t make them right.  It’s because we all sin and because we can’t make ourselves like the Most High that we need faith in the One who can make us better than we can make ourselves.

2 Corinthians 5:
17 Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! 18 All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: 19 that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. 20 We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God. 21 God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.

Be careful when you choose what to believe is acceptable, and be careful when you choose what you think is truth.  If your truth is mixed up with lies, you’re like the sad rodent whose grain and sugar are mixed with strychnine.  Be careful who you trust.  Or you may get played for a chump.  I told my daughter where the verse came from and she’s pondering what it means.  And now I’ve told you, and I hope you’ll give it some thought too.


Oh, fuck!  It’s another edition of Math Language Dissection, affectionately pronounced here as Mouldyyy. It just sounds worse and worse, doesn’t it?  RUN!  RUN AWAY!!

That’s right, if you can’t be manic, pretend like hell.  Maybe someone will believe it and let you go home from school early.  Or work.  It never actually works for me.  I have to ask, beg, plead, petition, pray, call in favors, and pay for it on the next workday , twice as hard.

I’m not a doctor but I’d play The Doctor on that show in a heartbeat.  Fuck, yeah.  I’d even shave my entire face for the role.  And that’s saying something because I fucking hate to shave.  And I also don’t think I like running much, unless it’s running jokes.  Oh, sidetracks, how I adore and detest you.  Fucking ADD (speaking of a running joke).

On the plus side, I remembered something.  What was it again?   Oh yeah, I was going to do something about a homophone.  On the negative side, this isn’t the homophone I was looking for.  Fucking Jedi mind tricks.  They supposedly only work on the weak minded…  Um…  Nevermind.  Ha, “Never  Mind.”  Well, when you either never had one or you lose yours, it’s a pretty easy thing.

I still can’t remember the two original homophones I wanted to write about, damn it.  It was a long time ago, but I remember I was going to write about these two phones that loved each other.  There was a picture at the top of this amusing and possibly informative article that made me remember homophones, written by Marc Elliott, but … Um…nevermind, no, that’s not what it was.  Ok, for you people who aren’t in grammar school any more (some of you may be in Grandma school), homophones are words that sound the same but possibly have different spellings and definitely (or definition-ally) have different meanings.

plural noun: homophones
  1. each of two or more words having the same pronunciation but different meanings, origins, or spelling, e.g., new and knew.
    • each of a set of symbols denoting the same sound or group of sounds.

Thanks, Google.

And damn it, I’m not forgetting this time, because this time when it popped into my head, I wrote the words down before I started writing the rest of this article: Calculus.

Calculus: from Latin calculus, literally “small pebble used for counting.”  Thanks, Wikipedia.  The same article goes on to describe Calculus the way those old fashioned anti-drug people used to describe marijuana:  it’s a gateway to divergence into far worse kinds of maths.  And, if you like doing maths like some people like to do drugs, Calculus was the little pebble in your brain that started you down the path toward your personal nightmare of addition to maths, and either you’ll love the Wikipedia article, or you contributed material or a reference or two.  You know who you are.  If this describes you, get help somewhere, and if you don’t, the anti-maths people are planning to join together and stage an interval-vention.  Because a mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Don’t start unless you’re prepared to face the inevitable con-sequences:  Calculus is like a rock in your head that acts as a gateway to further rocks in your head.  Damn, my mum was right, I DO have rocks in my head!

Calculus is a homophone for Calculous, an adjective that describes teeth that have tartar, or (another homophone) calculus, (see also, homonym (where two nyms love each other, right?)) built up and tightly attached to them.  Scary, isn’t it?

Didn’t I tell you to fucking run?!

One kind of calculus is when you suffer from a hard, irritating, slow buildup that can occur over time and period-ically requires a doctor to intervene and help you understand how best to handle it.  And the other is a serious dental problem.  Both are problems requiring a solution.

Yeah, probably the best solution is to scrape all that off, no matter which calculus you suffer from.  Oh, shit.  I just realized, they’re kind of the same  thing, aren’t they?

Never mind.

Waiting for You to Write

I don’t want to confess that I’m an obsessed fan.  But I’m an obsessed fan.  I love your blogs.  I love your writing, I love your heart and your soul.  On some days, that is.  On some days I wait, hoping you will write, say anything, even if you think it isn’t good.  On some days I watch for you, encouraged that you’ve popped your head out even just for a few minutes, to say something to the world.  I don’t even care if you’re saying, “I hate the world, I hate everything, I hate you, fuck off.”  It means you’re alive and I’ve felt your presence another day.  It must be true because I miss you when you don’t post.

Sometimes all I want to say to the world is “I hate the world, I hate everything, I hate you inasmuch as you are part of the everything, fuck off.”  There are days when the drama of my family, and the awfulness of work, and the busy of the things that have to be done and the wishing I could do what I want to get done, is just so maddening, it’s better to say nothing to them so I say it here instead because I want to get it out before it poisons me more.  There are days when I’m so shelled over, or so shell-shocked by life’s events, or so forced-to-be-busy that I don’t write.  And so I understand when you want to be left alone.  Me and Pieces of Bipolar were discussing the whole brilliant actor thing and the Garbo quote came up.  I want to be *left* alone, but I don’t want to *be* alone.  I want to be left alone with you.

There are days when your words, your heart, your spirit, seem so strong that I read your words and I feel your courage.  The word courage is one of my favorites, coming from the French root Cour-, which means heart.  (and then the other thing I like, which has nothing to do with word origins, is that it contains the word -rage.  I know it isn’t right, but when I see the word in there, it validates the feeling.

There are days when your words are so broken, your heart is so fragile, that I just want to wrap my arms around you and give you a hug and pray over you.  When you remember the bad things that happened in your past, when you tell me about current events, I cry with you and you never see the tears.  I want the very best for you but I know that this life is broken.  Because I know how badly *my* life is broken.

When I started this blog I wanted to vent the rage and the sadness and started tracking my mood swings and I wanted to offer encouragements and validations.  And you’ve welcomed me in spite of the frequent bitch-and-moan.  There are days when my heart is broken, when my life is so broken, and your comments and replies, even on other blogs threads, make me smile even if I can’t laugh.  Some days I reread some of my blogs and they’re boring and repetitive.  I’m just surprised people have read it and then kept reading.  I wanted to vent the frustrations of daily life, and if I happened to have a happy thought I wanted to share those with you.

Flashback to Peter Pan.  I can’t fly because I think about how hard life is and I don’t have any pixie dust.  I still hate the fight, and question all the time why it’s so hard to just live and next to impossible to feel anything I think normal should feel like.  I want that normal so bad.  I want it for me, and also for you.  But when I see that you’re still here, fighting it out, grasping depths of courage you didn’t know you had, even if you don’t necessarily feel successful, or normal, I have my happy thought.

It’s you.