I got up today.  I’m not ready for work and I have a short time to write, which I should be using to get myself ready to leave.  The dishes are in the sink, waiting.  They’ll be there when I get home.  I can’t express how much I hate my job.  I don’t hate my life.  I only hate my job, my things I can’t afford to fix that need fixing, that people don’t do what I want, having to do housework while listening to the family complain about having to do housework…

Went to the doctor yesterday.  She says it seems like I’m on track.  I didn’t ask her about a few things I should have brought up.  I’m still depressed, but I want desperately to be on an upward wave.  And maybe I am.  I’m writing, aren’t I?  Work was a trigger this week.  Fucking stupid.  I’m being sold a company line that basically prevents me from getting a raise or a promotion.  So I’m depressed.  I don’t want to find another job, I want this one to care about me.  And my manager says she does, and in some ways acts like she does, but when it comes down to reality, she doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself.  And she finds ways of blaming me for her indifference, just like my previous manager.

My check engine light will be on when I turn the key this morning.  I took it to one of those quick-stop places and had them read the code.  It’s some kind of sensor.  But I also need new tires, and my gas cap sensor is also not registering correctly, because I tighten it and it says it’s loose.  And then the engine is starting to run roughly, and I need a tune up.  Or something.  And it’s going to be on until I can afford to fix it.  So I like my car, but I don’t like not being able to afford to fix it.

I admit it.  I’m selfish.  I want my family to care about me.  I want my job to care about me.  I want to be able to afford normal things:  a more frequent date night.  car repairs.  an occasional steak.

Since my job doesn’t care about me, I’ll be looking for a new one.  But I hate doing that.  It means interviewing, trying to explain why I’ve stayed 10 years at a job where they don’t give a shit and I haven’t made any strides in advancing my career, and why do I want to do something different, and what do I want to do?  I don’t fucking have a clue.  I wish I knew what I wanted to do for a career, besides writing.

I want to write and get paid for writing, but I want to write what I want to write.  I don’t mind assignments, but I want to be free to write anything about whatever the assignment is.  And no one wants that, that I know of.  I want to work on my novel, but I can’t quit my job and harness that energy to write the novel, because we’d be homeless and foodless and naked before it might start making any money, and instead of everyone commending my stamina and patience, they’d be calling me reckless and irresponsible.

I’m even selfish about my reputation, see?

So I’m going to that job, I’m going to do my best because I value my reputation, and I’m going to earn a half a day’s pay for a full days hard work.  Because  even if they don’t care about me, I’m going to get everything I can do, done.

If I were deeper in depression, I might decide to stay home, but I don’t want any attendance issues.  So I hope the car starts.

Have as good a day as possible.  It doesn’t matter what other people think of you.  It matters if you take pride in doing the best you can.  I’ll try to keep believing that, instead of playing the personality games and sucking up that I KEEP seeing people do at my job.  Those are the ones who are earning enough.

Anyone hiring a writer who can stay in the bunker and just research and write?  I’ll write for fifty cents a word.  I’ve written for a little less money in the past.  But that was only part time.  I need something I can do full time.

The Symbolic Nature of Breakfast

Holy crap, I’ve missed you.  Sometimes, there’s just a little bit too much life and a little too little control.  And in advance, I’m sorry, it’s the best I’ve got.  I could be writing about how on the show Criminal Minds, I was watching an episode where flight 420 crash landed in Colorado.  It’s on Netflix  That made me laugh. Flying from Pittsburgh to Phoenix.  It’s brilliant writing, because of the whole significance of the 420 movement, and its’ centrality to Colorado, legalizing marijuana.  But not only that.  The geographies are amusing, also because the first letters would be PCP, and I don’t think the writers of A Thousand Suns were indeliberate about that.  My favorite part of it was that the plane crash was a work of fiction, and no one actually died.  I hate the news, because it’s grim and gritty and real life and death.  It doesn’t entertain me at all.

I WAS home last night trying to detox myself from the shit nature of yesterday.  The only good thing that happened wasn’t good:  I did the dishes before I had to go to work.  Thereafter, work just generally sucked ass.  After work it was coaxing the kids to do anything while doing it myself because it has to get done.  Then I did one of two required social gatherings for the week, basically trying not to interact too much with anyone.  Finally, Mrs M. made me run an errand that really shouldn’t have been necessary.  Sure, honey, I’ll go undo what you shouldn’t have done in the first place.

So I fixed it.  And while fixing it, I decided I should write about

The Symbolic Nature of Breakfast.

Breakfast is symbolic to me, and not just because I almost never seem to make it. = Breakfast is revered by some, as the most important meal of the day, including WebMD.  I don’t eat breakfast usually, settling for a cup or two of coffee, and waiting until lunch.  In the morning, I usually wake up irritable and nauseous.  Oh wait.  I’m irritable and nauseous more than just in the morning.  Nausea can come any time of day or night.  I get the whole pitching, yawing stomach, belching, thinking whether I’m going to puke, any time of the day.  And irritable?  I start out at a slightly irritated level, a kind of baseline. Then add having to face family, chores no one else seems to be willing to help with, traffic, work, more fucking traffic, and then home.  Add to that the idiots on the news:  politics, pedophiles, perpetrators, and occasionally, physicians, and my stress and irritation levels are pretty well set, and then set off.  Mrs M loves the news, I swear, she turns it on and then ignores it, maybe tuning in for weather and traffic, while I sit being traumatized by the shitty way people treat each other in the world and the gleeful or fucking bright and cheery way the news people talk about that.  But that’s not   breakfast’s fault.  I actually love breakfast, it’s just that in the morning I don’t want anything because of the nausea, exacerbated by the nauseating news, the sinus drainage, the sneezing fit, the urge to go to the bathroom that comes just in time to make me late, or almost late, for work, that hits me every day when I have to go to work, and never when I don’t have to.  Breakfast, to me, is a symbol of my control over life.

For that realization, I understand why I love breakfast, when I can manage to make time for it.  Waffles, or pancakes, or biscuits, eggs cooked almost any way, those breakfast meats, maybe some fruit preserves on toast, coffee, juice…  If I wasn’t already nauseated this morning I might be hungry.  Western Europe does it right.  There’s something called English Breakfast, and Scotland and Ireland have something like it. Go on and click that, and look at those images. It’s amazing, except for the black “pudding” or “sausage.”  Ew.  I just don’t like anything done with blood, that’s gross.  You can call that anything you want, and I still won’t like it. But aside from that, an English breakfast is beautiful and looks delicious.  That would take some time to eat.  A lot of time for me.  I’m a slow eater.

On any given workday, I have a cup of coffee.  It’s black and bitter and delicious if I’m awake enough to taste it.  Today I ground the Kenya, it’s the best bean in the world, but my stomach is literally spasming for some reason, I’ll call it a symptom of some mild stress.  I got through the sneezing, I think, but I still have the sinus drainage.  I guess I had a small margin of control this morning because I was awake and alert enough to want the good coffee and not the normal everyday crap.  I might get hungry around 10 or 10:30 but usually by that time I’m in the workday and don’t get a break long enough for much.  So I might eat a bagel or have a yogurt.  Again, symbolic of my lack of control over life.  The less control, the smaller breakfast.  Breakfast is a literal metaphor.

Most days it’s the daily crap because if I have to get to work I’ve usually struggled to get up, get the wife and kids shoved out the door, maybe get a chore or two or three done, and then run my own ass out to work.  There’s no time to enjoy anything, and then, traffic, and then, work.  Hooray!  (?)

They try, in the fast food world, to offer people control.  If you have money you can grab anything from a breakfast sandwich or croissant to a full breakfast with pancakes, to go.  I admit, that although I can’t eat french fries, I love hash browns.  So if it’s a leisurely kind of day, but I’m forced to go somewhere, if Mrs. M arm twists me to go somewhere, like to visit the in-laws, I get a whim and want that sausage and egg biscuit, or even the “big breakfast” that includes pancakes.  I ask Mrs. M to drive, so I can eat.  And sip my coffee slowly.

On a weekend, Sundays I might have a cinnamon roll with my coffee, because I want to go to church and don’t have time for more, but it’s sweet.  On a Saturday, though, I want the time and control to have the big breakfast, and I’m usually the cook.  So either eggs or waffles or pancakes or biscuits and home made gravy or preserves.  Control.  Sweet, delicious control.  I have time to relax and eat at a nice leisurely pace and enjoy everything that’s good about breakfast.  Maybe even grits.

When I go out to eat, once in a very blue moon, so blue it’s purple (not just because that’s my favourite colour, but because it’s how rare that happens), if there’s breakfast on the menu I’ll order that.  Again, it’s a demonstration of my control over life.  I have a little extra money, life is good enough I can actually go out to eat, for fuck’s sake, and then I have the time to sit and enjoy breakfast and maybe a pleasant conversation.

If I had the money and time, I might never miss breakfast.  I might have an English breakfast in England.  Naaah!  Who am I kidding?  I hate traveling.  It’s too stressful.  I wonder how long it would take after getting there before I relaxed enough to eat breakfast. If you can eat breakfast, have something for me.  Sit there a while if you can.  Look out at the sunrise, and enjoy the leisure.  Appreciate the small measure of your control over your life.  Maybe, for breakfast dessert, have a fruit cocktail.  With some whipped cream, because whipped cream represents the ultimate, decadent, fully awesome, control over one’s life.

I need to get to work.


“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss,”
Just ran a revolution but you’ve lost
Because you haven’t  yet count the cost

Deluded, you still think you’ve won.

My whole life’s carefully been invested, spent
Slowly trying to make a dent
Because change always, always, takes a toll
It’s less when we’re more in control
Explosions and notions  in motion
Need to remember their purpose, their soul.

Father, forgive, we don’t know what we’ve done.

Now you’ve got your change,
Say your world looks strange,
And as I expected the world you disrespected
Didn’t turn out quite as good as you predicted;
You insisted, but you missed it, it twisted,

The rocket crash landed, spun.

You like the chaos, disorder, confusion?
Then you are rightly your father’s children:
Your promised greatness, Utopian illusions,
Are exposed, as conditions just worsen.

Now you choose who to do right by,
But to me, you turn a blind eye-
You still look down on me, from the outside,
The “truth” you wanted to believe, lied.

And I bet, when things finish adjusting,
And turn out to be the same thing,
You’ll still be blaming

Someone else for what you‘ve done,

With your guns, and your words,
What you’ve heard,
Argumentum absurd-

um, you desperately believe
What you want to believe in.
Just because you want it to be
True, doesn’t make it not sin.
You’ve left me, undeservedly
Molested, left with even less

Than the less I really had,
The progress and success I should have
As over time, I’ve earned it, you’ve stolen
What I’ve worked for and still don’t have yet
You’re deluded, lie-blinded and can’t find
Or see truth, enraged, destructive, sad.
Deception’s a drug making you a crazed thug, quite mad,
Selfishly claiming that my struggle wasn’t as bad,

Because I respected, and waited, and labored,
And now even more, I’m still waiting, working,
Praying, delaying, dreaming and searching
For my tangible dreams, not your illusions,
Opportunities that you presumed
Were somehow always mine for the taking
But denied from you.  That was never true, breaking
The rules of rights and wrongs I  always had to follow.
You’ve left us all with emptiness.  We’re hollow.

Because you never saw my real reality
Believing your illusion, presumptuously
Seeing something that was never there
You were the only one you ever cared
About, don’t doubt, but it’s been completely clear to me

Our skin’s just as thin
As previous generations
The blanket generalizations
You hate, primarily when
You think one’s being unfairly applied to you
Are equally harmful and untrue
When you use them to lie about me, social spin,

I never had the future handed to me,
But you delusionally
Claimed the one to blame was me,
When I only wanted us to help each other succeed

The hate gets taught, passed down, inherited,
The ignorance, selfishness, destructiveness,
Despair that brings desperation, hopelessness, stress,
Will we always lose?  Our bruised eyes, blinded
Bleeding everyone out, until we are all dead?
We did it to ourselves, and we’re disappointed,

When we could, easier, have worked, and assisted,
Each other, and instead, resisted all
Our selfish ambition, lies yelling in our heads.
It’s coming, a “new” thing, and when we are dying,
Regretfully crying, finally realizing,
The same old strategies still aren’t working,
There’s nothing new happening,

Still thinking others should be carrying our cross,
Destroying, and stealing, not paying the costs.
“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss,”
When we hand the world down, after we’ve lost,

To our rightfully disillusioned, disappointed daughters and sons.

Roped and Tied

Damned jumping cursor stupid loser used laptop bullshit, another reason I hate writing in the morning but I have to do it now or I can’t vent. Wish me luck writing anything, readers (oh wait, haven’t got any of those! Well, when I finish writing I’ll read it, that counts as one.

I broke the espresso carafe from our 20+ year old shitty little espresso machine months ago and so of course today Mrs M wanted espresso when I had gotten up way too fucking early and brewed the coffee for us. It’s her shitty little way of reminding me that I’m never, ever, good enough. Or maybe that’s depression-speak. But I hear her loud and clear when she does that shit. So I stood up to brew the espresso and couldn’t find the fucking arm with the coffee basket, she looked and couldn’t find it either. She accused me of throwing it away in a fit of rage. I wanted to retreat because I didn’t want to say anything. All I felt was rage because I couldn’t find it, because she couldn’t find it, because she was snarky about it, because whenever I do something, anything, she finds a way of minimizing my accomplishment and suggesting, or outright asking, if I would do just a little more, just a little more, just a little more until I realize I can’t do whatever it is, and then I swear she’s smug about her superiority and my re-broken spirit. Fuck. It’s because I’m roped and tied. I don’t really want to escape, because when it’s good it’s good. But when it sucks it really sucks.

If I weren’t a loser I’d be able to accomplish shit, I’d have replaced the damned espresso carafe or the whole machine, I’d be able to keep up with the normal things-fall-apart of life and I’d know how to fix things.  If I weren’t such a loser I wouldn’t have to put up with second-hand shit because I’d have enough money to just get a new _________.  But I’ve never made enough money, and for seasons I just give up and say “fuck it,” and we fall another few thousand behind from where we should be financially.  This is why, when the lottery drawing gets big enough for me to just fucking quit everything and everybody, I daydream about actually having enough.  And if I can scrape up enough, I buy a damn ticket.  And then someone wins that buttload of money, and I wish it had been me.

Young Miss M will soon start driving and want a car for herself, mine is already shitty, rusting, leaking rainwater into the floor carpets from somewhere,  and didn’t want to start the other day, fucking check engine light is on but the last time I checked it was a sensor that cost just over $100, and I just put almost a thousand we didn’t have into Mrs. Ms car, so I don’t have it to spend on my car, or Miss M’s wished-for car.

I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t HAVE to accept the second hand, the hand-me-downs, the used car, the shitty old third-hand low-tech phone Mrs M got for herself, gave to Miss M, then transferred to me.  I can’t remember a time when I was just able to afford to fix shit or replace shit or just call the guy to fix or replace shit.  Or buy it new.  I go through seasons when second hand is adequate, acceptable, maybe even a fortunate find.  And then I go through seasons when I feel entirely dissatisfied with the used, broken down, old shit and I want more, different, better.

Our carpets are original to our second-hand home, and they have stains the carpet shampooer we rented and I got to use on it yay, lightened, but didn’t actually remove.  Our garbage disposal was leaking so we had it taken out and the sink plumbed without one.  Another sink is currently plugged and very slow, which tells me it’s hair, which Mrs M denies getting in there, and Miss M says “I don’t like that bathroom,” so obviously it isn’t hers either.  Young Mr. M and I both have short hair, but sure, it’s me.  I clogged the sink.

I need a few weeks off from work, and I think it would be nice to just rent the 25 foot yacht in the fucking Bahamas after the current hurricane passes (see also a prior rant) because 25 feet ought to be enough, right? and let a work crew come to the house, replace the carpet, fix the plumbing, clean the house top to bottom, and while we’re at it, have someone pick up the brand fucking new cars for everyone and park them in the six-car garage and take these used clunkers to auction off, stock the refrigerator, and the liquor cabinet, and have the limo pick us all up at the airport.

Well, because the last paragraph isn’t my present reality, I need to get my ass to work.  But for a quick second or two, that was a lovely daydream.  Except it’s Mrs M’s daydream and I got roped in and tied up in it again because that’s what she would want to do.  What I would want to do is hibernate in a posh hotel for two or three weeks and order room service, or go out for steaks, and maybe go shopping for a brand new posh laptop while the crew comes to fix the shit in the house and pick up our new cars.  And buy us a new fucking espresso machine.  Because even if I was rich, I wouldn’t pay the current prices for a fucking cup of coffee.

Who Needs a Doctor?

Sorry, pastor, your sermon was great, but blah blah blah.  The whole worship service made me think about my friends here in the blogging community.  There they stood, playing and singing and celebrating, but the songs made me cry, remembering Ulla and her early departure, and my other friends who suffer chronic depression or bipolar or cyclothymia or other mental health issues or chronic pain.  And maybe I was worshipping God, but more I was praying for my friends and wishing that my heart’s cry for my friends would be answered.  Healing.  Relief.

Then you started talking.  There you were, properly preaching a sermon about something something something, time management, life management, making sure our lives are spiritually centered, yeahwhatever, and all I got was upset because one of the texts you chose didn’t translate clearly and didn’t make sense to me until I figured out the crop that was being planted.  It was about plowing, but you don’t plow unless you’re ready to plant.  Took me a while to realize that what was being planted (in Proverbs 20:4) was a grain, like wheat, that gets planted in the Fall and harvested after the Winter.  So that’s all I got from your sermon, sorry.  That verse in Proverbs, if it was properly translated about plowing in Autumn, was probably about a farmer planting grain for bread or toasting.  All my brain thought of until I figured it out was that crops are planted in Spring for a Fall harvest, arrrggghhh, we lose so much understanding of texts when we don’t live that way.  I’m suburban and I work in the city.  I never even detasseled the corn, whatever that is.  Thank God I’m a curious baker, or I’d never have known about winter wheat.  ::Warning:  Detour Ahead::  Wheat grows harder, with more protein, in the cold northern winters, and it makes excellent bread.  Wheat grows softer, with less protein, in the milder southern winters, and it makes excellent biscuits.  One plants it in the Fall, hopes for one or two really hard frosts or snows, and harvests it in the Spring.  ::End Detour::

All I’m saying is if I had half the brain everyone else thinks I have, I’d have remembered it and moved on before the end of the message.

After the message was over, you started talking about the girl who tried to commit suicide, and we prayed.  I have no idea what you prayed about.  Did you pray for her, or for her parents?  Not a clue.  I wept again.  For the girl.  For my friends here who suffer.  And last, for me.  And I prayed, while everyone else was praying for either the girl or the family or whatever-the-fuck treatment place they’re sending her after she gets out of the hospital to all be successful, because we love success stories.

And if they weren’t just praying for the girl and the parents, fuck them.  Fuck EVERYONE who just wants the success.  It isn’t about SUC-FUCKING-CESS.  It’s about really understanding that girl.  I wept because NO ONE UNDERSTANDS UNLESS THEY LIVE IT.  I can’t think of a really good comparison or a nice pat allegory that fits.  The closest thing is a bird trying to help a fish out of water.  The fish is smothering, can’t breathe, and the bird is doing everything:  therapy, giving it medication, right up to ECT, I mean defibrillation, and the whole time the fish is still dying the bird doctor and all the other birds don’t understand that the fish can’t fucking breathe because the environment isn’t conducive to their life.  Except I don’t really know if it’s the environment that’s hurting us, or if it’s the birds trying to peck us fish back to life.  Or eat our wallets… I mean eat us alive.  I think maybe if the allegory fits, wing it.

That poor girl.  And they’re shipping her off to somewhere for treatment because there’s money coming from somewhere, and I just think, my GOD, what if they didn’t have money, like me?  What if it were MY kid?  I mean, sure, I can empathize with the fucking depression, but really?  And then, what does the treatment consist of?  That’s kind of the scariest thing to me, because it doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll have any good effect.  She may learn to pretend better, like I do, but is that really success, or is it just teaching her to hide and deny the symptoms so people can go back to ignoring her?

In all of the bird’s attempts to understand and fix the fish, there’s something missing:  no understanding.  To really understand, there’s something else needed here.  When you don’t need something, it’s hard to understand when someone else needs that.  It’s like an unmet addiction.  Like, I’m addicted to breathing and I’m sure you’ll all agree that air is a healthy thing to crave.  Shove me in an ocean without any scuba gear and you’ll learn that I really did need the air to survive, after I’m dead.  What we need to do is figure out the need and make sure it’s met, to insure full health.

I was fixated on a verse, and a passage the pastor never spoke about:  Mark 2:

A few days later, when Jesus again entered Capernaum, the people heard that he had come home. 2 They gathered in such large numbers that there was no room left, not even outside the door, and he preached the word to them. 3 Some men came, bringing to him a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. 4 Since they could not get him to Jesus because of the crowd, they made an opening in the roof above Jesus by digging through it and then lowered the mat the man was lying on. 5 When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralyzed man, “Son, your sins are forgiven.”

6 Now some teachers of the law were sitting there, thinking to themselves, 7 “Why does this fellow talk like that? He’s blaspheming! Who can forgive sins but God alone?”

8 Immediately Jesus knew in his spirit that this was what they were thinking in their hearts, and he said to them, “Why are you thinking these things? 9 Which is easier: to say to this paralyzed man, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Get up, take your mat and walk’? 10 But I want you to know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins.” So he said to the man, 11 “I tell you, get up, take your mat and go home.” 12 He got up, took his mat and walked out in full view of them all. This amazed everyone and they praised God, saying, “We have never seen anything like this!”
13 Once again Jesus went out beside the lake. A large crowd came to him, and he began to teach them. 14 As he walked along, he saw Levi son of Alphaeus sitting at the tax collector’s booth. “Follow me,” Jesus told him, and Levi got up and followed him.

15 While Jesus was having dinner at Levi’s house, many tax collectors and sinners were eating with him and his disciples, for there were many who followed him. 16 When the teachers of the law who were Pharisees saw him eating with the sinners and tax collectors, they asked his disciples: “Why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners?”

17 On hearing this, Jesus said to them, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.”

Jesus knew the hearts of his audience, then, and now, when He spoke.  I think if the pious, holier than thou crowd of rich people at my church, and the doctors who get rich fucking TREATING depression and other mental illnesses and never cure their patients, read it carefully, they’d realize what I realized this morning.  “Healthy people don’t need a doctor.  Sick people do.”  It’s all tied into us, at a physical level, at a chemical level, at a spiritual level.  We need something, and the people who don’t need it have no concept of what we need, nor do they understand why we need it because they don’t.  If we get a close substitute we might live longer and be healthy, but whatever it is that we need, the medical profession hasn’t figured it out, and I’m not going to think or suggest in any way that the religious professionals know any better.

While I WILL assert that I need Jesus just as much as, or maybe more than, you all do, [insert lame-ass meme or video here] I will NOT assert that Jesus will heal you here on the earth.   Nor will I accept the denial of the birds asserting that we fish who assert we have a mental health problem don’t really have a mental health problem and we just need to worship Jesus Chicken.  At least you didn’t expect that one, did you?  Bet you spewed your corn flakes and had milk shoot out of your nose.  I hope so.  Because if I were in a laughing mood your laugh would be matched by mine, and although I’m not, you laughing is better than anything else to me.  The healing?  It’s not necessarily going to happen.  I will continue to pray for us, but we’re not promised perfection this side of eternity.   Whenever Jesus did a miracle there was a purpose.  And when He didn’t, there was a purpose.  I won’t even assert that I think I know what those purposes might be. Fucked if I know.  He might help, and that’s why I’ll keep on praying- because you never know.

I think Jesus helps, truly.  If I didn’t, why bother to follow?  That guy on the mat needed healing, but he also needed forgiveness.  And he knew it, even if he never told anyone.  Matthew (Levi) needed to know he was accepted by Jesus, and then reassured that he was doing the right thing, a good thing, by inviting the real people he knew, with real problems and real habits and real sins to his house to meet Jesus.  Those proud, holier-than-thou ass hole Pharisee fuckers needed what so many pastors and doctors need today:  A lesson in humility, a lesson in real love, and a lesson in how to do ministry and healing- you do ministry and real healing by meeting people where they are and helping them get the thing they need the most, not just meeting the spiritual needs, which are real, but meeting the psychological and chemical and practical physical needs too.

There are some very pious, very self-righteous people who claim to know what people need [insert your favorite well-hated celebrity “Doctor” here].  They don’t know shit.  They may have common sense, or horse sense, but that doesn’t always fix the problem.  Problems aren’t always relatively simple or easy to figure out and reach a resolution on a half-hour edit for television or an hour after school special presentation.

I’ll keep on praying for my friends and wishing that my heart’s cry for my friends would be answered.  Healing.  Relief.  Peace.  Forgiveness.  Love.  Acceptance.  I shouldn’t just give up on those “normal” people I guess, even if they are ass holes.  They think they know what we need because they’re blind to their own frailties, and the control we allow them to assert over us gives them God complexes.  Maybe they can learn to understand a bit more.  Empathy.  Love.  How to be genuine and helpful.  But mostly I want to pray for those who truly need “a doctor,” or Jesus, or both rolled into one.  One of Jesus’ nicknames was “The Great Physician.”  I don’t want to waste too much time praying for smug ass holes who don’t realize that their humanity leaves them just as much in need of Jesus as me.  My weakness fairly screams out “Jesus!! Son of David!! Have mercy on me!

I pray you find the air you need before the birds peck you to death.

Fucking Deadlines

Deadlines, honestly, confuse the fuck out of me.  On the one hand, or it seems more apt to say, foot, they represent a line in the sand.  (WHY can’t I stop rhyming, aarggghhh, it was not my intention.  I hope it’s not a trend.  If it starts it may never end.  OK I did that one on purpose, just to mock myself.)  Deadlines are the date or the time of the end of whatever it is- project, goal; it’s when you have to have it done.   I should have said they’re a line in the sand of time, except it’s a dead one.  A flat one.

On the other hand, they represent, at least to me, stress, pressure, compulsion, force, and evil.  The thing that bugs me the most about a deadline is that it’s fucking completely arbitrary.  Some human just made that shit up.  And we jump to meet that arbitrary bullshit.  There’s a deadline to pay the power bill, entirely made up by the power company even though they have enough money to spare, except when it comes time to pay their lowly peons, or Deons.  No, I don’t work for the power company.  There’s a deadline to pay the lease and the water bill, but it’s not like ALL these people can’t fucking find me if they really need the money.

By way of confession, my worldview is skewed.  (FUCK I did it AGAIN!)  I have this twisted mental picture (or is it a terrifyingly accurate one?) of corporate executives, ever since I overheard an executive bitch about how money was so tight he could only afford to rent the twenty five foot yacht instead of the thirty that year, that fucker, while they underpaid me so much I NEVER went out to eat, not breakfast, not lunch, not dinner, NEVER dated my wife except on the very cheap, and worried whenever I really wanted to spend money for something special that it would be outside our fucking budget and that if I spent it on a small luxury, we wouldn’t have enough if there was an emergency like a car breakdown or some groceries or medicine for the kids.  FUCKERS.  And then there’s the guy, and I literally did the math on it, who paid himself twice every damned day what he paid me in a fucking YEAR.  While we peons and Deons scrimp and fucking save and never get ahead, the executives worry because they can’t afford the extra five feet of fucking YACHT on their summer vacation in the fucking Bahamas.  Fucking WAHH, fucking executive fuckers.  There aren’t enough fucks to convey this rage.  The other executives I know about, at the damned electric company, shut off my electricity once last year because we were like a day late making a payment because dear Mrs M didn’t have time to call them, left for work, and my children came home from school to a dark house with no heat in the end of the winter season, those FUCKS.  They didn’t bother to fuckin call us.  Click.  Dark.  Cold.  Fear.  Abandonment.  The power companies are legend for their reckless disregard for life, having killed at least one fucking VETERAN in the winter for non-payment of his heat bill.  There is no excuse for this kind of bullshit EVER happening to anyone.  Just look at how many results there are in a stupid GOOGLE search.  You just don’t turn off life-sustaining necessities because you’re so fucking greedy and you don’t give a shit about people.  What you do is call the homeowner, or call the homeowner’s family, or call or visit the neighbors if he or she’s not answering the door, because he or she may be a shut-in or may be bipolar or may have a mental illness or may be just not able to get out of the house because of sickness or depression.  What you do is temporarily wait until you reach the homeowner or their neighbors or their family, or just fucking adopt him and pay his or her bill this month because, “thank you for your service to our country.  To thank you properly for your service, our service will NEVER be shut off.”

End of rant.  Or maybe not.

I’m reflecting on deadlines and resisting their bullshittery, in the face of my company changing their protocols for internet use and forcing me to write either in the morning before I have to rush out to get to work, or after work when I want to tell computers, phones, events, everyone, and their everything else clamoring for my free time to go fuck themselves and I want to be left alone.  I hate fucking change.  I hate arbitrary deadlines being imposed on me because the executives think they can get more out of me for the same weekly pittance and I’m no longer allowed to do what I want on my breaks or my lunch and no longer trusted to do my job, no longer able to search the internet for information I need in order to help clients the way I’ve always done it.  It’s an entirely arbitrary decision that forces me to squeeze out some attempt at creativity between 7:15 and 8 AM so I can get to work on time.  The grogginess of the morning makes my writing suck even worse than it did before.  The stress of attempting to write through the grogginess pushes my rage up.  So I’m already pissed off, or pissed off and fucking late for work, if I spend a few extra minutes trying for something worth reading.

Speaking of deadlines, Mrs M has a social obligation tonight, which means somehow that I have a social obligation, so I have to wrap it up so she makes it to her fucking event on time, dragging me along to something I’m less than remotely interested in attending.

I won’t know anyone there.  But as a bonus for Mrs M, I’m fucking awesome arm candy. Sullen, cranky, bored, frustrated with the inane conversations and bragadocious ass holes, starving and not hungry at the same time, but I am fucking beautiful (not really, just trying to invent a reason for why I have to go along).  And finish this in time for her arbitrarily chosen deadline.  FML.