Saying “Yes” and Saying “When.”

I can’t remember exact dates (sorry, every significant other EVER) except my birthday, Christmas, my wife’s birthday most of the time, Valentine’s day, and our anniversary (awww!).  I remember some dates, some of the time. But don’t ask me for a cousin’s birthday, or an in-law’s birthday, or worse, one of their kids’ birthdays.  How rambly of me.  All that to build the foundation for this:

There was a recent time, maybe just a few years ago but I can’t remember, when it was a popular fad for success speakers to tell their cultish followers to “say yes” to whatever life offered, whether it was a success or a disaster or an invitation to go somewhere, or a chance to experience something new or “accidentally” die while parachuting or diving with sharks in Australia.  If you’re going to say “yes” to something, each of you should send me $20 …and that would result in me receiving about $…. zero dollars, because I LOVE my readers but I know both of them are broke.  You know who you are, do NOT send me $20.  If you have extra, spend it on something nice for you because I love you and you should love you too, you beautiful darlin’ you.

And indeed we should say yes to whatever the universe brings, because everyone knows the universe is a benevolent place that wants to give good things to everyone.  Right?  Oprah says it, along with several success preachers and motivational speakers.  Which means that the universe is friends with success preachers, motivational speakers, and Oprah, and basically, possible early life trauma notwithstanding, these people either ask for, or tell, “the universe” what they want, and they get it, or they twist the universe’s nipple and MAKE it give them what they want,  and then they teach people that they should be able to do the same.

Horse shit.

Have you READ Newton’s laws?

Have you seen anyone ever die, or worse, commit suicide? The universe is NOT my friend, the universe sucks ass, and a lucky few get what they want. What’s worse, the universe doesn’t owe me shit, so I can’t just go expecting that it’ll pay me if I’m good enough.

If there is such a thing as karma, it doesn’t seem to matter how good some people are, or try to be.  We only see the outside of a person, so we can’t judge.  And if we’re honest with ourselves, we know who we really are on the inside.  Which is why I know the universe doesn’t owe me shit.  I wish it did.  And for my second wish, I wish it’d start paying up.

I DO believe in spiritual forces.  I believe in God.  Laugh all you want; I don’t care.  If there wasn’t a God with a plan to ultimately save me, I’d be fucked worse than I am, and I’d just end it, which I don’t think is a good choice.  If you follow the link, I was thinking of verse 19.  But because I believe, I’m staying through the movie until the end of the credits.  Who knows?  Maybe there’s a blooper reel and maybe it’s actually funny.  I doubt it though.  Well, maybe it’ll be funny at the end after the story starts making more sense.

The “Say Yes” movement has been around for at least long enough for a few books and motivational speakers to start sucking money from people who are trend-followers, and there are many, or people who are desperate, and there are a few, or people who forward those emails around that say if you forward it you’ll receive good and if you don’t your groin will be infested with scorpions.

I’d be a success preacher but I think you’re supposed to actually believe what you’re preaching, not just in it for the money.  Or the power.  Or the sex.  Oh wait, that only happens to rock stars and politicians.  Or does it?  Fuck me, maybe I should be a rock star, or a success preacher.  Maybe not, I mean, Freddy Mercury died of rock stardom, along with a host of others.  Anyway, anyone who tells you to affirm yourself is fine, but anyone who tells you all you have to do to have [fill-in-the-blank] is either just take it, or ask the universe to deliver it to your door is peddling swamp water as the fountain of youth, snake oil as demon repellent, crystals and magnets and fucking rocks on strings as charms to attract good things, and nuggets of bull shit they say are actually made of gold.  “But wait, there’s more!  You also get this prayer cloth imbued with my personal forehead and/or neck sweat, that I personally prayed over so you’d get a blessing from sending me your money.”

If you had a healthy ovum, a genetic splicing machine, and a laboratory, you could quite possibly clone your own televangelist with one of those prayer cloths. (See also “The Big Bang Theory, The Gift Hypothesis.“)  Or, Bitch Televangelist. (See also “Family Guy, Quagmire’s Baby.“)  See, I used to like tv and stuff, but depression sucks all that up.  I used to like some other things too, at least a few times, but if certain other people don’t like the same stuff, it’s not going to happen again any time soon and THAT is further depressing.

We Christ followers are supposed to be a special lot, and we’re supposed to celebrate when shit happens.  (See James 1, or I Thessalonians 5:18, or Philippians 4:4.  Woo hoo, more shit!  Halle-fucking-lujah.

This weekend, I had the good fortune to be alone except for the dog.  While I revelled in the solitude most of the time, I felt a lack of motivation except to do the things that absolutely needed to be done, and I did them when I damned well felt like it.  I should have asked the universe for controlled mania (oxymoronic of me, no?) so I could get MORE shit done.  I did small things, when big things could have been done.  Or should have been done.  I did not do sufficient self-care.  And I really should have.  But I’ve been depressed and don’t have motivation for that.  I SHOULD do it for myself, but I only want to do it for Mrs. M., and she doesn’t care and isn’t interested right now.  Mrs M. can go from “I’m so busy!” to “Zzzzzzz!!” in three fucking seconds.  Yep, I’ve got me a fast woman.  Hooray!)

I did do a small list of things that you might think is a lot, but when you look at life through Mrs M’s eyes, or her trained minions, not so much.  Rather than taking over the world like I COULD have, I only walked the dog on the long hike three times, fed the dog and his best friend, washed all the dishes and put them away, washed, dried, folded and put away a few loads of laundry, emptied the lint trap so the house wouldn’t burn down, took out the trash and recycling, mowed the grass, spread weed & feed on it for the dandelions and damnedythistles to die, fucking weeds, DIE, emptied the vacuum cleaner in preparation for really cleaning it, took the dog to his obedience class so he could learn not to be an ass hole (are there human obedience classes?  No, DON’T tell me, and STOP LAUGHING!  I’M not the one who needs to sign up.  Or am I?  Shut UP!!) …and so on.  I also picked up my son after his scout camping trip and helped him wash and put away his tent, and wash his laundry, after which I dried and folded it and made him put it away.

I don’t know, it seemed like a lot to me.  I also did some other tidying up and putting away of miscellaneous things around the house, in the yard, and in the garage.  I may have wiped off a few counters and tables, I think I did but don’t make me swear to it because someone would bitch they found a wet place on the counter over here, or a place that’s still sticky from something they fucking spilled before they left.  It wasn’t immaculate, or anywhere close.  I didn’t do any writing, I had a beer and then the next day a small amount of whiskey, but not enough to get intoxicated, and I also wasted a few hours on Netflix Criminal Minds.  (Horatio: ) “Looks like this one… tried to put too much weekend ::sunglasses on:: …into his weekend!  YYEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

But there comes a point, (I’m GETTING to the point already, shut UP!) and I’ve reached it, where one has said “yes” to the universe one too many times, and needs to say “when.” Not this “when,”

but the opposite “when,” for when saying “when” means “stop!”  Funniest “Say When” cartoon ever:

When… Mrs M and my daughter and son were all finally home we all gathered around the rotisserie style chicken I went to the store to find.  Everyone started talking about their weekends, but quickly devolved back into nit picking shit and somehow it was my fault whatever it was wasn’t done right, from the dishes I washed in the fucking dishwasher that weren’t clean enough, to the state of the laundry that wasn’t brought near the washing machine so I’d have a clue it needed washing, to why this or that was done the way it was done or why this or that wasn’t done.  Thank GOD I had more wine.  I poured a glass Sunday night.  “The dishes I washed aren’t clean?  The house isn’t clean enough?  You can’t find your gym uniform?  You’re frustrated because I’m less communicative than you want?  You need me to [fill in the blank task] tonight, tomorrow, before 5AM?  ::I pour more wine, like a whispered, liquid “fuck you.”::  Do go on and tell me about your weekend adventures.  And tell me more about how little you appreciate what I do.

In the spirit of more and more shit adding itself to my life, whether I want it or not, whether I celebrate it or not, whether I want to say “yes” or say “when,” one of my dear family members backed up the downstairs toilet and one of my dear family members thinks unsightly things should be put away so they can never be found by anyone, heaven forbid house guests, GOD forbid friends, and heaven help family members, so they put away the fucking plunger so well I couldn’t find it to fix the toilet.  Hooray!  This same person likes to put the vacuum cleaner (full of dirt and hair I vacuumed up) out in the garage so it’s as far away from practical use as possible.  Then mum called and wanted me to find something she had given us, worried that it was lost or thrown out.  Something nice, to be sure, but I didn’t have the first clue where to look since when I put things where I want them, they get moved.  See also, the vacuum cleaner and the plunger.  If you see them, can you please tell me where the fuck they are?  And, is there more wine?

It has been one of those days.  One of those weekends.  One of those weeks.  One of those months.  I’m fucking sick of it and tired of everyone and everything, and people wonder why I want to be a damned hermit.  For fucks’ sake (from one person, quite literally), I want to be celebrated and enjoyed and praised and encouraged by people when I do something nice for them, not criticized, pushed away, yelled at, discouraged, and watch as more demands are placed on my ebbing energy.

Maybe it’s just my depression talking, but I am more and more convinced the universe has nipples.  Why else would almost everyone I know SUCK?!  I wish people would figure out how to latch on correctly, instead of latching on to MY LIFE.  And if a certain significant other HAS to suck, can I tell her where and how to latch on?

Speaking of things that suck, now I need to go find the plunger and the vacuum cleaner so I can deal with shit and show more dirt where to go.  Before someone tells me how and when “it needs to be done,” (the “right” way, now, by me) rather than just fucking doing it themself.  Seriously, I am motivated more by seeing something that needs to be done and NOT being told to, and how to, do it.  Being told how to do it, or being told to do it, is the opposite of motivational.  It sucks my energy and unction down until my soul is empty and I want to disappear.

I’ve seen a few things that need to be done, and I’m going to try to accomplish one or two before someone tries to tell me to do something else, or tell me how I should do, or should have already done, what I’m doing, or how I suck because I didn’t do whatever it was in the order they “needed” it done in.

Good luck with your side of the Universe Vacuum; I’ve heard it sucks all around, unless you twist its’ nipple and it likes it well enough to give you what you need or want.  I guess someday we’ll all be in the bag.  If the critiques and helpful suck-gestions start again tonight, I think I’ll look for more wine. I may be half-in-the-bag after that, but maybe I won’t really care.

Here’s hoping we can all accomplish good things, for ourselves and for others, before the universe sucks everything away.  And here’s hoping, if the universe does have nipples, that we can all latch on and reverse the trend.  After all, don’t we all live in the Milky Way galaxy?

Capital Punishment, Death, Taxes, and Penalties

Let me go on record here up front:  In general I’m against death.  In general, death sucks ass.  It ends a life, squashes whatever potential for good might have been left, leaves zero chances for a person to learn whatever life-lessons they were supposed to learn while they were alive, or worse, to impart whatever life lessons they were supposed to impart while they were alive, and leaves family and friends “who are alive and remain,” to helplessly watch the dust swirl and feel just that much diminished.

A death due to disease sucks because the person who died probably lived out the last short days feeling like shit and unable to enjoy the time.  A death due to suicide is worse, because no one knows what kind of torment the person endured before making that ultimate choice.  Bill Maher quips, “Suicide is man’s way of telling God, ‘You can’t fire me! I quit!”  It sounds funny, but it’s not.  Fuck you, Bill Maher.  It’s never funny, not fucking ever.  He probably only says it because he’s not suicidal and, I think, doesn’t know what depression “looks like.”  And, Bill, not that I’d ever expect you to cast a shadow on my blog, if you ARE depressed, I’m sorry, because I DO know what it looks like and I DO know what it feels  like.  It looks like my face in the mirror every fucking day I’m depressed, and it feels like I feel every fucking day I feel lower than lower-middle-class shit.  If you ARE depressed, you’re faking it better than I can manage.  Bra-fucking-vo.

I’m generally against the death penalty because I’m against death.  But that doesn’t mean that if you decide my life, or someone’s I care about, is worth less than yours, and your wants outweigh other people’s rights, that I won’t sit in that jury and vote “Fry that guilty bastard!” on my slip of paper to hand to the jury fore-person.  Everyone who’s talking loudly seems to be asserting that any death verdict by jury trial is bad.  I’m not saying that there aren’t juries who’ve decided based on bad lawyering, bad evidence handling, smear campaigns against the accused, and the defense’s panel of “expert witnesses,” or bogus “expert witnesses” giving idiotic testimony for the state.  There should be an appeals process that involves giving the evidence to a completely different group of experts for evaluation, and presenting both opinions on it to an entirely new jury by entirely different lawyers.   But let justice be meted out by the survivors, not people who coddle rapists and murderers and insure their punishment is humane.  A criminal’s rights should end as soon as the criminal sufficiently disrespects the rights of the victim(s).  The punishment should fit the crime.

For an example of overblown punishment that doesn’t fit the crime, consider sentences for marijuana that are worse than for armed robbery or rape.  What harm is there in some poor schlub buying marijuana for personal, recreational use?  Is the marijuana user really hurting anyone, other than maybe him/herself?  Then there should be no punishment.  Let it stimulate the economy.   Let them find a very mellow place to work, if they feel ambitious.  I get that overdoses happen with other drugs, but I’ve never read about anyone dying from smoking too much pot.

A death due to murder isn’t ever OK; it’s ten trillion times worse than a stupid joke about suicide that offends me.  But we sensationalize murderers; we give them fame instead of infamy.  What we need to do is never mention their names, but keep on mentioning the names of their victims and whatever good the victims brought into the world.  Erase the criminal from the collective social memory.  And, erase the criminal, after the victim’s survivors feel they’ve reached a point of balance to their injustice and decide how to exact the rest.

Accidental death is sad, if it’s actually accidental and not brought on by someone else’s stupidity.  But if it’s actually accidental death, not to be funny, I can live with that.  The trouble is our culture of equivocation.  We call selfish driving that causes a collision an “accident.”  We call a selfish ass hole who causes whatever level of grief “a fellow human being who makes bad choices.”  I say, fuck that.  It’s not an “accident,” when it’s a deliberate action taken by one person against another.  It’s not a “bad choice,” when it’s a crime.  Here’s an interesting article, take a look and see how we deceive ourselves and other people, and how we are deceived.

“Accidental” death and other “accidental” crimes sound like things that could have been avoided by the victim.  But they can’t, if they weren’t really “accidental.”  “It was a total accident, your honor.  I needed to get to my fill-in-the-blank so I drove poorly and asserted myself, and presumed the other person would yield their rightful right of way, but the other person decided to equally and opposingly assert themselves, and our cars accidentally collided.”  Sounds like “he (accidentally) fell on my knife.  He fell on my knife, ten times.”  Doesn’t it?  But of course, traffic “accidents” aren’t ever described by the defendant in honest words.  Ask a drunk driver; they’ll tell you “it was entrapment.  The cop was lurking near the bar or he/she would have never seen my driving choices as ‘improper.'”

“It was a total accident.  I mistook that briefcase carrying all that money for my own, so I accidentally picked that up, and then, since I don’t keep a record of serial numbers on my cash, I mistook all that money for my own, so I accidentally spent that.  And then, I did the same with all those credit card numbers and pins.  Five hundred times.  How was I supposed to know those numbers weren’t mine?  Do YOU remember YOUR credit card numbers without looking?”  Aww, poor thing, he made a mistake.  Let’s send him home.  He looks sad and repentant, but crisp and dashing in that suit and tie, and he did tell us he’d never do it again…

I sometimes wish there was a way to get out of the natural consequences of my choices.  But it seems to always land squarely on me.  Karma is a bitch, unless you’ve got a good lawyer or a fat bank account, or both.  Karma is a bitch, because I’ve got neither.  And life is a bitch, too.  Because things fall apart faster than I can afford to replace them, and because things get dirty faster than I have energy to clean them.  Life is a dirty, messy thing that falls apart.

Where’s the karma for the manufacturer who knew when his shit would fall apart, and for the lawyer who wrote the damned warranty for the shit that fell apart?  It’s buried in piles of cash.  Some people skate through life, and don’t deserve it.  Other people struggle through life, and don’t deserve it.

The death penalty is right for the victim’s surviving circle.  But death, otherwise, just sucks.  The dust swirls around our heads.  We’re left wondering what the fuck just happened.  We’re left lonely.  We’re left with the mess to clean up.  And we’re left knowing it just wasn’t right, and we can’t actually have justice.  There’s a psychic hole left in our hearts, and in our lives, and we have to figure out how to deal with that because it can’t be fixed.

Taxes are great, if they serve the purpose they’re collected for.  But instead, they fatten congresspersons up into little doughboys and doughgirls, and the laws they write and the things they actually spend the money on fail to serve the greatest good.  The common people are the victims, because not only are the criminals criminals, the lawyers who write the laws and spend the money are criminals, but they say it in different language, deceptive doublespeak, diminished-consequential-impact equivocation, until the common people are so confused they surrender.

In “The Princess Bride,” Inigo Montoya finally defeats his enemy after much suffering and grief.  “Offer me anything I want!”  And what does he want?  Real justice.  But because he can’t have it, he takes something just a little less than justice.

And in the end, he’s left dissatisfied because it didn’t make everything right.  But at least there was one less selfish ass hole in the movie, making life harder for innocent people.

If I’m on the right side of faith, and there’s an eternity, I hope it does actually make everything just and fair and right.  But I also hope there’s a fair amount of mercy available, because sometimes I’m the selfish guy.  I admit I want what I want.  Just not behind the wheel of my car or behind a gun or behind money, or behind doubletalk.  I’m not that kind of selfish.  (see what I did there?)

Death and Taxes

Daniel Defoe, in The Political History of the Devil, 1726:

“Things as certain as death and taxes, can be more firmly believed.”

There you have it.  Mercifully this year, we were given the Ides of April on a Saturday. I haven’t made time to do shit this year yet, depressed by such notable items as:

5) Having to work on taxes.  I tried really hard to avoid doing it, which is why I finished working on them on the 17th and addressed them in the morning today.  I wanted to have them ready to mail Monday, to avoid the Tuesday rush.  When I plan it works if the universe fucker doesn’t fuck it up.  Oh.  Well, that explains why my plans usually don’t happen as planned unless they’re nefarious.  And the universe fucker fucking up my plans would be another reason for my depression, so that’d be 5.5.

4) Undersleeping, I guess, although my brain seems to still marginally function (an easily debatable point) on 4 to 6 hours a night.

3) Vitamin D deficiency, which I’ve been told is a reason for my depression.  I call that possibly partly true with a high probability of being bull shit.  Because:  Vitamin D deficiency doesn’t explain why the depression happens for a long time during which I can’t remember when I didn’t feel like worthless shit smashed under more worthy shit, and then I get seasons when I can actually enjoy things that are good in my life and even forget that I was depressed a month ago.  Vitamin D deficiency also doesn’t explain why the depression comes in momentary waves, or why the seasons of depression are punctuated by the episodic mania I use to clean my house when I have that extra boost of energy to rage against the universe fucker and my entire family in their conspiracy to mess everything up faster than I can gather my mania and wits at the same time and then harness them constructively to break out the bleach.  We’re out of bleach, and I’m out of mania.  And wits.  But I do like to clean, just because I like to look behind myself and see how nice it looks in the little tiny corner I managed to get to look pretty.  If I ever do make it look pretty  Vitamin D may help with depression, but it’s not a cure as far as I know, nor does it stabilize the mania.  Maybe if I threw the pills at the mess makers and told them to [pick up/clean up/put away/throw away] their shit, I might have more time to [pick up/pay for/repair/throw away] other shit that’s less specifically “ours.”

I have a friend who jokes that the cures for depression are all the things the doctors tell you are bad for you.  I’m not a smoker but I’ve been told it’s enjoyable.  That hit of nicotine must be good, or smokers could quit before some of them get cancer or emphysema or COPD.  My asthma is bad enough when I’m stressed that I don’t even want to try that pleasure.  But doctors say that smoking is bad, so it must be good for some people.  Doctors pick on our diet and exercise too.  Don’t eat bacon.  Don’t eat eggs.  Then the government gets a payoff and they tell us to eat bacon because high protein diet.  Then the government gets a payoff and they tell us to eat eggs because they’re a complete protein and a compact, quick, easy meal.  I think the government requires tobacco to be treated with things that cause cancer or exacerbate it.  Don’t smoke pot or consume it in any other way, although the chronic may cure chronic pain, relieve eye pressure from glaucoma, help with digestion and loss of appetite when people feel too sick to eat, etc.  Of course, there are risks.  But then, look at the list of side effects of any medicine.  Even ibuprofen or cough medicine all available without prescriptions have lists of potential side effects.  And certain drugs may cause hallucinations, like the ADD medicine my daughter was prescribed until she saw things she hasn’t even told me about.  We immediately took her of THAT shit, you may be sure, and never went back.  But I digress.  One wonders if my friend is right.  What if the cure for depression is just things that make you happy?  Relaxation instead of obsessing about weight and bmi and image and shit.  Food you like.  Being able to afford THINGS you like, or things you need.  Alas, these things are either “bad” for us, or they’re illegal, or they’re unaffordable.  I mean, maybe not the stupid gold-in-or-on-your-food trend that jacks ordinary coffee up to $25 a crack and ordinary ice cream to $2500.  But no, the simpler pleasures- butter for your toast.  Toast.  Coffee.  Cream.  Bacon.  Seems my dream breakfast is going to kill me.  But I’d probably die happier if I could eat it on days when I want to.  At 9AM or later.  I quit eating breakfast on weekdays except for maybe a breakfast bar or some buttered toast (fuck you, Doctor MakesMeDepressed!) with my coffee, and I quit putting cream and sugar in my coffee years ago and never looked back.  I’m too stressed from listening to Mrs M bitch about how she couldn’t sleep because she’s worried our finances and our kids and our marriage and our parents’ mortal existences are descending to hell in a handbasket on a greased slide.  Dad’s a diabetic, and he wants a fucking Pepsi all the time.  I may inherit some things from him, but I don’t want that.  Add stress because my dear daughter is driving and bitches because she expects the world to fall at her feet and worship her, not that she shouldn’t WANT that but that she shouldn’t EXPECT it, especially from Mr and Mrs Mumple.  Add more because I want the world to fall at MY fucking feet in worship and bring me tribute, but especially, reasonable compensation for worthwhile work and loyalty, and reciprocal treatment in my invested relationships, especially with and from Mrs. M.  She’s too tired and doesn’t like what I want.  Well, would you look at that!?  Turns out we’re incompatible after all (fuck you, marriage counselor bitch!), but I’m staying because I made my bed and there are times when I like it, and when I feel like it, I’ll lie in it and see, like some insane scientist, if the results of my experimental manic cleaning, care-tending, cooking, and foot washing, among other things, nets a different response.   Add more because everyone in my life wants me involved in theirs, in some fucking service capacity, for which I am either not paid or poorly paid, which brings me to…

2) Being paid shit in 2016, literally my wage is entry level after 10 years of work.  And the only reason I found out is that they tried to get us to get our soon-to-be-ex- friends and family to work for them, and sold it by telling us they were paying new people what they pay me now.  Yeah, I’m going to get everyone to be miserable, but at least they won’t have to work 10 years for shit raises! Instead, they’ll start where I am, so everyone is equally underpaid, including and especially the people they’ll expect to train the new ones.  I DID train a new guy, and I was happy he quit because I knew how that was going to turn out.  When I found out about the entry level wages I asked respectfully, and was told they thought my compensation was adequate.  See #1

1) Schedule shifting to shit in late 2016.  After 10 years of work, and after a sea of lies about how it wouldn’t be a drastic change, it was based on seniority and time zones and skill sets and a few other things, and then after they tried to sell it by saying they needed help because other people sucked in that time zone and didn’t know how to do the shit they trained us ALL to do, and then after they shoved it up my ass, more lies about how it was my fucking fault I got the shit shift because of my performance.  (Fuck you, bossy McBitch, and fuck your whiny little prick of a boss too.  You know the guy:  the little shit who came to your rescue and kept shoveling excuses and lies when I gave logical, realistic resistance based on your original sales-pitch, until I knew I wasn’t going to get anywhere, and shut up in hopelessness.  Bossy McBitch is the 10th replacement boss I’ve worked for, because senior management doesn’t see any value or potential in paying or promoting people who know what the fuck they’re doing.  They hire NEW people who don’t know shit about what the company is built on, or what their team is supposed to do, train them to get trained by someone under them, and then make them micromanage and nitpick and shovel the company’s bullshit, lies, and excuses, down their underlings’ throats until a) they burn out and fade away, b) their underlings quit, they were paying them too much anyway, c) they do obscene things behind closed doors to get promoted out of the bullshit, or d) they find someplace better to work.

Oh but wait, taxes.  They got addressed this morning and sent out today, and here’s another reason I love Mrs. M despite her shortcomings.  Based on my original calculations, which I did despite my resistance to the very concept, I thought we were going to be paying, literally a few THOUSAND dollars in taxes this year, nothing we could possibly afford to pay, because she hardly had anything taken out of her checks preemptively, and she has it down to a few HUNDRED with legitimate tax laws.  I LOVE YOU MRS. M.!  I just wish you loved me in all the OTHER ways I really WANT to be loved.

If change is “bad,” it’s because it’s not the change I want.  The weekend was spent enduring death and taxes.  I attended a memoriam for two people who died last year, a lovely time was had by all, celebrating how much we loved them and love their memories.  I got home just in time to work on taxes, and then, because Mrs M prodded, I went to church on Easter Sunday.  The message was fine I guess.  I decided to do more writing.  (Sorry, readers!)  And another book idea popped in my head, so we’ll see where THAT one goes.

And sometimes, change is bad even when it IS what I want.  Bossbitch changed my schedule back to days just when I was settling in, and it’s what I wanted, but instead of leaving me alone to work from home and be productive during that HOUR of lunch they make me take, when I’m just as happy with leaving a half hour earlier after a half hour lunch, now she insists I go to the office and waste the hour.  The computer is the same.  The data is the same.  The work is the same.  So it’s just another power play of her asserting that yes, she is able to step on me, yank my chains, and make me dance(, monkey, dance!) to HER choice of tune.  Bitch.  If I was a manager, they’d fire me because I don’t WANT to micromanage people and fuck with their lives.  I just want them to work hard and earn a decent living and be happy and balanced.  Which, just from expecting they’d earn a “decent” living, is grounds for me to be dismissed if I was a manager.

But not only do I have to waste that hour instead of washing dishes or vacuuming or walking the dog or something, I get to waste another hour and a half because that’s when I can get my ride in to, and home from work, since dear daughter got a job after school and needs my car.  Hooray.

Why don’t I have any time or balance in my life, again?  I can’t blame EVERYTHING on death and taxes.  I’m not really afraid of either of those.  Mrs M is taking care of the latter, and I could give less than half a fuck about the former.  “’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.”

Good luck with your taxes. If you haven’t already done them, you have a few hours left to file for an extension.

Mostly Cloudy with a Chance of Crying

I forgot all about that it’s April,
I forgot to compose poetry
Not that my poetry is a big thrill
I feel cloudy.  Who wants that to read?

When I’m down, does it have to be raining;
Like the sky agrees I should be sad?
Everyone’s tired of all my complaining,
But they would be with the life I’ve had.

There won’t be a daily composition,
I’ve already missed several days,
I could race, challenge all competition,
But that’s not how Deon Mumple plays.

It’s another way that I’m a failure,
Says my accusers, with examples
Of the other ways, they’re right, I’m quite sure,
I should try!  Should my soul feel trampled?

Not faithless.  Like Lazarus’ Mary,
I believe the end will be just fine
In the middle, I’m doubting, life’s scary,
Til faith’s blessings finally align…

While I wish I would be more victorious,
I’m too tired to stand, much less, fight,
I am stuck where I am through my own choices,
Near transparent, fading into night.

Sometimes I wish that no one could see me,
And I wish they would, on other days
See my crushed heart, my shattered soul, clearly,
Help me, or let me just fade away.

April clouds live in my spirit, feasting,
Leaving me broken, hollow, worthless,
Hail and fail, rain and pain, grey and wasting
Hoping this isn’t good as it gets.

I am as write disguise not obvious spam


Hello wonnderful writter, I am write disguise not obvious spam but hiding in the guise of complimentary on about your blog.  You writing is great praiseworthy information on this subject.  I obviously did not actually read your blog but learn a lot after reading on this subject from your blogg.  Now I will subscribe followerr your blog feed.  I hoping would you write more about the subject.  Maybe sometimes you can coach me about each of way to make my blog better.  Or maybe I coach you to write better about subject.  I have blog but link on the comment here in WordPress doesn’t show anything, but don’t suspicious.  You are great writer I learn a lot about your subject matter from reading your blog I find everything I need to know.  I have to write a paper on this subject and agree with everything in your perspective.  A lot of others have writer about this too and agree with your opinion.


Who the FUCK is writing these bullshit spam things as comments to my blog, and why the FUCK do you waste my time with your obviously fake bullshit?  I just deleted another 26 spam messages.  Admittedly, it’s been a while since I bothered, but really?

STOP. IT.  Just fucking STOP it.

I look at the links to the sender’s websites, and what do I see?  Other blogs?  Fuck, no.  Webpage under construction.  Webpage does not exist. Psychic generic webpages that aren’t written by the sender.  I haven’t bothered to write to the senders emails because those are probably bogus too, and if I reply, FFS, they have my EMAIL address to send their bullshit to, too!

What’s the purpose of sending a spam comment to a blog?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Who has time to do this?  Who’s paying for the people to post this awful, obvious bullshit, and how do I get in on it?  I’d actually read the blogs and send my praise, since I already do that for free when I can and I have time and energy to say something.  Oh, and since I speak fucking ENGLISH, whereas the writers of this shit are either smart-ish computers trying to speak English and just failing in some places, or they’re dumb-ish people trying to speak English and failing miserably.  The spam filter on WordPress picks these up.  Don’t the spammers know this?

At the risk of getting better spam, here are 10 or so suggestions for spammer wanna-bes:

10- Entertain me.  If you’re funny or interesting there’s a better chance I won’t delete your spam, even if it IS spam.  Come on.  Do it.  Make me laugh without derisiveness, vitriol, or sardonicism, and I promise to let your comment through the spam filters and to my reader(s).  And speaking of inspiring my derisive laughter,

9- Don’t insult my intelligence, however limited it may seem I AM offended sometimes because the comments are not pertinent, not worthwhile, not interesting, etc. (not ECT; that’s another thing altogether.  Don’t do it unless you really want to.)

8- Don’t insult your intelligence or expose your lack of intelligence by being obviously fake or spam.  Honest stupidity, or lack of information or skills I can handle, I mean, ffs, I’M fucking stupid!  But deliberate, and not even trying?  Fuck off.

7- Don’t insult my reader’s intelligence.  (or, if I only have one reader, that would be “readers’ intelligence” (ok, I love you mum the grammarian, and love you too, reader(s).).

6- Write in complete sentences using correct grammar and construction

5- Read the blog before you post a comment or try to get your links off.  I don’t write expertly about ANYTHING, not on ANY topics, I write bullshit or opinions about things that piss me off, daydreams, wishes, hopes, fears, work, people, family, life, God, and spam.  I might sometimes write nice things about people I care about, and occasionally I write bad poetry, or good, subject to reader(s’/’s) opinion(s) and judgement(s).  If you want to commend me for something, try not to be so general! How can I improve my writing technique, or give you more of what you liked, if you don’t tell me what it is, or make some concrete suggestions?

4- Have a real blog or a real website that’s active to show in the links in your comment(s), not something that’s obviously inactive or nonexistent or selling me something.  Unless I want what you’re selling.  Well, nevermind that because I don’t have enough cash to put your kids through college.

4- Make sure you are prominently featured as the writer or at least a contributor on the website you’re promoting.  If you’re not, why do you want me to read it or refer my readers to it?  FYI, I’m the ONLY author here, so those spam comments referring to “you gents,” “you folks,” and other pluralities are immediately exposed as spam.

3- I’m getting a lot of spam promoting psychic websites.  If you’re really psychic, how come you don’t know- a) it’s going to be flagged as spam by the WordPress filters; b) I’m going to check and see if you’re one of the writers to the website you’re sending me to; c) if you’re not, I’m going to delete it; AND, how come you don’t read me and realize there are certain things about me that don’t add up on your tarot, ouija, or tea leaves, and give up on a) me being credible, or b) me providing you free referrals to your website without you actually contacting me directly to suggest I add your information as content on my blog?  You never know, I might.  Have your tarot cards tell you my phone number.  Hmm. King of Wands…  Two of Swords, hey, look, it’s upside down!  The Hermit (oh come on, kind of obvious, isn’t it?).  And, there’s the moon, and it’s upside down too!  Doesn’t seem to even be trying to offer a phone number though.  Let me know how that comes out.

When I WANTED to feature a website from a wiccan lady, she snubbed me and if she emailed me it’s buried in the hundreds I have to delete or have already deleted.  Anyway the response, if it came, was either one of these spams, or I didn’t see it, or it was too late because I had already published that blog entry.  Now, I’m sorry, if you want your site featured on my blog, even in the comments, you have to earn it.

2- Don’t offer to plagiarize my blog or promise to steal its’ content to write a research paper.  My shit’s not smart enough for that, or I’d probably have a job writing it.  Even if you’re not spam, I’m not going to accept your offer without fat stacks of cash in exchange.  If you really want to cite my blog, and you’re willing to make an offer, put THAT in a comment and we might have something to talk about.

1- Speaking of fat stacks of cash, why not just pay me instead of whoever you have writing your spam?  You’ll get more, better hits on whatever website you are propagating if I actually link it in my blog.  Or not.  (All/Both of) My reader(s) has/have free will to decide whether to click on a link in my blog, so I can’t really promise your site will get any extra traffic.  But  what the hell, pay me fat stacks of cash anyway.  I could really use the money.

0- Don’t you fucking DARE send a link to a virus, or I will bring the wrath of the entire DECK of tarot cards, the explosions of every MineCraft Creeper that ever existed, the pain of that unmentionable curse from Harry Potter’s teacher and the doom from the unmentionable curse from his nemesis, the seven dooms wrought by the barbed-wired, flaming, rusted sporks of the flying spaghetti monster (thanks, Ms N and a few others who understand the sporks of doom. I love you.  And I hope this made you laugh).

-1  – If you must continue to send me your obvious, stupid, annoying spam and making me continue to have to filter whatever WordPress does let me read, may you step in icy puddles of water in your sock-clad feet at least once a week, and may the literary curses of Dante’s Inferno force you to write a dozen worthless novels conveying truth, life, hope, and love, and may your writing and research consume your time and all your damnable computers until you stop fucking spamming me.

Invading Space

The house mess, and anyone in the way of my cleaning it, or adding to it, can kiss my ass.  And so can anyone who questions my methods but doesn’t lift a finger to DO it differently.  I’ve cleaned surfaces and gone back to find them re-cluttered.  Why?  Because it’s like this verse in the Bible, exactly like this:

Matthew 12:  43“When an impure spirit comes out of a person, it goes through arid places seeking rest and does not find it. 44 Then it says, ‘I will return to the house I left.’ When it arrives, it finds the house unoccupied, swept clean and put in order. 45 Then it goes and takes with it seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they go in and live there. And the final condition of that person is worse than the first.”

Fans of Dexter will recall Brother Sam (Mos Def, FFS!!), quizzed by Dexter about Sam’s inner demons (Season 6, Episode 2) :

Dexter:  So that darkness inside, it’s gone?
Brother Sam:  No.  It’s still there, but I’m fighting its ass every day.

I’m not free.  I’m a slave to the battle.  I ride its’ whims and notions instead of my own, and that’s a poem/song I’m going to write.  Coming soon to a blog near you.  The shit is, even the Bible acknowledges that LIFE is a battle and NO ONE is free from it.  The shittier is, somehow, in the midst of the battle and thereafter, we’re supposed to figure out how it works, and we look for the substitutes instead of finding real freedom.  The substitutes only leave us more enslaved than we were before (see Matthew text above.).

I’m doing battle with the clutter, with the general mess, with work, with time, with the family, with the wife, with the dog, with training the kids (and the dog), with money, and with love.

That was last weekend.

THIS weekend I wanted to die, but I couldn’t do anything about it.  No, this weekend I want to die but can’t do anything about it.

THIS weekend I was a personal failure everywhere I looked, and Mrs. M is still pushing those buttons.  My daughter cried about us not having enough money to buy her a new car now that she got her driver’s license and a job that starts soon.  We have to make travel arrangements so she can have a car,  because my boss is “letting” me have a normal shift again, starting in two weeks, but I have to go in to the office again, just because she wants to be in control and even though my work from home has been fine she wants that power.  Ass hole.  Anyway, my daughter cried about the car so I’m a failure to her.

And Mrs M and I fought because the damned plumbing still leaks.  It wasn’t her fault, it was mine.  I was angry because I felt like a failure so I raised my voice with her.  But what does she expect, for fucks sake?  Dammit, Mrs M!  I’m a village idiot, not a plumber! (Reminded myself of Doctor McCoy from Star Trek for a second.  Bless you, DeForest Kelley.)

When I let Mrs M know she pushed the button Saturday night and again Sunday morning she half-apologized. So there’s that.  I fail all the time for Mrs M.  Last night’s adventure in plumbing was trying to get the hose for the shower to not leak, and I tried various things, including washers provided by the manufacturer (fail), washers I bought (fail), plumber’s tape (fail).  This morning I didn’t grind the coffee last night (fail), or have the energy to take the dog for a walk (fail).  All I did was walk him yesterday, run about town with him to his obedience class (teaching us why we’ve failed to understand our dog’s behavior and communication), cut down the tree that’s trying to wreck our house’s foundation in the back, sprayed for the ant problem, and earlier this week reinforced our daughter’s driving skills and try to encourage her (she passed the exam!), helped with cooking and made afternoon snacks on request for son and daughter, and almost kept up with dishes and laundry and sweeping and vacuuming and straightening what I could.  But I didn’t make progress about what really needs to be done, because I ran out of energy and time.

We went to church Sunday, although I really didn’t want to hear a sermon.  What I wanted to hear was the church history lesson before the sermon.  But the sermon was about how I fail to understand the nature of God.  Wait, no.  Semi-mercifully to me, he didn’t say “you,” he said “we.”  The church history lesson was interesting.  The sermon tried hard to be hopeful and empowering.  But I went home after the sermon and don’t feel the power.

I really should, my daughter is desperate for me to show my faith.  I’ve taken leaps of faith before and everything turned out basically OK.  It’s just that the last one had the WORST landing ever.  I’ve been waiting for a blessing, I’ve been waiting on the promises to be fulfilled, waiting for it to get better and it’s just not.

My back was sore Saturday and I can’t afford to go to a chiropractor; at least that’s ok on any given morning until I start moving.  I reflect back to the $700 of bloody stupid blood testing I couldn’t afford that my crap insurance company left me stuck with and my doctor unsympathetically half-laughed about when I went in for my physical, because he doesn’t give a shit that I’m poor.  Neither does the insurance company that stuck me with the fucking bill, as if I haven’t paid more in health insurance payments to amortize my own costs for both medical AND dental.  Nor the company I slave for that pays me the same shitty wages they pay people new off the fucking street after about 10 years.  Ass holes.

They ALL pretend to be sympathetic and caring when you come to them in need.  Yes, ALL of the above.  But don’t go to them twice, or you get a letter or some patronizing bullshit or worse, you get told to help yourself.  Or you get a bill for their services.

And the dog pretends to love me, but wants to bite everyone in the neighborhood AND their dogs and stick me with the insurance bills and court costs and medical bills.   We’ve been fortunate enough to be able to control him most of the time, but he’s bitten two people, one of them was in our extended family, for fucks sake.  Ass hole.  Loveable, yes.  Loveable ass hole.

I still don’t want this life.  I want a better one.  But from what I’ve read, I’m not alone.

21 For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain. 22 If I am to go on living in the body, this will mean fruitful labor for me. Yet what shall I choose? I do not know! 23 I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; 24 but it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body.

“to die is gain.”  If my labor were fruitful I might have some kind of hope, like Paul.  There were also Moses, Job, Elijah, and Jonah.  It’s by a process of twisted logic, but I find these examples encouraging because I see that even if you’re spiritually huge and important like Elijah and Moses, you still can have doubts.  And, maybe it’s reasonable to think that if the people around them called them crazy, maybe they believed it, or at least, felt those waves of depression just like I do.

I can’t kill myself.  I want the kids to think there’s hope.  Maybe there is, for them. I’m not feeling it.  But I do want to see how it works out.  It doesn’t matter whether people measure up to my hopes for them.  It matters whether God proves as infinite and loving as He says he is.  It’s unfortunate I don’t get eternal proof until eternity, and a whole bunch of absolute shit can happen to me, just as it happened to prophets and apostles and martyrs before me.  I just have to figure out what faith and trust looks like for me, and then live like that.  But I’ll tell you, like those great men of the faith (and I’ll bet women too) doubted, questioned, worried, and lamented, so also with me.  I’m doing all of that.