Bunker Away from My Bunker

So today was almost as pleasant as I expected it to be unpleasant, you prayer people really must have your shit together or something.  So thanks.  First, today is Sunday and I skipped church, so I indulged a little whim and studied my Bible longer than normal (normal lately is “none.”)  I’m going to do that again, I liked it.

Skipped church, Deon?  Oh, really?

Yes.  Instead of church, there was a flurry of activity.  I took the dog to some people who said they’d take care of him, and I hope they do it right, because this dog is my closest and best friend in the world.  That’s right, and my best friend pulled the leash so hard on yesterday’s walk and ran behind and then in front of me so fast I tripped and fell, and then ran away from me to meet the neighbors and their dog.  My knee and my left hand wear the battle-scars, and fortunately their dog and his people are sedate and docile and didn’t panic nearly as much as I felt like doing.  He was basically fine toward them, although he really REALLY wanted to go meet them and their big old dog.  At least he didn’t bite their baby, or their dog.  I’ve learned a new way to hold the leash so he can’t pull (ha, ha) that shit again. But today, he was fine, and these people are great.  He settled right in, which is great but at the same time, he’s only met them twice; what kind of drugged pepperoni did they feed him?  And can I get some too?

After delivering the dog, we packed everything, almost including the kitchen sink into the van and drove all day to get here.

I’m exhausted.  But then we had a brilliant communal family meal, I had a long hot shower, and tomorrow will be an adventure in a new place.  I’m holed up in a local no-tell, with the family, and the doors are locked on the van AND the room.

I had a lovely cuppa tonight with my food, full, and relaxed, and I’m the more tired because I couldn’t find my med that caused yester-whoops, scratch that, day-before- yesterday’s, insomnia so I’m not amped up on that for now.    It’s been a good day.  Can this be the trend for a while?

Fluctus Contritum

Holy Shit, Fluctus Contritum!  It’s Latin for “broken waves.”  That’s right, the stars have aligned, the planets have collided, and so far, it’s been a really good day.  Don’t translate that for the irregulars, please, but I know the two of you that understand.  It does happen occasionally, just not as frequently as I’d like, but today, after a night and early morning of insomnia (that’s Latin for “insomnia…”  no, seriously! and you thought you didn’t know any Latin!), I’ll just discreetly say things happened.  Not everything I usually bitch about, but significantly different and because I don’t want to use the word “great,” for some reason, I’ll say, “amazing.”

So for today the downward wave was broken by insomnia and good things, so thank you to everyone who prays for either stability or better for me.  I believe prayer helps, if you don’t, I’m sorry and I’ll pray for you some more.  If you do believe prayer helps, pray I can get some cash soon, and I mean “enough.”  We still need an influx that doesn’t hurt us by costing us more for benefits we lose because the government thinks we have a tiny bit too much, or an influx that’s big enough to compensate for the loss and go beyond that to actually help.  When you’re on government aid of any kind, you learn fast there are limits – if you earn $1 too much, the government cuts off your benefits at the knees, and leaves you scrambling to pay for whatever they thought you were poor enough $1 ago to help you with.  What they should do is figure out how much that benefit costs and raise the limit of their help to continue helping you until you can afford the actual cost of that benefit.  What they actually do if you try to hold down a job and become successful, is leave you stranded worse off than you were when your crap job, or your unemployed status, put you in need of their help.  I said all that without triggering myself, I think.

The other good thing is the cramps in my legs, randomly chosen from anything from gluteus medius down to soleus (that’s a little more Latin for a pain in the ass, that might extend from the outside of the hip to the outside of the rear calf) that have plagued me for a few weeks, especially on the right side, every morning, until I stretched them out and walked them off, are finally calming down.  Rating the leg pain from a zero to an I can’t fucking walk (we’ll call that a 10), I’ve decreased from a stylish set of brass-ornamented cast iron designer leg cramps that I’d rate at a 7 or 8, down to a shiny varnished, wooden legged 3 or 4.

Today I’m doing housework, packing, making a run out to the post office, and then I think tomorrow the family is going on a trip somewhere, to some frugal, secret, undisclosed locations, and I get to come along.  School starts in two weeks for the kids.   I’m aware of  mild depressive events that are preceding what has in the past been a 3 month depression cycle, like foreshocks before bigger earthquakes.

But so far, today is a good day.

I just read that profanity is bad for writers

here:  https://michaelhyatt.com/profanity.html?utm_campaign=coschedule&utm_source=facebook_page&utm_medium=Michael%20Hyatt&utm_content=How%20Much%20Business%20Is%20Your%20Profanity%20Costing%20You%3F


He may be right.  Tag in, both of you readers who still follow my horrible blog, and let me know if you agree.

I think he’s probably right, so I’ll skip the profane and go with Ducreaux.  All I can say is…

Mad at the World: The Continuing Saga

I contemplated the word saga and whether to replace it with a derivation using -suck- as a base, but decided against it because I couldn’t figure out how to make it make sense.  Which sucks for the word suck.  Mrs M and young master M have returned from their foray into darkness, aka a trip to see my inlaws, and I’m faking it like hell today.  Or I wouldn’t be writing anything.  I called the doctor about medications and I’m waiting to see if I can get the pharmacy to give them to me without a $20 copay to the doctor and then another copay to the pharmacy and then whatever extra over-the-top expense the insurance company doesn’t feel like paying after I already feel twice-plundered.

I’m exhausted, with another 3 hours of work ahead for work, and then whatever lovely labors I can accomplish under Mrs M’s thumb, which sounds a lot better than it feels.  For some reason she thinks I should drop whatever I’m doing (which is nothing) and wash her dishes immediately, so she was frustrated I didn’t wash them last night after 10:30.  I got tired and fell asleep and washed them today after she left for work, but that doesn’t undo the frustration she felt, ever ever ever, because I should do it now, now being whenever she says it needs to be done.

In short, she wants a robot that obeys, not a guy who wants a loving and reciprocal relationship.  If she had a robot that obeyed, she’d be better off.  Just like I’d be better off if the computer at the bank fell for me.  Robots are never exhausted, and they do as they are told.  I’m only assuming a computer at the bank would be rich, but it’s probably equipped with a damned AI Conscience, the prime directive being, make sure Deon never has what he needs and disallow any transfer of funds that might be deemed questionable.

She on the other hand would be better off with a compliant robot.  Her dishes would be done, her trash would be out, her recycling likewise, he could be programmed to fix shit and repair shit with precision, and any need for physical pleasure would be satisfied or she could just reboot and start the cycle for another run.  And her robot could go to work for her and make money better than her human companion.  He could work 24/7 with no need for breaks or distractions.  Except I hear her subconscious saying, “Where’s the fun in not having someone whose buttons I can push and watch for emotional output and overload?  This is so much more fun.”

She’s back, and already frustrated that I didn’t wash the dishes last night and then fall exhausted into bed without any thought of expectations of her.  I wonder whether I’d get what I wanted if I were able to muster the energy to do what she wanted right when she wanted.  The result would IMHO be the same, she’s frustrated because she doesn’t want to do that or too tired, or both, there would be a disagreement, and I’d end up out of luck, still.  So I didn’t do the dishes right then.  Instead I fell asleep on the couch.  Happens a lot.  Sucks.  We’re both too tired, we both want what we want, and neither one of us is getting it.  Or willingly giving it I suppose  Which compounds interest daily which means I suppose I’m as in debt for emotional support as I feel she is.  Sucks, who is going to invest toward a repayment plan first?  Me, doing the dishes,  represents a penny where a dollar is needed to delay foreclosure by an angry accountant bitch, and I’m already tired at work and need to sleep, but…

I did the dishes this morning before work, and then looked outside to observe my grass needs mowing, which means my parents grass needs mowing more.  So tonight I’ll load the mower and go, and go again tomorrow on my day off work to get the shit done.

Good with bad, she sent me to the chiropractor last week and there’s nothing wrong with my back alignment for all the lifting.  So the chiropractor was nice, but I’d have been happier if the … oh there’s the other thing that’s stupid.  Recall I got frustrated when the automated voice said how sorry it was but the payment was declined?  Well it actually went through, according to the bank.  So I guess the people at our lovely ISP company (who, if they’re monitoring this transmission, are actually brilliant and beautiful, and if not monitoring, have an automated program that’s complete shit), for some accidental reason outside their control, had a system issue where they hit our bank for the money after telling me it wasn’t there, and got their damned money, and pissed me off more than I already was for no good reason.  That, so I’d have been happier if the money I wasted on a copay could have been invested in something alcoholic because that works as well as going to chiro did.

What I learned after going to the chiropractor is that, for some reason, I apparently need to relax and stretch.  Go figure, for a person whose life is cramped and stressful.  Which comes back around to Mrs M, who has the ability to provide certain direct assistance in the area of relaxation, but is too tired or unwilling.  Paradox, which again I tried to play-on-words with “sucks” and it didn’t work. I’ve never been more irritated at my ISP.  They made me mad for no reason and it was the automated system.  I’d be willing to bet that if I had demanded talking to some live human being instead of just hanging up after hearing the automated “fuck you,” they’d have tried to extract the money a second time.

I question all my decisions and motivations.  Except for the decision to be cynical and a bit bitter, which seems the most logical choice to make.  It would be nice if I got what I wanted, and it might undo a little of the bitter cramped stress of my life.  But the lottery’s not paying me yet, I have no time or energy or marginal space in which to metaphorically stretch, and my job, the lovely kids, and the lovelier Mrs M  aren’t delivering in the un-bittering or de-stressing areas, nor in the marginal spaces I’d like.

It seems to be the unfortunate, continuing saga of my life, which sucks.  That is to say, when I want it to not suck, it sucks.  Do I make it suck more by trying to get the kids to do chores or trying to encourage Mrs M to encourage me?  Not sure it’s worth the stress and aggravation.  She’s trying, but in ways that aren’t exactly what I think/feel/believe would work the best.  I hear everyone, that is to say, both readers, saying, you should communicate.  Yes.  I should.


That sucked.  But I tried.

Can’t have alcohol, which sucks, until after I wear myself ragged with mowing a good 3/4 of an acre with my push mower, or more, tonight. (because I have to drive over to mum’s.)  And, knowing I have scheduled the day off tomorrow for a mental health day, and she hasn’t, sucks.  I did it so I could finish things around the house(s), mums and ours.  What I want instead is a surprise party.  A party of two, for which there should be cake, and steak, and a nice wake-up, not in that order.

Instead, she’ll publish a list of things she would like to see accomplished, “since {I’m} not working…”  Which sucks, because after I finish not finishing the list, she’ll be disappointed and frustrated unless I throw my back out, which she’ll say I shouldn’t have and then do the comforting thing but not the rewarding thing.  And if I finish the list I’ll be too tired for the rewarding thing.  A steak would be nice though, if nothing else.  But I’d trade it for better things I can think of, worth far more than $10 or $20 a pound (who am I kidding?  I don’t want to pay more than $6 a pound for steak, and it better be good for that price!), and de-stressing far better than a forced copayment plus cost.

That time when Deon was mad at the fucking world

Oh, I remember it like it was… oh wait, it’s RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

It’s my own damned fault.  I chose this shit.  Or, is it the rage before the darkness and despair that’s probably around the corner?  Or is it the edges of the darkness and despair hurricane already fucking here, bringing some lovely rage along for the ride?  FUCK.

I chose this wife, I chose this family, I chose this job, I chose every ounce of the tons of shit that is this life, and I chose to allow all of this bullshit, and I chose to leave things alone rather than risk fucking it all up, and to try to work hard as I could at making a go with what I chose.  It’s not fucking working.

It’s going to be a great weekend.

Mrs M is going to visit her ailing mother and her panicking father.  She’s experiencing the thing that eventually killed her mom, so that whole family is unnerved, exacerbated by the fucking idiot doctors who are doing their best to extract as much money as possible from the patient and family before finally killing her by not providing the treatment needed, but testing for everything.  Sadly, I know about the proper treatment.  It is uncomfortable and she has to quit taking blood thinners for a bit.  But if they don’t either fix the symptom to allow her body to heal itself, or do the treatment, I’m afraid my mother-in-law is going to die.  And right now, they’re not doing shit except watching her die with morbid curiosity.  “Oh, hey, how interesting!  Look at that!”  Fucking ghouls.

I’m not a doctor, so I have no idea what considerations they are working through while pretending to care and pretending to be busy while pretending to be deciding how to treat while deciding not to treat the symptom, which is, she’s dying while they’re hemming and hawing over other options. Ass holes.  With treatment, one of my friends with the same damned symptoms a while ago is now alive and well, but these doctors are thinking, “she’s old; let’s take the family for a ride down the financial shitter and then just let her die.”  My friend is 30 years younger, so they kept her alive so she could pay them out the ass, which I can only imagine they left bleeding money from the barbed-wire wound instruments they shoved up there to insure continued payment.

Insurance is bullshit.  You pay for insurance so you can get treatment by copay per visit, or copay and percentage of cost, or copay and whatever in-suck-rants bureau-craps decide they don’t feel like paying for out of what you’ve already paid them, and then you can’t afford it or coverage is denied, and then you die, and leave your family destitute after bankruptcy proceedings.  Cheaper to just stay home and die without treatment, which is my current procedure.  It’s a matter of time, which it is for everyone else.  I’m not encouraging the process, but I’m not discouraging it either.  If I don’t go I don’t have to pay more than my premium as required under fucking Obaminationcare’s law, which, by law, won’t help me with my situation but helps someone else help themselves to an extra $2600 a year more than I was paying before it became lawful pickpocketing.  Fucking thieves!

My solution to insurance is to make it fair, a flat percentage tax-style rate based on income, regardless of pre-existing conditions, and then if you need to go to the doctor, or the dentist, or the optometrist, you should be able to schedule it and go, without all the extra bullshit out of pocket expense, sweating about what’s covered and what’s not, and if you need medicine you should be able to get that as a part of your coverage, and if you need to see a specialist that should be covered too.  But that would eliminate a lot of high-level insurance company bullshit, and probably put a lot of high-paid ass holes out of jobs.  They’d never stand for my plan.  Imagine, making doctors, pharmacists, specialists, drug manufacturers, and all the other medical people just work, and figure out how to fight it out for their share of the pot!  And if it isn’t all spent at the end of the year, the tax rate goes down because people are too healthy.  They’d have to figure out how to agree, and maybe treat people for costs and maybe a little extra for the staff.  That’ll never happen; not while there are yachts and fat retirement plans and their kids’ college expenses and nice houses and divorce payouts to consider.  They wouldn’t like my definition of the word “malpractice,” either.  That’s not entirely the doctor’s fault, not all the time.  Sometimes malpractice is forced upon a doctor by an idiot insurance adjuster.  Murder wouldn’t work- they’d just find another fucking cog to turn in the machine, with an overactive “coverage denied” stamp.

Mrs M is going to join the family’s emotional playground, so she’ll come back still worried, all emotional, and in all ways exhausted.  And she’s dragging my son, who’s actually helpful when pushed a little, with her.  My daughter has to work, so she doesn’t feel obliged until Mrs M or I push her buttons or take away her devices or indicate how thoroughly unhappy we are.  Sometimes we have to do that to motivate both of them.  I don’t have the energy, it’s easier to do all of the shit myself.  But today, one of them put away dishes I washed and the other folded towels I washed, so that’s progress.

Speaking of button pushing, I had a call today from an automated collections service regarding our internet access, among other things, asking for a modest sum.  And a late amount, for fucks sake, when I trusted Mrs M to fucking pay it on time or tell me about it.  I called the lovely Mrs M., to inquire about it.  She said I should just call and make a payment.  Famous last words, for me.  Because really, anything that starts with “just,” should instantly alert me that things are going to hell fairly soon.

I called them back to make a payment and got a fucking “payment was declined,” from the beautiful-sounding computer voice. “Just” my fucking ASS.  Yep, I blew my stack, the stack hit the ceiling, and my rage pushed it all the way up there, past the ceiling, to the pain.  She’s busy saving money because she wants to go on vacation somewhere this year, and she’s the one with all the monetary control, deciding what’s in savings vs what’s available to pay bills.  If I had married the bank computer, I’d probably have enough to “just” pay the fucking bill.  But Mrs M is softer (sometimes) and warmer (occasionally), than a rich computer, so I chose Mrs. M.

This episode followed yesterday’s button pushing session, during which I sat silently while Mrs M informed me of upcoming expenses that she believed would completely overload our current budgetary considerations and I’d just have to get another job soon, as if jobs were just hanging from trees to just pick one just that fucking easily.  So I just already had a trigger and just let it just fester, and then today I just had another trigger and it just hit the bulls eye and just set me down this really dark, angry pathway.

And it’s my own fault.

Because why can’t I “just” get another job?  Other people can.  Other people can skate through life, jump from job to job, getting raises and earning enough to pay for shit they need.  And I have always chosen options wherein the end result is insufficient, and I am insufficient, and I am worth more if someone rich kills me on the highway so she can sue everybody than if I just keep my current status quo.

We’re encouraged to explore possibilities in life, up to a point.  And after that point, we start getting told “it is what it is,” without allowing or encouraging us to ask WHY “it is what it [fucking] is,” or why we can’t fucking FIX “what it is,” which is, “broken.”  Except it isn’t “broken,” according to some people, because they can get it to fucking work, after several tries, therefore it “works.” which is a lot different concept of working than I want to fucking hear.  Insurance and medical practice isn’t “broken,” in much the same way, and yet people who pay for insurance can’t afford medicine or treatment because it’s not covered under their plan because the insurance companies want everyone to just die so they can pocket the premiums, if they weren’t required to pay the doctors and pharmacists their pittance.  SO yeah, obviously THAT’S not broken, is it?  Nor is my sarcasm generator. (and may it never be!)

So, what’s undeniably broken, is ME,  and my budget, and “it is what it [fucking] is,” so if someone wants to step in and fix what’s fucking broken, that’d be great.  Stop telling me to “just” do anything when you should know damned well I “just” can’t,  Stop telling me to “just” get another job unless you fucking “just” know a recruiter who’s dying for someone with my skills, and stop telling me to “just” get two jobs because I don’t want to encourage the above process of death by cardiac stress, I already can’t afford to attend to and have no desire to push toward.

It’s my own damned fault.  I chose this shit, every last bit of it.  Obviously, I’ve chosen depression and stress as a lifestyle.  Statistically, the reasons reported for divorce are pretty standard sounding, and there wasn’t anything that surprised me here except the apparent overlap of multiple reasons why she might kick my ass to the curb.  Number one was, not working hard enough, and obviously, if she thinks I’m not working hard enough because why haven’t I just gotten a better (harder) job  that just pays more money or why haven’t I just gotten a second job already, then we’ve got a major fault line, and it’s my damned fault.  I mean, I haven’t had my first heart attack yet, for fucks sake, so what’s wrong with me?  And why am I not just fucking working harder?

If the marriage falls apart, does anyone know the number of that hot-sounding computer voice at the bank?  Does she like to have her dust blown out, or sucked out, or does she prefer being unscrewed and brushed out with a nice, soft brush, and then gently (or roughly) screwed?  Does she like power tools or a more natural, hands-on treatment?  If I can talk her into marrying me, I’d probably be able to pay my internet access bill, and maybe even a little medical and dental treatment too.  Anyone with the hookup?  What kind of cable would work?  Do you think she’ll reciprocate?  I mean, I don’t want to have to take matters into my own crossed wires and waste my energy jacking on.


Obsessed, 07/19/2017, Deon Mumple

When I wake up, you’re on my mind,
Add the chaos of routine every day,
When routine’s never quite routine, I find,
It’s to routine, I wish I could get away.

I sip my coffee, check, and think of you,
Try to smile, check, and to start to pray.
There isn’t ever enough time to do
Everything, and change is here to stay.

The hornets’ nest spins at the queen’s command,
Minions rise to detest her fair bidding,
I throw guesses in a bag, to face work’s demands,
With blurred eyes.  Don’t imagine I’m kidding.

She might kiss, brutally, before she’s mini-vanned
Well-hid exhaustion behind beautiful flurry
Then I regret everything failed I’d planned, and
Check again, then rush off, in my own too-slow hurry.

Radio drones simulate everything’s great; all stupidity,
As we drive to work, dodging two-plus ton bullets,
Too much laughter at things that aren’t funny,
Then a song, the only escape we might get.

On the outside pretending I give a shit for work goals,
I think of you, when not spitting silent bile at my screens,
Hope you’re all right, remembering your life’s tolls,
Wait for a break, hope you’ve written anything.

I might write, stealing time from a self-made hole,
Leave the reader wondering what it means
Don’t be alarmed, the writer would barely know
Tomorrow, from yesterday’s routines

Don’t worry, I’ve got a routine to hang from
Don’t alarm yourself for my emotional state
If change shreds all, who knows what will come?
Would it be worse than what I now hate?

Before I try to sleep, I check one more time,
To see if you’ve checked in, in some tiny way,
An email,  rant, a narrative, a tear, a smile, a line
Just to know, bad as it may be, you’re relatively ok.

I want at least that piece of peace of mind,
That peace of my world, as intact as you can be
Despite life’s grind, the rewind, and regrind
And I am sorry if I ever make you worry.

Compared to the alternatives I know are possible-
I’d rather not read about you from any other source
Though my normal seems comparatively dull
Routines, checking, checking, rechecking of course

If routine disappeared from the queen’s kingdom
I’d just worry more, for her, her minions, and you.
If you’ve not written, you’re who I’m waiting to hear from,
Call me obsessed; I’m just your biggest fan, being true.

Somewhere in the Middle of Time

Somewhere in the Middle of Time,
Deon Mumple, 7/14/2017

Once I was young and had not lost all innocence,
Saving for mischief without harmful intent
Now I still think youthfully sometimes
Not as often, not nearly innocent

The new-borne struggles to stand and walk force a pause
Stiffness searches backward for ancient agilities, lost
Time-drained life-slurry seeps, slow and viscous
All day, clouded or sunlit, a darkness palls

Despite hammer-blows of  time, those promises, those lies,
I still sometimes see the world through child-like eyes,
Hope’s glimmers, with softened, salted tears, as my
Heart hardens, corneas cloud, dreams die

Praying, waiting longer between for those blessed moments of clarity
To arrive- I expect shocks- but sometimes they come, oh so softly
Like a breeze you can’t feel, gentle after a storms’ ferocity
Wisdom already knows my dreams were all folly

Still I remember the innocent, liberated thrill of the pursuit,
All the while never knowing just how to harvest that fruit
Legs don’t want to climb, anyway, now, the point is moot,
Can’t reach, why try? Wither fast to bittering roots.