Survived Hell Week.

Fuck, what a dumpster fire of a week.  I didn’t write shit in my blog because I didn’t have three seconds to myself.  You’re welcome, everyone.

My parents and one of my sisters kept having serious, life threatening not-health situations.  I went to the hospital a couple times to visit, and ended up just staying until visiting hours were over because who knows how long I’ll have the chance to just hang out with mum and dad.

I hate fucking doctors and doctors’ offices and hospitals and how health declines when we get older.   Rotten teeth, rotten disposition, rotten finances, messy house, messy relationships.  These things do nothing to encourage me.

I passed the routine physical and probing tests the doctor ran for my permission to go camping with the Boy Scouts for another year if I can find the time.  Oh yeah, that was another part of my personal hell week.

I took some more shit from Mrs. M about how I don’t make enough money last weekend while we drove around looking for another car because the newest one we had went to shit and was going to cost more than 75% of its’ value to fix.  Last time we needed a car and tried to borrow money, the banks wouldn’t even lend us $2K, those fuckers.  We were deeper in debt back then, and we’ve been working our asses off to keep paying it down.  A small miracle occurred and a friend gave us the one that just fell apart. But I still hate being told I “just” need to find a better job that pays double-or-more than what I currently earn.  If it’s not from outsiders, which is bad enough, it’s from Mrs. M, which is more than two times worse.

I confess, despite my stress and rage at the work-as-hard-as-you-can-to-keep-up-but-still-shit-falls-apart-then-you-go-broke-and-people-steal-what-little-you-have-left world I live in, that somehow another fucking miracle occurred and we got a newer car fairly cheaply.  So say a prayer it holds together longer than it takes to pay THIS one off.  Because a bank lent us the money for this one.  I could use a financial miracle right about now to pay off these miracles that keep costing me money.  I’d love, for the next 40 years of my life, if I live that long, to have enough to not worry about money any more, since I feel like the last 30 have been debt-ridden.  Debt sucks ass.

Speaking of which, it’s about time for one or two of our creditors to start calling every fucking day while I’m at work to remind me they want their money and they’d damned well like it before the due date.  Ass holes.  They can fucking wait.  I hate that shit, and I’d like to have enough to tell people what they can do with their shitty treatment of other people, starting with me.  See, if you have enough money, people LOVE to practically just fucking GIVE you money to spend or invest or whatever.  But if you don’t have money, people make you pay more to borrow what you need to survive.  The interest on the damned house is more than the principle we’re trying to pay down.  We couldn’t afford an extended warranty on the car, but the salesman kept pushing that shit and wanting to add an extra $90 a month on the car payment in exchange for security.  It’s already more than we have the budget for.  I wonder what they’d do if I picked up when they rang and told them, point blank, “Thank you for the reminder.  We’ll make the payment on time just like every other month, and not early.  Now fuck off until next month.”  Instead I’ll sit at work trying to earn enough to afford those payments and not answer the damned home phone.

During the health scares, I lost track of a few things I actually like, like blogging and reading other blogs, so for that first thing, again, you’re welcome, and for the second, I’m sorry and I’ll try to catch up with everyone.

To add insult to injury, and cap off my personal hell week, this morning there was a damned ice storm.  I was scared shitless driving to church this morning, praying we wouldn’t slide off, or slide over, get in a wreck and trash another car and toss ourselves off another financial cliff onto the rocks below.  I hope to God the next 7 days are a HELL of a lot less HELL than the previous 7 were.

And although I suspect everyone ELSE’S week held its’ share of hell for all, I hope you’ve endured well enough to tell the universe fucker, who was way too busy in my life and I’m sure in yours, to fuck off.  Flip that ass hole a big fat bird for me.  I also hope to God the next 4,000 weeks are prosperous enough to more than make up for the drought.

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Long Time, No See, “The Silence is Slowly Killing Me.”

Apologies to Maroon 5 for the title, I suppose.  Whatever.  Adam Levine will no doubt tenderly and sensitively weep all the way to the bank or tattoo parlor.  And then write another song about a woman who treated him badly and how he secretly fantasizes about her death, but paradoxically, also misses her.

I’ve just been recovering from the holidays.  So, you know, it’s work, and at work, get bitched at for not doing enough work, or not doing everything according to exact standards because there’s so much it’s hard to balance getting it all done on the clock, then work off the clock and get bitched at for not doing enough or finishing enough on their timetables.  The clients send in the compliments about the quality of work and followup, the management rips it up and says it wasn’t done fast enough or right, so I don’t deserve a raise.  Then it’s home, and get bitched at for not making enough money, and for not doing any, or enough, housework, do some laundry, get bitched at for doing the laundry, do some dishes, get bitched at for not doing enough dishes, do all the dishes, take out the trash, vacuum floors and staircase, sweep and mop the floors, bleach the toilets and sinks, and hear crickets in response.  Oh, and being told I’m unattractive and then I try to clean myself and I hear how the wash cloth I left behind smells bad, not that I smell good or that the lighter workload at home is appreciated, although I’ve just washed the 10 wash cloths everyone else left in or on or around the shower, in the laundry I just got criticized for washing.  And it’s watching the cars I’m not driving fall apart at a rate more costly than our combined incomes can repair, not to mention my teeth which still need repair.  Yeah, life is good.

The miracle, or the insanity, is that I’m able to get out of bed, which I have to do every day or the dog would have to crap in the house somewhere.  We go for walks in the sunlight, if the sun is shining, so shut the fuck up, all you people who think the fucking cure for depressive episodes is to just go for a walk in the sunlight.  Mrs M shoves the vitamin D at me too, so shut the fuck up about that too.  Because sure, it must be working  or I might feel even lower, I guess.

The curse is, I can’t keep up with shit, so the small things get attention and the big things go to shit until they require a balloon payment I can’t fucking afford.  It’s falling apart around me and I can’t do enough fast enough, or earn enough fast enough, to fix or replace.  I’m broke and I’m broken and I’m tired and can’t sleep well.  I was up all night Saturday night and well into Sunday afternoon before I allowed myself to take a nap, only to hear shit about how I slept for hours.  Instead of what?  Saturday I recalled the sting of hearing how dismally tiny our checking account balance was last weekend after fixing a car and finding out how bad the other car is (which you have to pay to know), and then paradoxically, on Saturday, she wanted me to be all upbeat and happy about going shopping to find and assume payments on a new set of someone else’s problems.  Joy.  So we test-drove two that were fine, but I said I wasn’t ready to commit to anything, (because frankly we didn’t have the money) and mercifully we went home without grabbing at another $6K to $10K of debt, not that our credit would have allowed that.  Last time we asked some ass hole creditors wouldn’t even lend us $2K, fuckers.  We pay EVERYTHING back, it just takes a while on our incomes.  The proof is our credit score, which wasn’t enough for those ass holes.  We’re still paying down our debts, slowly but hopefully, while I watch the inexorable decay of cars and teeth and furniture and carpets and external wood accents on our house.  Fuck.  More work, more work, more work.  And yet, Mrs M persists in hope.

It’s kind of a sideways compliment to Mrs M that she is so very hopeful still, and that she hasn’t kicked me to the curb.  I don’t honestly know how the fuck she does it.  I understand the insults.  They’re half true, and half, frustrated bitch.  And I made her that way, it’s my fault.

I’m sorry for not writing, but when all I have to say is the unfortunate reality of it, you’ve probably got enough of that to share in your own life.  Positive thinking?  I’m positive this sucks.  Prayer?  Well, if the definition of insanity is doing the same things and expecting different results, then my prayers are insanity because I keep asking and I keep genuinely hoping that I get the answers I want and need, I just keep waiting and watching as things approach the otherwise inevitable.

I actually called the doctor yesterday, because I ran out of medication.  I was on a break from my shit schedule, and remembered to do it.  So of course, they were closed for lunch.  I’ll try again shortly, before I have to get to work.  Hooray.  Work.  Let me get a cup of coffee, because bourbon isn’t a good idea before work, not to mention I’m almost out of the small bottle she bought a while ago for me.  Before Thanksgiving.  I’ve been trying to make it last.  One plus was that she made a pecan pie that called for a little, which makes it taste great.  It’s a little too sweet and sticky, but in extreme moderation, like, one or two bites, it’s great.  Oh and believe me when I mentioned the diminished quantity of bourbon, I heard about how “It’s going fast; maybe you’re drinking more than you should,” from those perfect, beautiful lips she keeps mostly to herself.  And my mind responding quietly, “but not enough.”

Well, let me call the doctor and see if I can get an appointment because it’s time again for the boy scout physical so I can help on camp-outs if I sign up to go, if I can get a new tent because mine broke.  And I need some medication I guess.  It must be hope–  It’s another gesture against the feelings of futility.  If I didn’t have a gesture to brandish at the feelings and the universe fucker, may he be banished to the darkest, iciest, hottest, smallest corner of hell available and have to share it with someone who’s truly awful, someone could stick a fork in me, because I’d be done.

I hope things get better for all of us.  Fucking soon.

NEWS MEDIA: YOUR STUPIDITY AND BIAS AGAINST MENTALLY ILL PEOPLE ARE SHOWING! AGAIN! STFU!

bipolar shooter

First, let me apologize for taking this harsh a position because I don’t know the actual facts of the situation.

But second, FUCK ALL YOU STUPID IGNORANT ASININE NEWS MEDIA OUTLETS! 

And third, FUCKING STOP IT!  YOU ARE IGNORANT of ALL ASPECTS OF MENTAL HEALTH, so FUCKING STOP MISREPORTING AND SUGGESTING BULLSHIT when you DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE BLABBERING ON ABOUT because all you want to do is fill your pages and your news reports with horrid news wherein you malign people with labels that are fucking “possibly” true (and equally “possibly” complete fucking BULLSHIT), and give the mainstream audience an explanation that in some supposed-to-be-comforting-to-mainstream-audiences way, says it’s WE vs THEY, and THEY are mentally ill people.

The truth is that the late accused shooter is dead and can’t be properly diagnosed, the family has no clue what the fuck went down, and conspiracy theorists are already saying he wasn’t alone in the room and someone else was probably shooting from the other window that was broken, and eye-witnesses described two people walking calmly down the hall away from his room before the police had control of the room, who may have shot the guy themselves after shooting down at the concert-goers.  The authorities did not find and detain these two for questioning or a gunshot residue test, so THEY DON’T KNOW!

And, as I have already expressed, from my experience and all the genuine hearsay evidence and personal testimonials I have ever evereverever ever seen, bipolar people are not the enemy.  When we’re up, we’re up and we love life and people and have the ability, most of the time, to ignore a great deal of stupidity and bullshit circling in our orbit.  When we’re down, we doubt ourselves, we’re anxious and prone to panic attacks, the bullshit piles up around us until we feel hopelessly and helplessly buried and someone hid the fucking shovel and all we want to do is stay home in bed and be left the fuck alone.  And there’s the rage, sure, but it’s not something I’ve ever heard being used against people except in words (see also… this fucking article), maybe occasional screaming or throwing plates, cell phones, and other relatively harmless and avoidable objects.  And then there’s the hypersexuality, but I don’t hear MY victim bitching about THAT.  For the record, I don’t throw things, except piles of assorted clutter, and I don’t throw them AT PEOPLE.  I’ve never thrown a knife (but I think I’d like to learn and practice that).

Criminals are the enemy if you want to play it like that, and I haven’t heard any plausible reports that mental illness in general, nor bipolar disorder, are undeniably proven as causal of criminal behavior.  “Mentally ill” in any given news report, is bullshit.  It is a pall to put over any given dead criminal, such as a bomber, mass shooter, bank or gas station robber, or whomever the news wants to protect, portraying them as helpless fucking idiot lame-brains who seem to have had no choice but to turn to the dark side and go somewhere to kill people until the police come to shoot back and then scrape their eyes and what’s left of their heart off the walls and their brains and liver off the floor for the autopsy, and hose the blood out of the carpets.  And the fucking mysterious and poorly represented and totally not understood people with bipolar read or hear the reports and we collectively know it’s utter BULLSHIT.  Even at my worst rage I still know I have choices of whether and what to throw and in what direction, and if there were any, the people I might actually want to throw shit at aren’t anywhere close enough for it to serve me any real benefit.

Mrs M (bless her heart) turned on her choice of news channel today, looking for the temperature after sending me to take the dog for a walk, and then I endured the reports of two fires in a neighboring city’s low-rent downtown-ish area (here, if you dare, read “shithole”), with “THOUSANDS OF GALLONS OF WATER FLOODING THE STREETS!!” like it’s the beginning of the end of the fucking world because the firemen PUT OUT THE DAMNED FIRE, and USED WATER TO DO IT!!  That’s the idiotic sensationalism I CAN’T STAND!  I honestly don’t think the fucking weather ever came on before we left the house this morning.

All that and I had already told her it’s not raining, and the temperature is in the mid 40s or low 50s.  FFS.

Oooh, (if we’re to believe it) the Vegas shooter was a germophobe!  I’m fucking terrified, because Howie Mandel is too, and he hasn’t been locked up yet.  And oooh, (if we’re to believe it) he was bipolar too.  Well, if that’s true, then when will the authorities send the fucking rubber truck over, give me one of those NICE fucking robes that let me hug myself because no one else will, and feed me and do all my chores and give me a nice warm bed to sleep in, and don’t hold me responsible for MY actions (or inaction)?  I loved Howie Mandel from back in the day- the adorable “Bobby’s World” cute little fucker, the actually funny, not forced-funny, guy with the rubber glove on his head, before all of this damnable “reality TV” gameshow formatted so-called “talent” shit started overtaking anything that might have actually been a tolerable alternative to the news.

I shut off the damned TV and my son took it over to play his time-wasting video games for a while.  It’s off again, but now on my computer the news feed is shoveling out this shit.  And “normal” “mentally healthy” people are comforted with the “possible” explanation for the alleged criminal’s alleged behavior so they can ignore the conspiracy theorists theories and eye witness accounts of the other things that might have happened.  If the conspiracy theorists are right, the gun control advocates who engineer (YES, I FUCKING SAID IT!), and/or manipulate, reporting of such events have won again, the “normal” people still have their shallow opinions and misconceptions about mental illnesses in general and bipolar in specific, the criminal or criminals in the hallway get away with it again, and live to do it all over again somewhere else, and people with mental illness in general and bipolar in specific, lose yet again, in a battle they didn’t pick to fight, and they’re relegated to the “special-needs” room.  And the news media ass holes get away with reporting bullshit-as-fact AGAIN, give a smarmy smile through their straight, bleached, capped, perfect teeth, and tell us all to “have a nice day.”

I dread Monday morning already, because I know the news will be on (I love you, Mrs. M., but your choice of morning programming is awful!), and we’ll all be served thick, “gravy” covered slices of creamed bullshit on toast, to go with our coffee.  Fuck.  If it’s all the same, can I skip breakfast and just have my damned coffee?

Mumple’s Spiritual Laws: Lex I

Thursday and Friday I was saving up energy for Saturday and Sunday.  Sure, I still cleaned and vacuumed and washed dishes.  Sure I cleaned out the top part of the kids’ sink, because dear daughter’s hair clogs the tub AND sink drains.  But I was saving up.  Saturday I wanted to do things I HAD to do, Sunday I wanted to do things I WANTED to do, so I was saving up the energy and praying my back wouldn’t start hurting.  It’s not terribly painful, but it’s been cramping lately right where the chiropractor needs to adjust it.  And I’m not certain if it’s radiating downward from lower back, but it’s also bypassing THAT ASS, and attacking my left leg right at the top of the femur.

I have explained to my family, repeatedly, that they are in the habit of verbally correcting everything I say, which they immediately deny because when I say that, I am obviously wrong and need to see things more correctly…  The kids probably picked up the habit from their mother, who seems to think everything I do is incorrect, insufficient, inadequate,  and inane.  That’s Latin for “stupid.”  No, I’m only kidding.  Inane is Latin for “void,” or “empty.”  Probably some damned Latin teacher said that about his students, like, “…habitus et crania est inane.” Their “habits and skulls are void,” and it stuck until we say “inane” and mean “stupid.”  Except we Americans misproblounce it. Say “in- ahh- ne.”  “In- ayyn” must make the ancient Romans spin in their graves, but fortunately, many Americans are too inane to choose to use the word inane to describe anything, not to mention, it would probably be labelled as “bullying” the average dumb American.

They’d just call me “stupid” for suggesting anything was wrong because it’s less than it could be. Or wrong, so they’d match my familial contempt for all things Deon.  So there you go.  So far, the family doesn’t yet understand that constantly being told “you’re bad/wrong/stupid” does NOT motivate me toward success.  What’s it been?  26 years?  I was going to say there was a honeymoon period, but she hated our beach rental which we found while driving sight unseen.

I’m not trying to be a bully.  I’m trying to educate and entertain.  Sorry, I already know the attempt is feeble.  But fuck it, tit for tat.  So bully me and I may figure out a passive-aggressive way of bullying you back, or a snarky way to tell you you’re stupid (which is probably bullying).

I was saving up, and it didn’t matter.  I had goals for the weekend and they didn’t matter.  There’s a law of nature I experienced, or two, but I’m only getting to one today.  Because I have stuff to do and then work for work.  I got SOME of the things that needed to be done done, and ran out of energy and felt the pain in my hip and leg.  I took frequent breaks, to the dismay of Mrs M, who thinks one should gut through and finish whatever the task is before taking a break.  She’s right, but I can’t until this whatever it is, heals.

The law of nature is, “a nearly empty container will tend to remain nearly empty until you fill it, especially when steadily draining from it.  I put oil in my wife’s car, and the container is now empty.  It was a metaphor for me.  Or is it a parable?  Whatever.  If I fill a gas tank a quarter-full, it empties quicker than if I fill it the whole way.  I told my daughter her car wouldn’t start in the cold, not because it was cold, but because her phone charger was draining the battery.  She didn’t immediately accept my recommendation, and responded like she normally does under these circumstances.  I don’t know what I’m talking about, that can’t be the answer, etc.  But after criticizing my suggestion, she unplugged the damn thing and wouldn’t you know it?  Her fucking car STARTS now.  Because if you drain the battery, however insignificant you think the drain is, eventually it won’t do what you want it to do because it’s dead.

My emotional oil tank is running on empty.  My task-completing battery is nearly drained.  It chugs and tries to start, and sometimes it just won’t.  Something needs to happen to recharge them, or I’ll die.

The bills aren’t paid.  The bank account won’t handle the house payment until next weekend.  Sorry, home loan holders, although I know you desperately NEED some cash, you’ll have to wait until closer to the due date than you want.  So they’re going to call me while I’m trying to answer my work phone.  Every.  Day.  This. Week.  I can’t fill that tank fast enough, because the hole at the bottom is so much bigger than the trickle at the top.

The tasks aren’t done.  I can’t fill my energy tank fast enough because people keep borrowing from it, asking me to do shit that wasn’t already on my list.  I have to do that, and then try to focus on what I wanted to do, or what I thought I needed to do.  I can’t fill my energy tank fast enough because what I’ve already done was inadequate, insufficient, or done incorrectly so it needs to be done again, or done right.  Criticism drains the tank.  It doesn’t fucking matter if it’s so-called “constructive criticism.”  It still drains the tank.

Life goes on, and I got up again today and took the dog out for a walk, and then wrote this that’s been in my head all weekend.  I’m going to schedule a day off, and if I can get it, it’ll be this week or next week.  I need it already, and we’re only in the second week of the year.  Of course, you can’t fill the time-off tank fast enough because the company stole all the leftover time off hours they decline to roll over into the new year, so I’ll be told I’m not eligible for time off because there’s none in my “bank.”  Fuck it, I’m going to ask anyway.  I may ask for two.  In a row.

My tanks have been running on empty for a LONG time.  It’d be nice to be able to fill them.  I have a little hope, or maybe I’m just delusional still because everyone is telling me it’s a brand new year that’s supposed to be full of possibilities.  Anyway, I still feel kind of running-on-empty, but I’m riding that wave, and we’ll see.  I hope you can fill your tanks to the top and enjoy a little margin and a little peace.

Brain Brunch Buddy

zombie love

I felt weirdly obligated by the suggestions above in the wordpress feed.  Sorry (a little) in advance.  And, Come Party at Deons!  First poem of the new year:

Brain Brunch Buddy
Deon Mumple, 1/6/2018

It’s Sunday, I’m hungry, what’s around to eat?
Not lunch yet, brunch, I’ll bet, will make a great treat.
My make-up is messed up! I look like I’m dead!
I’m starving, I’m searching, but not for just bread.
I want friends to descend upon my Sunday,
Satisfy cravings, try, there’s nothing to pay,
Just trust me, though you see yourself in a gamble
I limp, so you should know not to say I shamble
I’m quiet, but don’t let that deter your visit
We don’t need words to feed our relationship
You can bring gifts or drinks, come in cars or by trains
Don’t bring your z-whackers, just bring me your braaaaains!

One Thing

It’s a new year.  Welcome to 2018.  So far, same shit, different year, maybe worse than the previous year.  So I’ve washed dishes, cleaned the small bathroom that I use, put plastic weather sealant  on the north facing door and the little window by the sink, and washed the dishes.  That doesn’t include what I did at my mum’s house.  She’s busy taking care of my dad, who got the flu and almost died.  I’ve been told that’s not an exaggeration.  Fucking hell, what is wrong with the world, when the damned flu tries to kill my dad, and the flu shot is only 15% effective to those who bother to get a shot?   Late December was spent visiting him at the hospital and yesterday at the death-camp-for-old-people that he had the presence of mind to say “get me the hell out of here” about.  He was saying the same thing about the hospital.  It’s really just rehab, but there were a lot of older people there,  No, the death camp was the hospital where we actually heard about 3 people dying in the few days he was there, and he wasn’t one of them.  Happy fucking New Year.  Woo hoo, I have the day off from work, which is great.  See?  I’m not at all ungrateful.

It’s just that I haven’t won that $400M lottery jackpot yet.

Since I get the extra half hour every morning after today, now that my schedule is back to the ass-end of the day,  I’m sure I’ll be cleaning and running shit to my kids in high school  because they’re so very responsible.  Thank God they don’t start until Wednesday I think.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids, it’s just that for all their education, they don’t think like I want them to.  Plan ahead.  Figure out that homework needs to be done the day  before it’s due, not the day after.  Figure out that clothes need to be found the night before you want to wear them, not 3 minutes before the bus drives by the house.  You know, coping mechanisms I had to learn for my damn self when I was growing up.  I confess I didn’t learn them *well*, but I had to learn them.

Figured out the drain on the computer battery, and the setting causin “plugged in, not charging,” was due to a damned automatically installed WINDOWS UPDATE that I couldn’t defer!  Ass holes!  One has come to expect this from random links emailed to me by Nigerian princes and Russian bride-wanna-bes, and of course the most excellent websites referred to in WordPress.com-filtered spam but not from Windows.  If I had time and money to fuck with people’s lives on purpose, I wouldn’t.  Instead I already do that without anyThere might be just a few choice individuals.   Thankfully some smart people online figured that shit out and helpfully posted the solution online for free.  When I win the lottery I want to hire people who do that!

So, where was I?  Oh, it’s January 2 already.  We survived 1/1/2018 and the end of the world did not occur.  Again.  Yet.

What this means is that there’s something left undone.  I mean sure, the end of the world is surely coming, but not today.  With the temperature dropping to -11⁰F/-26C, I haven’t heard a single weather person drone on about fucking global warming for almost a week.  Hallelujah for small favors and improvements to the news.  We did have the normal shit as you might expect:  war, famine, disease, pestilence, wildfires, earthquakes, and my little corner of the world turning into a popsicle like overnight.  Oh, and murders and robbery-murders, and robberies, and domestic violence, and child abuse, and poverty and so on.  “Tonight, on the evening news:  DOOM!!” “But first, this! Hahaha!”

Yep.  And now it’s January 3, and I still haven’t gotten to the point.  And yet, I’ve been remedicating for a whole two days after the doctor refilled my prescription.  The point is, it’s a new year and I’m supposed to write something motivational and encouraging.

I have to confess, I have NO skills in the multitasking area.  I suck at managing things and juggling and spinning plates.  When I cook, I cook one dish and then another dish and then another.  I can’t do it so the whole meal comes out all at once unless there is progressively shorter resting time required for each dish.  I do meat.  Then I do vegetable(s)/potatoes/rice.  Then I do whatever else of a side, then I do dessert if there is one, and then I do dishes.  Pisses Mrs M off, since she has the damned gift.  I love her for it, but only when she’s exercising the beauty of the gift and not bitter and festering because I don’t have it.

Shut up.

And if you’re one of those people with multitasking skill, then come over and help.  Don’t worry, you can help us eat, too.  I have been able to figure out cooking a little better sometimes, but not always.  If I can start it cooking and leave it, then I can start the next thing cooking and leave it, and so on.  But I only have one timer, so good luck with that.

I’m not good at doing a lot, but I’m better if I can do just one thing.  At a time.  So I looked for something applicable to me in the Bible, and wouldn’t you know it, there were a few other guys who were single-minded in there (thank GOD!)  I found just a few things to be single-minded about, and decided that in 2018, I’m going to do the ONE thing.  Which one?  I haven’t figured out if I’ll just do ONE thing, or one thing at a TIME.  Probably the latter.  It works pretty good for dinner.  In the morning, the ONE thing is coffee.  It’s first and always first.  And sometimes it’s the only thing I get to, because I don’t have a brain capable of starting sausage and eggs and grits and toast, and screwdrivers orange juice as much as I would love to eat that after the nausea and sinus bullshit is done (bleaaahhh!) pissing (achoo! honnk!) me (drip! achoo!!)  off (achooo!!!  drip! honnk! drip!)  Oh, and after I get to walk the dog, of course.  Truth:  I spend more time than I want chasing my running nose some mornings, to the point of aggravated distraction.  And I swear, my body knows when I have shit to do and it’s time to do it, because that moment when I’m trying to vacate the house, or get some work done, is the exact same moment my body decides to exercise a beautiful regularity.  I’m not upset about regularity; that’s great.  It’s just that it would be better if it were 20 minutes before I am late, instead of making me 10 minutes late.  Or, if it were during a scheduled “down” time.  Almost NEVER happens.

King David’s “one thing” was Psalm 27:4:
Spending time with God

Mary’s “one thing” was Luke 10:38-42:
Letting others worry about whether the whole list of tasks that “have to be done” is checked off, while spending time with Jesus

Paul’s “one thing” was Philippians 3:10-14:
Leaving his past mistakes behind in the dust, so he could focus on spending time getting to know Jesus.

This sounds like a thing.  A thing I could focus on during 2018.  So that’s what I want to do.  One thing.  Fuck the universe fucker, messing me up and tormenting me with shit I haven’t done, shit I’ve done wrong, shit I can’t do.  Fuck that.  Regret is a waste of time and agita.  Fear is another complete waste of perfectly good stomach acid, so fuck that too.  Stomach acid was invented to digest food, so I’m going to cook (one damned thing at a time).

One thing I want to do is spend more time reading  and trying to understand.  I have a list of things I want to learn, despite reading it a lot.  And another one thing is praying, when situations or other people pop in my attention deficit brain, just to see what the answers to the prayers are.  So sure, I’ll still do the list when I can.  But I’m not going to wallow in it when I don’t.

The “one thing” is more important.  I’ll keep you posted.

If I’m the one who wins $440M off the ticket I bought this morning, I sure will be enabled to worry less about a million things and concentrate on the one thing.  But if not, I still want to try to concentrate on the one thing.  Who can spin a million plates into a tidy, un-chipped and un-broken stack?  Not me.

One thing.  I think it’ll be enough, and I bet it’ll work out fine.

Santafacation Still Incomplete

So, not only have I lost twenty pounds on this medication,so I’m south of 225 lbs, on just

avatar 2

over 6’1″ but also, the beard and moustache hair still doesn’t match the head hair.  I’ve redone my avatar and I may hook it up, but it’s only until Mrs M decides she can’t stand the fuller beard and either cuts it back or makes me cut it back.  The avatar isn’t very adaptable so this beard shape is the closest thing to it.  My face is much more angular; this makes me look fat.  And all Mrs M Anyway, here’s my adorable face in avatar form, submitted for your adoration or scorn.

As you can clearly see, I look exactly like Harry Potter pretending to be Santa Claus…  Nah, I won’t be changing to this avatar.  I may shave, except then I’d look like Harry Potter BEING Harry Potter.  Only, taller.  And older.

IDK whether to say FML or LOL.