Official Disclaimer (Not to be Construed as an Actual Legal Document)

The information and opinions included in this blog may have been obtained from nearly anywhere: the author’s imagination, imagined or real past, present, or future, mom, dad, family, pastors, teachers, various authorities and trained and self-proclaimed “experts” in their fields, friends, “alternative friends” (he means “enemies,” if he has any), associates, employers past, present and future, wise counselors, average people, and blithering idiots, however, the author, Deon Mumple and/or any subsidiaries or aliases make no legal guarantee nor actual, official assertion of reliability, accuracy or grammatical, political, acrimonious, religious, irreligious or sacrilegious correctness, and assume no responsibility nor liability from any ideas, suggestions, manipulations, information or materials  provided, including the official-sounding, but not actually official, title of this article.  It is the reader’s responsibility to  confirm or prove incorrect any data or source citations, and of course, to act responsibly, in compliance with any applicable local, state or federal regulations. Any information, content, presumed or real intent or opinion, obtained from or via nombredelapluma.wordpress.com or any associated blogs or bloggers, or especially, this author, through any “like” or commentary remark, should not be used as any basis for spiritual advice, legal advice, illegal advice, moral advice, immoral advice, or other advice, but should be confirmed, properly authenticated, or legally assessed, through actually reliable, alternative sources.  Any comments or articles, past, present, or future, though possibly interpretable as flirtatious, should be understood as intended only to be complimentary, flirtatious-without-actual-intent, encouraging, and loving in nature.  Though the author may express appreciation for an individual’s appearance or the appearances of a group, no harassment is intended or should be implied, nor may the reader or subject presume intent, personal reference, implication or actual harassment.  (While the author admires, appreciates and loves all women as individual works of art, both in internal and external appearance and presentation, the reader shall be aware of Mrs. M’s full, sole, and complete rights to all cash, properties, and physical and mental devices possessed by Deon Mumple.)  It is presumed that personal deportment, comportment and presentation is under the personal responsibility and accountability of the individual or individuals presenting themselves, and this author shall write whatever opinion or nonsense which finds its’ way out of the derangement, hereafter referred to as “his thoughts,” and into this or other’s blog or blogs, presuming the rights of freedom of speech and expression implied, imbued or conferred by local, state and federal laws, including the Constitution of the United States of America, and its’ amendments.  Any articles or comments of a harsh nature are solely intended to vent the frustrations of the author, and while they may have been inspired by actual individuals, imaginary individuals, actual events or distortions of actual events, the author assumes no defamatory liability for reporting upon said events or individuals, who shall be referred to legally as “characters.”  And should any “characters” believed to be represented in this blog or blogger’s comments feel offended, it is presumed that said characters may freely close the web-page through their browser window option, or surf on to another site.  Though the author may express personal opinions, the words and opinions expressed in this blog may or may not represent the actual, official opinions of the author.  Individuals and/or groups may not presume any personal or corporate defamation or actual insult regarding belonging to, or not belonging, in fact or in fancy, to an ethnicity, a nation, a race, a religion, an actual, chosen, imagined, presumed, or invented gender or sexual orientation, or because they have a handicap. (This author, in this author’s opinion, would be an even worse blogger or commentator, not to mention, suck as a human being, if, as a handicapped person, this author belittled another handicapped person.  He may be evil, but he’s not THAT evil.)    Though the author may express dislike for specific actions, or an alternate opinion regarding life choices, it is the reader’s responsibility to assume any liabilities from following or ignoring any advice or opinions contained herein or in any article or comment, past, present, or future.   The reader further shall be fully responsible for any personal acts, comments, feelings and opinions construed as caused by said readership.  Any criminal actions against the author, including, but not limited to, threats, intimidations, stalkings or murders, or actions adversely affecting the author’s personal property or family members, will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Fallen Angel

When words fail us, our tears fall like rain.
Should we feel anger mingled with our pain?
When there are no answers, and right feels wrong,
The tears are the silenced words to our love song
When I remember, they play all over again.
My fallen angel!

I’m not alone hearing a love song play
With no music and no words left to say
What we have left are wishes that won’t come true
And our grief, deeper than any shade of blue
And words we wished we could have said…
My fallen angel!

No one can answer the questions we ask
But guilt never resolved chords dissonance
What’s left when there are no more words?
And she’s not here if they could be heard?
I don’t know anything left to tell
My fallen angel.

What can I say that wasn’t said before?
When I said “I love you,” I loved her more
And the tears fall, singing my love once again,
For mixed up hearts and lives. My friends
Should know love’s much deeper than pastel.
Don’t fall, my angels!

05/21/2017, Deon Mumple

I wrote a poem before about my Ulla, when I found out she had left us.  And now I’ve written this one by request because too many people fall to depression, bipolar, and other mental health difficulties.  We lost Ulla, and then we lost Johnna who wrote sweetly about how Ulla touched her, and honestly I just don’t want to lose any more of my people.  More famously, and more recently, forgive me for taking it too personally, I lost my favorite male vocalist Chris Cornell.

Sorry for being selfish, but please, all the rest of you warriors, please just don’t leave me here without you.  Ulla said “You matter.”  We need each other. And I don’t want to write any more poems in memory.  I want to write poems of celebration.  Ulla was an encourager of others, and the wish I wished the most other than my prayers for her to be healed was that I could encourage her enough, be a good enough friend, to help her and make her want to stay and keep writing, and keep fighting.  And neither were granted.  I fear for myself, and I fear for all of you.

Here is a short, beautiful tribute written about Ulla by Pieces of Bipolar, quoted by Johnna:
Blahpolar had an immense effect on my life. I doubt she even realised how much. She walked beside me on my own journey even as she carried the weight of her own demons. She said two words that redefined my life – you matter. Two simple words that changed my life. And now, I am at a loss for words. Because she mattered to me, and to you and to us. Words escape me. All I have are tears…https://painkills2.wordpress.com/2016/09/07/thinking-of-you-blahpolar/

I am as write disguise not obvious spam

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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.

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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.

Not Writing About What I’m Writing About?

I got up early today and have taken my daughter to school.  It’s not something I want to be in the habit of doing, but then, she’s already 17 so it’s a way to bond I guess.  It’s bad inasmuch as it fosters her laziness and encourages a lax attitude about time management, because she has a safety net to fall on.  It’s there, but I don’t want her to take advantage of it and just think it’ll be there her whole life.  My slightly more responsible son caught his bus.  Today she had gifts for her friends and wanted a ride so she could easily carry everything and not have the jostling and space issues of the bus ride.

I’ve had a cup or two of coffee, I’m back home and feeling nicely focused, but maybe easily distractible, it remains to be seen.  The squirrel joke is no joke.  I’m hoping I can have a little “me” time (writing here) and still enough time to walk the dog before the rain comes and get some chores and maybe a little extra catch up work done before I have to get to work today.  That upstairs…  I want my floors,  I want my desk.  It’s just that I’ve been like a pack rat for a while with no place to put “everything in its’ place,” and my wife is worse because she’s better at packing big things into small spaces.  No, NO, stop.  I mean like getting more stuff in the suitcase, or in the car, like that old game TETRIS, not THAT.  Although…  Nah, only if she wants that.  I surrender.

I started out wanting to write about a specific writer who has recently moved to the US after running into some difficulty because his government took issue with his writing.  But I tried to research and didn’t find anything accessible.  “This content is restricted.”  If his native government wants to restrict his thoughts and he restricts his audience, who knows what he’s talking about?  I’ve read a few comments and a few things in news articles I presume were quotes, and two year old or older blog things I found, and all I can think is, who the fuck cares?

It’s a fucking blog, like my own.  I guess, if he tells people to riot in the streets or kill someone or commit crimes, there’s a problem inasmuch as his words might actually have a direct impact on my life or the life of someone I know.  So yes, if he advocated violence or actual crime, I’d stand against that, but I can’t find anything to know if he did that.  And I consider myself a pretty damned good online stalker.  All I could find is stuff where he said, essentially, that both Christians and Muslims are idiots.  He’s an athiest, I get that, and again, my reaction is, who the fuck cares?

Well, radicals who profess either religion might, but I don’t.  He posted a picture online that was deemed “obscene.”  That’s stupid.   I’ve seen “sacrilegious” “art” before, and I don’t care.  Express your lack of faith in Jesus, who came back from the dead, or that “prophet” guy, who didn’t.  I don’t care.  Express your lack of faith in the government, I don’t care about that either.  America has elected a lot of presidents that people called names.

What concerns me is that people take the words of a fifteen or sixteen year old that seriously.

You want people to treat your religion with respect?  Get a religion that’s respectable, and be respectable with your faith.  You want people to treat your government with respect?  Get a government that’s respectable, and exercise your authority in ways that respect your constituency.  The people at quotesgram.com and quoteimg.com sum it up in short and then in long:

Image result for respect is earned not given

I don’t know how long it’ll take for me to earn my kids’ and wife’s respect.  Been working on that for more than 25 years for the latter.  Taking my daughter to school when she’s overburdened, giving a hug or a supportive remark when she’s sad or feeling insecure, helping my wife with chores and being as romantic as she’ll allow, helping my son in scouting and in becoming a young respectable man, helping the kids develop life skills and independence, it’ll eventually add up to respect.  Maybe.  I hope.  Work is a lost cause.  They want to demand my respect just from having authority to fire me, not realizing that at work, my respect can be bought, to start.  After starting with buying it with a decent wage commensurate with my experience and training and tenure, THEN it can be earned by helping me succeed in my career and developing me to the point where I can actually retire before I die, and hopefully have enough years to catch up with all the things I don’t have time to do between work and family and church and other activities.

As a blogger, if you don’t like me, you won’t read it.  You won’t follow it.  I’ll either get the message or not, but what do you care if you quit following me.  Just like the TV, or radio, if I hate the show or the commercial, I endure it or shut it off.  It has zero impact on the producers or the advertisers, but they are free to express whatever shit they want to broadcast and sell whatever shit they want.  Who the fuck cares?  And why?

There’s plenty of things I’d call “obscene” on the internet.  Why are people so afraid of someone offending someone else?  I think if a person has talent and respect, they ought to rise to the top.  But in the modern era what seems to rise to the top is infamy.  For some reason, the tacky, the cheap, the lowest common denominator, is what people want to see more of.  It makes them feel good about themselves and doesn’t challenge them to strive for better and more.  For some reason, the crafty, the villain, the ill-mannered, get the vote for fear that the one who seems honest and trustworthy might have some kind of hidden agenda the talentless, seem to get the sympathy vote because here in America we don’t want anyone to feel like they should keep on looking for their specialty, and try something new until they find something they’re really good at.  Our little baseball playing toddlers don’t keep score (but the adults do).  Art that people don’t think is art might sell to someone.  And someone might pay you to blog.  I wish they’d pay me, but I’m not holding my breath.  Plus, I need something either huge and inexhaustible, or huge and reliable over time.  I’m settling for reliable over time, but with that plan I’ll be working until I’m dead.  How disappointingly depressing is that?

I’ve vented enough, and I’ve thoroughly disappointed both of the people who strive to encourage my writing to be better.  So now I’m going to get myself ready to disappoint my boss, by working my ass off as hard as I can with my motivation high and my expectations low.  I think the boss pretends to be disappointed, and secretly they’re impressed trying to figure out how I’ve stayed so long for so little reward, and keep trying every day.  Maybe that’s why Mrs M is keeping me.  She’s secretly impressed, but also my worst critic, trying to encourage me to do better.  At doing what she wants me to do, mostly because she doesn’t want to do it herself.

I hope you find your inner motivation today.  I hope I do do.  I need to accomplish things when I take my breaks, because I didn’t accomplish anything great yesterday or today.  Except maybe I offended someone because I don’t take offense at sacrilegious, satirical, or political art or language.  If you’re offended that I’m not offended, you know what to do.  That’s right, have me arrested.  No, learn to park big things in small places.  No.

I hope you can do something good, that makes you feel good, or makes you happy because of either the sense of accomplishment or the gratitude of a friend or stranger.  Or, for a little while, do nothing, or something just for you and feel good and eventually harness the energy you have from taking a little “me” time to rest a little.  I hope I can too, but it’ll have to be snuck in between and after work, since I haven’t invested the morning in tasks.

Have a good day.  Both of you.

Milestones

It’s 5 AM.  I woke up because my laptop was making noise I wasn’t expecting, finishing a video I didn’t know I had started watching, one of those idiotic play lists that goes forever even when you’re bored.  I had gotten bored with the video I was watching after it ended, and left the laptop with the window still open, distracted with other things and people.  It still happens in spite of the new treatment plan I started last year.

I started the coffee and realized I was absolutely starving, so I put down some toast.  I shut off the idiot video and I won’t refer you to it.  If it streamed at all normal, it would have been playing by midnight last night when I think I fell asleep.  But no, the computer was quiet until 5:00 AM.  UGH.  I’m going to pour some coffee.  If I had an eidetic memory I’d tell you how many cups I’ve ever had, but I can’t.  But I CAN tell you about another milestone in my life.

300-inset

Sorry KIMKASUALTY for the basically shit resolution of this image.  But you get the honorable mention and the referral because WordPress acknowledges follower 301, not follower 300, Austin L. Wiggins.  But welcome, everyone.  And I’m sorry.  You’re all wonderfully supportive and I appreciate you.  300 followers may not seem like many to a GOOD blogger, but to me, it feels like a lot.

I don’t quite understand why people would to read my crap, so reaching the milestone number of 300 followers is a pleasant mystery to me.  I’ve blogged on and off since February 9, 2015.  I started on a random day, my blog’s birthday, 2/9/15, with https://nombredelapluma.wordpress.com/2015/02/09/hello-world. Deon Mumple, NombreDeLaPluma.  My introduction to the world of blogging was maybe more bold than I usually felt back then.  But I wanted to write things down and honestly didn’t want to care if anyone read it or not.  I wanted to record things, and in an electronic world, Dear Diary on paper is not quick and efficient.  Plus, the outlet to my emotions is, I’m told, a healthier alternative than worsening depression, the end of which, you know.

Let’s be honest.  There are, as I always assert, a LOT of writers who are SO much better than I.  Sure, there are writers who aren’t, but who the fuck am I to be the judge of that?  So I hope I’ve never drawn undue attention to your grammar, punctuation, or usage, unless it was me trying to be funny WITH you.  I hope I haven’t insulted, offended, or angered anyone, because that’s not what I want to be about.  I have my beliefs, which I’ll assert are just as valid as any other person’s beliefs.  I have my faith, shaky though it may seem, which I’ll assert is just as valid as anyone else’s faith, or what some may think is a lack of faith.  I’ll encourage you to explore my faith, and you can encourage me to explore yours, unless I’ve already done so.  I’ll write whatever’s on my mind, whatever I think is interesting or irritating or entertaining or boring, and I hope you’ll do the same

As for faith, I do recall, I’ve looked into two I couldn’t get, and mentioned them once or twice and never got a logical explanation to help me understand how they make sense.  But I also didn’t get any comments about my confusion or my logic, positive, or negative.  Maybe silence is the loudest expression of wisdom.  Believe me, I appreciate silence.  I hate the news, I hate the commercials, I hate the loudness, dogs barking, fireworks, unnecessary bullshit.

I wish my computer had let me sleep longer, but because it woke me up, you got this crap in your feed today and again, I apologize most sincerely.  When you finish reading this, or when you quit because it bores you, maybe you’ll have time to read something better.

If silence is the loudest expression of wisdom, I may be the world’s biggest fool, but for now, I’ll shut up.

Math Language Disection IV

Hello again, readers, fans and celebrated literary critics!  It’s been a while, you all have been warned, SEVERAL TIMES, and despite my cautionary notes advising against it, to date there are, according to WordPress, 297 lost souls who for some reason have clicked “follow” at the bottom of one of my wellsprings, by which I mean pits, of insanity.  You may think it’s writing, but this blog is the dumping ground, the killing floor, and the outdoor crapper all in one, for my wasted genius, my grief for undercompensated best efforts, my useless emotional outbursts, and any pitiful kernels of spirituality, dropped and immediately snatched away by birds, and choked lifeless by the cares of the world and the Powers that be which could do something about shit but couldn’t be arsed because, to shamelessly steal from Jeff-fa-fa Dun-Ham (dot-com)’s character José Jalapeño (on a stick) [they’re] “laughing too hard.”  At my damned expense.

Did you see what I did there?  See, we all love readers, we all love fans, and we all love it when a reader or a fan has something nice to say and posts a comment about our writing.  We don’t like the haters, because nobody likes a hater.  But instead of just pushing away, which really resolves nothing and might even provoke an antagonistic response, I gave the haters a little dignity, a little respect, in calling them “esteemed literary critics.”  Maybe that’s all any of us needs.  Personally, I’d love to be a literary critic.  Because what do you do?  You read it, or you skim it, and you offer an opinion about what you read, or about the author.  You can literally say whatever shit you want.  If you’re in a bad mood, fuck your subject, fuck your readers, and fuck the world.  If you’re in a good mood, fuck your subject, fuck your readers, and fuck the world, but enjoy doing that.  Being a critic:  It’s something similar to being tangential, except instead of being tangential at a given point, a critic offers a tangent at any point.

A good critic will offer encouragement to continue doing whatever a person being critiqued  is doing, but to continually work hard, in an effort to do it ever better.  One doesn’t normally just give a status report, a numeric evaluation, without any kind of answer guide or explanation.  One might establish a baseline expectation of performance, either based on prior experiences there, or industry standards, or One gives things the subject should keep on doing that they’re doing well, a kind of “run.”  And then one gives things where they need improvement, a kind of potential to “rise,” or “fall.”  You give an “O-pinion”

An O-pinion is something that’s unpredictable.  The tangent might lie anywhere around the circle, the “O” if you will, and go in any direction established by the critic.  That is to say, if a place did better the last time and they were crap this time, a downward slope might be indicated.  If a critic only pinioned a subject, in contrast, there would be no room to breathe, you would be unable to move, which is why an o-pinion is preferable.  If you were racked and pinioned,  you’re probably already finely ground between the teeth of the gears.  And stretched, if you were racked correctly, and immobilized if you were pinioned correctly.   If you were pinioned, always keep in mind that being immobile has the benefit of being what’s called “nodal,” meaning you are not moving up or down.  If that’s the case, it may suck, but at least things aren’t getting any worse.   And if you were the same as last time, you may get a slope that’s a horizontal line.  It may be on the bottom of the o-pinion, which means you sucked and you still suck and your critic has abandoned all hope, but still gave you a shot, or it may be at the  top, which means you were excellent before and you’re still excellent.  The benefit of a horizontal line is they liked you the same as last time.  I’d hate to have a slight upward slope.  It might give me false hope of actually improving, for fuck’s sake.

There are chefs in restaurants who literally live, or have died, by their rating.  Chef Bernard Loiseau was in debt and suffering clinical depression, and still worked his ass off in the kitchen all day, before killing himself, on February 24, 2003.  I haven’t forgotten.  I never got to go to his excellent restaurant while he worked there.   It is a tragedy, and I will never forget.   I’m not sure which is more tragic:

a) being in debt, which I am, and working your ass off to get out of debt, only to figure out that your employers are shitheads with jackboots on, and realizing there is no way to climb out of the pit because when you try someone is up there to kick you back down;

b) not being able to fix the situation enough to become more comfortable or at peace, no matter how hard you work at it, which I am, precluding some kind of miracle, see below;

c) being prone to depression like Monsieur Loiseau, which I am, though perhaps not quite so severely, after working so hard to succeed and feel good, you get the boot and fall again and feel like a failure who’ll never succeed, which I do.  I married an absolutely fantastic woman, and I love her beyond what I believe is anything normal, but she is a fucking backward nit-picker.  You work your ass off, deal with the details, pick all the nits you can find out, fix everything your little detailed brain can handle until you’re too tired to see, and she comes in and only needs a minute or two to assess, whereupon she always tells you where you fucked up, what you did wrong, the 1 tiny nit that remains out of the five hundred you carefully combed out and killed, the 1 to 3 percent of whatever project you didn’t accomplish, and why it’s not enough and you feel like it’ll never be enough, so why keep trying?  So far, I keep trying and she hasn’t kicked my  ass to the curb yet, so I must be doing all right I guess, even though I feel like a miserable piece of shit;

d) realizing that the only people who really matter to you are all like the above, never satisfied with anything you have ever done.  What’s the hope they will ever not be looking down their fucking noses at everything you ever will do, all the while forcing you to either eat your rage or just accept whatever they do, because your love covers a multitude of  their sins, but evidently they don’t love you enough to overlook yours.  Trust me, it’s a shitty way to live;

or,

e) not being quite stubborn enough or angry enough at them to stick around if only just to piss them off.  I’m one stubborn bastard, which is why I’m not dead.  In my heart and soul, I do care, and I wish that what I brought was enough.  But my stubbornness dictates that I ultimately reach the point of va te faire enculer, and I let the critics go their way with my French, um, well-wishes, trusting they will be self-satisfied and content with their lives while they destroy mine.  In the spirit of said va te faire enculer, I do sometimes pray for a critic to be adjusted, gently given a little bit better perspective, and meanwhile I work until I’m tired, and I get up the next day and try again.  If only I could be self-satisfied as they are, and let that be enough.  If only the hard work I do could be appreciated and well-compensated at work, and reciprocated at home.

Alas, my day job dictates that I be subject to critical opinions and unrealistic timelines and expectations that keep me bruised and kicked down, no matter how hard I work my tail off to satisfy the requirements.  Career advancement might have been possible if I had kissed ass, sucked …up… and let the bosses steer my career.  I didn’t, so I’m dead to them.  They don’t give a shit, they labor hard and long to think of reasons why they can’t give me a fucking cost of living increase, but turn with the same two faces and tell me how much my work is appreciated.  In reality, I know the truth of the matter:  they’re just waiting for me to die, or to quit, and it can’t happen soon enough to suit them.  Fuckers!

Alas, my family life is the same, and I am already bruised and kicked from work, so there’s nothing left to offer but blood and body parts.  I’m not important enough, or depressive enough, to feel that what I do or don’t do is worth getting depressed enough to kill myself. I appreciate solitude, don’t get me wrong.  But Mrs M, bless her heart, more days than I actually appreciate, gives me a nonverbal va te faire enculer and then probably takes that and applies it literally in her own way, because how the fuck should I know when she goes to sleep and leaves me awake and dealing with my feelings all by myself.  I’m not crying, because that’s not me.  “Fucking WAAHH!”  Nope.  I’m just angry, and I eat rage for midnight snacks, and wait for Mrs M to decide she’s relaxed and not tired, and just bored enough to use me.  One of my readers teases me about how I make such a good fucking wife.  I love her, but at the same time…I love her.

Oh, Monsieur Loiseau!  To have ended yourself just for having disappointed one or two smug fuckers, customers who think they know better than anyone else what service, and food, should look like, and taste like, and what you should cook, and how you should cook it, blah, blah, blah.  As if their way was the only fucking right way.  And, as if, disappointing one or two customers mattered, when you’ve literally satisfied a few thousand others.  Those critics probably don’t even pay l’addition, s’il vous plait; les rapiates!  Putaines!

Notice that hope for the “critic.”  I could have just said:

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via GIPHY

and left it at that.  But no.

If I were driven to be the best writer, instead of just expressing what I feel, or writing what I’m thinking about, I’d be done.  I’m aware that my writing can be surpassed.  I have days when I can almost pull it together.  I may have written something crappy last time, but maybe this time, it’s not AS crappy as then.  The slope of the tangent, from last time to this time, is upward.  The love from encouraging, soft-hearted people, comes along.  Other days I’m not so together, those same loving, encouraging, soft-hearted people are too kind to offer a word of criticism because it might be taken harshly.  Because, sure.  Let a heartless putain de connard literary critic come along and shred me, the weak, worn fibers will no doubt tatter easily.  The slope of the tangent, from the quality of yesterday’s writing to today’s, is downward.  Why?  Well, Deon, maybe it’s because you didn’t write anything yesterday, but today’s is crap so why should we expect better?  There are people with better audience appeal.  There are people with more interesting or more compelling subject matter.  There are people who have a better sense of humor, a better way of expressing themselves, a better vocabulary, a better site layout, betterbetterbetterbetterbetter.

There are writers who can actually focus and write on a topic, without rambling.  And speaking of rambling, the moment you’ve all somehow had the stamina to endure for, has come.  My ramble is rambled, my rant is ranted, at least for now, and finally…

It’s time for Math Language Dissection IV:  Today’s Dissection:  Derivatives

Oh, Deon.  Not again.  We could hardly stand it the last time, and this time you rambled on about shit no one cared about until no one was still reading.

But Oh, Yes, more Mould.  Or Math Language Dissection.  Because that’s the nature of math, and mould- it grows on you.    Four times as much math dissection as the first time.  Last time I did this, I nearly lost 212% of my readers, which should be impossible you say, but just trust me, it almost happened.

At the risk of doing it again, click here and look through this webpage.

If you did that, and actually came back to my blog, you intuitively know something about people who studied math on purpose, more than our basic masochistic leanings.  But you should also intuitively understand that the reaction you just had is the same reaction EVERYONE has, especially students who are forced to learn mathematical derivatives.  It’s an entirely human reflex action, as natural as what happens soon after ingesting Carapichea ipecacuanha syrup.  Mmmmm.  Deliciatives.

We hate derivatives.  Derivatives try to copy the original.  You THINK they’re hard to figure out, but when you scratch the surface and take a good hard look under the gilt-edges, you see the truth.  They’re fakes, cheap imitations, trying hard to pretend they’re just as good.  They follow the slope of the original function, or the recipe, if you will, but the flavor is flat as a dropped soufflé.   They follow the concept, you get the idea, but they have no soul.  It’s there, it’s OK, sure, but every OUNCE of the love has been sucked out.  Like The Machine in The Princess Bride sucked the years out of Wesley, a derivative is The Machine turned up to 99: not until the function is “only mostly dead,” but until the function loses its’ purpose.  There’s almost nothing left- it’s a skeleton, where there once was a captivating, lush-lipped, full figured, gorgeous woman.

We loved Alan Rickman, for instance, but there isn’t a human being who can match the snark, the bitter sarcasm, the attitude, the absolutely harsh, absolutely charming ennui, of Mr. Rickman.  He could be apologetic and still, under the gently sorrowful words, you somehow knew he knew he was right.  Fortunately for the pretenders, but unfortunately for the rest of the world, he’s gone.  Attention, all you haters:  You have a chance to aspire to the new number one.  Unfortunately for you, haters, it’s me.  That’s right.  I’m sorry (no, really!), but your opinion is worse than irrelevant, it’s powerless to change the fact that I’m right, and it couldn’t be more exhausting to me.  It’s exhausting, because you so strongly believe you’re right, that you wear everyone out with your endless, foolish, barbaric garrulity.

I am the world’s harshest critic.  Fortunately for the world, my harshest wrath and ennui is trapped inside the mirror of ssensselepoh like a damned horcrux.  That’s right, I am the anti-Gilderoy Lockhart, and I speak Parseltongue, too.  I gaze into the mirror and see my soul, my shattered dreams, my surrendered ambition, my brokenness, and everything adds up to intense self-loathing.  All I’m looking at is the image of a harsh reality; what I see is all entirely truthful.  And unlike Voldemort’s foes, no one is willing to even TRY to destroy the mirror I sometimes gaze into, which could potentially be accomplished by giving me any amount of cash greater than $300M.  Thus far, no one has been willing to try, and therefore I can’t die.  Come on!  Someone, give it a shot!

What the world needs is not more derivatives, like those unending old Haim Saban Power Ranger sequelseries, or Stephen J. Cannell’s crime mimeographs, or Dick Wolf Wolves, or Anthony E. Zuiker Zuikers and Bruckheimers, or sappy Aaron Spelling everything-works-out-good-in-the-end-after-the-shit-goes-down-and-people-“just”-fucking-try-harder shows.  Spelling also loved stories where people didn’t appreciate what they had until they got what they thought they wanted.  I hate that shit.  Fucking “It’s a Wonderful Life” DERIVATIVES.   And honestly, I really DO appreciate what I have, to the extent that what I have is good.  What I have is a lush, full coloured painting, of what could be.  What I want is 3-D, so much more, so much better, so very possible.  I love Spelling’s REAL story in spite of myself, because it could have gone really bad but it didn’t, at least not until his misfortune returned in around 2001.  He was MARRIED to Morticia Addams, and what could be bad about that?

What the world needs are anti-derivatives.  Anti-derivatives are the opposite of derivatives.  Instead of being fashionably way too thin and nearly two dimensional, or worse, one dimensional and just showing the slope, an anti-derivative is original, gorgeous, full figured, proud, stark naked and grinning, going in it’s own unique direction, shouting a loud “FUCK YOU, ASSHOLES!” to all the critics.  THIS, Chef Bernard Loiseau, is who you were meant to be, except you let them wear you down.  When the haute cuisine world goes off on idiot tangents, if you’re able to be yourself, the anti-derivative, the original function, instead of the tangent off the anti-derivative, it’s a glorious thing, but the critics are always critical.  If you’re classical,they want you to run with the fad and still excel, and if you run with the fad, they bitch because you’re not traditional enough.

Don’t let the critics wear you down.  Don’t, even if the critic is the voice in your own head. What the world needs is you.  Not the you that tries to be someone or something you’re not.  The original, beautiful you.  Be that.  Be the Anti-Derivative.

Writing in the Morning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish they would SHUT THE FUCK UP!!

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

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