Obsessed

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.

Progress and Practice (Fear, Faith, & Medicine)

Progress and Practice (or, Fear, Faith, & Medicine)

I held very still in the palm of her hand, waiting;
I wanted to feel warmth, and give myself completely;
Alternately heard and then muffled, her, debating,
As her hand opened and closed, surrounding me softly…

He shook with tears, blew his nose, I waited, bottled, trapped,
He knew firsthand what doctors knew he’d feel, like dying,
Except, not reaching the end of dying, living, sapped,
Wondered if they’d like a taste of what he was trying…

The terror of being the lab rat, experiment,
So caringly sympathetic to my stress, illness-
To my face, a clinical, practiced sentiment. Then,
I’m observed distantly: measure blood, symptoms, careless…

Somehow this is supposed to cure, while making me ill;
These too expensive bottles, white-capped, an ocean’s wave,
Clean, belying coughing, vomit, blood, and worse, they spill.
Dispelling “bad symptoms,” but pushing me toward the grave…

When medicine was spiritual a shaman might
Try to drive the evil out with inhospitable
Circumstance, ending by ending the poor patient’s life.
The new “practice’s” toxic stew still may be fatal.

I wish you could understand, see that I’m not crazy;
Discover the root causes, extract only what’s bad,
Without, in treatment’s process, nearly murdering me ,
And adding symptoms that are far worse than what I had.

I waited, a poisoned bead, slow-built fatality,
Or, harsh key, ill-fit, but closest to miracle cure,
In the bottle, in the fist, trusting in chemistry.
Despite modern progress, still, much is faith, to be sure.

She told herself the little dots would make her better.
He told himself the side effects were worth the benefit.
She smiled, mouth dry, wishing that water could feel wetter.
He swallowed, knowing, thinking, “Here it comes.  Wait for it.”

06/27/2017, Deon Mumple

I wrote this after hearing my mum talk about certain choice symptoms of some of the medicine dad was prescribed, that she had to clean after, and after watching “The Bucket List,” a charming movie with Jack Nicholson (The Joker) and Morgan Freeman (God) both dying of cancer.  For the record, if the question ever came to your mind, I like good coffee, but I won’t drink Kopi Luwak or its cousin Black Ivory.  Thanks for sharing, mum.

A Song for Chris

I want to cry, don’t want to cry,
Fuck you, death, Why don’t YOU just die
I’m tired of grief, and time, the thief
I want to kill death, watch it die.

I sit trained like a dog, to wait
For food, my own death, festering hate
Afraid to walk outside the gate
A rabid temple, a sacred fate.

I’d scream to find a higher truth,
Louder than love.  We’re caged, in pain,
We waste away so much of youth,
In saddest days we can’t explain.

The garden’s sounds frighten my soul
Loud and confusing, silent toll,
No sleep, justice is misaligned-
I find a dream, and miss the goal.

I want to cry; I wanted more
Than cloudy feelings, sad and sore.
If life were ever not unfair
In this life we’d settle the score

But we just die, and there we lie
Until we crumble, rot or fry
It’s not the way I would decide
What I want: I want to cry,

I want all my lost treasures back
So many people I’ve lost track,
Nearly forgot my broken heart-
I want it healed, and not attacked,

Black days to go the fuck away,
Starve death until it’s dead and lean,
and Rage Against the Death Machine.
Don’t want to cry.  I want to cry.

R.I.P. Chris Cornell, 07/20/1964-05/17/2017

Sad Song Day

I heard this morning, although NOT on the TV News, for fuck’s sake, that the absolute best male vocalist I have ever had the pleasure of hearing sing has “died suddenly.” “Soundgarden frontman Chris Cornell has died after a sold-out Detroit concert on Wednesday, May 17, at age 52.”  With the news media being so much about awful shit happening in the world, why did I not know about this until 11AM.  To soften the blow, I suppose.

He had a history.  I’ve read that when he was a teenager, he suffered from some depression and wrote this song about it:

His voice has been silenced now, and he was only 51. But damn it, he was awesome. The cause of death has yet to be released.  The police are investigating his death as a possible suicide.

 uck.

When I was 14 I was “deeply troubled.”  I never got counseling for it, but I did talk to one of my school teachers about it a little.  What I was, was depressed, deeper than I’d ever felt ever before.  I wanted to die.  I wrote my suicide note.

There was self loathing, from personal, physical defects, there was bullying, there was teen angst, there was worry and hopelessness about the future, there was a lot of self-doubt, there were people I thought were my friends who had hurt me, there was the same shit I suppose everyone lives with.  I decided not to act at the time.  I think I burned the suicide note, but I should have kept it.  I don’t remember what it said.

Some people are ass holes.  Shit, a LOT of people are ass holes.  Some life circumstances are shit.  And when the universe fucker decides to fuck with someone, they’re fucked.  Because whatever shit can come at you, comes in from all directions and I don’t care if you’re a nearly sinless holy-rolling, Christ-Following SAINT, you will NOT endure with the patience of Job.  I never asked for the tests, and when they came, I failed.  And when they come, I still fail.  I mean, we can read what we’re supposed to do, and we can brag like Peter did, but when it happens, it sucks.  Work, that merely sucked before, just like everyone else’s jobs, is raised to nearly impossible levels of expectation.  Friends and/or family abandon you, or die.  Strangers, acquaintances, friends, and family do shitty, selfish things at your expense.  Your shit starts to fall apart faster than you can fix or replace it.  Time becomes an impossible archvillain conspiring against you.  Your own body rebels from the stress, and you’re in real pain, and doctors claim that shit is all in your head.  And your back is misaligned and hurts when you don’t move and hurts more when you do, and makes your body hurt all over and not want to move and you still force yourself because whatever it is still has to be done, and no one else is going to do it, and the bills still have to be paid, so you go to work with your walking pneumonia and deal with it.  And what’s worse, frequently, family shows they’re selfish ass holes, taking you and everything you do for granted and only expecting and demanding more.  Oh wait.  Is that just me?  Somehow I doubt it.  Because storms come into everyone’s lives.

Depression sucks.  FUCK YOU DEPRESSION!! I’m not feeling anything else but depressed, but I think depression desperately likes to be felt, because nobody really WANTS to feel it.  So it gloms onto some poor schmuck and feels like animate, living darkness and emptiness, hopelessness, soul-deep self-hatred and waste and rejection, sucking at the soul.  But what’s worse, is suicide.

Suicide sucks.  FUCK YOU SUICIDE!

I think that’s why I decided not to kill myself.  I thought about it, and sticking around to stick it to the universe fucker whenever I get my chances at revenge seems like more fun than surrendering to death.  Even small acts of vengeance are better than letting that black-hearted shithead win.

Damn it, Chris.

He had a wife and a family.  And now they don’t have him.  That’d be another reason I haven’t killed myself.  For as much as I feel taken for granted, I know that it’s rewarding in the long run to be strong, steady, present, loving, and helpful.  I may scar my family emotionally, but they’ll be shallower cuts than just up and leaving suddenly and without adequate explanation.  Not that I’m not scarring them, not that I’m all that strong or whatever.  I suck, but I’m all the dad they’ve got.  I’m not leaving on purpose.

I don’t want to know the cause of death, but I’m sure as soon as those ghouls in the news room get the report, we’ll have to hear all that shit a million times in one morning.  And it probably was suicide, but I think that’s a lousy way to deal with a midlife crisis.  After the news dries up and moves to something more wet, then we’ll have the fucking bio-pic glamourizing both the rock star lifestyle and the death, to “help the audience understand his choice.”  Well, fuck that.  On the plus or minus side, depending on how hard I grieve, I get to hear his music on the radio for a while, just like they did to Prince, and Michael Jackson and Elvis.

Even if it was an “accident,” or something not brought on by Mr. Cornell, it still sucks.  It just sucks worse if it was suicide.  Death by drugs and/or alcohol is the same as suicide to me, so there you have my perspective for what it’s worth.

We common people don’t get treated like that on the news.

Honestly, I feel a kind of aware-of-the-air-molecules soul pain from the loss of Chris Cornell.  He wasn’t family; I didn’t know him personally.  I’m not your typical fanboy and I don’t plan to follow.  But this sucks.

Your voice was strong and beautiful and hopeful for humanity, and angry at the universe fucker, and now we have to carry on without your voice sounding the battle cry.  You told us what to tell that old lying bastard who wanted us to hurt ourselves and hurt others including our own families, and kill ourselves, and now you’re gone.

At least I still hear the echo:

So here’s the message to the universe fucker:

FUCK YOU!!!

I WON’T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!

Say it again, this time, LOUDER!!

I miss you already, Chris.

Thirty Seconds

Thirty minutes becomes thirty seconds in just a few blinks of the eye,
Thirty seconds, a shadow beckons; we can’t hide from time, but we lie,
Makeup, plastic surgery, thirty thrice wrinkles, all covered, and we still die

Thirtyseconds, a fraction of fractions, a miniscule piece of a pie,
Thirtyseconds, blurred musical motion, I can hear it, but not count that high,
A bite, a taste, a tiny tease. I want much more of both, please!  Can I try?

Thirty seconds and only one winner; after first place all others are not,
Thirtyseconds, three and one eighth percents.  Math in a poem?  Why not?
How much of a fifth is a thirtysecond? I’d give that problem …a shot.

Capital Punishment, Death, Taxes, and Penalties

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death and Taxes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mostly Cloudy with a Chance of Crying

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Stress Out Deon

FUCK.

Wait, that’s how to un-stress Deon.  And there’s only one who is allowed to do that because I promised, although there’s less of that than is needed.

No, I said FUCK because my laptop is finally dead until I get a new charger cable.  I ordered it expecting it to ship on Tuesday  and it isn’t here.  It’s Saturday and I want to write, so of course my son wants help with his homework and my dog needs to go for a walk and my wife wants me to keep on cleaning shit that needs to be cleaned because I don’t have enough on my proverbial plate already.  I made a list that literally covered an entire page of a yellow legal pad and I’ve done three things already.  Make that four.  Between interruptions from the dog and the family, I’ve been sneaking on Mrs. M’s computer just to write, which was also on my list.  Because my laptop is dead.  I like writing on the laptop; I’ve gotten spoiled.  So that was the stressor last night, and I flew into a rage and washed the dishes, because that’s the only thing I can do with rage.  I have to clean something.  And then I drank something.  It was a strong vodka tonic.

I was thinking while enraged, and I remember it, so that’s what I’m going to write about.  If you want to stress Deon Mumple out, change something.  So the laptop being uncharged and inaccessible last night was very frustrating, more I think than a normal person would feel.

And here’s the thing I thought about.  Nearly everything in my life is second-hand, or old and of uncertain lifespan.  Except you young things, you bloggers.  I’ve had to live an overly frugal life, most of my life.  The only people who don’t have to do that, I think, are people who should be paying their employees more, or who ought to have less of a god-complex when billing, or a little of both.  Because there’s either rich and comfortable, or struggling, there is no in-between.

The middle class is dead.  Have you been to the doctor or dentist lately?  Insurance sucks, and doesn’t pay enough to make it worthwhile paying for it.  The doctor’s office said, “let’s do a blood test to see what’s going on and get a baseline.”  I agreed and went to the bloodsuckers at the lab who were rude to me.  Because they probably get paid shit like I do, and have to deal with sick people, infectious people, and rude people, some categories may overlap.  And then the bill came in the mail AFTER insurance and the test is costing me $700 out of pocket AFTER insurance.  For fuck’s sake, did they use a solid gold needle?  And the dentist wants more than a thousand dollars for a crown, not even a damned gold one, and I need two, so I’ve waited, hoping that money would come in.  It kept on, keeps on, getting spent.  Car repair this.  Air conditioner that.  Mrs’s car repair this.  Kids’ “book rental” extortion that.  Furnace replacement this.  Homeowners’ association dues that.  So what was left of the teeth they wanted to put the crowns on has broken.

When I was a kid, I didn’t know any better.  I trusted adults knew what the fuck they were doing, and life wasn’t quite as stressful.  Except it would have been nice to have had a nicer house, a room with a fucking door and not a tight space in the attic for my bed and my toys.  I shared the attic with my three sisters.  I got the cold Northwest exposure, they got the cold Northeast exposure.  Dad insulated the top of the roof, but never finished, but what did I know?  I was a kid.  How was I supposed to know any better?  I also trusted my dentist.  It would also have been nice to have nicer clothes, but when the Christmas budget at K-Mart or Sears dried up, it was Goodwill if I needed anything extra.  My parents spent a fortune on my shoes, it turns out.  I had the “Forrest Gump” braces, and a buildup on a heel, so that’s where the money for my nice clothes and cool toys went.  Dad made some things, including some of my toys and accessories for other toys, and looking back, despite his ADD which wasn’t ever diagnosed because doctors didn’t diagnose it back then, he did a fucking awesome job.  I loved my *brand name omitted* indestructible airplanes and cars where the little people’s bodies are painted cylinders and their heads are painted spheres and they fit in round holes the cars and planes.  Back then they were made of wood.  One year, to go with them, he made me an airplane hangar and tower.  Yes, it was a plywood box, but he MADE it.  To go with my indestructible *brand name omitted* very green toy tractor, he MADE a barn to park it in, with room for the plows and furrowing toy accessories, and a farmhouse.  Not fancy, but nicely painted. Some kid (my nephews) were playing with the farmhouse and tractor and accessories until they outgrew them.  I can still hear my sister saying “John, dear, (AHEM) put away your tractor toys, please.”  (No, really, one of my nephews is named John.  I think the toys were eventually donated to charity, because my nephews are teenagers or older now.  And if you still try to shop, and are getting an idea of how much things cost, You could go on line and Fish-fer-prices (AHEM!) all day, and you probably would NEVER find one of the mechanic garages or airplanes as nice as the ones they bought me.  I was one of those play-on-the-floor kids, or a go outside and run around in traffic kids.  They encouraged me to be as active as possible.

Because I had a tendency to grow, I sometimes needed new clothes, and for me, my parents made do with hand-me-downs from older cousins or Goodwill things, and I was content.  Except at school, when the kids showed off their new wardrobes and their cool shoes that didn’t have mechanical appliances added to them.  And when my sisters opened presents for birthdays or Christmas and there was a new dress or slacks or a blouse.  If my mum had the patience to darn, if I had a hole in my sock she would have wanted to darn it.  And as for “profanity,” that was about as profane as she ever got.  As for darning socks, she was frugal, but not THAT frugal.  So depending on how much I grew, I could count on one of my presents being socks or underwear, for either Christmas or birthday.  And they were NEW.

Beyond that, new clothes were rare.  Mum made home-made bread, which is amazing. She passed that skill set on to three of the four.  I don’t know if my oldest sister bakes.  She doesn’t seem like the type.  But I like to eat, and have what accountants refer to as “slow cash flow,” so I cook and bake.  About the teeth, I trusted that my dentist knew what he was doing back when I was a kid, and never expected him to be described by a future dentist as “a better bricklayer than dentist.”  He troweled in the filling stuff and there were overhangs inside there that caught food particles until the teeth around the fillings gave out, and due to this malpractice, because I’m calling it what I think it was, I have two that now need even more expensive implants, or to just be pulled, and one that just cracked a little the other day.  False teeth are less expensive than keeping what I have.  Unless “starting at just $400” means they end up at $4000 after you add in the special things like auto mechanics add to pad their wallets.  Buying tires?  Gotta pay for “disposal fees” (someone has to toss that on the trash pile) and “valve stems,” like those fucking things don’t come as a part of the tire, and “installation” and “balancing” and “rotating,” and then “alignment,” because the mechanic has a kid in college and wants to retire soon.  I mean, because your tires need these things or they will wear out right after the warranty expires.

Don’t worry, the point is coming.  This is not just another randomly ranting and rambling Deon post.

I learned something about myself in the rage last night.

I learned I really don’t like that almost everything in my life is second-hand.  I want new things.  (Don’t we all, Deon, you fucking idiot?  Put on your big boy underpants and deal with it.  Welcome to life.)  But no, I REALLY want new things.  It explains a lot about my habits and my personality.

I like to clean.  And now I understand the reason why:  If I can clean something, really clean it, it’s closer to how it was when it was new.  My *Brand Name Omitted* vacuum cleaner has a cylindrical sponge inside.  When I take the sponge out to clean it, I wash that thing and get all the little dirt particles out until I don’t see any more dirt, and then I put it all back together, and it runs a whole lot better.  I try to clean it about every three weeks, and the sponge was, over time, getting closer and closer to being a rectangular object as whatever crappy adhesive they use where they make those uprights that are supposed to pick up Dirt like a Devil (AHEM!) let go.  So I did what any ordinary person would do.  I got out some damned thread and stitched that thing together.  OK, an ordinary person would figure out where to buy a new damned sponge.  But I don’t have the time or resources, darn it!

As I was saying before I ran down the rabbit trails, I made a list of things to accomplish this weekend, and one of them was NOT learning a lesson about my quirky behaviors, psychoses, and syndromes.  And understanding WHY I want new things and love to clean does NOT make it any easier that I can’t afford new things.  Instead, I’ll dull my sensitivities and patch my brokenness with liquor and catharsis.  I’ve got the catharsis out of the way.  And I hear my coffee pot calling me.  I made plain coffee in the morning, but I made weird coffee in the afternoon.  It’s butterscotch flavored.  It mixes really really well with scotch, which kind of makes sense to me somehow.

Mum got me the butterscotch coffee, and I tried it without scotch first.  I really don’t care much for flavored coffee.  I like my coffee hot and black and tall and Kenyan.  This one is Colombian, not a bad coffee but with the added flavor, not very tasty.  Until I added scotch. Yum.  So I opened the butterscotch at Christmas and it was brand new.  I got a little thrill again just thinking about it.  Smells good.  Tastes OK, but not a personal favorite.  So today I added scotch, out of the brand new bottle I opened some time ago and have been savoring slowly.  It’s delicious.

I’m going to have a cup, and then I might get back to my list.  I’m expecting to be goaded into a few more things than I would have accomplished.  I’ve already added making bread dough, so there’s that.  The bread should be done by dinner.

Triple Take

According to internet rumors, Fidel Castro died yesterday, 11/25/2016, at age 90.  In unrelated news, Florence Henderson died 11/24/2016 at age 82.  And having seen the internet all atwitter about his death, Fidel Castro laughed himself to death shortly after the rumors began circulating.  The rumors were confirmed by a text break-in on NBC during the Late Night show with Seth Meyers.

Now we’re waiting for the answers to several questions.  Who will take over as Cuba’s new leader?  Will Cuba switch to a democratic government?  Will someone finally show Cuba the money?

And here’s one for all you students of Supernatural: Will Sam and Dean have to re-kill Castro like they did Hitler? No, that’s not actually my question. Before the sun came up in Florida, Cuban-American residents were celebrating in the streets. But as soon as the announcement was made, I recalled the death of Florence, and started to wonder, whose soul will be harvested next? And will their first name start with F?

The reason I speculated immediately was because of a theory about how the supernatural realms seem to work. Deaths seem to happen in threes. (thanks, @PhilHaney.)  The ones that intrigue me aren’t so much the boring ones, like when a plane crashes or whatever.  The ones that intrigue me are the ones where the public figures are all famous in different areas.  A political figure.  An entertainment figure.  A religious figure.  Robin Williams doesn’t count- he was all three at once.

But if you need death to take two to go with Robin Williams, how about Spock’s wife T’Pring?  Arlene Martel played that role and was excellent at it.  She played several brilliant characters, and she died the day after Williams.  She was beautiful, no denying it.

But in that role, she played a complete bitch.  Look at that photo.  Spock was going to bang that gong. He was going to hit that, metaphorically and logically speaking, and she wasn’t having any of that.  That hand says “NO!”  And look at his face.

Spock (unspoken) :  What the fuck?! BITCH!!  Now what am I supposed to do with all this pon farr?

She was his wife, he had come back after a long space voyage looking for some logical, close-quarters social interaction, and figured he’d charm her with his flawlessly lubricated logic, beautiful eyebrows and perfect ears.  She’d respond with her own flawlessly charming, steaming, wet logic, and a while later she’d give birth to a logical kid.  Named “Mac.” (intosh… like the Apple, meh it was funny when I first thought of it.)  But no.  She wants him to prove himself, or die trying, and she’s already picked the other guy and an expendable “second,” for the duel.  God knows what she’s already done with Stonn, but logic could guide a guess, because she doesn’t care what happens to either Spock or the second, but Stonn is not to be damaged.    And the second?  James (Jim) T. Kirk.

Fucking BITCH!  So, Spock, you want to do the logically nasty with THIS?  Then give up your career, forget your Star Fleet Academy training, kill your best friend, and then I’ll decide if you’re worthy.  If you won’t leave him for me, you can’t have it.  There are marriages about like that.  Is any woman really worth all that?  After being forced to fight his best friend until Dr. McCoy said, “Damn it.  Jim!  He’s Dead!!” or something like that, Spock’s head cleared from being logically hot and horny and he decided, logically, that he didn’t want anything to do with her.  In my fan-fiction in my head, Nurse Christine Chapel came in a close second and Lieutenant Nyota Uhura captured Spock’s heart with her completely illogical love song.

It was a shocking turn of events, because Spock was favored to fall for Chapel because of her voice’s amazing similarity to the ship’s computer voice.  But in the end, Majel Barrett-Christine Chapel Siri-Prime Vox ex Machina got Rodenberried.  Rodenmarried?  Did some Gene-splicing without a test tube?

Uhura.  In the original series, Kirk kissed her and we all knew something was wrong, because in our hearts, whether we were consciously aware of the knowledge or not, Uhura was destined for Spock.  But Kirk… pushy… obnoxious… ham…  KIIIIRRRRRKK!!!  kissed her, right on the TV, and all the segregationists died a little inside.  If only they had all just died that day.  But alas, Uhura’s magic spell didn’t go far enough.  If it had been Spock, they all would have died in a fit of hot logic, and the whole world would have been a better place.  But Kirk kissed all the girls in space, and then abandoned them.  It was in the script.  Nichelle Nichols is a decade older than my mum, and I’ll be damned if she’s not STILL hot.   You can soft-focus Chapel or Arlene’s T’Pring and they’re still not as hot as Nichelle’s Uhura at any age.

Oh.  You still don’t believe in the three, because I haven’t mentioned the third.  If Arlene wasn’t famous enough, how about Take 3:   Lauren Fucking Bacall?  Died the same day as Arlene.  Lauren Bacall was sultry, mysterious and sexy:

Makes a person wonder what else she knows how to do, doesn’t it? Bacall was married to Bogart, and she kept him until he died. She kept the guy whose name would become synonymous with stealing someone else’s girl, or being a tough guy, and he was completely hers, and complete putty in her hands. She was a movie star, before the movies became dime-a-dozen you can watch twenty four hours of different ones for a year and only scratch the surface. And she was good at that sultry, powerful and in control sex symbol thing. Oh, yeah, she inspired women to go to Hollywood and try to be stars, and not only that, she inspired songs:

There’s your three for Mr. Robin Williams. Lauren Bacall, and Arlene Martel. Although they were all talented actors, still it begs the question, if a famous actress and a politician die within a day of each other, and if their first names both start with F, will someone famous in another line of work, perhaps religion, whose name starts with F, die shortly?

I’ll be checking but I won’t watch it on the news until Mrs. M turns it on.  I might miss it.  If it happens, let me know in case Mrs. M. turns ME on.  That Pon Farr, it’s a logical, but mind-affecting thing.  I totally get that.  So honestly, if I miss the third celebrity “F” in favor of an episode of Deon Pon Farr, well then, “F”-it.  I think I’ll probably be able to catch up.  But nevertheless, let me know.  If she throws in a demand that I quit my job, that will be no problem.  But if she throws in a demand that I kill my best friend, she’ll have to tell me who the fuck that is.  I have no idea.

In an unrelated note, I need a best friend.  Anyone up for the job?  I may have to kill you, but so far no one has been harmed in the making of prior episodes and flare-ups of Deon Pon Farr.  Except Deon.  I took a right elbow to the eye once…  And it was TOTALLY WORTH IT.