II – Deon’s Demons

II – Deon’s Demons

From morning to afternoon, I’ve known them, circling,
I taste them only when coughing, exhaling,
Doctors can only see random allergens,
Giving snake oil addictions to treat my symptoms.

Medicines, cruel demons, here to stay

Choke, cough, expectorate, medicate, rinse, repeat
Nausea ad nauseum, I don’t want to eat,
Those are the infestations below my brains…
Through my eyes, I’ve welcomed more, sweet, permanent stains

You can’t bleach them or wash them away.

Generation to generation, they ride down,
Hitting tree branches, growing concentration,
So I give them the best evils I’ve gotten,
Though compared, “the good old days” were just as rotten.

Genetics find unfair ways to play.

I can’t concentrate quite enough to finish well,
Retreating from judgement, escaping for a spell.
My wife, from my dad, inherits my mother’s hell.
Failures, words, like anvils on a sparrow’s egg shell.

Disappointing her gives me dismay.

Seasons of sadness enshroud my brain like a pall.
They should be warm and soft, shouldn’t they all?
Instead they scrape, tear and grind, while making me fall…
How many times can I escape, try to stand tall?

Some days I’m OK, then, demon days.

Dragged down by people as much as by demons,
They blame me for myself, as if I had chosen
My feelings, frustrations, of my own free will,
As if my cage could be opened by all these pills.

Past and new bullies are hell to pay.

My brain is on fire, everyone should just run!
This can be transmitted, hell’s special contagion!
Leave me here to fight memory, sadness, time lost,
Come around to be nice to me, warm my black frost.

I – I Am The Voices In My Head

I Am The Voices In My Head, 10/23/2018, Deon Mumple

I am the voices in my head,
Very much still that little kid,
The old man wishing he was dead,
Who did, but wished he never did,
I’m every book I’ve ever read.
Inside, the voices stay well-hid,
So no one hears a word they’ve said.

I am the voices in my ears:
Guilt, pain, grief, bitterness, and  tears,
The difference between dreams and years,
The sum of past, and present fears.
Burning, critical spirits sear,
Stupidity, accomplishment smears.
In my head, all I hear are jeers.

I am the voice, encouraging
When others try, and want to sing,
And when they feel life’s crushing sting.
— We’re broken, downward-facing things–
I am the voices I’m hearing
Say, “try harder, be more trusting.”
Failed, or betrayed, I’m despairing.

I am deep love that’s not returned-
Given away, heart torn and burned.
I am, in faith, heartsick, disturbed.
I’m told I “shouldn’t be concerned,
Just wait some more, …lessons not learned,
Patience and trust, [and being curbed,]
Wait for wisdom, you’re God’s proverb.”

I am success no one can see,
(Depreciated history,)
Asking, waiting, “God, set me free!”
Enslaved to time and misery.
I am myself, but is it me?
Or am I lost, dead already,
A soul, spilled, accidentally?


“Fuck You” Songs

Today I found a jackpot.  No, not the lottery, not yet at least.  I know many of you know these songs are out there.  So why didn’t you tell ME?  I had to find them on my own!!

As if this list wasn’t enough, it wasn’t complete or exhaustive, and I have to say that because several of the songs weren’t a match to my specific angers tonight.  Call it a mood swing, call it temporary, call it whatever you want, I don’t give a shit.  But wait, there’s more:

Well, to be completely honest, I knew SOME of them were out there, I just didn’t know they were all so neatly cataloged in play lists so I could listen back to back and vent the frustration and rage and everything petty about myself over an extended period of time.  And I didn’t know there were this many awesome “fuck you” songs.

When I got done “crying like a bitch,” over “One of My Turns,” I reached the point of “fuck you.”  I confess, it wasn’t when my wife ignored my polite and pleasant request to please read the email I sent (with the link to the prior blog entry).  That just made me mad.  What tipped the scale to real angry was when my 18 year old “adult” daughter was upset about something she wanted to buy but didn’t know what she really NEEDED, I made a suggestion of someone she should ask for help, and in her stress, she yelled at me. “SHUT UP, DAD!!”  So I shut up.  Didn’t talk before they went to bed,  because it’s better to shut the hell up and not say something I’d regret later.  The Bible says it’s a bad idea to let the sun set while one is raging.

Instead I poured a triple-shot and drank it a little faster than I think I should have, over a piece of leftover cold chicken.  And listened to great music.  I did hear an apology for the fucking “shut up” comment, but it still  kind of pisses me off.  And I was still mad about Mrs. M. not reading my fucking blog that explained my feelings and why I’ve been acting all stand-off-ish for a while, not to mention the event that precipitated me having those feelings, not to mention the events that happened before Mrs. M. was Mrs. M., when she proved she loved some other guy in ways she doesn’t want to prove herself to me.

I have a problem with trust.  I trust people too easily.  I take people’s word for their bond, which proves to be my insanity, because I expect, when I’m promised raises, and a career path, and help finding a well-fitting job in my field of training, and the bullshit that has gone on and on in my life, until with this last job, the last one to be infested with liars and cheaters, I realized it, and now want everything in writing so no one will fucking hire me, so I can’t quit the shitty one to even try to find a better one.  Well, to go back to the present rage and my stupid habit of trusting, she said she loved me, so I believed her.  Well, shit happens, I shouldn’t have expected anything else.  She hasn’t read the email I sent to explain it, but I shouldn’t have expected that either, from my wife who doesn’t read.  How the fuck does a writer hook up with a woman who doesn’t fucking READ?

But wait, there’s more, just not on a playlist yet:
Through with You, Maroon 5
Misery, Maroon 5
Wake Up Call, Maroon 5
Maps, Maroon 5
This Love, Maroon 5
Makes Me Wonder, Maroon 5
Payphone, Maroon 5

I think there are several more creepy sounding songs by the group.  There’s one in particular I can’t remember right now.  I wish I could, it was brilliant and very dark.

I think Adam Levine’s voice is great, and his music is soothing, and his lyrics are creepy as fuck.  If I were writing a collection of “Fuck You” songs I would want someone like him to sing them.  He sings stuff about how much he hates the person he’s singing about and wants to do them bodily harm, or murder them, and it sounds loving and sweet.  He’s one of few singers who could sing them like “I’m singing a love song to you, baby,” set to a light, fun-sounding tune, and the lyrics would be …

I— just want to say— I love you today–
But I— know that it’s true— you’ve got work to do–
To earn my trust, to win my love, to hold my heart, baby.
I want to say that I love you, but I doubt the reverse is true

You— inspire me— Your beauty’s all I can see
But you— always act dissatisfied—I know that you’ve lied
And all that I want is to be loved like I loved you, see?
I found out you’ve loved me less than you used to love somebody else.

I—always wanted you to be—the happiest that you could be
But I— can’t compete with the past—If you love me prove it fast
I’m done with working my ass off trying, just to end up crying
You don’t give a shit what I do, it’s never quite enough for you.

You–you think I’m being a bitch—and how come we aren’t very rich?
You–act like you don’t have a clue–pretend you don’t know what to do
I’m sick just thinking of how long I’ve been wasting my time, baby
Doing anything you wanted, insane, when you won’t do the same.

We—can’t dream we will be— forever after happy
We—don’t talk much any more— not to mention you snore
And pushed me away so often, I wonder if you ever loved me.

I– I don’t even want to know why.   Sometimes I wish one of us would die.
Who—who even cares any more? I’m hurt so much more than sore.
30 years wouldn’t even the score, fix my heart, if you could be bothered to start.
I need someone who loves me a whole lot more than you do.


DM (Dead Man) 8/9/18


There’s an old Peanuts comic strip featuring Lucy and Linus, in which Linus announces he is aware of his tongue.  Now you’re aware of your tongue, it’s sitting there in your mouth, and you.  are.  aware. that.  it.  is.  there.

Exactly Charles Schultz’ point.  You can suddenly become aware of something small or  irrelevant and your focus diverts to it for a while until life distracts you away from it.  Your fingernail.  Your rear.  Your elbow.  Your knee.  And having announced his awareness to Lucy, she suddenly becomes aware of her tongue, and calls Linus a “blockhead.”  And after the over-awareness, we get back to life.

So this is my hope for today.  I know I haven’t written in a while.

Honestly, I’m depressed and life hasn’t been great and nothing has really changed.  I’ve been making myself busy in the hope of distracting myself from the depression, which is my go-to.  And over the past maybe three weeks or so, it’s gotten worse, circumstantially and emotionally.  It’s not getting any better, despite prayer, work, anger, relationships, and other things I’ve tried in order to distract myself from my awareness of my depression.

Further awareness advises me that another “awareness” is just my depression talking, so take it with a grain of salt:

I am aware of my irrelevance.

In Christ-follower circles, people reassure each other that they matter.  In this recent wave of depression, I’ve become aware of, and focused on, my personal irrelevance.  I’m waiting for God to show me whether my irrelevance should continue letting other people suffer from it, or whether He can set things up such that my irrelevance doesn’t continue to interfere with other people.  I have a specific prayer for a specific answer.  If the answer is affirming to me, to show me I’m wrong about my irrelevance, or perhaps minimally, I’m blowing my irrelevance out of proportion, then I hope to receive the specific answer I’ve asked for, or something better.  If the answer is not affirming, I can expect to hear nothing, and to see further evidence that I should continue in despair.

This depression has lasted longer than “normal.”  I was getting used to a 4 month depression, but my circumstances haven’t changed and I feel like I’ve been depressed now for about 5 or 6 months.  It lends further credence to my theory that my depression is partially circumstantial and not just chemical.  I’m still getting up and going to work and coming home and doing housework and watching the kids grow up and telling Mrs M I love her, but it feels mechanical, and I’m not able to do anything more.

These pills only make me move, an animated angry mummy, still feeling dead inside these wrappings.  But I want to be like Lazarus (John 11), after they took the wrappings off.  I want God to show me that I matter to Him.  I want to be alive, and free.

It’s the Little Things

Yeah, I’ve got things to be thankful for even as I had to prepare to work today.  Yippee.  The Friday after Thanksgiving, I should be sleeping off Triptophan and whiskey while Mrs M spends money I don’t have on things I don’t want for Christmas “because they’re on sale.”  I’ve got a garage full of things and I can’t fit my car in there, but yesterday I ran across bath toys my kids haven’t used in …10 years?  Does that make them “vintage,” so I can sell them on e-bay and make my millions?  I fear not.

The little things, I’m thankful for them and despite being depressed in general about life events and being barely afloat unless I decide to fix my teeth and set myself back a few thousand, or until one of the cars breaks again (and sets me back a few thousand more).  I say “more,” because we really got drive-shafted last time I tried to keep my old car running relatively safely.  It was a “classic,” a vintage model POS.  You know the type, they cost a ton and the check engine light pops on right after you get it home from the mechanic, or “the razzafrazz chiklitzerings need replacing or it won’t be safe to drive.  It’s pretty urgent.  Those things could break any time, and you could be stranded on the side of the road, and you don’t want that.”  Or the tires spin on 1/16″ of water so God forbid it should snow.  The car shop “fixed” the car once, and it broke down almost immediately and we paid them to “fix” it again, whereupon it broke down a third time, and we declined their services and traded for another used POS.  And we get what you get when you trade one POS for another:  another person’s problems became our problems.  I’m currently driving a newer model POS, so I’m thankful for it, despite the need for two new tires, and the damned check engine light being on, and the back doors randomly locking, and the window motor being broken so unless I keep vigilantly pulling the damned window up MANUALLY it leaks.  I put one palm on the outside, the other palm on the inside, and give the thing an upward jerk (fml, I’m an upward jerk!).  Anyway, the car before the other old car was a REAL POS, and we wasted going into serious debt before realizing the auto repair people were racketeers and we were never going to get the thing working well enough, so we cut our losses a few thousand too late.

We try to be trusting.  But we learned, I hope.  It’s just, we’re STILL trying to dig our way out, and actual cost of living has nothing to do with income, and merit raises have nothing to do with actual merit at my company.  There’s a list of repairs on the cars to be made, my wife drives a POS brand Minivan that has rusted to the point a jack won’t raise it from the side to change a tire.  It broke through the rust last time I tried, in a few places.  It’s possible a board on top of the jack would distribute the weight better among the rusted spots, but I’m not holding my breath.  If she gets a flat out on the road, I fear we’re screwed and it has to be towed somewhere.  Plus, the jack is too tall to accommodate a board and still fit under when the tire is flat and the car is lower.  Yay, car fun.

If I weren’t so blessed I wouldn’t have these first world problems to deal with.  God provides a minimum.  We can afford a little less than the rest of what I believe we need, which I chafe at thinking that I don’t need what I think I need.  There was a generous shot of whiskey, sufficient to make yesterday’s celebration that much more festive for me, and I am grateful.  The good people at a local church have provided us with some food, I am grateful.  Insurance has been granted for another year for our daughter, so I am grateful, as she uses a number of medications and is hopefully learning from a counselor that provides.  Our cars are running, in the style of Penny’s from Big Bang Theory, that is to say, with the check engine lights on.  And we were provided a car for our daughter somewhat miraculously, when it was time for that.  So I am grateful.

But what I want, and what I think I need, is to be enabled to move on to something greater.  (See also John 14:12, from a guy who’s not very good at John 14:15)

I hear some people say there’s a “calling” for their lives.  Am I missing it, or am I here?  And if I’m here, what am I supposed to do?  Maybe I’m here to encourage.  And I’m grateful for people online who care, we are a great community.  I try to be encouraging.  Even when I am feeling none of it.  I spend time when you come to mind, praying for you individually and as a group.  I know Christ-followers say they do, and I’ve been guilty of saying and not doing, but I really do pray for our circle.

I know, even when we have to grin and bear it, or cry and hate it, or vent because no one else will listen, I can.  And I know, even when my heart wants to deny the realities and benefits of my faith, at my core I do believe in a God Who cares.  Life is more than food and clothing (and cars and other shit that falls apart Matthew 6:19, 31-34).  There’s a spiritual component, an eternal component, and we need to be aware of this and handle that business too.

I’m encouraged and grateful for the confidence I have in eternal and spiritual things that goes deeper than I can believe.  Even if the world is completely wrong (and it often is) God still cares and helps me through the lost feelings I often have because the world is completely wrong. (To minimize the reading requirement above, verses 18-24 are really enough to understand, confusing as they can be when life is upside down or sideways.)

I know verses 16 to 18 are there, and I could let that upset me.  Oh, sure, sometimes I let it, but I know I shouldn’t.  It could be a communication issue, because my Christ-following “brothers and sisters” don’t seem to understand well enough (or perhaps are less innocent than just not understanding, but who am I to accuse?) to help.  They don’t know what I really need, because I don’t know what I really need.  And when I have tried to communicate it, I’ve had empty promises or confusion or less than I thought I needed.  I’m grateful for the help I received at that particularly low period in my life.  I have one friend at church who seemed to understand, when I hit that very humiliating and crushing low and reached out.  Actually, Mrs M reached out, because I didn’t think I should, I thought that God should answer my cry for help.  But after that, when another low came, I found out I have a group of “friends” who are in authority who told me they already helped us once, and I should “just” get a better job to cure my esteem problem and my depression problem and my poverty problem all in one fell swoop.  Which would be great, but the “funny” (not very funny) part is, I gave the friend (a deacon) who seemed to understand a resume, WITH my educational credentials and history of volunteer service, but I’m not considered a good candidate when a (paid) pastoral staff position opens.  So, is that really a “friend,” or just a good actor?

And I also know verse 22 is there, and I could let that upset me because I don’t have “whatever I ask,” but I know I shouldn’t.  There are those annoying conditions I’m supposed to meet before we receive whatever we ask, and I know I don’t because I’m not that good at “keep[ing] His commands and do[ing] what pleases Him.”  I’m well-intentioned, but sometimes I’m better at the opposite, or at doing little to nothing, depending on my energy level.

But if I can care about people here online, and sometimes succeed at encouraging others, and sometimes succeed at actually helping others in some tiny ways, in spite of feeling like I’m basically useless, worthless, and helpless at my own life, why can’t I do that in real life, and only here online?

Welcome to The Bipolar Online Church!  I’m pastor Deon Mumple, and I’m here to care about you, and pray for you, and if I can, help you, in the name of Jesus.  Let me know.  I will absolutely do what I can, and will absolutely pray for the rest.  I’ve seen some unexpectedly oddly twisted answers in response to some prayers, and marvelled, despite the lack of very many resoundingly complete answers that I wanted toward any prayers I’ve made for myself.  And thank you for caring about me too- I’ll just presume you do if you’ve bothered to read this far in, whether you are a Christ-follower or not.  It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and I hope you have enough of the little things to be grateful for, in spite of any First (or second, or third) world problems we may face.

With those little things, I hope it was enough for you to have had a good Thanksgiving holiday celebration.  And I hope the weekend is restful enough for us to be on track for a good week to follow.


Deon (the not very reverend) Mumple

Grown-ass Geeks Baiting Trolls

The two…or possibly three… of you who follow my blog are fully aware that my writing is crap.  So am I.  But fortunately for me, you’re the kind, gentle sorts of souls who tenderly say encouraging things anyway.   But now, after two years of blissful goings-on about life’s traumas, cyclothymic disorder with mixed episodes, the bullshit at work, the bullshit at home, and the lovely way all things here, there, and in between fall apart, and being left alone by misunderstanding haters, it’s happened.  I’m a shitty writer, and someone has called me on it.

How did I react?

I laughed at it, because I’m thick-skinned like that.  And because one must give deference to one’s betters.  I could have just commented:

Oh, look! A troll!  Someone get the torches.  Forget the pitchforks; where the fuck did I put my two-handed sword?  Oh, fan-fucking-tastic, you’ve used it to grill the shish-kebabs this time, haven’t you, Mrs. M.  What was it last time?  Oh yeah, I remember, you used it to open that cereal bag.  And because I keep all the knives in the house sharp, it worked, when nothing else in the whole house would!  It’s fine, I know where the dishwashing detergent is, and I’m not afraid to use it.  And, you’ve done it again, Mrs. M, these kebabs and rice are aMAzing; almost as amazing as YOU are.  Thank you!”

Back in my high school geeky days (mostly weekend nights, actually) of playing Dungeons and Dragons, we used to roll the dice until our characters had hacked those things to bits and then scraped the bits into a fire pit, along with ogres, goblins, orcs, assorted other monsters, such as the occasional dragon.  That’s right; laugh it up!  I’m old and geeky.  So fucking what?  Just to tell you HOW old, as a VERY young Deon, I first played the ORIGINAL Dungeons and Dragons that came in a small box, with one small pamphlet of instructions!  Thank you, Ernest Gary Gygax!

I also watched the reruns of Star Trek, whenever my older sister wasn’t watching her stupid Little House on the Prairie.  Damn it, Michael Landon!  It was YOUR fault, because she thought you were cute.  It’s not even really your fault, you rugged, beautiful bastard!  I blame Bill Shatner for his unbearable self-awareness-of-his-own-awesomeness-of-being-Bill, and ALL the rest of his male co-stars for not being quite sexy enough.  I can hear the late DeForest Kelley, weirdly addressing Jimmy Doohan as Jimmy Doohan and not Montgomery Scott, in character as Dr. McCoy:  “Damn it, Doohan!  Why didn’t you step up your game?  If you just tried harder with the single ladies instead of just romancing the single-malt scotches, Captain Kirk would have been eclipsed by Scotty’s wild (mock-)Scottish charm!”

Leonard Nimoy AND his character Mr. Spock would both have given assent to the unexpected logic of DeForest’s Dr. McCoy as DeForest, if he ever had said it in their hearing.

The braver of my readers who religiously follow what I write, and vigorously defend my right to write it, are already on the way to the troll’s domain to burn it down and hack the troll into tribble-chow.  Don’t eat that shit, you poor tribbles!  It’ll taste like shit and give you upset stomachs (because it IS shit).  And calm down, you beautiful followers!  I think I handled it, and without my beloved two-handed sword. (I keep a variety of imaginary and enchanted items in my bunker, including this blindingly shiny, sharper-than-shit, two-handed, plus seven sword, with a three-out-of-twenty chance of instantly decapitating my enemies and a five-out-of-twenty chance of causing an enemy to bleed out within two turns.)  I’m going to be fine, having had experience with everything from demons, bullies, and fiends, to various lesser ass holes including the occasional troll, since my childhood.

There I was, innocently reading an enlightening and well-written article about current trends in news and sociology.  That should surprise my loyal readers, because I hate the news.  And I hate the social trends, for the most part.

There are good things coming out of certain social trends, such as intimidating current and would-be harassers and abusers of women, and letting them know that modern American society as a loud group, and women as a now empowered and vocal subset of that group, do not want guys to try to pull any of that kind of shit, ever, and aren’t going to let guys get away with it if we have anything to say, or do, about it.

Another good social trend is letting victims of bullying know it’s not our fault, and asserting to would-be bullies that bullying is ugly and causes lasting harm.  It also teaches that the kid you bully today may grow up to collect bullies’ bodies in his back-yard rose garden.  I’d potentially call it “social justice,” or “karma,” if I believed either were possible.  But if a victim of bullying is strong enough, they can sometimes figure out ways to approach their trolls.  There are ways of slaying trolls that don’t involve actual rusty ochre bloodshed.

Bullies, stalkers, muggers, and rapists, they’re all cut from the same cloth.  They are shitheads who see an opportunity to take an unfair advantage of others, and take it. Another of the same are the thieves who steal investor’s money and tell them the stock market crashed, and another is the rich bosses who vigorously underpay their employees and work hard to try to bullshit them into thinking they’re not victims of trickle-down corporate greed, they’re actually getting better than they deserve, because according to the company’s standards, they’re worthless.  But sadly, social justice is rarely truly just, and karma doesn’t show up on a regular-enough basis.  It’s just as random as the rest of life, leaving lots of victims invisibly suffering at the hands of their assailants.  The victims rarely come forward, because they report any events at their own peril.

“So, Deon, how did you deal with this troll?” I hear one voice asking.

I complimented him.

I left it up to him to decide if I was complimenting him on his highly superior knowledge, literary talent, and amazing use of …um… uhhh… what’s the word?  Oh yeah.  “Words.”  Or if I was being sarcastic.  It’s possible that he’s the best writer the internet has ever seen.  In my comment, I told him he probably is.  It’s also possible, in the nicest and most complimentary way I could (with my feeble verbal skills), that I meant the opposite, that he’s a useless, lowbrow troglodyte, a waste of a perfectly good shit-sack, who should fuck off and not troll or insult me or anyone else, ever again.

Either way, one hopes, he may mend his ways.  If he’s the latter and I was being sarcastic, perhaps he’ll realize that bullying and putting on airs of superiority don’t win any friends, so he’ll decide to be less (undeservedly) prideful, more constructive, and less critical with his comments.  If he’s the former, in fact truly superior, and committed to his own, greater-than-Shatnerian greatness, he’ll realize that with his giftedness, he is only wasting his time approaching anyone beneath his deservedly high and lofty station, and he won’t bother to comment or try to encourage anyone to improve their writing skills because we’re not worthy.

Um…  I meant it as a compliment.  Yeah, we’ll go with that.  Because if anyone commenting humorously on someone else’s blog gets a comment from a third blogger, intent on asserting their own superiority while insulting the humor-writer’s writing skills, it’s the obvious go-to response.  Right?  Especially since he said he read my tag line, so he knew everything he needed to know about me, and my blog, and how to pass fair and righteous judgement, and execute written condemnation.

Yeah, he knows all about seasons of sleepless mania, seasons of depression, triggers, bipolar and all other manners of mental health issues, too.  I bet if he applied his obvious superior knowledge and skills to the field, he could cure us all within a fortnight.  Imagine, no longer needing or feeling compelled to hide because of all the panic-inducing shit in the world!  Imagine, no longer needing medication to feel closer to whatever “normal” feels like!  Imagine, not feeling out-of-control!  Imagine not worrying that what you think is real might not be!  Imagine not stressing out because toxic people tell you you’re not enough and you never will be, even though you keep trying and trying to measure up to what they say they want, so they will accept your offerings and service without criticism!  Imagine not having any trace of a rage that makes one want to choke the living shit out of all manner of evil- bullies, trolls, abusers, rapists, corporate executives, their managers, and other thieves, muggers- and stupid newscasters who report all the horrors in the world with smiles plastered on their perfectly groomed heads and then tell people to “have a nice [fucking] day.”

About my writing talents, sure.  He was obviously right.  He very constructively told me that he was the superior writer, and that I should bask in silent awe at the glory that is his relatively infinite knowledge and talent.  I know!  But some people, like my kind readers so far, have been too nice to tell me.  And I thank you.

Something I started in September 2016 (tw?)

I wrote this September 13, 2016 and never published it.  The cruel shoes still fit just as painfully poorly (cruel shoes, remember Steve Martin anyone?), so I’m publishing it because I don’t have the motivation to write something new or the talent to write something better.  Readers beware, it’s gonna be a bumpy hayride and I can already smell the tractor diesel and smoke, musty wet hay, field-rotting pumpkins, and horse shit.

I’m supposed to muster up something.  It’s supposed to be pleasant and motivational and encouraging.  Except I have these issues.  I have these wants.  It’s possible I’m completely normal and I should be able to do everything I need to do.

It’s also possible I’m mostly dead, barely able to wiggle a finger, and I’m supposed to carry the scene, starting at 1:44, here:

Confession: I AM bluffing, and everybody knows it. I’ve got nothing. Not even a sword. Well, no. I do have a sword, I just don’t have the strength to lift it.  Some people say “the world is my oyster,” or whatever other positivism nonsense I’m supposed to make sense of.  If it’s my oyster, damned if I have the tools to crack that fucker open, and if I did, I’d end up with a broken shell of a broken world, no pearls, and everybody pointing their fingers at me, the one who broke it for no reason.  “I mean, what the hell is wrong with you, Deon?! Everything was fine until you fucked everything up!”  Except I haven’t touched it, it broke when I turned around just to prove to me that the universe fucker works overtime at making life suck for me, for everyone.  I want him dead, or I want out of the game.

Somehow along the way I have either attached myself to, or become attached to, people who expect me to do things:  Continue to flirt while understanding and accepting rejection.  Continue to have the energy to do household chores while bearing the burdens of depression and loss and failure and a lack of any kind of motivation.  Continue to provide leadership and guidance with homework and social development, and assistance in and participation in community service.  I’m supposed to feel guilty when I can’t keep up with everything, and not shut down and move away from or be upset with anyone who needs my emotional support, ignoring my own wants.  They must be “wants,” because I’m supposed to have a God who provides everything I “need.”So if it isn’t provided, obviously I don’t “need” it.  Except I think I do.

I’m supposed to listen and pay attention to everything everyone else wants me to attend, because that’s more important than whatever I am already attending and listening to.  I’m supposed to be able to tap into some elusive, deep well of hope and faith and love for people who offer something else, or soul-emptying nothingness and demands for more in return.   I’m also supposed to harness the time I don’t have to complete things with the energy I don’t have.  I’m not supposed to need anything, and I’m supposed to be able to provide everything out of nothing.  Last time I checked, the only being capable of creation ex nihilo was God.  Everyone else is subject to the laws of nature.

It’s possible I’m only venting my spleen because I’m angry at God and taking it out on everyone else, including myself.  I’ve felt abandoned.  The expression “left high and dry” doesn’t really fit, because while I feel completely dry, waiting to blow away (get on with it, “let’s go already!”(Futurama’s character, Bender)) I am anything BUT high.  Plus, back in time, some people left Jesus high and dry, but I don’t want to be Jesus.  I just want to be Deon, but certain people wonder why I can’t be Jesus, and raise myself and them, from death and depression and destruction.

That, friends, is why I have nothing.  It’s why I’ve been spotty lately with the blog.  It’s why on the weekends I do my level best to do jack shit.  Because I’m completely fucking empty, and I need three refills to stop feeling desiccated.  My friend’s recent death, honestly sucked ass.  All death sucks ass.  My mum called me, bless her heart, concerned that I might switch from side effect to suicidal inclinations because she heard how my new med is affecting me and then talked to her friends who do nursing or something.  Mum, I don’t want to die, I want to live but I want it better.

I’m still mostly dead and I don’t have a Miracle Max special pill.  Even the music I try to listen to isn’t filling me enough.  It gets interrupted anyway.  I get interrupted.  Because what I say doesn’t carry any importance.  What I want isn’t important.  No one out in my day-to-day world gives a shit that they are killing me.  I’m like something annoying or gross that they scrape off their shoe.  If it wasn’t for my blog, I might think those darker thoughts.  I wouldn’t trade you readers (both of you) and writers (several of you) in for anything.  It would be too high a price to pay.  If I could do what my non-readers wanted me to do, they’d only find a way to ask for more.  Ever heard “the task expands to fill and expand the time allotted for it?”  How about “debt’s appetite is never satisfied?”  Yeah, that’s my real world experience.

I need something and I’m not getting it.  All you self-help people? (stop reading or accept a half-assed apology for the following- click out, I mean it, here it comes last chance) Fuck you.  I’m tired of being told what to do so I can do what I need to do or have what I need to have, what to do to muster the energy to do what I’m supposed to do…  I’m tired of being told the solutions are available and all I have to do is whatever the fuck program with anywhere from one to twelve steps.  I’m tired of being told the answer is inside me, because there’s nothing there, and if it’s there I lost it.  I’ve got shit, jack shit, and fuck all, and what I need isn’t something I see anywhere on the horizon, like that cruise ship that’s supposed to show up for the guy stranded on the desert island, full of food, drinks, and available hot women for him to choose from.  I don’t want a cruise ship, it’s a metaphor for what I need.

I’m Doctor Campbell from “Medicine Man.”  “Haven’t you ever lost anything, Doctor Bronx? Your purse? Your car keys? Well, it’s rather like that: Now you have it and now you don’t.”

I say that because I used to almost have it.  I used to have almost enough whatever I needed to do almost whatever I needed.  Never quite enough, but somehow enough.  I used to have almost enough faith.  Well, now it’s not enough.  Or less than not enough because I’m always had not enough and now not enough is bigger than what used to be not enough. Not enough left inside, not enough faith, not enough provision, not fucking enough and there isn’t any more to be had and if there is, I can’t get it because my morals prevent me from stealing from innocent people, being shady and catching that extra $30K to $100K that I actually NEED on the sly, or murdering guilty people who should have taken better care of me and treated me fairly and they didn’t, or “just” getting a second full-time job while maintaining my present level of responsible involvement and volunteerism and not dying in the process, for several years, until I’m out of debt and the kids are finished with college.

You demanding people, fuck you too.  You are asking a stone to become bread, a serpent to become a ready-to-eat fish sandwich, and Jesus wouldn’t even do that when he was starving to death.  If I knew how, like Jesus, I still wouldn’t do it for you.  You’d only find another fucking stone instead of mixing up and kneading dough and baking it your damned selves.  You’d pick up another snake and then ask me to treat your snakebite and oh by the way can you make that into a nice hot fish sandwich for me?  (See Matthew 7:9-11)  Fuck you, I’m done because I never was able to do what you wanted me to do in the first place.  Not for lack of trying.  Not for lack of nearly succeeding, only to realize I never reached the mark and never could reach the mark.  You wanted the extra that I didn’t have, like a mugger who takes every penny, that’s not enough so he steals your identity for a fast buck and then just for kicks, because that wasn’t enough, stabs you and shoots you just to watch you bleed and then, runs over you with his car a few times because you weren’t dying fast enough.

I have always tried.  And sometimes I have almost succeeded.  I’ve gotten close enough to get by, after begging for forgiveness for not having enough, and people keep coming to me like I’m somehow going to have enough next time.  They are insane.  Because they think it’ll be different when they come to me again.  Bill collectors.  Wife.  Kids.  Church.  Work.  Volunteer things.  You all want too much, and give back not enough or nothing.

I’ve basically even shut down from church, something I’m aware is not the right choice.  I still attend but I used to actually be involved and doing extra things.  I liked it, but it became another thing that took and didn’t deliver dividends on the investment.  This is the one area of life I thought would have synergy, but instead, not so much.

This is called burnout.  And I have commitments  that  will keep me on a slow burn for a while.  And I have debts that will keep me forcing myself to move longer than that.

There’s a joke I’m surprised I remembered, and it’s “I did some calculations, and I’m so far behind I’ll finally be catching up and might break even, 300 years after I’m dead.”  Ha-fucking-ha.

“There is no fear in love.”

“When I was a kid, I spoke like a kid, I comprehended like a kid, I thought like a kid.  But when I grew up, I learned to think like a grown up, and had to set aside my childish thinking and actions.”  (I Corinthians 13:11)

I’ve been digesting the news, as slowly as possible despite the fully-open fire hose of information the media wants to feed us.  Honestly, it makes me sick.  My initial reaction to our national situation was frustration.  I’m frustrated because I think I can’t do anything to help anyone.  I am not a behavioral scientist but I know a thing or two about feeling helpless, just from my personal experience.  Yep.  I’ve analyzed it.  The feelings of helplessness give way to something else, and it goes any of three directions for me.   Sometimes I have to work through all of these.  I should have just listed the 4 feelings, but normally I start at a rage baseline or a hopelessness baseline and hope I’ll eventually get to peace.  Maybe you’re wired the same way.

1) Fear
2) Rage
3) Peace

I’ve been anticipating the new civil war since I was in college, back in the 80s.  Seriously. And I should have anticipated it when I was in High School and became aware of race in America.  Kudos to mum and dad, because until I was 13 I had no idea people thought the way they did about race.  All I knew was people are people, and we needed to be friends with everyone because deep down we’re all the same.  I used to read my Bible more when I was a kid, and if all the verses about how we’re supposed to “love one another” didn’t give me insight, then one other reference reinforced and nailed home the message that we’re supposed to get along.  Revelation 5 says that in heaven they will sing a song to Jesus:

“You are worthy to take the scroll,
And to open its seals;
For You were slain,
And have redeemed us to God by Your blood
Out of every tribe and tongue and people and nation…”

I get, as an adult, that not everyone believes the stuff in my Bible, much less agrees.  We can’t even agree as Christ-followers on interpretations, so I can imagine how many different perspectives there are among people who aren’t Christ-followers.  But if I’m right, and even if I’m not right, we have to share the planet so I think we should try to get along with each other.  I still believe from my childhood that people are different, superficially, but deep down we’re the same and we should be friends and help each other since everyone has their share (and some have more than their share) of struggles.  That concept is reinforced too, in the Bible.  Matthew 5:

43 “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ 44 But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, 45 so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous. 46 For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same?

I’ve got a friend who bothers to go on Fakebook, and he told me he posted this text as a status update.  The saying goes, “Great minds think alike…  So do crazy ones.”  And so, I’m not saying which of us is great and which of us is crazy, but in processing the crappy news, I’ve been thinking about the same text, among others.

Day before yesterday I was still feeling pretty raged up.  I’m not at peace yet.  It’s a lot to take in, on primal, emotional, and spiritual levels.  We have the strong potential for a new civil war on our hands, and the events in Charlottesville, VA show just the tiniest edge of the darkness peeking out.  The hatred is there, the fear is there, and people barely hide it under a veneer of practiced civility.  One of my fellow bloggers tells stories about various dystopian futures or civilizations, but I think I’m living in one right now.  I don’t like it, but I feel powerless to fix it by myself.  And I don’t think anyone would disagree, that America is broken and divided, along so many lines, and at so many different levels.  The world is broken and divided, even though we call ourselves civilized, progressive, modern, or whatever.

I didn’t want to comment on this unless I had something constructive to offer.  Some resort to fear or apathy, some resort to activism whether peaceful or violent, and I’ve heard the commentary from both sides.  What I’m hearing is this:  Everybody wants to think they are, or they are part of a group that is, somehow more special than some other group.  They want exclusivity, and they want to be able to exert power over someone else, or some other group.  And everybody is afraid of either their own sense of powerlessness, or afraid the other group is, or might become, more powerful, and take their sense of power away.   And some people call it “power,” and some call it “privilege.”  I want to use a different label.  At the risk of exposing the social trend, and the weakness of the label when pointing fingers and accusing (another way to try to exert undue leverage over the other social group), I’m going to call it “entitlement.”  Both sides of the combatives are expressing their fear as anger.  I think the history of our country gives justification to the fear on both sides.  But not the criminal violence.

Privilege is either a myth or something I haven’t been able to tap into.  Power is also a myth or something I haven’t been able to tap into.  All I can seem to do is be a servant.  It’s not a terrible arrangement all of the time.  I help people, they either like it or like it and take me for granted, or they pretend not to like how I did it and complain about how I should have done it.  I think the country, and the world, would be a far better place if everyone looked for ways to help and serve others instead of all of the me-first attitudes. And if I may confess any open hatred, it’s of people’s senses of self-entitlement, or group entitlement.

I don’t believe in self-entitlement.  Self entitlement shows up in the very existence of exclusive groups, whether they’re labelled correctly as “hate groups,” or whether they’re labelled incorrectly as anything else.  Self entitlement shows up in individuals who commit crimes whether they are in positions of authority or desperation.  All criminals should be fairly tried and repay their debts to society.  That includes the business tycoons and bankers who willfully cheated (and continue to cheat) ordinary people out of their savings and investments.  That includes any cop who shoots anyone in the back with anything other than a taser, or any cop who shoots wildly not understanding whether his target is an unarmed innocent or a criminal.  That includes anyone who steals or vandalizes property that doesn’t belong to them.  That includes anyone who terrorizes or willfully and intentionally injures another person.  Driving a car at a high rate of speed into a person or a crowd of people, unless you’re having a seizure or some other legitimate, medically verifiable cause for lack of control, is willful and intentional.  If there’s room for error on that point, I would say that if someone is blocking an intersection or public street deliberately, they should move or get arrested.  There are some who believe, having asked them to move out of the way, if they refuse and the driver gently leans on the horn, they can allow their car to gently roll forward.  In the absence of law enforcement and when I have to get somewhere on time, I respect your right to protest, call that your civil liberty, but I would appreciate it if my right of way, call that my civil liberty, would be equally respected.  The other option is to either take a different route if there is one, or call 911 and wait for the authorities to arrive and disperse the crowd for you, which will obviously take a lot longer.

These are broad brush strokes, but you know self entitlement and if you have more patience than I do, you probably just accept the misbehaviors.  Self entitled people act out individually in lesser ways:  The guy who cuts you off in traffic, the lady at the supermarket who takes the parking space you waited for, the boss who pays himself a hundred or more times what he pays his lowest-paid employee.  The vandal who destroys something culturally significant that belongs to everyone as students of history or art; the one who puts graffiti that isn’t art on property that doesn’t belong to them, or the one who smashes windows in someone else’s home, or a store, because they’re bored, or street lights because it’s easier to get away with other crimes in the dark.

I believe in the opposite of self-entitlement.  I believe, if we steal or kill or destroy, we’re showing one kind of spiritual origin (see also John 10:10, John 8:41-47), and if we demonstrate the opposite of the above traits that are from self-entitlement, we show the other kind of spiritual heritage.

One (of probably several) news guys gave a TV editorial in which he condemned the violence, called the white supremacists “idiots” and their cause “a joke,” (though, IMHO, if it’s a joke it’s in very poor taste), and wondered out loud that if the news media allowed them to have their little protest and ignored them, and the fearful opposition stayed home and ignored them, it might become a non-issue.  If he’s right, the facts that they’re getting news print and TV and social media face time and that people bothered to come out and counter protest makes a big thing out of something that should be laughed at publicly, and shut down firmly and resoundingly in courthouses whenever anyone escalates to criminal behavior.

I wish we could look to South Africa for an example.  They’ve had their history, and it was bad, and now the laws have been changed and Apartheid was never socially acceptable, and now it is no longer legally acceptable for citizens of South Africa.  There’s fear, on both sides, but they’re in a slow recovery, learning humans are humans regardless of race, and some are even building friendships.  But here we are in the United States, on the brink of a civil war based solely on racism, sitting on a powder keg of mutual and opposing fears based on lies, and an intertwined fuse of mutual disrespect based on selfishness.  I think the vast majority of us don’t want any part in that war.  The President may not have a gift for soothing speech, and he may very well be providing some of the lighter fluid.  I’ve never thought of him as a political or social genius.  But he’s not the flint or the steel needed for the spark.  Friction requires continual motion, one side against the other, one gang hits another and the other gang feels obligated to strike back, and so on, until the big “rumble.”

The idiot who ran over Heather Heyer and murdered her in cold blood is indefensible.  I’ll say it in plain terms:  He is a murderer and an idiot.  He shall be as nameless to me as he is worthless, a footnote lost in history.  I hope that Heather Heyer gets whatever justice her survivors need.  Not whatever her fellow counter-protesters want.  What seems fair to me would be to put him to work, and allow him to support at least her parents, in comfort, although with their words, they probably don’t want it.  He should write a weekly card to them.  And after they are comfortably provided for, maybe the rest of the money can provide for his mother, and then if there’s any left, a small percentage to meet his basic needs.  TP, food, clothing, water, a cot and a six by six cell.  And every day, added to his ordinary labor, he should have to clean a wall on which has been ink stamped, by a robot, “You killed Heather Heyer.”  And if he doesn’t work hard enough, there won’t be any money left for him to buy food, so he can go without.

This said, the group of passive-aggressives would like to think that an angry aggressive movement will die out if it’s ignored by the media.  But as much as I want that to be true, I don’t think it is.  As long as there is an evil one, and his minions, there will be children of the evil one.  If Jesus said there is an evil one, there is an evil one.  The writer of I John said that Cain in Genesis who killed his brother was a child of the evil one.  If true, he’s been around influencing people to do evil things since the beginning.  And, if true, the passives who argue it’ll go away are wrong:  The angry aggressives will just escalate their behavior until they get attention.  I wonder what Cain had in his heart, and in his attitude, and in his behavior, before he became a murderer.  We already know what’s in the hearts of the self-entitled.  If we ignore them and treat them like children, they’ll have a tantrum and kill someone.  There has to be a point at which their destructive behavior must be stopped, their ignorance must be met with education.

I am the LAST person who wants to get involved in a fight, but I’ll speak.  My flesh, my humanity, wants criminals to face angry justice and receive fair punishment, and for people to be decent with each other.  I watched the commentary, where the guy got maced for getting in people’s faces and yelling his opinion.  Hurt me, corner me, and see what comes your way.  I get it; it’s a natural, human response.  But my spirit asks a different set of questions.  I don’t really want to “overcome.”  I don’t need to “win.”  I need everyone to be treated fairly and respectfully, and I want to help in a way that helps everyone win, not just “my” team, and I want everyone to treat me the same way, and help me the same way.

I don’t wonder what the hate groups would do if counter-protesters never assembled to have a shouting and shoving match, separated by a thin blue line, or thinking they’re safe while standing on a public roadway that’s only barely blockaded off for their assembly.  I don’t wonder what would happen if the news media failed to cover the event.

No.  I wonder something much more revolutionary.

I wonder what would happen if angry hateful protesters were met with smiling, loving people who didn’t shout angry hateful slogans back at the protesters’ angry hateful slogans.  What would happen if the smiling loving people brought cookies and cakes and drinks to give away?  What would happen if the smiling loving people asked the angry protesters, “Would it be OK if I prayed for you, right here and now?  How can I pray for you?  Is there anything special you need, or any trial of life you’re going through that I can pray about?  Or should I just ask for God to bless you and show you His love?”

What would happen if the protesters were met with people, praying boldly, lovingly, and kindly FOR their “enemies” to be blessed by God?  Just kneel right there in the grass before God, or stand, reach a hand out onto a cold shoulder, and pray hard, and mean it?

I think THAT is what Matthew 5:43-46 is speaking, in our country’s potentially dire situation:  It’s hard to hate someone who obviously, truly loves you.  It’s even harder to hate someone who’s praying for you, and it may be impossible to hate someone who comes to your angry, bitter rally and brings brownies, cookies, cakes and snacks, hot coffee with optional cream and sugar, ice cold water, and old-fashioned southern style ice cold sweet tea.   You’ve gotta have sweet tea.

It may sound stupid to some, but I don’t think so.

Love is more powerful than anything.

That time when Deon was mad at the fucking world

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

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

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

It’s going to be a great weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s my own fault.

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

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

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

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

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