“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.

Fuck!!!!!!!!!

DM (Dead Man) 8/9/18

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

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

NaNoPoBloNoMo

There are writing challenges all year, but the one that irritates me probably is NaNoWriMo, where writers challenge themselves and each other to write a novel during the month of November.  There are blogging challenges too- NaBloWriMo, where bloggers challenge themselves and each other to write something in their blogs every day of the month.

An entire novel?  In a month?  I’d love to have the free time to do that.  In the Fall and early Winter, I barely have had time to breathe.  What I need to do is start saying No.  But how do I know what to say no to?  What if the thing I say no to is the thing that’s going to put me on track to realize things I want to realize, such as an opportunity to volunteer that turns into an opportunity to earn $90K a year?  That opportunity is probably not one as a writer.  But how do I know?

I may write another one or two chapters in my novel this month. But not the whole damned thing.  There is literally NO time for anything more.

It’s 1:00. Or is it 12PM since it’s daylight savings time?  I hate the clock change, but I love sleeping in an extra hour for that one day.  I hate giving that hour back in the Spring a hell of a lot more.  I feel like I give that hour back 30 times, until I readjust.  Plus it seems like when the clocks shift, everything is always in the dark.  Saving daylight by making me work in the dark, that’s lovely.

I found a list of writing challenges here, so if you’re into such things and haven’t chosen, here’s the ones from November.

November

If you’re into year round challenges, the rest of them were here-http://www.wikiwrimo.org/wiki/List_of_timed_artistic_challenges

I may love you as a writer, I may love your diligence, I’m probably jealous of your talent, I’m certainly jealous that you have the time, or figure out how to make the time.  I enjoy your plots, your characters, your humor, your way of describing dramatic tension, or whatever.  But if you do either of those (having the time or being able to carve out and whip the time into a finished production), I probably hate you, but only with the fondest of respect and admiration kind of hatred, like, “damn, that writer is talented.  I sure wish I could find or make or have the time to exercise my craft to the point where I can actually succeed at a writing goal AND make some cash so Mrs M is happier about ‘all the time [I’m] wasting on it.'”

If you’ve taken on a challenge, more power to you, and let me know how that turns out.  I have to have 1)something motivational to inspire me to hope, even if the hope is slowly chipped and ground down to tiny specs, or, 2) someone better than me (NOT hard to find at all) so I can hate/love you for your talent and time management skills.

As for me, my challenge is to write some things that don’t suck…scratch that, it should say things that don’t blow.  I’ll call it NaNoPoWriBloNoMo. Who’s with me?  (National November Poor Writers Blow No Mo…  re.)  Oh, nevermind.  None of your blogs blow.  That’s why I keep reading.

“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.

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.

Image result for sign letters F 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.

Clarified Astigmatism

Clarified Astigmatism, 3/21/2017, Deon Mumple

I thought I saw you clearly,
Though we both tried to hide,
We talked and we were friendly,
Shared dreams we held inside,

What we saw was a patchwork
Of what each chose to show
I hid that I was a jerk
You hid the fears you know

Pretending I was better
Than I know me to be
The lies behind the letters
I hoped you wouldn’t see

Pretending we weren’t sore
Faked fearless, hid cage bars,
But joking showed a bit more
We both revealed our scars

I loved you and I love you
As you have shared your pains
While fearing what you would do
If I showed my soul’s stains

You tell me that you love me
We still hurt, life still stings
I see just what you show me
The safer side of things

I tell you that I love you,
My arms, the safest place,
Wishing I’d never hurt you,
Wiping tears from your face,

Is it inevitable
That I will let you down?
The looks of disapproval,
The not-so-subtle frown?

I want to be your safety,
To let you be at rest
But can I do so safely
Since this lacking’s my best?

I’ve just become your nightmare
Wanting to be your dream,
You’ve been my biggest scare,
I’m caged, long to be free

You deserve everything good
But I want to be yours
Despite ways I could or should
Strive to serve you more

You still wear let-downs with style,
I’m trapped, crestfallen, lean,
I’ve dimmed down your loving smile,
I don’t know how to dream.

Defending Myself

Self realization.  It takes me a while to figure out some things.  I’m not saying that I’m dull-witted all the time, it’s just that about certain things I take a while to figure out.  Fixing certain things takes a while too.  But I solidified something in my mind this past weekend.  I’ll warn the sensible readers who like actual talent to stay away, because this shit is going to ramble on like Led Zeppelin.  (Sorry, to at least one reader who doesn’t like the music, but for some reason keeps reading. You know who you are, and I love you.)

I’m not sure what to do with the information, or if the realization will actually bring any change.  (in large denominations of currency, he jokes)  But it’s information, it’s logical, and I do plan to point out the trend when I observe it, for the purpose of letting people know how I feel.  When it’s not a huge risk, or when I decide it’s something really really important.

What I’ve learned is that when I do things, when I say things, when I cook things, whatever it is, and I’m not even sure if it’s random or if it’s a trend to observe, but for some reason Mrs M is pushing the buttons and making me defend myself verbally.  She asks a question about cooking, I give the answer I know is right, and she questions it.  Yesterday it was Greek cooking.  She wanted to know how to give chicken a uniquely Greek flavor, and I told her that Greek cooking would add a surprise- cinnamon and nutmeg and marjoram for a trace of sweetness- to a spartan Italian mix (garlic, salt, pepper, oregano, thyme, onion).  Damned if she didn’t reject the suggestion and then bitch that something was missing.  Well, if you didn’t want my suggestion, why the fuck did you ask?  What’s missing from the tzatziki sauce?  Well, um, plain yogurt where you used sour cream, more lemon, and you totally left out garlic.  Not essential but it does add something.  Same with my dear daughter and her music and the rest of her education.  Why the fuck do you ask for help and then tell me how I can’t be right and you’ll just do it on your own?

My dear daughter has learned that sometimes I’m right, even though she’s hit that sixteen and opinionated as a fucking 89 year old stage.  Two years ago, she didn’t listen to anything I said, rejected my offer to help her with a piece of music, and we play the same instrument.  It’s just that I’ve played the same pieces before, maybe 35 years before her, I still practice, and I know technical things.  She similarly rejected my help with math.  So, two years ago she went to the music contest and got a bronze medal.  I’ve been working on this one.  Last year I fought with her but insisted on coaching, by making her listen to me play and add instruction, and she got a gold.  So this year, she picked a contest piece and under duress of too many other things going on in her life, accepted my help- with practicing, technique, understanding the history, tempo, style and ornamentation of the piece.  And guess what?  She got a gold medal.  But, I felt pretty good when she got out of the performance room and then went to find out her scores, because I damn well knew it was a gold medal.

We have somewhat differing opinions about social issues, but basically we want people to do good and we want people to get help when they need it.  Here, I’m proud of her for pushing back.  I’d rather she have strong, and self-educated, opinions she can back up with research data than be a zombie idiot sheep who follows whatever the herd does and says whatever is popular.  While I am still concerned that the press tells people what and how to think, I’m proud of her for researching multiple sides of a question before making up her mind-that I’m wrong.  HA!  It’s fine, honey, be right and prove I’m wrong.  But in 30 to  years, I’ll be right about this too.

My kids’ taste in music is fucking awesome.  I don’t like all of it, but I’m really happy it’s an eclectic mix and not all the same bubblegum bullshit the rest of the herd is listening to. Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve listened to, and, I confess, enjoyed, my share of bubblegum music.  But mostly I liked classical, what they now call “easy listening” like James Taylor and Jim Croce, and a lot of classic rock and early metal.  But bubblegum, sure.  Girl bands. Girl lead singers, I confess, it’s a trend I still follow.  Madonna.  Did you SEE the cheesy movie they made out of Dick Tracy?  But I bought the soundtrack.  That is still awesome music.  J. Lo.  Mmmhmm, her ex is an idiot.  And while we’re on the subject of idiot ex-es, why the fuck did Mr. Mariah Carey let THAT jewel slip through his fingers?  Um…no.  Not Jewel.  She didn’t do anything for me at all. When I was very young, there was this gem, resurrected by Shrek as a testament to its’ lasting popularity:

and then there was this:

Oh, whatever.  Wordpress, or my laptop, is tinkering with the links so I don’t know what the fuck you’ll be seeing when you read this.  (Both of you.)  When I was older the good bubblegum was Brittany Spears, PCD, Spice Girls (if only for Scary Spice, she is still worth the whole rest of the band), and Christina.  Girl bands.  Girl singers.  All right, enough rambling on about that.

Not all the time, but a lot of the damned time, I feel like quitting.  The fight isn’t worth the cost.  I hurt myself, I hurt other people, I fight to keep on trying at life and work and family and marriage and church and friends and emails and housework and writing.

Lately all my writing is on stolen time, and I have to not take it very often, or life makes me give it back or puts me through more bullshit until I surrender.

If I could change something that sounds like something that could be changed, it would be the whole self-defense thing.

The one person that I should be able to trust NOT to attack me is the person who does it the “best.”  But she questions me on time management, on focus to tasks, on cooking, and is never quite satisfied with anything I do.  It’s not fair.  I don’t want to feel the need to defend myself from the one person on the earth I should never have to be defensive around.  The family learns this. She got it from my in-laws, and her children got it from her, so yeah, I have to sometimes defend myself around them too.  It’s not fair, and yes, I would love some cheese with my whine.  Got any extra sharp cheddar?   The other day I made dinner and they all started in with the criticisms, and I think it shocked them into silence when I softly retorted to my teen children that “If you want it different, or better, you can cook it your damned selves.”  And I left the kitchen.

I don’t want to defend myself at work either.  I want a job that doesn’t harness me on the basis of fear, but rather, on the basis of reward.  I want a boss that doesn’t harass me to exert and display her power over me on the basis of intimidation, wanting to keep me under her control, but a boss that sets me free to work hard and succeed.  And gives me tools that work to help me succeed instead of crippling me with shitty tools that don’t work like they should, and telling me that I need to not be upset or disappointed because if they work the third or fourth time I try to make them do what they’re supposed to do the first time, they’re “working.”  For fucks sake, if your hammer handle is broken you buy a new fucking hammer.

I don’t want to defend myself against random people.  Don’t fucking call me, you asshole telemarketers.  My long distance service is better than yours in the long run, no matter how free yours is in the short run.  Plus, don’t you realize I hate change AND ringing phones?!  Don’t ring my doorbell, traveling salesmen/women, unless you’re bringing girl scout cookies or boy scout popcorn, which I could take or leave because that’s what MY kids are selling.  I don’t want a $50,000 vacuum cleaner even if you vacuum my carpets and show me it’s really worth every penny.  Fuck off.  You know who you are.  You were suckered into a sales job by a deceptive classified ad, and you have to do the fucking presentations and then you pray someone buys that shit because your life now depends on it.  I don’t want to name any names or confess to anything in my bitter past, but I answered the ad and attended days of allegedly paid training and they didn’t confess it was fucking door-to-door fucking VACUUM cleaner sales until the fourth FUCKING day.  And the name rhymes with, um, “Derby.”  And doesn’t start with “DE.”  “Let him (or her) who has ears to hear understand,” it started with the exact same first two letters of the precise thing I wanted to do to the people who wrote the advertisement and led the training, for suckers to quit their day jobs to answer, and desperate people to sign up because they’re desperate.  I don’t want to ever have to carry sacks of shit.  They need to be put down.  I mean every kind of sack of shit, including those who lie around; “let him (or her) who has ears to hear understand.”

And thank fuck there aren’t any trolls on this thing who bother to read my blog and know how to push the buttons.  Thank fuck I’ve been sensible enough to decide who can follow and comment and I can decide  from the list of things to do with trolls:

D  o not allow them to post their bullshit comments;
A  llow them to post their bullshit comments just to show how stupid they are;
E  mail the sender and tell them to fuck off and report it to WordPress;
M  odify the comment before posting so they sound even dumber than their
O  riginal comment was, and make everyone see what a worthless shit they are;
N  icely respond to all the mean shit, and agree that their point was more valid than mine
S  end them a fucking love poem, or eroticism, or traumatize them with something
like a picture of a cute cat, or a dog, or a bag of burning shit, every day so they
realize it’s pointless and they fuck off on their own accord.  “Bite me… gently…”

Ooh, look, it’s a fucking ACROSTIC!  Who knew?!  Oh, and, sorry for the turn-on if you get turned on reading such things.  I can’t help myself, this devout and very married introvert is a steamy, sexy devil dog with a dirty mind, ready lips, and talented, strong hands, just dripping with … oh, sorry, there I go again.

I’m going to find a beverage since it’s Friday night, and see if nature changes its’ course.  It’s a hot day in fucking FEBRUARY, so if that nature changes course, maybe OTHER natures will change and start giving me what I want.  Hope you all have a great weekend, and I hope the universe, God, and your life and family and significant others all love you the way you want to be loved, without bitching about it, for the sole purpose of making you happy because they love you.  I may find three beverages, which is an extra one.  It’ll help me if I have to accept the seemingly inevitable outcome of THAT wish for myself.  But I want YOU to get everything you want.

Rage Trigger/Follower Filter

Rage Trigger/Follower Filter

Merry Christmas, everybody.

I don’t like people, and I used to just blanket the world under the statement that I hated everyone equally, but you get to know people and you dislike some people even more than you dislike others.  Oh, tell me all you want about how I can’t judge a book by its’ cover, or I shouldn’t judge or I’ll be judged by the same standards.  Honestly, if I don’t like you, feel free to stay the fuck away and don’t interfere in, don’t interact with, and most importantly, don’t be any influence in, my life.

Grab your breakfast dishes and hold on tight.  Somebody shit in Deon’s cornflakes this morning.

I was innocently sitting at work when one of my associates walked in.  She’s like, 16 or12 or  something, way too young for me to have the slightest interest.  You don’t get Deon unless you’re Mrs M, or Hayley Atwell, or Jeri Ryan, or Mariah Carey, or certain favored co-inhabitants of the blog-iverse.   All of those people, including any that I may or may not have read about or researched online, either should know, or already know, that if you’re not Mrs M you don’t get any extra special favorable treatment.  There will NEVER be any special occasions unless they include an invitation to meet Mrs M back at the bunker.  I am NOT interested in complicating an already too complex life.  And, you can be as hot as you want, but unless you’re 32 or older, AND you’re Mrs M, I don’t want whatever products or services you have, whether you’re selling, giving away, or just advertising.  I may actually love you, you know who you are, I may compliment you in the hottest way I know how, but Mrs M owns everything and I don’t have her permission to give you anything past a hug, and barely that.  OK Disclaimers over, back to my story.

Wait, one more thing:  Jeri, sorry the stalkers scared you, I know that literally happens to celebrities and it sucks.  All you beautiful celebrities and fellow bloggers, I’ll only ever stalk you from afar, and only ever hold you in the highest regard because you’ll never ever find your way into my arms because I’m staying in hiding in the safety of my bunker.  Stay the hell away from me, there’s such a thing as too much temptation.  I know you won’t be able to restrain yourself (-ves).  I’m simply too hot.  Irresistible.  I KNOW.

OK, back to my story. She walked in and she was wearing something, we’ll call it maybe a rock and roll tee shirt or a Christmas sweater, and I said I liked it.  I mean, if you’re wearing a Led Zeppelin tee shirt, everyone’s going to see it.  It’s fucking right there.  And if you’re wearing an ugly Christmas sweater, everyone’s going to see that. If I said what it was and she read it, well, would it help or hinder my argument? She’d know she pissed me off, not that she would read the blog, much less change her opinion of her version of the event. All I said was something complimentary about the item of clothing. Could have said the same thing in the store seeing it on a clothes hanger.

Fuck me if she didn’t start to giggle.  I asked what that was about, and she said, “You know what you were doing.”

WTF?!  OK so, “what was I doing?”

“You KNOW!”

OK babe.  I was NOT checking YOU out.  Firstly, you might as well be twelve and I’m from the dark ages and whatever you’re thinking I’m thinking is just NEVER EVER going to cross my mind.  Secondly, Mrs M holds all the deeds to my property.  And then I thought about it.  This girl is probably very sensitive, aware of herself, and I’ve already heard her besmirch the character of another guy here in the office, a friend of mine she said was staring at her.  I might look over at her once a day if she’s talking to me or if I need to talk to her, but there’s none of that.  And, although I didn’t want to believe it of my friend, I don’t work in his area, so I don’t know.  Maybe this girl is a victim of someone’s abuse, but not of me.

It upset me.   Here’s why:

In these dear United States of The Offended, although people SAY that one is presumed innocent until proven guilty, this is not the case in all cases.  Young little Miss Thang, who looks young enough to be my daughter, presumed my guilt.  Presumed my covert hostility.  Presumed my bad intent   *cue Ian, and play Jethro Tull’s Aqualung*

What the fucking fuck?   I didn’t zoom in and try to observe. I observed the wardrobe and tried to say something nice. I didn’t covet the the contents. I don’t have x-ray vision, not that there’s much to observe. One can window-shop all one wants, but if the shelves are almost empty or I have better at home I’m not giving it more than a glance.   Jumping to your misbegotten premature conclusions like that makes it sound like I was openly staring, taking careful measurements, and making a schematic diagram.

Your presumption of my hostility is an act of hostility to me, little one.  And hostility is a HUGE trigger to my hostility, but not the kind of hostility you presumed.  It’s as bad or worse than presuming that I’m privileged and you’re not based on things about me you PRESUME, without actually knowing me or anything about my life.  And let me repeat myself:  “Oh, tell me all you want about how I can’t judge a book by its’ cover, or I shouldn’t judge or I’ll be judged by the same standards.  Honestly, if I don’t like you, feel free to stay the fuck away and don’t interfere in, don’t interact with, and most importantly, don’t be any influence in, my life.”   More importantly, if you don’t like me, do the same but go twice as far away.

If I can’t judge you by your presumptiveness, and I can’t hate you back for presumptively hating me, then you are at an unfair advantage and I won’t be set up for that.  That statement above is very important.  Feel free to stay away, please.  Don’t try to touch me, talk to me, or have any impact on my life whatsoever. Please.  No, really.  Please. Go. Away.  And, although if pressed you would deny all of this, it’s too late.  I already hate you and my walls have gone up, little one.  And it’ll take a LOT for the walls to come back down. I literally put a folder up on top of the cubicle wall to prevent her from presuming my being possessed with perversion.  I wouldn’t want to be speaking to her and have her think the wrong thing ever again.

Things that make me dislike people are myriad, but I try to be fair, until I get to know a person.

I’m sure there’s a top 11 list of things that do.  Oh look!  Here comes one now:

11  Conceit
10  Selfishness
9    Presumption
8    Hunger for power
7    Being over-charged for things I need
6    Reckless disregard for others
5    Being Demanding
4    Being upset when your unrealistic or unnecessary or tyrannically urgent, spoken or unspoken, demands or expectations aren’t met
3    Forcing me to do something twice when once should be enough but you weren’t satisfied the first time.  (see also, demands)
2    Not doing or saying anything to acknowledge when I try hard to do something nice for you.
1    Saying you care and then presenting ongoing evidence to the contrary.

I read a quote attributed to Maria Callas, a formerly famous opera singer.  The internet says she said, “Don’t come to me with your troubles.  I have to work for my money, and you are young enough to work too.  If you can’t make enough money to live on, you can jump out of the window or drown yourself.”  It made me intensely dislike Maria, and if she wasn’t dead and found out I didn’t like her, she’d probably cry all the way to her rich friends and they’d all have flutes full of consolation champagne.  If it’s the truth and that’s an accurate quote, Maria had a very ugly soul.

It goes to prove you can have a measure of outer beauty, and be completely hideous on the inside.  It also goes to prove you can be surrounded by swarms of deluded people who are more than willing to tell you how great you are.  These are the kind that are happy just to have your shadow fall upon them, but in the end you’re empty and worthless.

I submit that you can be a bitch and still have people who actually know you, actually like you.  As evidence, your honor, I submit myself, exhibit A.  Well, I THINK they like me.  I’m a bitch, it’s true.  Just read a little more of the blog if you’re uncertain.  But I actually care about other people, and people I actually care about can tell.  Maybe I’m deluding myself; maybe that’s how Maria deluded herself.  But if you’re a self-centered heartless one, although people may wish to bask in the glow of your fame, or profit from it, no one really likes you.

Sure, I wish the world revolved around me or at least I wish I was privileged like some people think I am.  It would make everything so much easier.  For me.  But it doesn’t, and I gave up on the concept of myself as God probably about the time Aqualung came out…if I was even born that long ago… not saying it wouldn’t be great to be in control, but saying I guess I can deal with the fact I’m not as long as you let me wrestle for as much control as I can have.  I should probably count myself lucky to have a [ctrl] key on the keyboard, and be content with that.  The more I wrestle for it, the less I seem to have.  Fucking universe fucker…  I’d get rid of him if I could.  It’s hard enough without a thing bent on making it worse.

So yeah, my “privileged” self wrapped ONE present for Mrs M and we went shopping for some small items for our kids because that was all we could afford.  I DID find one other thing for Mrs M…no, she found it and needed it for work so I bought it.  The car repairs and my teeth and whatever else breaks will have to wait until next year for the “privilege.”

Judge not, so you won’t be judged.  Don’t think you’re all that enough to presume I can see something that isn’t there, worse, think I’m trying to see it, and then passive-aggressively hate me for it.  When I go back to work, I hope to bring Christmas cards for the top of the cubicle walls, because honey, I’ve seen into your soul, without having to inspect the shell, and it’s not attractive to me.  With your ugly-ass soul, I’d rather not be able to see the shell at all, or anything you put on it, even if it is a cool rock and roll t shirt or an ugly Christmas sweater, you ugly-souled, self-centered, presumptuous fucking   bitch.

For the rest of you, still, Merry Christmas and thanks for letting me vent a little.  If you think that my venting is the best Christmas present you got this year, I am PROFOUNDLY sorry.

Tomorrow, something SO much better.  A Christmas poem.  Just you wait.  And for the record, you can check me out all you want.  Just don’t touch.

~Deon, feeling less pre-Christmas rage and more Christmas do-we-have -to-go-see-the-in–laws-again-stress already.  Hooray for Christmas sarcasm.  Save me, baby Jesus!!

First World Problems

Sorry I’ve been away so long. You all probably think I won the lottery or changed to a better job or went on vacation with Mrs M to someplace warm and steamy, with the emphasis on “steamy.” Nope.  Not yet.  I’m still hoping because there’s still a slim chance if I buy a ticket.

I got a little advance warning on the impending crash of the wave of depression, so some of you were perceptive enough to pick up on it.  I think. I may have mentioned it. Because it sucks. Well, crash it has. I like Christmas, I just hate that I have to ride around in this semi-animated corpse pretending everything is great including me. Yeah, you’ve heard the cheer on your radios because it’s after Hallo-fucking-ween: “Voices singing let’s be jolly, fuck the halls with bouts of folly.”

Well, everything IS great, on the spreadsheet. Except finances, and my job, and my car’s check engine light, and my teeth still not fixed, and my wife and kids demanding indentured servitude without the terms of severance or the income.  Wikipedia says “The employer is often permitted to assign the labor of an indenture to a third party.” And it’s true, we have a new dog the kids have named “Scruffy,” and my labor has been assigned, on an as-needed basis, to serve “Scruffy.” And this without relief from the other duties two of my friends tease me about. They say I’m “a good wife.”

On the spreadsheet, I have a job. I have a car. I have a house. I have a family (and a dog). There is food on the table. The house has heat for winter (now) and air conditioning for summer (now).  I also have time-released amphetamines for my depression.  They keep me awake sometimes, they might help me focus a little better than the coffee.  Oh, and I have coffee, which is excellent.  Coffee is one of the best things on the plus side.  These are great on the surface. Scratch it a little (because “Scruffy” likes that).

Under the surface a little, the wisdom of another “Scruffy” shines through:

//giphy.com/embed/eMLXYjKIHaQyk

via GIPHY

That’s right, about the time I’m ready to kick life’s ass and take its’ name, life, or my feelings, or my whatever the fuck the opposite of mania for a cyclothymic comes along with a great big rainbow of

//giphy.com/embed/J5IV6WQZlQS4w

via GIPHY

And it IS a gray rainbow.

I thought I was done with a project and it popped its’ ugly little head up again and said, “Remember me?  Good, now prove you did everything right, all over again.” So after I half-recover from the stress of this week I get to go through all that shit all over again, prove my numbers, search for the one thing the one person wants me to find, and if I find it, figure out why the rest of my numbers worked out right, and if I don’t find it, deliver the bad news to the guy who loses $200 dollars and does not get to pass “Go.” I was very careful and I’m 96% sure I’m right.  It’s just a tiny “fuck you” from a universe full of those.  Duck, or the universe will hand you a few too.

Remind me to never volunteer for shit again.

It’s been a rough few weeks for me, not from the plus column because I’m truly grateful for everything good in life: I have good friends, three in particular who have been extremely supportive. There are people who would murder to have that kind of morale support, and their lives tear them down regularly to a point where even my bitching feels like encouragement to them. And I offer it.

Add to the plus side:  I have a car.  It runs, and it depreciates, so therefore it costs me money.  Depreciate is a big word that’s code for “shit falls apart.”    I have a house, and I like it when it’s cool in summer heat and warm in winter cold so therefore it costs me money.  I have a family that likes to eat, and I’m the biggest culprit for that.  I have a laptop computer that likes to spontaneously highlight what I’ve typed and delete it in ways Ctrl+Z won’t recover, and despite this, I still like to write.  Mrs M and the kids have their electronics, and we like Netflix too.  The stove runs on electric too, so we have a bill to pay or three there.  We also like it when the trash is carried away once a week, and we like our hot and cold running indoor plumbing.  To handle the expense of these things, I have a job.

My minus column might not be bad if it weren’t amplified by depression and loudly broadcast through a few other things. Amplifiers take the existing signal and push it up. Amplifiers are good because they boost what you can’t hear and make it audible. It’s the speakers I dislike. The minus column by itself is fine, I guess. Nothing a little humongous lottery win, or death, wouldn’t eliminate forever. (I’ve got no immediate plans for death, just in case you read closely enough to grow concerned, so the only thing left is that HUGE cash windfall. Bring it. And AMPLIFY THAT shit to 12 out of 10 on the dial.)

Broadcasters:
1-The grind – I fucking hate the grind. I have a job, but there’s no reward beyond a sub-minimal paycheck. There’s no such thing as team. There’s “I,” if you want to promote yourself like hell and there’s “they” if you want to finger point and make other people look bad in order to make yourself look better, see also, “I.” I was temporarily under another supervisor’s thumb for a week. During that week of assigned indentured servitude, I was scheduled to be in early, and I was late once. A half an hour, which I realize was my fault because I didn’t observe the schedule change, and I was in at my regularly scheduled time. And thereafter, I had two days of adjusting to a new, earlier traffic pattern when I was in the office on time but not on the clock until 3 minutes late. And because this alternate supervisor is one of the “they” people, he reported my tardiness, all six minutes over two days, which my company treats to punishment, as if I had missed an entire fucking day. The remaining two days I was early. But I have a job. Would other people murder for my job? I think not. Just so Mrs M can hold her exhaustion over my head (see below) Mrs M has to have a job because my job is shitty and pays shitty.  I’ve been there for several years and recently things have taken a turn for the decidedly worse (see above). There used to be grace, a few minutes, no big deal. But now, even though I always give a little extra in between and after just so my desk stays under control so my name and my conscience are clear too, and then try to help people get theirs done, there is only punishment and fear of more punishment, and stress, and accusation, and “I” and “they” thinking instead of mutual respect and consideration and mercy. In light of worsening weather and us getting a dog, I asked about working from home in addition to asking for a raise. Others make the same (new people) or more, others doing the same work are permitted to be home-based, but my request is denied because I didn’t jump when they originally offered it. I wasn’t ready for such a big change, and who among you with a touch of Asperger’s if they’d relish a huge change in their life.  I didn’t toe their line, when they wanted me to, and how they wanted me to, so now work is dishing out “fuck you’s” and second helpings of “fuck you’s.” I’m supposed to be grateful and ask for thirds and dessert courses of the same.

Anyone hiring, looking for a guy who just wants to come in, do good work, and go home, or better still be home, satisfied at the end of good day’s work? I don’t mind staying late or coming early if the expectations are clear. I don’t mind working hard, and I do a good job, not that anyone I work for would confess to that. I do good work because I value my name and I want my company to be profitable because if they’re profitable it’s supposed to trickle down. But no, if minimum wage is “raised,” I get a tiny “raise,” but ultimately it represents a 50% pay cut because I’ve worked hard to be almost up to the newly proposed minimum above the minimum wage and I’ve almost reached the newly proposed minimum wage because I’ve been faithful. So go ahead and raise that and knock my feet out from under me, why don’t we ask the government? But the idiots who don’t understand basic economics WANT the new minimum wage, not realizing it moves a bunch of struggling almost-middle-class people who’ve worked their asses off to earn anything close to the proposed minimum, JINGLING ALL THE WAY back down to the new poverty level. I don’t mind telling you it’s frustrating as fuck watching the idiots who want to run our country…into the pits.  Why am I despairing?  I don’t know!  (Is my sarcasm showing?)

Does the boss appreciate good work? With her lips she audibly says yes, but with her unrealistic, unmerciful expectations and her daily pittance, like some kind of Ebony  Z’You’rescrewed-ge, she screams a silent, yet somehow much louder, FUCK YOU! (Oh, yeah, just for all the citizens and illegal fucking aliens of the United States of the Too-Easily-Offended, the name is not racist, and fuck you very much if you thought it was.  Not that I should have to explain my intentions as  this is my fucking blog, I’m feminizing and characterizing the name “Ebenezer Scrooge.” You try it and see if you can do any better.) But hey, I’m accustomed to being taken for granted, which brings us to broadcaster:

2-The family—I fucking love/hate the family. If they were any more “supportive,” I might drive into oncoming traffic as fast as my crap car would go. With my luck, and with my car, I’d probably survive, which deters any such thinking pretty fast. And again, that’s not a plan. You worriers! All three or four of you.

My friends say I’m a “good wife,” and they’re right. One night I was so cold I washed dishes just so my hands would feel the hot water for a while. My children do chores only when we are angry and demanding, which sucks for parenting. “I have homework!” is a popular excuse. Among others. I do chores because I’m sick of the excuses bullshit and because Mrs M sighs and says she works so hard and doesn’t have the energy for anything more. And she doesn’t have the energy. She falls asleep hours before I do and gets up maybe 30 minutes before I do. There’s no time or energy left over for Mr. M., which is just great. Wait, is my sarcasm amplifier still on? And if there is time or energy, there’s no enthusiasm. I’m another fucking chore to sigh through and endure. And in spite of this, please cue “All I want for Christmas is You.”  The Mariah one, but pick your favorite if you have one.  I like the album one, to be honest.

Sure, she’s lovely live, have you seen those beautiful red dresses?   Of course you haven’t.  Because there are no pictures of the lovely Mrs M online, and I’m not sharing.  (I don’t mean Miss Mariah, although she’d be a hell of a catch.  That SINGING!!  Sadly, I’ve only really come to wanton, reckless desperation wanting Mrs M for Christmas (and every other day of the year) for years, since I determined she only loves me her way, not my way, and only when she feels like it. There’s certainly no joy in doing anything extra that would make Mr. M. overly happy. If I beg and plead, it’s an even worse chore, “sigh, sigh, sigh, you’re horrible and I hate you,” say all the nonverbal cues, which makes me not want to bother, which seems to fit the agenda.

And yet, she’s beautiful and pretends she means well and loves me some of the time. I just wish it seemed a bit more real all of the time and was a little more freely shared with me without the stupid dynamics that I don’t bring to the bedroom for offering the same treatment, freely, because it makes her pretend to be happy for a little while.

When she feels like pretending I’m reasonably happy and I can almost forget she’s just pretending.  It’s been more than 20 years, and I can’t exactly pinpoint when I realized she was doing that, but it really pissed me off and despite my efforts to recapture her heart, alas, I am only taken for granted and more is expected and demanded.  Fortunately I “make a good wife.”  My fucking friends are right.  But I know she’s the one I want.

This is 100% true, so far, no matter how hard I flirt online with all you fantastically hot bloggers.  You know who you are.  Yes.  You.  Fucking beautiful souls and hearts, trying to tempt me and ten percent away from succeeding…because I hide in my bunker to keep you at fingertip distances away from the true depths of my heart, once plumbed by the lovely Mariah…erm…Mrs M..

3-Because this is a list of amplifiers, I feel obligated to have a third item for my amplifier list.  I’m stressed out.  I’m discouraged.  I’m riding the wave and it’s cresting over my head.  It’s so cold in the office I can practically see my breath.  I wear layers to stay warm enough to keep working because my clients deserve good service despite the way our system and our management don’t help me.  I asked for a raise because of all the talk about raising the minimum wage nationally, also because I found out that I earn the same amount now after my years of experience as they are paying new people.  I wasn’t supposed to say anything.  I wasn’t supposed to ask, so now they are punishing me for saying something.  I’m not supposed to be upset about feeling punished, and I’m not supposed to be upset that my systems don’t work and I’m not supposed to be frustrated that my management is punishing me for little picayune things and for asking for a raise.  And I’m not supposed to be angry and convey any frustration to anyone at the office.  I’m not supposed to believe that I’m being punished.

I’m not supposed to be discouraged in life, in work, in my relationships.  I’m supposed to suck it up and be a good wife and be a good indentured servant to wife and work and family and dog and volunteer organizations.  I’m supposed to think positive.  I’m supposed to continue working and believe there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.  Well, like they say in the Metallica song, it’s “just a freight train comin’ [my] way, hey, hey.”

But indeed, I am horrible, and I earn and deserve every discouragement I get.  AND, the scary thing is, other people struggle with worse things than me.  Other people have worse dental situations, worse financial situations, worse work situations, worse relationship situations (some people are fucking physically abused, for fucks sake, by losers who should be shot to death as slowly as possible.), etc.  If I had a shred of manly courage I’d have a better job and earn enough money, and I’d also be able to fix the cars and the things around the house without routinely having a panic and rage attack when it falls apart, and wishing I had the cash to just call the guy who knows how to fix the fucking thing right the first time.

Lately it’s hair and fuck knows what else stuck in the drain pipes, and I don’t know what happened except a miracle: I’ve been able to fix that, after the panic attacks subsided and the desire to rage-quit was replaced by a strong desire to not have to pay someone to do it for me.  My teeth are still an issue.  I already need two implants, or the cheaper alternative is to have them just pulled, maybe a filling or two too.  Maybe in March I’ll get the courage and the cash to have them out, and then decide if I want to, or if I’m able to, save and spend it on myself.  I love doctors (see below) almost as much as dentists.

I can do little things, not big things like afford to put $3.5K in my face, or $700 in a doctor’s pocket for a blood test AFTER fucking insurance, or $1K into my car.  I only want to help people, and be helped in return, so the universe in all of its’ fallen glory shouts a great big FUCK YOU at me and deals the shit cards out.   I’ve taken to just calling the jerk who makes the universe suck, because I lack a more polite but accurate literary term,  an “ass hole.”  To spite the universe fucking ass hole, I decided to treat some dear people as nicely as I’m able.  You know who you are, you know I love you very dearly, and I hope what I did was practical and useful and fitting… for you, however impractical and impulsive it was for me.

Because if the universe is an ass hole to me, it’s an ass hole for others too, and if I can lash out and flip two great big birds at the universe fucker by doing something nice in spite of my situation, then that is what I want to do.  Fuck you, universe fucker.  Until you stop treating people like shit, including me, I’m going to randomly try to do nice encouraging things for people.  And if you slow down on fucking me over long enough for me to break even or get ahead, I’m going to do MORE whenever I can.  What I did was so small, but it was very significant to me

Because I keep asking a question.  I wish I knew where I should look to find a little, perhaps lingering, taste of the answer for myself, but I also ask for Mrs M and for my family, despite everything.  Maybe if I figure them out they’ll learn and eventually have enough to share.  I also ask for people I want to somehow help or encourage, in spite of the universe.  Because if I need it for myself, I know my family needs it too.  And if I frequently feel so empty, my family might feel that way too sometimes.  I know it’s true if I need it, that everyone else needs the answer, too, whether they’ll admit it or not.

When I look in the mirror I realize, even though I don’t really have a clue about how to fix very many things, I know I’m staring at a tiny part of the answer.  I don’t know what to do about work.  I still want to maintain my standards, but I’m past the point of giving half a fuck about this company and the people who have me under their thumbs and enjoy the work I do.  They seem to just be screwing with me right now so I won’t forget my proper place under their authority.  So If you know someone hiring at a decent wage for good work, I’ve done editing and proofreading and writing and research in the past and really enjoyed that.  (If I get paid, it’s not as crappy as this blog often is.)  It would be refreshing to do what I like instead of what my current employer undercompensates me for.

“Undercompensates” is a big word that means “acts in cooperation with the universe fucker to make life more difficult than it should be or needs to be.”  I think the universe fucker abuses the laws of physics and gravity and invented the contrary “laws” of relationships, to break precious things and break even more precious hearts, and cause unnecessary grief to anyone whether they can handle more shit in life or not.  Depressed?  Moi?   Fuck that, I’m busy pretending like fuck to be positive in spite of the shit dealers.  Because, for one, the boss wants me to smile while she’s fucking me over with barbed wire implements, and if I don’t like it, she wants me to pretend I do, and tell her “thank you” for the attention.  And not tell anyone about how I feel, or how it, and the tools the company gives me to try to do my job, that fail to help me fully succeed induce panic and rage.  At least I haven’t heard anything lately at church that pissed me off.  But give it time.  Christmas is when the gospel is love from God through scandal-an illegitimate child’s birth- and angels singing “comfort and joy” and “peace on earth.”  After Christmas, I’ll expect it.  If I get blindsided I might let you know.  As for Mrs M, Christmas and New Years give me a better shot at being loved how I want to be loved.  And I’ll keep trying to do the same for her.

If you don’t hear from me until then, despite how you may sometimes feel about messages either from the Bible or from some pastor (not necessarily the same original source), Merry Christmas, dear readers.  Life may not all be “tidings of comfort and joy,” but we can try to encourage each other anyway.  Like you encourage me.  And if you have a chance, be a tiny part of the answer to someone, even if it’s not very much or appreciated right now.  “This calls for patient endurance.”  But if I can do it in my tiny, insignificant way, you can do it too.  Try.  It feels really  good to flip off the universe fucker.

Revolution

“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss,”
Just ran a revolution but you’ve lost
Because you haven’t  yet count the cost

Deluded, you still think you’ve won.

My whole life’s carefully been invested, spent
Slowly trying to make a dent
Because change always, always, takes a toll
It’s less when we’re more in control
Explosions and notions  in motion
Need to remember their purpose, their soul.

Father, forgive, we don’t know what we’ve done.

Now you’ve got your change,
Say your world looks strange,
And as I expected the world you disrespected
Didn’t turn out quite as good as you predicted;
You insisted, but you missed it, it twisted,

The rocket crash landed, spun.

You like the chaos, disorder, confusion?
Then you are rightly your father’s children:
Your promised greatness, Utopian illusions,
Are exposed, as conditions just worsen.

Now you choose who to do right by,
But to me, you turn a blind eye-
You still look down on me, from the outside,
The “truth” you wanted to believe, lied.

And I bet, when things finish adjusting,
And turn out to be the same thing,
You’ll still be blaming

Someone else for what you‘ve done,

With your guns, and your words,
What you’ve heard,
Argumentum absurd-

um, you desperately believe
What you want to believe in.
Just because you want it to be
True, doesn’t make it not sin.
You’ve left me, undeservedly
Molested, left with even less

Than the less I really had,
The progress and success I should have
As over time, I’ve earned it, you’ve stolen
What I’ve worked for and still don’t have yet
You’re deluded, lie-blinded and can’t find
Or see truth, enraged, destructive, sad.
Deception’s a drug making you a crazed thug, quite mad,
Selfishly claiming that my struggle wasn’t as bad,

Because I respected, and waited, and labored,
And now even more, I’m still waiting, working,
Praying, delaying, dreaming and searching
For my tangible dreams, not your illusions,
Opportunities that you presumed
Were somehow always mine for the taking
But denied from you.  That was never true, breaking
The rules of rights and wrongs I  always had to follow.
You’ve left us all with emptiness.  We’re hollow.

Because you never saw my real reality
Believing your illusion, presumptuously
Seeing something that was never there
You were the only one you ever cared
About, don’t doubt, but it’s been completely clear to me

Our skin’s just as thin
As previous generations
The blanket generalizations
You hate, primarily when
You think one’s being unfairly applied to you
Are equally harmful and untrue
When you use them to lie about me, social spin,

I never had the future handed to me,
But you delusionally
Claimed the one to blame was me,
When I only wanted us to help each other succeed

The hate gets taught, passed down, inherited,
The ignorance, selfishness, destructiveness,
Despair that brings desperation, hopelessness, stress,
Will we always lose?  Our bruised eyes, blinded
Bleeding everyone out, until we are all dead?
We did it to ourselves, and we’re disappointed,

When we could, easier, have worked, and assisted,
Each other, and instead, resisted all
Our selfish ambition, lies yelling in our heads.
It’s coming, a “new” thing, and when we are dying,
Regretfully crying, finally realizing,
The same old strategies still aren’t working,
There’s nothing new happening,

Still thinking others should be carrying our cross,
Destroying, and stealing, not paying the costs.
“Meet the new boss, same as the old boss,”
When we hand the world down, after we’ve lost,

To our rightfully disillusioned, disappointed daughters and sons.