Saturday, December 27, 2014

The music Pandora wants me to check out from my Dresden Dolls channel

Florence + The Machine - Drumming Song (done, plus others)
Regina Spektor, pretty much all of her
Kate Nash - Made of Bricks album
Puppini Sisters (done, long time ago)
Emma Wallace (no)
Lily Allen (what)
Vermillion Lies - The Astronomer 
lots of White Stripes (done)
Katzenjammer (done done done)
Really wants me to get into Lily Allen for some reason
lots of Fiona Apple (not opposed)
Shannon Wurst (who? Sixteen Tons cover)
Dirt Daubers
They really want me to smooch on Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Rasputina (Bad Moon Rising cover+)
Kate Nash again

Thursday, December 25, 2014

The Last Christmas

Okay, I take it back.  Keeping a bottle handy is maybe not a great idea.  Not after tonight's Dr. Who Christmas special.  If I had a chance, or something to mix it with (I guess technically I had Ale-8 but the very thought of violating an Ale-8 with vodka makes me nauseous), I'd probably be drinking right now after that God awful show.

That, and other reasons.  For one, for the first time in months, I got a pimple.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Demon Kitty Rag

While I (and a majority of actual the medical field, from what I read) still maintain that there's a distinct difference between being a drunk and an alcoholic, this article sums up both problems pretty well.  In fact, it described what used to be me to a T until it only mentioned physical addiction, and not psychological.  Six myths about addicts and alcoholics:

  • Myth #1: We’re permanently damaged goods
  • Myth #2: We can’t get better until we hit “rock bottom”
  • Myth #3: We want to live this way
  • Myth #4: We’re lazy and dumb
  • Myth #5: If we had any willpower, we’d just quit taking drugs
  • Myth #6: Punishment is the best way to cure addiction
#2 and 3 are especially stupid things people believe, #5 is the one that hurts the most, still.

If willpower or the love of family could cure addiction, most of us would be healthy and happy. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy.

I just did the math again, and including mid-December 2013 to now, I've spent a total of nine months pretty much sober, aside from being contacted by the Ex, which makes me sad.  Still, I'm a better person sober, and without somebody who enables such behavior when it's convenient to their lifestyle.

To raise my spirits, here is my current song.  Katzenjammer's Demon Kitty Rag.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

In Soviet Russia, blog writes YOU

Don't know why but the statistics say my blog has a sudden influx of Ukraine readers.  Just in case Homeland Security wonders, I had nothing to do with that.  Plus, guys, this is a big homo writing, so if reading about a big homo's road to sobriety and new life appeals to you so much, please turn me into a cult favorite like Pussy Riot.  I'd love to be on Stephen Colbert's new show.

Top Five

Every once in a while, I have to see something like Chris Rock's Top Five to be reminded that, as much as life can suck right now, it can suck a lot more.  You can have friends who only pay lip service to your needs unless your needs clash with their wants.  People who only remember you when you're successful.  You can chase after the wrong love and never find the right one.  And, the worst, you can be an addict.

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Cranberry celebration salad is bookmarked in Chrome

Here we are again, at the edge of a precipice, wondering what comes next.

Some people have no problem with failure.  No problem with turning their back on the past.  I've never understood just giving up on somebody.  Even when I get all my proverbial ducks lined up and quacking, I always know they're there, shitting on the lawn.  (If you've never dealt with ducks, yeah, they shit a lot.  Everywhere.)

Monday, December 8, 2014

The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ

Well, struck a nerve I guess.

I don't have many friends who read this blog, or at least don't know of many who do, but apparently my point was missed in my last post.  This is easy to mistake, since I am an atheist and do not believe in a higher power.  I would say that I am agnostic, but that would mean that if presented with any kind of proof that a God existed, I'd change my mind.  I'm pretty sure no evidence will come forth, though, and besides, the basic tenant of Christianity is faith, and to quote Douglas Adams paraphrasing God, "Proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing."

Friday, December 5, 2014

You're my addiction

A few years ago I got into a discussion with a friend... kind of a friend... about addiction and the horrible costs that come with it.  I mentioned the recent studies about binge drinkers being different from alcoholics.  Got a very pious attitude from him about it, too, which was kind of new.

I've always thought that alcoholics should be pitied because they really can't help it.  They get nervous without their sauce.  Their bodies go through withdrawal, which can be hell, or so I've read.  Drunks can go long periods without drinking, and according to the recent studies most of them do, because unlike alcoholics, they don't have a physical addiction. If anything it's more psychological.  

Sunday, November 30, 2014

Scar Tissue

The First Step

You have choices, and they can be good or bad.  Usually it's easy to tell which one it will be beforehand, unless you make it a habit of lying to yourself.  I know I am already a creature of habits, so the best idea for me to make important life changes is to take away my ability to make those choices.  And that is why, for the first time since I was eighteen years old, I have purchased shoes that are not Chuck Taylors (above).

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Sometimes a bitch is just a bitch.

Well I'm pretty sure I'm on the cusp of a seismic shift (literally) in my life, but more about that later.  Probably nothing about it until the new year.  But it will be a very new change, so I've started the lifestyle changes, to be ahead of the curve.

Enough about that, it will come to fruition soon.  Today I'm all about accepting reality.  Most people can't.  I certainly couldn't, even when I could.  That is to say, I accepted it, but changing a bad reality to a good one isn't as easy as changing light bulbs.

If somebody tells you that you drink too much, there's a good chance they don't mean "as compared to me," but that you actually drink too much. Doesn't mean you're an alcoholic--you could just be a drunk, which is a little more pathetic.

If you're willing to suck off some guy you don't even know the first time you get together with him, and you get offended by somebody calling you a slut, well, you shouldn't.  That's pretty slutty behavior, no matter which role you're playing.   Just own up to it.

And consider the possibility that, if you must constantly deny being a bitch, that possibly you are in fact a bitch.  Qualifiers like "I just tell unpopular truths" and "I'm not rude, I just have the balls to say it" are completely glossing over the fact that being a bitch does not mean being a liar, it means, whether you're telling the truth or a lie, you're being a cunt about it.  There are plenty of ways to tell an unpopular truth without snark or sass or attitude, and if you're hurting people's feelings enough that you need to constantly defend yourself, maybe your detractors actually have a point.

It might not be that you have the balls to say something, but that you don't have the brains to say it without hurting somebody's feelings.  Granted, sometimes people need their feelings hurt to get a message across, and sometimes a shock to the system with a big dose of reality is necessary.  But if you are constantly defending yourself, it's entirely possible that the problem isn't how other people react to your attitude, it's your attitude itself.

The problem isn't just that you're a bitch, it's that you're a bitch in denial.

Having been in one of these positions before, and gotten myself out of it (seemingly), I can say it's much better to just admit what you are than pretend to be what you aren't.  At least the dignity you feel from admitting real faults isn't trolling for sympathy, which is usually the case with people who shuffle their toes back and forth in the dirt saying, "Pobody's nerfect."

Anyway.  That's how it has always looked to me.  But hey, nobody's perfect.  Maybe the problem is actually with me.

Saturday, September 27, 2014


I did not get the job.  I was a finalist, one of six... they narrowed it down to two, and I wasn't one of them.

It was in Chicago.  That would have been fun.  But I agree with them, I was not the best fit for the job.

So I continue.

Friday, August 22, 2014

A Series of Unlikely Events

One was having another grand mal seizure.  This was from drinking.

I had done so well for half a year without drinking.  Then June hit. and everything hit at once, and I didn't care anymore.  I seriously didn't care at all anymore.  I tried to stay on the meds, but why?  We weren't going to be friends again.  When that became obvious even to my thick skull, I just gave up.  I'd lost my job, the one I loved, and all care for the world.  I kept trying to get back on the Zoloft but it didn't feel like before.

I look at my bookshelf that I haven't packed.  I should throw away the Nexus 7 packaging.  Why is it still there?  Sentimental.  Mrs. Peregrine's Home For Peucliar Children... why isn't it sold?  You finished it, I never did.  More and more I think after my cousin comes help move most of my stuff into storage for me, I should give up and move home and get a job at the factory Keith works at. 

Last night, I got a gmail alert.  "Ding."

"Your friend xxxxxx has recommended you for a job..."

And I clicked the link and read about the job.

And for the first time in months, I'm excited.  Years, even.  This job was practically created for me.  My friend knows it.

So I cut short the trip this weekend taking junk home to come back and put together a more appropriate demo.

My head is spinning right now about it.  It is a perfect job for me and my entire life would change.  And best of all, the things in the past would become that... the past.  No longer something I need to drag out of the tide and examine the contents of.

Sure, I'd have to say goodbye to family, but once a year I'd see them.  Besides, I can see what I saw in Dad two years ago in Mom... her age is changing her. I don't want to see that.  Keith will be better at dealing with her.  Heck, he almost talked me into the ambulance.  Just was a tad too mean about it.

Finishing up the demo and crossing my fingers.  Maybe a new life will start soon.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

But they keep dry clicking their revolvers at my head

I should preface this with I do not have suicidal thoughts.

But I do, in fact, think about my death a lot.

For example, if I had a stroke right now, packing shit up and stressing out, if I had a stroke right now, I'd die.  And nobody in the world would care.

My body would lie slumped over this laptop, drooling on the keyboard.  And a stroke would be a horrible way to die alone, being paralyzed and unable to call for help.  And then just knowing my mind would run through all my sins and would focus on myself.

And that's how they'd find me.  My little brother, probably.  Slumped over and half naked and decaying.

And nobody would miss me.  I'm part of nobody's life.  The funeral would be sparse.  Nobody would even leave flowers at my tombstone after the first year.

Makes me wonder why I bother going on.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Monday, August 11, 2014

fucking Robin Williams

I was all prepared to be ashen faced and sad about unemployment and being kicked to the curb yet again by everybody in life and then fucking Robin Williams has to go and kill himself and fuck up my shit.

I remember the Mork & Mindy card game we'd play at Roger Garret's house.  We brought it there for some reason.  Roger never wanted to play it, but he was always wanting to do his own thing (also dead now RIP).  It came with an egg for some reason, which was important to the game... my memory makes me think if you got the egg, you basically won the game.  The game was basically Uno, if I remember correctly.  We only played it because of the Mork connection.

It was Mork & Mindy that made me realize how much I did not like summer.  It was nearly 9 PM and I realized if I didn't go inside I'd miss the show... yet it was still sunlight out!  Fuck that!  Fuck you sunlight!  I'm watching Mork!

In the mid to late 80s, we of course could not afford to buy a VCR, but once in a while I saved up enough from mowing yards to rent one.  One of the first ones we rented was a Robin Williams stand-up hour, cocaine-fueled and high-energy, and pretty damn funny.  I was always good at choosing which movies to rent when we rented a VCR for the night... even now those movies hold up.

And now he's gone.  Mork is gone?  I guess it should have been expected, but honestly, we were expecting a heart attack from cocaine overdose, not suicide.  I guess, most of us, anyway.  The ones with depression probably expected something else.

Just not me.


Just had a bit of a meltdown.

I'd put together my new demo and was writing emails for it to send to various folk, and realized I needed a quote from V FOR VENDETTA.  I'd forgotten that the quote wasn't included in the movie, and if I had remembered that anyway, I'd already packed up the novel, but I streamed the movie looking for the quote, and came up on Valerie's Letter.

As far as I am concerned, it is one of the most beautiful pieces of fiction, ever.  I totally believed she was in a death camp, like Evey, and that she had written the letter to her just before dying. And when V revealed he hadn't written it, it broke my heart, because I believed that too.

I believed a fiction.  I've never done that.  The characters, so real in my head, how could they not be true?  But they weren't.  They were all just things made up in Alan Moore's demented head.  A head which also devoted over a dozen issues of a brilliant original comic Promethea to explaining all the levels of sex magic, so there's also that to consider.

It is a story of true love.  Valerie will not give up her love, even after being betrayed.  I hate to say it, but I know the feeling.  I reject what people said about him.  I told myself they were trying to console me.  That they were trying to ease my pain.  They did not realize how much it hurt to hear such things... because if what they were saying was true, it meant I was the idiot.  I was the stupid and selfish person, too, waiting in the shadows for a love that would never return.

I don't know who you are. Or whether you're a man or a woman. I may never see you or cry with you or get drunk with you. But I love you. I hope that you escape this place. I hope that the world turns and that things get better, and that one day people have roses again. I wish I could kiss you.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

Overdrawn at the Memory Bank

Memory is not what you think it is.  

We think memory is like a video recording, collecting an exact record of what you saw and felt at the time the memory was created, but it is rarely just that.  It's also a collection of feelings that have changed since then, say towards a person, or desires of when something happened and what you wish had been said, instead of what really happened.  

This is why I always try to record my thoughts, somehow, of events as soon as they have happened, especially if they are important to me.  And even getting them written down, hoping they are unmolested by memory's delusions, they already are before they even leave my fingertips.  

I can say an ex treated me wrong, but there is just as likely a chance I mistreated him in much the same way I'm thinking he did me.  Obvious projection brought on by guilt, with a touch of immaturity... basically, "No I didn't, you did!"  And likely the same thing happens with my ex.  Either of them.

Being part-OCD as well as depression didn't help.  It made matters worse.

But still I look at old entries and I can at least recognize some truths.  I wasn't blind to my own faults... I wanted the people I cared about to recognize there was something wrong with me.  I  think, maybe, if they just said, "You need help," rather than "Stop doing this," that would have maybe been the best medicine.  Because "You need help" implies that they don't want to lose you... "Stop doing this" implies that they'd be glad to abandon you if you don't stop your behavior.

Well, not glad to, but willing to.  

But that's important to remember about memories, especially with people you were once close to.  Whatever drove you apart is likely shaping those memories.  One example is a close friend from back home who suddenly one day asked why I would hang out with my cousin.  At the time, I bristled at the question, and in fact stopped hanging out with that guy afterwards.  It was like he was saying I could do better than my cousin for a friend, and I did not appreciate that at all (he had said the same thing about others in high school, although not to me).

I avoided this friend through the years, which was easy to do as we grew up and apart, although once I started going back home more often over the years, we'd see each other.  One day I was talking about visiting my cousin and he asked how he'd been doing.  We had a good talk about Dave's stint in the army, and how he'd gotten married a few times and had kids.  This friend wasn't putting my cousin down, he just really didn't know anything about him.  

Suddenly I realized that all those years I'd been harboring a grudge based on what I thought was a snide remark the guy made, but he hadn't, it was just curious about my cousin, whom he really didn't know.  And my feelings tempered my memories of what he asked... I had been the asshole all along.

There are relationships I will never repair, partly because of my own stupidity and jealousy, but not just my own feelings.  Our memories are tempered and shaped by other experiences and are an amalgamation of this... knowing this helps, but not always, especially if the relationships are beyond repair.

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Ok that was mean.

I still get bitter, especially when I see things like "A perfect marriage is just two imperfect people who refuse to give up on each other."  Because that's what we did, and we both did it, and it pisses me off to think of it.

We gave up.  You gave up hoping that I would get my act together.  I gave up because you were miserable and I'd rather not have you in my life than know I'm causing that misery.

If we'd tried, talked, we could have made it.  We could have been happy.

Then again I still would have been downsized, so maybe it doesn't matter in the end.  But it feels like it would've.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014


...and this is a quote...

"I like  big bears to watch me flex my muscles and talk to me abut my guns and run their hands over them and all over my body then blow me while I flex."

I thanked him for his correspondence and closed the chat, saying I wasn't what he wanted.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

A History of Violence

A gun, in my mouth, and a trigger pulling, blowing out my brains.

That's the image that would haunt me before I got treated for depression.  It would just pop up in times of stress.  I knew something was wrong with me, but because I didn't actually have suicidal tendencies (aside from a few albums) I ignored it.  I thought it was just some kind of coping mechanism, which it was.  

Later, after getting treated, I realized that the gun wasn't in MY mouth.  The image that would flash across my mind didn't have a distinguishable face.  It was a vague picture... just a scene of violence that I wasn't related to.  Eventually I felt it was just a violent thought I had, since I was a pacifist and non-confrontational, but that doesn't mean I think that's the way to live life.  I just ... dunno.  It popped up like that.

That image has long ago faded.  The most recent violent image has been Betty, my car (not White Betty... I mean, we know she's white), being t-boned by a eighteen-wheeler at an intersection.  Again, I am not part of the image:  I'm not in the car, or if I am I do not see it.  I am not injured from the accident.  Just, a trucker t-bones Betty.  Maybe I'm hoping that happens so I can lose the debt of the car, since I'm jobless now.

I've had a brand new one these past few days.  This one, I am actually part of.  My cousin is there.  He is being supportive but I wish he wasn't.  We are in charge of a kid, not either of ours, who is a brat.  The kid shoots me, a wound I know will not be fatal but I still am going WTF KID.  I never see the gun but it shatters my right shoulderblade, almost perfectly into six pieces, except for one sliver.  For some reason that seems important in the vision.

Yeah that's all one image.  

Monday, August 4, 2014

crossposted from fb... Myra Breckenridge

Let me share how I, a guy who had an airshift at a classic rock station, discovered the truth about one of my favorite songs. The movie was MYRA BRECKINRIDGE. 1970, Racquel Welch, John Huston, Rex Reed. Myron (RR's character) undergoes a sex change and becomes Myra (RW), because of course Rex would look like Racquel after gender reassignment with 1970's era surgical technology, why not? Myra goes to Hollywood to take part ownership in her uncle's acting ranch, because those exist. At one point she basically rapes the naive but young southern stud under her tutelage with what I have to assume was a sizeable strap-on.

Yeah at that point I was also wondering why I was still watching it. Still, a product of it's time, strong in a feminism message and sexual identity... sigh. I mean, I guess. The thing is, even what I described was not the traumatic part of watching that movie.

The traumatic part was Mae West, who was still somehow alive at that point (I shouldn't have been surprised... she did "Sextette" with Alice eight years later), playing an acting scout. By which I mean she was some kind of hooker who exchanged acting jobs for sexual favors in her, what I assume was a, smelly office. (Hi Magnum P.I.!) And then she hosts some kind of soiree.. and here the mental anguish began.

And let me point out that at that point in her life, Mae West would have made Joan Rivers look like Anna Kendricks singing "Cups." Back in 1970, plastic surgery was not, apparently, to be taken lightly. So Mae West is *carried* a'la to be sacrificed by the tribe Jessica Lange gets captured by in King Kong (1976) in one of the most racist scenes I've EVER seen, sings a song basically about sexytime, and then breaks out into "Hard To Handle" while a bevy of African-Americans dance behind her, in a manner that was wrong even back then. OH. GOD. THIS HAPPENED. She was like Dolly Imhotep Parton preparing some kind of ritual sacrifice to the Elder Gods to keep herself young. I'm frankly surprised Tom Selleck wasn't wheeled onstage to have his heart cut out so she could bite from it and gain immortaliy.

So yeah, that's how I learned "Hard to Handle" wasn't a Black Crowe's original. Hoping I never find out the origin of "She Talks To Angels." Three tomatoes.

Saturday, August 2, 2014


I can't believe how much I enjoyed Guardians of the Galaxy.

I read the original comic from the 70s, and it was your normal Marvel cosmic stuff.  Way too much exposition, loony characters that made no sense, but very creative.  This new group has nothing to do with that.  It seems based on characters created by Steve Englehart, Jack Kirby, Stan Lee, Bill Mantlo (ROM) and Keith Giffen, and others (probably Jim Starlin, bleah).  There was no reason to bring these characters, who had nothing in common except for the "Marvel cosmic" imprint together, aside from retaining the trademarks due to inactivity of use.  Which Marvel, like DC, is kind of notorious for... "Oh, I forgot how deadly The Spot could be," exclaimed Spider-man right before knocking him out and leaving him webbed up for the cops.


The movie was absolute fun.  I saw it with my little brother, who was the perfect audience for this movie... no knowledge of previous characters having any at all history in the Marvel Universe... I knew them all.  Star-Lord, a kind of cosmic Indiana Jones... Drax, who was born to kill Thanos... Gamorra, his adopted daughter and lethal assassin... Groot, the Monarch of Planet X... Rocket Raccoon, genetic freak...

(I owned the 1985 mini-series, and long ago sold it, I'm sure... looking at some sites online, that newsstand edition of the mini is worth about $1600 now, before the movie is a hit.  So, yeah.)

But the movie was good.  We laughed a lot.  In the bottom of my heart I knew I wasn't supposed to be watching it with Kelly.  That was a big failing of mine.  I've simply forgotten how to be social, even within work.  In Dallas I would go out all the time.  In Boston, less but at least sometimes I'd hang with friends.  And in Dayton, the one time we decided to go to the movies, The Amazing Spider-Man, with a Wednesday July 4th crowd, I balked when I saw the throng.  Just another thread undone.

Still, I had a good time at the movie and encourage everybody to see it, especially if you know nothing about it.  It works better that way, I think.  But I think the whole Collector thing and post-credits scene will go over most people's heads, although I just have to SPOILERS say, I'm glad they used the Steve Gerber version and not the George Lucas one (although some children of the 80s might argue that point... but they are wrong).

Also I have put on ten pounds this weekend, and this is the most I've eaten in weeks and it still wasn't that much... but I now realize I haven't gone potty since Wednesday.

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

curing depression

A talk with somebody who has little to no experience fighting depression revealed one thing that is very telling about the disease.  First, it is a disease.  And treating it isn't just taking happy pills.

Trust me, if there was a pill that simple we'd all take one.  And I'm sure there are  pills and other meds out there that give you "good feelings."  They would not work on suffering from depression, however, and might very well cause harm instead.

The point of anti-depressants is to help balance your brain chemistry so you can think clearly, so that if you did get a good feeling you would actually feel it.  They do not take away bad feelings or suppress them, but at least you can feel something.

And there is no cure.  Some people need just a slight adjustment.  Most have to be on the meds the rest of their lives.

Monday, July 21, 2014


Because giving up means it was all  a lie.

All of it.

You coming here to be with me.  You saving my life.  You leaving me in 2002.  None of it mattered since it was all a lie.

And now you have a new lie to finish.  Hopefully he won't be as heartbroke.

I have a hard time believing it was all a lie.  Larry at least lied to my face, can't you?

Guess not.  Hard to think you're worse than Larry.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

Stop fucking Ebola monkeys. Or at least wear a condom.

Given that I lost my job today I am surprisingly in good spirits.  That's proof that I've changed.  If this happened last year I'd probably crawl into a bottle right now.

The title of this post refers to one of my funnier texts during the first hour after getting home.

So:  What now.  My boss obviously didn't want this to happen.  He was in my studio as I gathered up my stuff and jokingly asked if I was going to fuck anything up before leaving, i.e., setting some kind of computer virus off that would infect the network.  I asked in return, "Would you like me to?"  I think he was relieved that I was taking the news so well.

I didn't tell him that I actually could have easily done that.  He was relieved I didn't Hulk out and was a good boss and didn't want this to happen.  The orders came from on high.

I'm kind of just relieved that this happened now and not a year ago when I was straightening up my act.  I would not have survived that.  I was getting better because Ex wanted me to.  That was wrong.   I should have been getting better for myself, and I knew this, that's why I stayed on the meds.  Until I was doing it for me, it was for the wrong reason. 

And then in January I did believe that I'd never hear from Ex again.  And with that came the realization that if I wasn't going to hear from him again, I'd never hurt him again.  (I was wrong, on both counts.)  But I began thinking about what he told me in his last message:

you're a good person

He was trying to tell me he didn't see me the way I saw myself.  It's like when you hear your recorded voice.  When you talk you hear not only what's coming out of your mouth, but also all the vibrations inside your ear canal and in your head.  It changes your resonance drastically, and you are the only person who hears you like you do, and your brain rejects the recording.

Same with pictures.  Unless they are in reverse, which is what you see in a mirror, when you know it's you and are perceiving it in real-time, your brain rejects it.  Not me!  That's not me!  Ugh!

But that's how I saw myself, and I know it was my sickness that caused most of it (although I like to believe that most people are not Narcissists and do not believe they are beautiful and also all that), but hearing somebody you still love tell you, when you hate yourself, that you are good... that's hard to ignore.

I regret that I found a way to ignore it for so long.

So now the search begins.  I have the demo to Seattle, if that is really a position and not an EOE required posting... And I am working facebook and my friends in the industry.  Of course if things don't pan out I can always just try for a job at Hardee's.  Losing all that weight like I did last time wouldn't be a bad thing.

Anyway.  Back to working the crowd, until I leave tomorrow morning for a restful week at home.

The strain

Well yesterday was an adventure in itself.  Apparently I cannot take a "sick" day at work without everything coming down in shambles.  Whatever.  I'm allowed sick days and, unlike in the past when I'd use them in a moment's whim, I have twelve saved up from rollovers... basically the past year and a half of not being a drunk all the time has meant I don't need to use them.

But I was a drunk this weekend and was encouraged by my new friend to get back on the big stuff.  He has familiarity with depression in his family.  My doctor confirmed that, yes, I can get back on Zoloft after my body has adjusted to the current med.  Good then.  But how will it affect my work output?

So I talked to my boss yesterday.  I was absolutely honest with him about everything.  Back in Lexington, after all, I passed out more than once at his place.  So when I told him the whole story he was not surprised.  I think he was more surprised that I'd even been fighting to stay on the sober side of life.  It's not easy.  You wind up being alone a lot, because if you hang out somewhere with friends, there's drinks.  If you go to the bar to meet people, there's drinks.  It's like everyplace you can go to there's temptations and you want to say, "Well just one," but it is never just one.  So you stay away from all that.

I even started going to the movies here to pass the time, at that shopping mall with the bad parking.  There were drinks.

I told my boss because a.) trying to do the right thing, and b.) I had to find out if he thought my work output had suffered while I was on Zoloft, or if I acted weirder than I usually do.  No on both counts, so medicine for life I guess.

This morning I woke up at 4 am after a strangely dreamless night and went to the kitchen for some ice water.  In the freezer was the leftover Bicardi from this past weekend.  Regretting the waste of money besides everything else it represented, I poured it down the sink.  For some reason it took a long time to pour, and for some reason I turned the disposal on, which makes little sense outside symbolism maybe.

Basically now I'm gonna play a waiting game until my meds are upped.  I can make it a few weeks.  It's nothing I haven't done before.  

I will always regret not staying on them, now.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Thank you

I just got thank you'd for something somebody else did for me.  It was an odd feeling.  I will have to take him to dinner.

The doctor has heard my tale now and recognizes that I need to be heavierly medicated again.   Apparently she could tell what was wrong just looking at me.  Am I that obvious.  I knew the possibilities of side effects of coming off my anti-depressants in January.  I didn't have any of them.  No suicidal thoughts, nothing.  I started eating properly again.  Well, not properly.  Just eating at all was a miracle, and after starving for so long I forgot how much I enjoyed things like tomatoes with salt.

And learning that table salt was not my enemy but sodium from processed foods was... it became easier to eat healthier but stay very lazy about it.

So we are going the same route as before.  I'll continue with citalopram for now, and then move on to Zoloft again, whatever its generic name is.  I should have done this in May but didn't want to admit the feelings that were building in my head.  That was, of course, before.  Speaking of which I got a very nasty little note from somebody I barely know.  Knowledge is power.  I could crush this person's spirit if I wanted revenge for the note, but I do not.  They will find out on their own.

Here's to better living through chemistry.


I've spent so much time in the past year and a half getting sober and healthy.  I switched from Captain Morgan's to Henry Weinhard beer when it was made available here.  That is when things started to change for the better for me.  I could have a beer and sleep... I wasn't a drunk anymore.  Too little too late.  Then one weekend, frustrated after learning that he had already been in a relationship this whole time we were talking... That's all it took for the dangerous activity to start back up.  Hating myself, hating what I became.  Looking for something to hurt me, because that's always great.

The one good thing I can say about this experience was it made me reach out to others.  I've actually gone on dates.  A new friend came over last night and stayed, making sure I took my meds and listening to my words.  He helped check my blood pressure twice.  A little high, but nothing to worry about.  He held me when I didn't want to be held.  I told him I was a bad person, he said he didn't believe me.  I told him I'd wind up hurting him.  He promised he wouldn't let me hurt him or myself.  We went to bed and he told me I was good.  I started to believe him.  I trusted him.

We woke early and I took him home.  He wants to hang out more often.  I do too.  If he'll make time for me.

So maybe something good did happen.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

The Impossible Valentine

I was recently cleaning and came across something I thought I'd lost a long time ago... maybe I just forgot about it.  No, I hadn't.  It was my iPhone.  I recognized it sitting under the bed because of the cool shell you bought for on Redbubble, the Dr. Who/Chuck Taylors one.  That was probably the coolest gift anybody ever gave me.  You said you wanted to find something that combined some of my passions, and hoo-boy did you.  It's almost as disheartening as it is joyous when you get something like that.  You had to not only pay attention to my interests, you had to figure out which iteration of phone I had, and then you had to be internet savvy enough to know where something like that would be found, and you had to get it for my post-Valentine's day gift.  It was even in the faded white and not the optical white, which is a different shade but not the faded white Chucks the Doctor wore.  It's hard for somebody even as jaded as I am about love to think it doesn't exist after receiving something as a gift that shows that somebody you love has been paying as much attention to you as you have to him.

It was so great a gift.  I was so happy that I had you in my life, and I felt again what I felt for you so long ago.  Not that it ever changed.  I just had to push it away, holding that old gift in my rare fit of cleaning, because you were never going to be part of my life like that again.  I would just be refusing to let go of the past, and it would hurt me to revisit it again. 

So of course I had to see if the phone still took a charge.  Yeah it did.  And I had to look at our chats.  Most were from me, thanking you for coming into my life again.  But there was one in particular that touches me to this day, because I remember what caused the exchange like it just happened.

You'd come to bed late.  We were never on the same sleeping schedule, I knew that.  I accepted it a while before.  But my morning routine was to wake up and slam off the alarm so it wouldn't wake you.  It never did.  Bathroom stuff, shower, dress, then lean over you on your side of the bed and kiss your forehead before leaving.  You were always such a deep sleeper it never woke you.  I'd go to work and come home to you on the couch, smiling your heart-melting smile.  Good times.

I remember that morning I was wearing my green cargo shorts and the white pin-striped shirt that looks too big on me now.  It looked good then, it fit me perfectly.  I know I'd had my hair and goatee trimmed recently and was quite impressed myself with how I looked in the mirror.  

I came over to your side of the bed and leaned down to kiss your forehead.  You were as deep a sleep as you ever are.  I don't know what happened that morning... maybe I jostled you too much leaning down.  Maybe I put on too much deodorant and it bothered you but...  You woke up after my kiss, and leaned up with that smile, reaching out to shirt for another kiss.  It was very sweet.  You started to fall right back to sleep afterwards, still in the arms of Morpheus.  I left the apartment with what I must imagine was a very silly looking grin on my face.

Later at work you texted me, saying how handsome I was that morning.  I was surprised and flattered, because it wasn't like you to break out of your sleep to text something like that.  I replied, "Is that why you wanted another kiss?"

You told me you just wanted a kiss on your lips before I left.

I read those chats and others with customary tears that day, with that forgotten iPhone in the impossible Valentine gift, and never thought I'd be happy like I was that one day at work, knowing you'd be waiting at my apartment for me in just a few hours. I don't think I'll ever be as happy as that again.

Monday, June 30, 2014

I will follow you into the dark

When I finally do sleep, I have a dream of you.  I wake in the dream lying in a ditch, with my truck next to me, in Winchester.  Why am I in Winchester?  I must have been heading to work. So in this  world I must still work in Lexington, maybe I was falling asleep and needed to rest, which makes as much sense as anything else in my dream. I gather my stuff out of the ditch as a paperboy delivers the Lexington Herald.  Somebody follows behind him, stealing them, before I take off.

For whatever reason, I have to get home and shower.  It is nighttime, and my clothes are muddy, or perhaps I'm only in my underwear.  I head for home.  For some reason I have to sneak into my family's apartment, which means going through a back way through yours and Tony's place.  Yes, in this world, we live in the same apartment building.  Dream logic.

I remember thinking you were still not really talking to me.  It was 4 am, and my mind was incorporating stuff about you that you'd told me... you worked first shift, but it was early enough that you wouldn't be awake.  I could sneak through and not bother you.  Of course that didn't happen.  As I was about to reach the front of your apartment, I see Tony.  I've never had a dream with him in it to my knowledge.  He is in your living room, I think sorting through vinyl?  I'm not sure.  He recognizes me immediately and I can tell he doesn't understand what you saw in me.  But I just give what I'm assuming is a look pleading for him to not say anything and he doesn't.  I can make my escape.

Of course this is where you walk in, talking to him about something.  You don't see me at first and when you do you're not sure what to make of it.  Oddly you react kind of like John Watson, ask Tony if he left the door open again (double reference, Sherlock and Shaun of the Dead.)  Tony leaves the room and you resign to let me pass through, but you follow along to my family's apartment.

The scene changes.  I say my family's apartment because it's not my parents', as Dad has passed on.  Kelly is here, younger and not talking much.  Mom is here, older and kind of grumpy.  Keith is here, fat.  One has returned from the grave, little Miko.  As I set up the shower, which I guess is in the living room for some reason, you play with Miko.  I try to tell you not to, because I don't have your allergy medicine, which I remember tossing away.  It was one of the only things you left behind that I did toss.  You say it's okay, so I go to the shower.  

Mom brings the body wash, my big rust-colored towel, and a washcloth.  I don't want to use the washcloth.  The body wash comes out with a Jell-o like consistency.  It is difficult to use in my beard.  But I wash off and dry off.  I try to get my clothes on as quick as possible, because I have no idea what you're thinking right then.  Why you followed me back.  Why aren't you mad.  And when my mind asks these questions it's using your nickname, not your actual one.  I've never used your nickname, not often anyway.

I begin panicking because in the hoarder's delight of an apartment, I can't find any socks.  You ask what's wrong and I mention that I need socks, where are the fucking socks.  Then I see that I'm wearing them already.  You laugh that laugh of yours and smile, saying "I was wondering when you'd finally notice that."  I begin to be relieved.  Then you say, "Well I guess if you could drop me off at work..." meaning the Winchester Walmart.  Keith says to you, "Hey, you work at the Walmart's don't you?"  We laugh again and I begin to believe that we might be friends again after all.

There is a thunderclap and a blast of white light that pulls me out of the dream.  Right then my phone is playing this song, a cover by Amanda Palmer of a Death Cab for Cutie song.  When I heard the original, I hated it.  It is almost a happy song about losing the person you love the most.  Literally losing them to death, and how you'd rather take a chance on what's past that with them than without them.  Amanda covers it with just the sad bits.  So I got up, listened to her version, cried, and wrote this dream blog.  I don't know if you still have this bookmarked on your browser.  I know you did once.  This is my way of being passive-aggressive.  A lot of these posts do have references about you.  Sometimes they are sad, sometimes angry.  Mostly they just miss you.

And now I guess I'll do laundry.

Friday, June 20, 2014

Spider-Man: a comedy

Getting ready for my doctor's appointment this morning was a bit humiliating.

Showered, shaved (well, trimmed), wanting to look good for my doctor in case I get lucky.  Today show running in the background, it's mindless flotsam of morning television the best encouragement to leave.  I sat on the bed, pulled on a fresh pair of underwear, my shorts, and started to put a sock on.... and then I felt it.

A spider.  slowly crawling down my back.

I'm not icked out by spiders.  I think they're fascinating.  I watch TV nature shows about them.  I wrote a short story about one once that lived on the door frame of my first apartment in Dallas.  I considered one my "pet" in the house I grew up in, feeding it lightning bugs (or fireflies) completely convinced that the spider would suck out the phosphorescent liquid and begin glowing.  Hey, I was six.  And a science nerd.  And I guess kind of stupid.

I like spiders.  But I don't want them on me.

After being very still for a second that lasted a week, feeling the spider crawl down my back, I freaked out and began flailing about with my hands, trying to swat the spider away before IT BIT ME AND EATED ME AND THEN SHIT OUT MY CORPSE AND THEN RAPED MY SHIT-CORPSE WITH WHATEVER KIND OF GOD AWFUL SCARY BODY PART A FUCKING SPIDER CALLS ITS PENIS GODDAMN GET IT OFF

Yeah.  I had not dried my hair properly, it was a little drop of water running down my back.

So excuse me, I have to go turn in my penis to the Man Store.

Thursday, June 19, 2014


Last night the Dayton area got hit with some quite heavy thunderstorms.  Maybe that's what made me go to sleep.  I've noticed Leo and Barbarella both get all nappytime when it's raining.  I don't think it was even 11 because I didn't watch Jon Stewart.  Pretty unusual.

Slept like a baby.  Woke up at 5 this morning to a message that has made my day. 

Back to work.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Perfume Genius - Sister Song

sick punk

A friend rightly pointed out that I should consult my doctor before taking anything else to deal with allergies, since the two could conflict.  Just like, I can't take boner pills because of my high blood pressure meds, because it could kill me.  Oh the irony.  Well I had to go see her soon anyway so I'm on for this Friday morning.


I've given up on hearing from Ex again.  I wrote him, told him so.  Apologized for being crazy, maybe I never should have stopped the anti-dep pills, but if I don't give up I will obsess about it til it drives us both insane.  He's got a new life and I already caused him too much pain for this one.  He probably regrets contacting me at all now.  I will probably never know.  It doesn't matter, I can't replace him and I can't have him, so it's better to give him up and watch from afar.

I wonder if he ever did that with me.

Monday, June 16, 2014

Dreams of crashing

As if to get revenge on me for getting a good night's sleep recently, my body went into full allergy mode yesterday when I woke up.  Runny disgusting nose, sneezing, the works.  Then I swallowed some spit and gagged on it and wound up coughing so hard I thought I was going to puke.   Unfortunately I didn't, so I came on into work despite sounding like a frog.  I am kind of grumpy and wondering if I can get the part-timer to come in and cover me for the rest of the day and take half-a-sick day.

I'm gonna have to see my doctor again soon for blood pressure meds, so I might as well ask about allergy meds if it's kicking my ass this hard.  Apparently I have to do something funky to just purchase Benadryl because I look like I cook meth or something.  Please.  I won't even cook ramen noodles when I get home tonight, imagine me cooking up a big batch of meth, somebody put the sign out on the front porch, "hair doos and p-nuts."

Orphan Black continues to be really good but how many times are they going to let Kira get kidnapped?  That shit is getting old.

I'm about to sneeze my nose off so I might just ask the boss if we can call the part-timer in.

Friday, June 13, 2014

Sleepless in Dayton

Ack, maybe that's not the best idea for a title right now.

Anyway.  I was having my regular sleep troubles, not related to anything personal... it's just what happens to me.  Around 4:30 this morning I sent Ex a Facebook message (well, messages technically) asking two questions I really needed to know the answer to:

Why now?-- Why contact me now?  Or send signals that you wanted to contact me?  For a few months now I'd finally come to accept that he was gone from my life forever, that I'd never hear from him again.  And even before that, I knew the only person responsible for driving him off was me.  I couldn't handle adult life.  But I'm doing so much better now.  Almost never late for work anymore, and everybody loves me there.  Everything about my life is better, but one thing is missing.

And... what now?  Are we friends?  Is it safe to "like" a picture he posts, or make a comment?  I can't even write more on that because I really don't know what I'm asking.  Maybe... did you just need to tell me that for whatever reason, and now we go back to having nothing to do with each other?

Because if that turns out to be the case... ah.  I'm not going down that road.

He has my number, if he forgot it.  Maybe I'll hear from him eventually and I can apologize like a normal person, instead of a crazy person.  

Surprisingly, last night, I had pretty great sleep.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014


So Ex contacted me.

Out of the blue he looked at one of my profiles.  I guess it wasn't really out of the blue.  He'd looked at other ones, over the past few months.  But this time I checked his profile out in return.  Nothing had changed, so I thought it was just one of those things.  I showed up on his viewer and he was like, "oh yeah him."  I mean I've done it myself, with Larry, Dave.  Even that kid who was a furry and looked like Harry Potter.

But after looking at his profile, he checked mine out again.  So.... that meant something.  At first I thought, "What the hell is so interesting about my profile?"  So I looked at it and saw that it was painfully maudlin.  I changed it to reflect my current attitude towards life.  Then checked his profile again.

And later, he checked mine again.

I think we tagged each other again one last time and I could feel that Shadow Me starting to lurk, ask questions.  I've learned to accept this part of me and mostly ignore it.  But he asked that horrible question that, when said, demands an answer:  "Why?"

I thought for a while and sent a fb message asking why we were playing peekaboo profiles.  He said he'd contact me after ten.  My allergies had been on the rampage, and as I knew he stayed up late (usually) I told him if he didn't catch me because of my passing out to try again at 2 or 3 a.m.

We've had brief chats.  He said some stuff that made me feel better, which he must have known he didn't need to say.  I couldn't blame him for leaving.  I'm surprised he gave me a second glance, the way I was.  But I do know that I've made great progress in getting my life together.  Heck, my kitchen is almost clean.  Not spotless, but not the mildewed science experiment that it was.

I've sent him my phone number.  I hope to hear from him.  Hopefully when my allergies aren't making me sound like a walking bag of snot.  It would just be good to hear his voice again.

I told him I still loved him.  He returned it in kind.  Maybe I can start listening to Cutie Boots again without feeling like a heel.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014


this was not what I thought I'd blog about this morning.

you'll notice the lack of punctuation and maybe grammar aside from autocorrect.  this is because back in Portland this is how I wrote.  it was faster.  at the time my thoughts could wander off subject in a moments notice and id forget what I was writing about, which was all about capturing a memory and keeping it,because I knew even back then that memory was a fleeting thing and that most people didn't realize that your brain plays tricks with your memory.

memories aren't like video tape.  you think you remember something precisely how it happened, but you don't.  your brain takes images and feelings and emotions and makes an amalgamation for you, and it's almost never exactly how you remember an event.  this is true of everybody, including me.

so I've been keeping a journal, of sorts, for over 20 years.  it started in college.  at least I think that's 3where it started.  It must have, because I didn't have regular access to computers before that, right?  but it ramped up in Portland.  bought my first computer there.  played quake all night.  aol chats that never went anywhere except for one perv who I almost thought was going to rape me.  general tso's chicken Saturday mornings during laundry with a hangover and mst3k on the tv.  and greg.

I only met him twice.  one night was pretty intense.  by that I mean the sex.  the second meeting was a chance encounter after picking up comics and having lunch at burgerville.  while I really wanted to do a replay of that first night, I was on lunch break and had to go back to work, and greg was heading out of town that night, I can't remember where he was moving to but it was in California.

we had some common online friends and one of them told me, after I'd moved to dallas, that greg died in a car accident.  this made me sad of course, but not despondent, because I mean, it was just one night.  just felt really weird to think that somebody I did that with was dead.  like some kind of retrograde necrophilia.

get to work this morning thinking I'm gonna post something about dale briefly chatting with me last night and during my regular surfing I see greg, naked on a bike, doing portlands naked people riding bikes event.  I'd have written it off as a doppleganger except for the very distinct tattoo, plus I knew greg liked both nudism and biking so it made sense.

there's nothing else here.  I didn't get all weak kneed or tear up or anything, I mean yeah it was good sex but it was just one nihgt.  I'm glad he isn't really dead.  he seemed like a nice guy.

its just a really weird feeling.

Monday, June 9, 2014

My tattoo

My first choice for a tattoo would be the Starbrand.

Starbrand was the first comic in Marvel's New Universe, a failed attempt to make comics seem more grounded in reality, for some reason.  I'm assuming they got the idea from Alan Moore... sorry, I meant The Original Writer, with how he brought ridiculous ideas like Marvel/Miracleman into our world, showing what Supermen among us would be like.  This attempt by Marvel failed, and I think it took less than three years to die (although it lingered on with one-shots like The Pitt, The Draft and The War).  Maybe more.  The private comic book market (non-news-stand) was becoming popular, and releasing limited edition stuff suddenly was profitable.  Starbrand would go on my left shoulder, since I would accept it from the Old Man with my right hand and of course that's where it would go.

My second choice is secret.  But this is a good runner-up.

The barking dog from Faith No More's album, King for a Day, Fool for a Lifetime.

Because he looks like Leo.

The third one, which I'd actually get, horrifying my mother because I'd ensured my path to hell with a graven image on my body, would be an alethiometer:

Of course that would also involve hair removal,  but I'm not THAT gay.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Baby Fever 2

First, met Dave's new baby today.  Like all newborns, he is a cute little screaming and pooping tomato.  He seems to like his sister Kylee, whom I also met today, but seems indifferent so far to Maddie, although I'm sure that's because she's not allowed to be hands-on like Kylee is right now.

Second, I thought somebody was playing silly buggers with me regarding some odd activity with one of my online profiles.  It appears this was not the case.  However it is not something I can currently worry about because I am now convinced that I am dying of allergies.  I should note that I am one year (or so) new into this allergy thing, and I don't know how you guys have gone through this year after year and not begun cutting yourselves or at least shopping at Hot Topic and listening to Sisters of Mercy non-stop.

Anyway, Kelly suggests two Benadryls, but cautions that after he gets relief he usually passes out.  Given that I haven't had more than an hour's sleep at a time for nearly two weeks, I'm going to forego that cautionary tale and pop these liqui-gels.  I should probably consult my doctor first but I'm a walking bag of stuffed up snot at this point, almost Walking-Dead-esque, so good night.

Hopefully I'll be up in a few hours and can post a pic of the awesome t-shirt I bought yesterday.

(edit) never mind, here it is, found it online, only mine has more distortion in the image:

Thursday, June 5, 2014

[REDACTED]...the Next Next Generation

Just had a dust-up sissyfight slapfest on facebook with a former colleague turned flaming retard uber-conservative ultra-right dickless asshole, and discovered a job opening might be possible soon in a pretty big market I'm very familiar with.  The problem is, I'm not sure of whether I should take it, if it becomes available.

There's nothing wrong with Dayton, aside from being pretty boring.  Which it is.  The nerds here have an odd fixation on gaming, like, CCD and Warhammer and all that stuff.  Never seen that before.  It's paying my bills and I'm getting back out of debt.  Commercial production is boring but I'm good at it.

But also, I don't really have any friends up here.  I had a problem with a lot of the friends from my past and haven't really made any here,  I'd like to say I'm shy, and that would be true, but I know the real reason is because I'm scared of failure, again.

In fact, I'm so scared of failure that I routinely turn down offers for random sex.  I don't know what has happened recently, perhaps it's my growing my daddybear beard out, but I get messages much more than I ever have in years.  Usually I just ignore them and don't respond.  When I do, nothing ever happens.  I don't know why.  I used to be an absolute horn-dog.  So even the probable dating pool increase doesn't really sway me.  

I guess I know that deep inside I am craving affection like I used to get from Dale, but after failing him I don't feel like I deserve even sex, much less a relatinship or even friendship with anybody.  So this possible job probably wouldn't change that.

I still don't know what I'd do if this becomes real.  Maybe I'll be lucky, and they'd try to low-ball me and I'd not have to actually think about it much to turn them down.  I'm just worried that they would offer me enough to tempt me.

I like living close to home.  That's the best thing about Dayton.  

B411 chat openers

"Mmmmmm daddy need some tight boy hole today?"

First, thanks for the generous offer, but I'm good.

Second, proper punctuation and grammar are sexier than your "tight boy hole."

Third, go away.

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

In the butt, butt, butt

Here's the last thing the poor gerbils I buy every week from the pet store see:

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Tonight the stars revolt

I joked that tornadoes were headed to my apartment last night to murder me.  I did not know this was pretty close to the truth.  Although they weren't really close... it was about 40 minutes away... but they were F3's, which are pretty fucking mean and scary.

Here in south Dayton, it was just a big, loud, calming thunderstorm.  I do not know why I like thunderstorms.  I'd like to say something artsy, like they represent change and eventual growth, you know, hippie shit like that, but I'm pretty sure I just like the spectacle.  

Eventually I made a level in Titanfall and retired to the bedroom, opening the window to listen to the rain rather than a book on tape as is the norm nowadays.  The thunder kept me calm, but it did make that night's dreams discomforting.

I am finding that I'm being hit on a lot nowadays, but I do not really do anything with it.  Right now I just want to exist.  I do not need to be part of something else to be made whole.  That type of thinking is what has led me to make many bad decisions.  It encourages me to let something stay in my life when I should dispose of it, digging it up by the root so that it cannot find purchase again.  

One common mistake everybody makes is that they think everybody views the world just like they do.  This is especially bad for people suffering from depression.  When the people you care about can't understand why you act the way you act, as if you want those feelings (or, non-feelings), they write you off, as if you wouldn't change it even if you could.  It took losing the most important person in my life to get me to even try anti-depressants.  They didn't even work that well, but they did make some difference.  In the end, they were feeling like just another pill, and I've been off them for a while without any obvious consequences.

I have to wonder what life would have been like if I'd started them ten years ago.

Anyway.  I think I'm gonna play an early game of Titanfall and get in bed early.  Tomorrow is Godzilla.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

The Book of Night With Moon

I think I may have had a seizure recently without realizing it.  In my sleep, as it were.  I say this because of two bits of evidence:  first, the right side of my body was sore like the dickens, and second, I had bitten my tongue severely on the side, just like the seizure in Dorothy Lane Market.  In fact I  only realized I had bitten it because of the small stream of blood trickling from my mouth when I got ready for work.  That's when I noticed the tenderness of the tongue... on the right side of the tongue, as you'd expect from my case, and it looks like it must have hurt something awful.  I believe I heard once that human saliva (many forms of saliva actually) have certain healing properties.  Perhaps that's why a body part, such as the tongue, that is constantly immersed in it can heal with such rapidity.

Indeed even now the scar has subsided, although I am sure it will be a day or two before I break fast on anything more challenging than yogurt or perhaps a soft banana.  Not quite there yet.

I was all ready to post pictures of my colonoscopy, but it appears my printer's software was lost in The Great Wipe a few months ago, I'll have to look into that.  Pretty useful thing, a scanner, unless you want to instagram everything.

Still, the possible seizure worries me.  Why didn't I wet myself, like in Dorothy Lane?  That's what the girl in the gas station did, it was only after that that I found out it was common and many people having seizures do lose control of their bladder... or worse.  I should count my blessings that I didn't shit myself.  One good thing about anti-depressants, you can't take a dump if you don't have anything already.

I guess I'll make an appointment with my doctor and see if there's anything up I should prepare myself for.


Re-reading some books I've always loved.  Neil Gaiman and P. Craig Russel wrote and drew an amazing short story about Creation's first murder, and not only who did it to whom, but why.   It casts Lucifer Morningstar as the ultimate anti-hero, which is somebody cast as the villain against his desires even when he was just doing his job.

I've also picked up the first of what would have been a trilogy of books from Diane Duane, The Book of Night With Moon.  The reason this book is special to me delves deeper than the story, and I guess it doesn't matter anymore, but it is still very satisfying to read about a coven of witch-cats who live in the New York subways and protect us from evil machinations.

There was a sequel, Off to London to Visit The Queen, which wasn't as good, and the planned self-published The Big Meow, which Duane was trying to get off the ground before self-publishing became as easy as it is, and it went tits up in a big messy way that I'm not going to recount here, because I contributed to its "kickstarter" in hopes of having the perfect birthday gift for somebody I cared about.

Things do not always turn out so kind.

Also I watched Penny Dreadful on Showtime tonight and they had two dicks in it.