Different posts for different…things?

Random things

1. I saw a man getting ready to “beg” today. He was setting up camp on the divider of a fairly busy roadway. He had the obligatory cardboard sign, dirty clothes, and beard. I had to wonder, however, if he would get more sympathy by perhaps not standing there chain smoking. It’s just not a good look to the whole “I am homeless” vibe.

2. My stepson had his first confrontation yesterday on the bus. Typical verbal bullying. He was called a cunt, a whore, an asshole, and a bitch, among other things. I instructed him to congratulate his tormentor on his original vocabulary, and to deflect as much as possible. I am trying to figure out how calling a 13 year old boy a “whore” is an insult, but I guess this kid watches a lot of HBO.

3. Is it just me, or are the best TV shows the ones that are limited to 8-13 episodes a season? Think about it. Isn’t 22 episodes a bit much, especially if the show is an hour long? Cut the season down and get rid of the filler.

4. There are studies out there that link depression with sugar intake. Not just refined sugar, but what you would call “bad carbohydrates” as well, such as fast food, white breads, etc. It makes sense if you think about it. Sugar is an inflammatory, so no matter what if you cut it out of your diet you are going to feel better. I, myself, suffer from depression, anxiety, and colitis. I also have a myriad of other health problems at the moment that I am now convinced can be lessened by just changing my diet. I am going to give it a try, and we’ll all know if it is working because most likely I will start to write more. The more depressed I am, the less I am able to translate thoughts into words.

Do robots drink chocolate milk?

I had a dream the other night that I was back at my old job (again.) This time, however, we were located inside a gigantic shopping mall; one of my previous jobs was in a mall, so I wonder if that had something to do with it. I was running late, but I was hungry, so I stopped at this corner store which had magically appeared in the parking lot. I was on a quest for pastries and chocolate milk, lots of chocolate milk. The cooler didn’t seem to have any, so I found the owner and asked her where she kept her delicious chocolate milk. She came out of a secret room with a glass container like you would get at a dairy, the familiar returnable bottle design sent shocks of excitement through my body. I paid for the milk and left the store with an armful of doughnuts, too. I sat on the macadam of the parking lot, guzzling my liquid heaven, and shoving my face full of chocolate doughnuts when I realized that I was going to be late for work. I needed to go home yet!

Now, I am at my old childhood home, but instead of really doing anything to get ready for work I am just sitting there drinking more chocolate milk. I decide that I’d finally had enough, and I get up to leave when I hear my mother’s voice from behind a closed bedroom door. “I’m almost done.” I froze in my tracks, confused as to how I was hearing her because up until that point I had thought I was alone, and you know, she’s dead. I called to her, expressing my surprise that she was there, to which she replied something about having to take a shower and then she’d be out.

I woke up, feeling very confused and a bit shaken. I managed to fall back asleep for a bit, but as soon as my wife stirred next to me, I rolled over and held her tight.

Incidentally, this is not the first dream that revolved around me ingesting tons of junk food. That theme is recurring. Later in the same day we were grabbing some things from the grocery store when my stepson grabbed a pack of chocolate doughnuts. “Hey! One for you and one for me!” I shook my head, “No. I’m trying not to eat that stuff anymore.”

Home Making

The combination of my mental health and sub-par job market is making for quite an interesting home life at the moment. In a way, I have become the homemaker, except the non-cooking type. I have volunteered to take over that duty but my wife seems reluctant to give up control of that aspect at the moment. For instance, today, I have done all the wash that needed to be done for the family. My step-son now knows that I am the one to talk to if he needs clothes. For the most part, I am the adult in charge of the dishes. We need eggs and dairy products tomorrow, and I volunteered to go to the Farmers Market to procure them. My wife seemed mildly shocked at that. Obviously, it’s not ideal for me to walk around a market alone, but how can I justify making the woman who works her ass off for this family make an extra trip on her journey home while I sit here dicking around on Twitter?

The truth is, I enjoy doing these chores. It makes me feel like a part of the family. It’s true that I can’t provide for my family at the moment, but at least I can keep the house up. Laundry, dishes, vacuuming, errands, cleaning, etc; I know my wife appreciates it and it makes her happy that she doesn’t have to do it herself. That’s enough of a reason for me to do it. My mental illness has taken a lot of things away from me, but it’s not going to take my family away from me, too. I am not in the best of health right now; there are other things besides depression at play here, but being able to accomplish these small tasks are huge victories for me.

Still Cold

I knew there was something about either yesterday (the 26th) or today (the 27th) that was important. I felt like I was forgetting an important date. Looking at my mother’s obituary for probably the 1,000th time, I realized that today would have been her 32nd wedding anniversary with the man formerly known as my stepfather.

I wonder what it would be like if she were still here. I think about that a lot, actually. I wonder what it would be like to still have a relationship with my stepfather, and I probably could if I wanted. I’d just have to pick up the phone, really, but I am not sure I will ever get there.

My real father has cirrhosis of the liver, and the VA also thinks he might have colon cancer. He declined any tests that could actually confirm or deny it. He is accepting his fate, I guess. So now I wonder, will I be watching another parent slowly fade away over a decade? It shouldn’t be about me, but when you are dealing with your parents, it’s hard not to make it that way.

Pretty soon the minimal traffic I get on this blog will trickle into nothing because people will get tired of reading depressing shit every fucking day. Here’s a smiley face for you. :)


Some things I would like to accomplish before I expire

In no particular order:

1. Take all these ideas in my head for songs and actually create one.

2. Sing in front of people. I can barely sing in front of my wife.

3. Write an actual good short story.

4. Manage my depression better.

5. Manage my social anxiety so that I can leave the house without thinking that everyone is watching me.

6. Be the husband my wife deserves.

7. Be the stepfather my stepson deserves.

8. Become fluent in the vocabulary of the guitar.

9. Learn the basics of bass guitar.

10. Become a better keyboard player.

11. Find a drummer.

12. Write an album’s worth of material by myself.

13. Show the world finally what I have always thought myself capable of.

14. Forgive.




Do you disappear into the music you are listening to? Whatever I am listening to, I become part of. It will affect my mood, sometimes powerfully so. I am not a good person to listen to music with, because I take it more serious than it should be. It’s my art. There are so many songs that have attached meaning for me, it’s near impossible to not have a strong emotional reaction when I hear them. I am sure that my wife suspects I am truly crazy sometimes, because I will be listening to a song, and a switch will go off, and I will be talking with her, tears in my eyes, about events that happened lifetimes ago. I can’t be the only one that experiences this, can I? I am almost always overwhelmed with incredible sadness, because of course the music always stirs up some sort of past trauma, regret, death, etc. Even a happy moment will usually be looked upon with sadness later, because that moment is gone. Shit, even everything I write isn’t exactly brimming with positivity. Maybe a shower would make me feel better. A walk outside in the sun. With my music…

Poems are hard. Lyrics are easy.

I have this old composition book from 10 years ago that is partially filled with some really awful “poetry.” Don’t worry, I will spare you all the melodramatic pining fit for a high school student. Looking back on them this morning, though, made me realize how I can never be a poet. I am OK with this. When I was writing these emotions down, and that’s really all it was, raw emotion, I didn’t have a true concept about what poetry was. A good poem makes you think; you might never actually know what the hell is going on between those spaces. You will have an inkling, but almost never the full picture, because a good poem never reveals the whole secret. Of course, this is only my opinion. I will just stick to blogs, and extremely short stories. I will admit, however, that some of the entries within that book would sound great with some music behind them. That, is something I can do.


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