Reflections on Halloween 2019

So another Halloween has come and gone. 

Once again, The Great Pumpkin never came to visit me, and I wasn't bestowed with gifts and treats. 

This Halloween was different this year.  I'm not talking about the weather or the four inches of snow we got.  I'm not talking about the cold and the lack of leaves on the ground. 

This October, the whole month leading up to Halloween, was different.  It felt like stores put out Halloween items later, and put out less, than in previous years.  The selection wasn't as good and honestly the things I wanted just weren't available. 

I wanted Halloween dishes.  I wanted brightly colored bowls and plates with Halloween drawings on them for my ice cream channel.  I found them online but not in any of the stores around here. 

Also, the movie selection this year was terrible.  Hocus Pocus was re-played almost nightly.  The Halloween franchise seemed to have been run and re-run all week.  None of the classic black and white films were on.  Even the channel line-up for TCM left much to be desired.  In fact, I was going to get a one-month subscription just for October but after seeing what they had, changed my mind. 

Dracula, Frankenstein, The Bride of Frankenstein, The Mummy. 

There were hundreds of classic horror films made in the 30's, 40's, and 50's and it used to be we could watch them at night all through October.  Hell, those movies used to be on during the week all throughout the year, too.  It used to be a thing to watch old horror movies on a Friday night. 

But not one of the classics were aired. 

Sure, I understand that the original Friday the 13th and Halloween were from the 70's and are now 40 years old.  I get that.  But they aren't the classics often associated with Halloween. 

Worse, it seems like these movies have been tucked away, never to be seen again.  Just a few years ago, DVDs could be bought with dozens of these old forgotten movies on them. 

This year?  I wasn't able to find a single one. 

To add to the destruction of Halloween were the various news stories of schools cancelling any Halloween celebrations because they weren't "inclusive" or some gibberish like that.  There have been some great essays written about why this is bullshit.  People who are far better at writing than myself and who are much better at battling the PC horseshit that seems to be infiltrating our culture. 

The bottom line here is this--we're going to have to fight for our Halloween.  We're going to have to work to save it. 

Remember when Fox news was posting those fake stories about how Christmas was under attack?  Yeah, we're going to have to fight for our Halloween, on our fight is real. 

How do we do this? 

By celebrating it, of course!  By decorating and making as big of a deal as we can.  By working hard to keep our horror movies and Halloween programming.  By demanding our Halloweens never fade away. 

I'm not sure who is behind this but they're evil.  Soulless, even. 

I've been seeing Christmas movies being played for the last month.  How horrible is that?  Christmas movies in October and we can't even get Dracula at least once! 

A part of me things it's time we come together.  It's time we, as Americans, who want to preserve our holiday, come together so our voices can be combined into one booming, defiant roar that says "We will fight to protect and defend our holiday and we will not let you take it from us!" 

We have to fight, people.  We have to fight to defend our holiday.  Halloween is too precious for us.  It's the one holiday of the year when those of us who are maybe a bit dark, who don't find the canned happiness of the other holidays sincere or fulfilling, who love the shadows can look forward to that one night when we are able to celebrate with our own kind. 

We can't let the soulless and the generic take this from us.  It's time to fight!    

The War on Fat People

I'm not going to lie and say that I'm somehow getting any healthier.  I'm not.  I gained all of the weight back that I lost a year or so ago and then some.  My legs look terrible from the adema.  But at least right now I don't have any open sores oozing fluid.  Those have all healed for now. 

Getting back on the horse has been incredibly hard. 

My weight is complicated.  People look at me and they think I'm fat just because I'm lazy and I sit around drinking Mt. Dew and eating fast food all day.  I wish that was how I got like this. 

When I went to the clinic to get a check-up, after friends held an intervention for me, I met somebody who treated me with kindness and sympathy.  It was the first time anybody in the medical field had done so.  He told me a story that needs to be repeated. 

He told me about a doctor who realized just about all of his morbidly obese patients had experienced childhood trauma.  Some were physically abused, some were sexually abuse, while others were mentally and emotionally abused as children.  He realized he was onto something important so he gave a paper on the subject. 

He was laughed at by his colleagues. 

Fifteen years later, we're in a national epidemic of obesity, and people are approaching him and asking about this paper he delivered. 

My guy at the clinic gave me a nine-question survey.  Did you experience physical abuse as a child?  Did you see violence as a child?  Were any of your parents alcoholics or drug addicts? 

A score of two is considered high.  A score a three was a danger level and counseling was included as part of the treatment for obesity. 

I scored an eight. 

Being fat is a lot of different things for me. 

It's revenge and belligerence towards my dad, who was savage in his abuse, the details of which I cannot list here.  Sometimes, I feel like eating food that's bad for me is my way of telling him to fuck off and leave me alone.  It's the final Fuck You to a man I often describe as a middle-class Hannibal Lecter because he was a master at head games and getting inside a person's mind.  I grew up being broken down repeatedly and stripped of self. 

So there are times when I'll grab a snack at the gas station and in my mind I'm giving the finger to a fucker who has been dead for 23 years. 

And losing weight feels like I'm proving him right.  All the terrible things he said about me were true and I really was the horrible human being he repeatedly forced me to admit to being. 

Being fat is my armor.  It keeps me from being too close to people and it allows me to hide inside my apartment alone.  It keeps the women away, too, so I'm safe.  Women aren't into guys like me and that keeps me secure and safe.  But that's another blog post when I'm ready. 

A number of years ago, I gave up.  I decided I was going to either eat myself to death or die from an overdose.  And I was okay with it.  I ate more bacon than is humanly reasonable, baked cakes and pies just for myself, and churned tubs of ice cream I never shared with anybody. 

But then my friends had an intervention and I made the choice to give this life bullshit another chance.  I dropped weight and started to move better.  My clothes got looser and I was able to go for walks without hip pain holding me back. 

And then the blood flow improved to my extremities--all of them.  Hands, feet, and you know the rest. 

That caused nightmares.  Horrific ones centered around that certain awakened area and about the past. 

Then, I lost my job, and the depression got bad, so I stopped my keto diet and the weight came back. 

 I keep telling myself I'm going to do it again.  I'm going to get back on the horse and make another run at it.  Just make good choices today--that's all.  Just for today I'll make good choices. 

But that usually falls apart at some point. 

I refuse to have anything to do with the medical community but for my one person at the clinic.  If I break my arm, I'll set it myself.  If I have a heart attack, so be it.  If I OD, then I got what I was aiming at, and nobody better call an ambulance or shoot that shit up my nose. 

I cannot go back to the medical community.  If somebody like me ends up in an ER with a gunshot wound to the head, we're told that it's because of our weight, and we should go home and lose some of it.  Then, we'll get a lecture about our weight, as if we don't know we're fat.  Or worse, we don't know how to not be fat. 

"But what about this bullet in my head?" 

"Fine.  I'll write a script for ibuprofen.  Now go be fat someplace else." 

It is dehumanizing and humiliating to go to a doctor when you're fat.  Many of us would rather die than subject ourselves to it more than once. 

Doctors treat me as if being fat is the worst thing in the world you can be.  They rarely hide the disgust from their expressions. 

Losing weight means more to me than just a healthier life or better mobility.  It means I'm banking on life itself.  It means I'm admitting there is more to life than this shit and that there is a reason for me to be here. 

Losing weight is saying there is a potential for a better tomorrow.  And that is the hardest thing in the world for me to say. 

Some of you know I keep a loaded pistol on my desk, next to my mouse.  I look at it several times a day and tell myself that I choose to be here, and I can leave any time I feel like it. 

I've got a lot of friends and acquaintances who have dropped huge amounts of weight in recent years.  They all brag about how great they feel.  For some reason, I don't trust them, like it'll be different for me somehow.  Being less heavy and still miserable isn't worth it to me. 

I feel like the ground is rushing up to me and I need to pull out of this tailspin fast or I'm going to get a dirt overdose.  And that means making those healthy choices I cringe over. 

Dealing with my weight means going back into life and dealing with all of the bullshit that will come up as I do.  And it's complicated. 

I never thought I'd end up like this but here I am.  A few years ago, I lost a friend to this shit, and he didn't go to doctors, either.  I'm willing to bet it was for the same reasons, too.  Derek was a good guy and he died in his 20's.  I'm in my late forties and somehow I'm still here.  People younger than myself are dropping dead of strokes and heart attacks all over the place and somehow I'm still here. 

Maybe the universe has a plan for us all.  Apparently, the plan for me isn't to die alone in my apartment and not be found until the stench is so bad that neighbors complain a few weeks later. 

But then again, I've been wrong before. 

     

Something Wonderful, Something Special, Something Spiritual

There were a few bright moments from my childhood.  Moments I cling to because they remind me that it wasn't all bad. 

When I was a kid, my mom sent me to a summer camp full of rich kids, where I stayed for four weeks.  It was in the far reaches of Northern Wisconsin in some of the most beautiful land this country has to offer. 

It didn't matter that I was the poorest kid there.  And while I was at camp, I didn't have to worry about all the horrific crap that was waiting for me back home. 

Instead of drunken adults telling me I was worthless, lazy, and stupid, I had some of the prettiest lakes and streams outside my cabin. 

Instead of adults crossing lines no adult should ever cross with a child, I was a kid among kids, doing kid things like I was a normal kid. 

I can remember the days when the depression crept into my life back then.  I can remember having no self-esteem and knowing that I was worthless, and there were people there who countered that with words of kindness and support.  I was a troubled kid and there were people who noticed and helped me see there was something else about me that was good. 

One of the counselors, the basketball coach, took me under his wing.  He pumped me up and let me know I was a good kid with a future and potential.  I wasn't some worthless idiot like I had been told over and over by my dad. 

That guy planted a seed that wouldn't die and carried me through a lot of bad days. 

It is the nature of childhood trauma, be it sexual abuse, physical, mental, or emotional, to make that child feel they are somehow less than the people around them but at this summer camp, Camp Golden Eagle, I wasn't less than the others.  I was just like the others.  Nobody was better than me and I wasn't better or worse than anybody else. 

This was an important time in my childhood. 

My family was poor but they always got me there.  My grandmother paid for it once, my aunt paid for it one year as well, and I saved up my money from my paper route.  I spent three summers up there and even now, forty years later, I find myself clinging to some of those memories because they had such a powerful meaning for me. 

One of the reasons Mom always insisted I go is because we had some bad kids in our neighborhood who were always getting into trouble.  She was certain that it was only a matter of time before I got dragged into it with them.  One time, the police came to the house looking for me, because they were told I was fingered for some kind of hooliganism or another. 

Mom laughed and said, "He's in Northern Wisconsin, about eight hours away.  I can give you the phone number if you'd like."  The cop just shook his head and left. 

The summer camp was on Lake Minocqua in Woodruff, Wisconsin.  Gorgeous area, stunningly beautiful water, with some of the cleanest air you'll ever breathe.  There were houses up and down the lake with boat houses.  At night, we would watch retirees with their wooden boats lit up like Christmas trees cruise around the lake.  These boats were exquisite and reminded me of bedroom furniture with their stained wood and immaculate maintenance. 

We used to go on canoe trips into various parts of that region.  The younger kids went to smaller waterways, while the oldest were allowed to go on The Canadian, which I believe was in the Boundary Waters area.  I was in the middle, age-wise, so we went on a couple different trips. 

One was on the St. Germain River. 

This trip was magical for me.  I went on it twice and each time, there was something about that area that touched me on a deep and profound level.  I connected with something powerful, kind, and loving.  That area had a spiritual energy that I connected with in my own childish way. 

As I've said before, I was a deeply troubled kid, and I was rapidly approaching the age when what was left of my childhood was going to be stripped away by a host of people who made bad choices.  The spirit of that area, be it of the waterways, or the land itself, or even one that simply passed through and found me, connected with me and taught me something. 

On that trip I learned one of those lessons you just can't quantify with words and pictures.  I learned, through that connection, that there was something out there greater than myself, and that it wasn't bad.  It didn't judge me or tell me I was going to hell, nor did it reject me because I was worthless, stupid, and lazy. 

On that trip, while connecting with that spiritual energy, I was accepted for who I was.  It didn't care about those awful memories of lines being crossed I had begun to block out.  It didn't make me accountable for anything.  It just accepted me for being me. 

I often refer to that area as my Happy Place.  I often go back in day dreams.  But I've wanted to go back there in person for a long time and I couldn't find it on any map.  I had hoped to see it again before I died. 

Today, I found it, thanks to the help of some folks who were on those canoe trips with me, because the wonders of social media never cease.  I'm fairly certain now that I can actually go there again. 

I mean, once I lose enough weight to be mobile.  The weight struggles continue, unfortunately, but I'm trying.  And I'm ready to make another concerted effort with the help of friends, my medical guy, and my therapist.  Demons be damned, I'm gonna drop this weight, and I'm gonna go find my Happy Place again.  I'm going to visit it again and I'm going to connect with that place just as I did as a child. 

I had always hoped to see Dave the basketball coach again just to thank him for what he did for me.  Maybe I will, maybe it will be another missed opportunity.  But it's my hope I can just so he knows he made a positive impact in this world for at least one kid who badly needed it. 

I have a goal now to help me with my weight loss.  I know where to find a place I've been looking for off and on for years.  And today, I am able to say that there were bright moments in my childhood, and those moment carried me much further than I expect anybody ever intended or realized was possible. 

I don't remember the song from Camp Golden Eagle.  We never sang it much.  But I'll always remember the people because their kindness and acceptance of a troubled kid made all the difference.    

Another Valentine's Day

I haven't updated this blog for a while because nothing has changed.  At least, I haven't been able to make anything change.  I feel like I'm slogging through the same mud as always. 

But there is something that has changed.  I'm not madly in love with somebody who doesn't love me back.  Instead, I'm just here.  I don' t feel that deep, painful unrequited love that I normally feel.  I'm not burning because I madly want to be with somebody who either A) Doesn't realize it, B) Knows it but doesn't care or C) Ted Who? 

And honestly, even if I did feel something for another woman, I wouldn't say anything to her just because I know there's nothing I could do about it.  I'm too broke to take her out, too anxious to go out with her, and too depressed to be much fun.  So it's better that I just keep my mouth shut and say nothing about how badly I want to be with them. 

It used to be on Valentine's Day, I felt like everybody was in an exclusive club, and I wasn't invited to be a member.  But now, I don't even want to be around those people, and their little club is all bullshit anyways. 

One thing I've noticed is a lot of women I know are jaded about Valentine's Day.  They've been treated like crap for far too long by a whole list of men.  They think Valentine's Day is bullshit, too, but because they've been disappointed so many times. 

Me? 

Often I've wished I could be there for them.  I wished I could be the one who treated them right and was there for them.  But I've come to realize that I'm way too codependent for that kind of thing.  I'm high-maintenance and I need constant re-assuring that I'm somebody special to them.  In the absence of communication, my mind fills in the blanks with all kinds of thoughts about them leaving me, or talking to some other guy they prefer over me, and how in the silence they are planning to leave me. 

I've done this with friendships, too.  Ruined them in the process just like any other relationship.  And since I've got severe abandonment issues, I freak out, and totally lose my shit.  What's left in the end is me despondent and heartbroken with the knowledge that once again I destroyed something I badly needed and hurt somebody I cared for deeply.

This is why, even when I do find myself attracted to someone, I keep my mouth shut.  I have come to realize women I care about are better off without me because all I'll do is implode and self-destruct, hurting them in the process. 

I'm sure I could say, at the beginning of things, "look, I'm codependent and high-maintenance so you'll need to constantly reassure me that you're not planning to leave me and you're not cheating on me."  But why ruin the surprise? 

Hollywood says guys like me with mental illness are sweet and cute and the partner is supposed to ignore all of the dysfunction so they can fall in love with me.  After all, suicidal depression in the middle of the night is just adorable, right? 

I still think of Anthony Bourdain often and what goes through my mind is how he had everything I could ever want yet he wasn't happy.  So what chance does somebody like me have?  This is another reason why I don't want to get too close to a woman right now.  I'll just drag them down and if I don't make it, it's a cruel thing to do to them.  I've been on the other side of suicide before and I know what happens.  I can't imagine doing that to somebody who cares about me like that. 

Unless, of course, I put that in the disclosures up front as well.  "Oh, and I'm prone to bouts of dark depression and I'm suicidal sometimes so understand now you can't save me.  So, if I don't make it, understand now it's not your fault, okay?" 

I'm fairly certain Hollywood could make that charming, too.  Hollywood does wonders for making somebody like me seem worth the pain and suffering one would experience when being close to me. 

In other news, I've been writing and submitting short stories again.  It feels good but something is missing in what I submitted.  It's like the stories were missing something and seemed monotone.  Because I no longer have my beta readers after chasing them away, I'm left to my own devices, which is to say the echo chamber my head has turned into. 

But now that I'm off my meds, I feel like my writing has improved once again, and I'm more like my old self.  Hollywood says that's charming, too.  People like me get their cheeks pinched and a hug before we're left behind.  In a romantic comedy, we're the guys who die in the third act, and the MC realizes something about life, and goes back to their love interest to proclaim their feelings. 

Cue the music and oh shit, I have something in my eye. 

   

Thank You, Stan Lee

Today we learned that Stan Lee passed on to the next phase of existence.  At the age of 95, he was more than just some comic book creator, and the web is full of writers, creators, and artists mourning his loss. 

Instead of being sad right now, I find myself being grateful for all he gave us, and thinking back to all of those times he was there for me.  Most people don't realize just how present Stan Lee was in our childhoods. 

My first introduction to Stan Lee's work, and Marvel Comics, was when I was just a small child.  The mornings were for cartoons before school at the babysitter's house.  Jeanie.  That was her name and she half-raised me.  Mom worked in a factory and would drop me off at about 6:30AM every morning. 

Jeanie would give me a bowl of cereal and we would watch Ray Rayner on WGN Channel 9 until Bozo's Circus started.  Ray Rayner was weird.  In the summer, during heat waves, he would get the weather report for the week on Mondays and as he wrote down triple digits he would say, "Oh beautiful!" and "lovely!" 

Triple digits.  That's freaking hot and he loved it. 

Ray Rayner would have cartoons, of course.  He had a lot of Flash Gordon with Buster Crabb.  He even had Buster Crabb on the show once and I remember thinking how miserable and unhappy Crabb seemed.  It was like he was pissed off he had to answer questions about this series he did back in the 30's. 

Sometimes, Ray Rayner showed Spider-Man, which would be divided into three segments.  So on Monday, you would see Act I, where the commercial break would normally be, and have to wait until Tuesday for Act II.  By Wednesday, you just wanted to get it over with because you know Spider-Man was going to win but you just didn't know how. 

Us kids would talk about it, of course, and debate the finer points of how Spider-Man was going to win.  All the while, singing the iconic song we've all come to know, from back in the 1960's. 

You know the song.  Sing it with me...

Spider-Man, Spider-Man
Does whatever a spider can.  
Spins a web, any size,
Can't you see, just like flies.  
Look out!  Here comes the Spider-Man! 

But Spider-Man wasn't the only cartoon I remember. 

We had Thor.  Most folks don't know about that but it's true.  It wasn't really a cartoon, though.  Not exactly.  It was a comic book in pictures, with zooming angles on various panels from that issue.  Even the titles were pictures of the cover of that issue.  The Thor of the comic book is very different from the Thor in the films.  Grim, humorless, uptight, stiff, and with a stick up his ass. 

In that cartoon, there were a number of Avengers who made cameo appearances, like Iron Man, Ant Man, and Captain America.  Iron Man back in the 60's was a stiff, nerdy guy who looked a lot like his dad in the movies. 

By the time I was in the Fifth Grade, a comic book store opened in my small home town and everything changed.  Everything. 

It was called Knight Hobby and it had every comic book printed back then, or so I thought, as well as gaming stuff.  Weird dice I'd never imagined, boxes with dragons the outside, figures from various fantasy realms.  It was just incredible. 

My favorite Marvel comic was Daredevil.  My best friend back then, a kid named Pat Pember, was totally into Moon Knight.  There was something about Daredevil that appealed to me.  I think it was the troubled childhood since I was such a troubled kid myself. 

Daredevil, Matt Murdock, felt like "my guy."  I think that's how it goes with comic book heroes.  We find one who has a backstory in which we see ourselves, and we become fans. 

I think that's why I read so many Sgt. Rock comics.  One thing I've come to find is how so many children associate their childhood with war and they see how war vets survived so they adopt those coping skills. 

Brothers and Sister in PTSD, I guess. 

But Stan Lee created intensely rich storylines that crossed over into other comics.  He blended characters and titles so the readers would be exposed to other heroes and villains. 

For about a year or so, the pattern for me was to take my paper route money on Saturday, and ride my bike downtown.  There, I would hang out at Knight Hobby, and and shoot the shit with the older guys who were there.  Kenny Feldman, who was the son of the building's owner, who in turn rented out the storefront to Jim Hay, who owned Knight Hobby. 

I had little to offer the conversations.  They were all just out of high school and I was in the Fifth Grade, but that didn't matter, because I would just stand there laughing at all the jokes they made. 

Kenny had read just about everything and he gave me the best education about comics.  Jim knew I was a kid with a paper route and would make me deals.  It was because of those two I had the first dozen issues of Judge Dredd's American titles, along with a number of independent titles nobody had ever heard of, or would even remember. 

I would spend my money and ride my bike home regardless of the weather.  Once home, dad would be drunk, so I would go up to my room to avoid being seen.  That was my mutant ability--invisibility.   If dad saw me, he would tear into me, and hurl a long string of insults.  Or put me to work doing any number of chores he wouldn't do himself.  Dad had a habit of sitting around, going through a case of Old Milwaukee, and stewing as he looked around the house. 

So, not being seen was imperative.  If he saw you, there was going to be trouble, so I became nobody.  I became a ghost.  I was invisible. 

Once up in my room in that drafty old house, I was able to relax, but I still had to be quiet.  So, I read.  I read books and on Saturdays and Sundays, I read all the comic books I could afford to buy. 

Those comic books fueled my imagination.  They were fodder for my daydreams so I could imagine a world that wasn't the one I was stuck in.  A world where bad guys got what they had coming and was somehow just.  A world where good guys like me go the girl because we were good guys. 

Eventually, things got worse.  They always did back then.  Jim had to close down Knight Hobby and nobody else in town carried the comic books I read.  It was too young to drive anywhere to buy them in other towns. 

But I hung on to my comic books.  As I got older, I bought more, and got into new titles, like Spawn and Cerebus.  Most of the independent artists back then got their start at Marvel or were fans of Marvel.  Stan Lee was the father of so many visions. 

Stan Lee gave us flawed people with difficult lives who rose up above their own misery to be somebody who stood up for other people.  He understood what it was like to come from complicated childhoods and violence.  He understood what it was like to be somebody who carried darkness with them and preferred the shadows but didn't take that pain out on others. 

Stan Lee didn't invent the anti-hero but he certainly contributed to our modern interpretation of it.  Lee's heroes weren't upright, perfect people.  They were flawed and maybe a bit weird but they still saved the person from peril and got the girl.  Or the boy.  He gave us a wide variety of heroes to choose from and identify with. 

Stan Lee gave us something special.  He gave us characters we could see ourselves in and then he had those characters stop the bad guys, meaning we could, too.  Often, those bad guys were our own demons, and that was the War to End All Wars. 

I'm going to miss Stan Lee but he gave us so much that it would take a person years to get through it all.  He lived to be 95 years old so it's not like he was tragically taken from us before his time.  He gave us more than we could rightly expect from a man, which in a way is a superpower itself, and a great lead for other writers to follow. 

Even as just a man, he was a hero, and a role model. 

So thank you, Stan Lee.  I will never forget your voice in my youth starting cartoons off with, "This is Stan Lee..." and I will never forget what it was like to read issue after magical issue on those rainy Saturdays. 

Adieu, Dear Friend. Adieu.

We need to talk.

I'm not mad at you.  Quite the contrary.  In truth, this is killing me to say.  This hurts more than anything I've had to do.  It's harder than that day I got on the bus to go to the airport in Seoul while my wife walked away sobbing.

But this has to be said.  It just has to be.

I'm not mad at you.  You were there for me when nobody else was.  You were there for me when I couldn't function.  You made life livable.

It was over ten years ago when we met.  My life had completely fallen apart for what I count as the fifth time in as many years.  Once again, I'd lost everything, everybody, and I was left on my own.

And I gave up.

I decided I was done with this shit.  I was going to eat myself to death and just let whatever happened unfold around me.  I'd lost all semblance of hope.  It was suicide by indifference. 

And then I got an idea.  The Army talks about The Good Idea Fairy and how it visits soldiers, giving them horrible ideas that fuck up everything.  Which could easily explain what happened.

I had an idea.  I'm too smart for my own good sometimes and I figured out how to meet you.

That first meeting was magic.  I was thrilled with myself for the first time in months because I solved a problem.  Your warmth poured over me and you relieved me of things nothing else could.  The burden I was carrying became tolerable.

So we danced.

We played.  We sang.  We traveled.

We survived.

And the years passed.

It started once every other week, maybe once a week.  And then I got smart again.  I had another great idea.  I found ways to meet with you more and more.

And then it became daily.  I'm not sure how quickly that happened but we went from being friends to something much closer.

Maybe we became one.  At some place in our journey, it was a symbiotic relationship.  But it wasn't toxic.  Not in the least.

Because of you, I was able to work a soul-crushing job.

Because of you, I was able to accept that I was alone.

Because of you, I could deal with those buried memories suddenly popping up into the present after being triggered.

Because of you, I was perfectly fine eating myself to death.

And then I needed you more.  We needed to be closer.  I needed more and more.  I experimented with different delivery systems and sources.  I studied and applied my intelligence.

We became as close as we could.  You were my refuge.

You were my shield and armor.

And then I OD'd.

It wasn't too serious of an overdose.  I fought to keep from passing out, telling myself over and over, to just keep breathing.

But the hours leading up to that overdose were glorious.  So incredibly glorious!  I felt nothing.  My head was unplugged and I wasn't a wreck.  I didn't want to eat my pistol.  I didn't want to walk in front of a train.  I didn't want to scream until my throat bled.  And on that night, as I drifted into sweet oblivion, I will admit that if I had not woken up the next morning I would have been okay with it.

Even now, I can say that.  You could have taken me into death and I would not have been upset about it.

But that wasn't any kind of warning to me.  I was so happy to know you and I could be so close.  And to have that kind of numbness was a blessing.  I loved you even more.

But cracks began to form in our relationship.  It wasn't all rosey.  You caused health problems that at times were incredibly painful.  You tore me up in ways that might never heal.  I have all kinds of issues because of you.

I didn't care for years about that, either, because you and I worked well together.  Plus, I honestly thought I would be dead, before it became too serious of an issue. 

And then I got worse.  The depression and despair.  Everything.  I kept eating myself to death and it was working.  I crossed some kind of point that wasn't quite The Point of No Return but it was a signpost telling me I was close.

My legs were covered in oozing sores.  They were more than double their normal size.  I lived on sweets and drank tons of soda pop.  I was having issues with my blood pressure, sleep, and a long list of other problems.  I was clearly on my way out and I didn't care.

And then something weird happened.  Friends began telling me how important I was to them and how they didn't want to lose me.  They said I had more to offer and I was somebody they would miss if I were gone.  A couple of them cried as they told me this.  That penetrated. 

So I began to pull away from you.  I didn't want to but I knew I had to.  Life changed and I couldn't afford you anyways.  I had to back off.

But your grip on me was tight.  And you had dug deep into my bones.  Just a little distance from you made me sick.  Withdrawals.

I would wake up throwing up, soaked in sweat, shaking.  Then, we'd dance, and I'd level out.

My doctor said I needed to slowly back away from you because to suddenly go cold turkey would probably put me in the hospital.  The human body can only take so much and you had gotten into every single cell in my body.

So, I slowly backed off.  I tapered.  And for the last year I have been sick almost every single morning.  Not a day has passed where I didn't deal with some kind of withdrawal symptom or a health problem caused by you.

But for a year, I pulled back bit by bit from you, until now.   Right now, our daily contact is just a small fraction of what it used to be.  A tiny amount.  And I need to make the leap and sever this chain.

You need to let me go.

I'm sorry.  You were good to me.  But it's a half-life now and I cannot live like this anymore.

I had to make a choice.  Do I live or do I die?  I am giving life another chance and that cannot happen when you and I are together.

You need to let me go.  Please.

It's time.  It's long past time, really, but we've been taking it slow.  But we're almost done and it's time for us to walk away from each other.

You need to loosen your grip on me and let me go.  You're not killing me but with you I cannot live.  Just the act of moving away from you has caused all kinds of horrible side effects.  My emotions are everywhere.  I'm constantly breaking down over little things.  I can't think straight and I hardly ever leave my apartment anymore because of anxiety. 

If I survive breaking away from you, it will be a monumental achievement in my life.  I deserve another shot at life.  I deserve another shot at being happy.  I deserve to be able to go through life without having to numb myself up just so I can function. 

I deserve a chance to live without being chained to you.  I'm sorry but that's just how it is.  I deserve better than this shit.  I have never been able to say that until just recently.  I have never in my life, ever, said "I deserve something good." 

Now I can.  And that changes everything. 

It's time for you to loosen your grip on me and let me grow into the person I was always meant to be. 

Thank you and Goodbye. 

  

Our Main Characters are Teachers

I have a number of short stories, novellas, and novels in various states of completion.  My hard drive is full of them.  Some are good projects that need attention while others were half-baked ideas that never really amounted to anything. 

I always imagine my main characters (MC's) just standing around when I'm not working on their story, smoking cigarettes, and looking cool, while chatting with each other.  I wonder if they get lonely and worry if I'll come back.  Do they feel abandoned?

I have horrible abandonment issues.  I freak out when people leave me.  Knowing I'm doing that to another person, even fictional ones, bothers me.  But then I have to remember not everybody is like me.  I'm broken.

Do my MC's think of me as a burden?  Do they think of me as a chore they have to deal with in their routine?

"Let's see--I've got to do the laundry, feed the dog, and aw, shit!  I need to be in Ted's story."

Lately I've become very much aware of just how people see me in their lives.  What role do I play?  Do they think of me when I'm not around?  Am I the butt of their jokes?  When they see me, do they think, "Aw shit!  Here comes this asshole.  God, I hate this guy!   He's so weird!"

I'd rather know people are using me for free ice cream than to think I'm a seen as a chore on their list of things to do.  Is there anything more heartbreaking than to know the only reason somebody keeps you in their lives is because they feel a sense of duty or obligation?   Not so much that they owe you but they're a kind person with a good heart and they don't want to be mean, so they are kind to you while scrambling for a way to get away from you.

It's embarrassing and humiliating.  Knowing you are a chore or a duty to somebody shatters your heart.  It's worse than pity, in my opinion, because pity comes from a place of care and empathy. 

Is that how my MC's see me?

Or do they see the nose-dive I'm in, and how despite my efforts the monkeys on my back make pulling up and out of it almost impossible, and think to themselves how they'll be free of me soon?  It's a ghoulish thought, I know, but my MC's are human (mostly) and without me demanding things from them or constantly needing interaction from them, they would truly be free.  No Ted to drag them down or take up their time.

Or is it the other way?  Do they get mad on those bad nights when I'm on the edge and I'm writing letters to nobody in particular while looking at my pistol every few minutes?  Do they say things like, "Don't you die on me, fucker.  I need you to finish this story so my destiny will be complete.  I need you to finish my fate so I can live happily ever after."

I should note at this time that none of my characters ever live happily ever after.  I figure if that's impossible for me, then it's impossible for them.  They're going to die alone just like me.

But I've lied to a bunch of them and told them it's possible.  My MC's totally believe the Happily Ever After ending is possible and if they just do as I say and jump through the hoops I've laid out for them, then they'll be able to ride off into the sunset with somebody who actually wants to be with them and isn't thinking how it's a chore to hang around.

Every once in a while, I'll get an MC who develops faster and in more detail than the others, and they begin to call audibles.  Instead of going to visit their friend the gun dealer, they go to visit a priest, and ask for absolution.  Instead of listening to good music in their cars, they listen to Taylor Swift, and sing along with the radio.  Instead of being a foodie, they're a picky eater who lives on fast food and cheap beer.

These small ripples turn into tsunamis later on.  Subtle changes in an MC in the first chapter create destiny by the fourth act.  That means the whole thing needs to get re-written and switched around.  And most MC's will be defiant about it. 

"Hey!  Look, I'm a real person!  And I honestly think having me tell the story would be better than somebody else."  


Bob looked up with defiance, his arms crossed over his chest, and chin jutting out.  


"Defiance?  I'm helping you!   I'm just trying to help you write something good instead of that schlocky bullshit you usually shovel."  


Bob whined like a little toddler who wanted a cookie or needed a nap.  


"I'm not whining, you asshole!"  


Bob threw his nookie down on the ground and began screaming as he threw a tantrum.


"Oh.  My.  God.  You can't be serious!  I'm not throwing a tantrum.  I'm saying that I can tell a story better than you can and you don't like it."  


But what Bob didn't know was that he was standing on top of a nest of hornets.  


"Hey, man!  No need for that kind of stuff.  We're just talking here, okay?"  



And these weren't just ordinary hornets.  These were Japanese hornets, known for their painful and sometimes deadly stings.  


"Okay, maybe I was a bit rude back there, and maybe I said some things I shouldn't have.  I'll admit that sometimes I can get a bit emotional."  


The hornets were asleep for now but Bob's whining was beginning to stir them and any more sound would be enough to wake them into a fury as they defended their nest from an intruder.  


"I'm sorry!  I just wanted some closure is all."  


Bob looked around at his options, wondering what's next, and if there was going to be a future.  


"It's just that you don't do closure for your characters, and I could really use some.  That's all."  


What Bob didn't realize was closure is for television shows and novels.  Bob, the poor, unfortunate bastard, was in a short story connected to a series of novels.  There would be no closure.  Not for him, anyways.  


"But the people in my life..."


Bob thought about his life, and the people in it, and he realized he wanted them to be happy more than he wanted to be right.  Or find peace.  


"I don't get any closure, do I?"  

Bob slowly walked away while fishing in his pockets.  There, he kept a couple of pills tucked away.  Three, to be exact, and he knew they would make this moment less painful.  He swallowed all three at once, and washed them down with some Mt. Dew.  He doesn't curse, he doesn't cry, he doesn't say a word.  He thinks about tomorrow, and how it doesn't look much better, but really all he wants is today to just disappear.  

Sometimes, our characters get out of hand, and you need to wrangle them back under control.  Some people talk about how our characters belong to us so we may torment them.  I don't believe in that.  I hate tormenting people.  Contrary to what you might think, I'm a very kind man, and never want to make anybody feel worse than what I've been through.  Even if they are fictional. 

My characters work through stuff.  They endure.  They survive up until the end when they die because that's what we all do, eventually, and I want them to go up until their Fate. 

I think they hate me.  On some level, I think they really hate me.  None of them ever get laid, they're alone, and usually I take everything away from them that they've ever had.  But we write what we know, right? 

I've tried being nice to my MC's.  I really did.  And let me tell you, they were happy bastards when they found out.  They were cracking jokes and making even me laugh.  They were the life of the party. 

And then it came time to actually put them through their paces of being happy.  It was time for them to find love, to enjoy life, and all of that happy shit.  And I just couldn't do it. 

I tried.  I really did.  But in the end I just couldn't do it.  I became jealous and started to look at my own life, and the things I've done, and want to do, and it just became a mess.  I became too depressed to continue and those stories all languish unfinished on my hard drive. 

Unless I decide to drag them into my world and unleash monsters, demons, meth addicts, crackheads, and voodoo priests.  If they're miserable, I'm comfortable.  I don't say that in a sadistic sort of way, even though it sounds like that, but I just haven't grasped what it's like to write characters who are happier than myself. 

And that's why I think they hate me. 

I'm working on new story.  A deeply flawed character and I'm not so sure what I'm going to do with him.  The more I write him, the more he becomes me, and that means I need to develop him.  It means I need to do for him what I need to do for myself.  And that's a shitty, shitty road. 

Plus, I'm obstinate, and I don't change very easily.  I wish change was easy for me because it would make things much better in my life. 

So this is why my MC's are always a certain way.  I have a very hard time writing characters who aren't deeply flawed, depressed, and static.  It makes for a very difficult character ARC to write.  It's like pounding steel or sculpting water. 

This character I'm writing currently is going to realize he belongs where he is and that's his home despite how badly he hates it.  He will remain deeply flawed.  He has much farther to go before he reaches bottom and that might prove to be just as difficult to write as making him out to be happy.  As for right now, he isn't going to get a Happily Ever After.  I just can't bring myself to write those. 

I mean, if I don't get one, why should anybody else? 

Maybe I'll Get Fired For This

For the first time since the beginning of this blog over 7 or 8 years ago, I have been asked to take down a post.   I'm so stunned that I'm not sure how I feel about this.  I promise you, though, when I've organized my thoughts, there will be a long, detailed post.  It's a slap in the face.  Pure and simple.  

Dealing with the Latest News and Social Media

This isn't about politics. 

I will not do that here. 

In recent days, I've been increasingly depressed.  I'm lashing out at people, getting angry over stupid shit, and starting arguments and picking fights online.  I've been having a harder and harder time controlling my anger, waking up grumpy, and ready to piss people off. 

In fact, I've been making people angry and then walking away, just to really rub salt in the frustration of it all. 

All this time I've been wondering what's wrong with me.  Why am I falling apart like this?  Where is this depression coming from?  And why am I waking up ready to shit on the entire world?  I realize now that's going on. 

Social media is full of posts about the latest issue to piss people off--children being separated from their families at the border.  The children are taken into custody and held there until family members who have already come to the US can be located, and told to come get these children.  Then, the kids are handed over to family members.  Parents who are divided from their kids are understandably upset and in one case, a man killed himself out of anguish. 

I lost my family because of US immigration laws.  The only thing I ever wanted in life--a family--was taken from me.  It destroyed me.  I'm still not over it and we're coming up on 18 years.  It is still raw for me to this day. 

The news being blasted on social media has ripped open these wounds for me.  I am reliving a lot of the emotions I endured when this first happened.  The horror of knowing your family is torn from you by a system that will not, and will never, show mercy or empathy.  Nobody cares. 

Because it's trendy now, social media is full of righteous outrage, and everybody is screaming about the children.  But that's okay, as I'm sure they'll move on to something more horrible later down the line, because there's always something more horrible.  This world is such a terrible place, and our species is so violent and sadistic, we can be assured that there will always be something worse in our future. 

There was no angry social media posts for me when I was dealing with Immigration fucking me over.  When I told people about how my wife would call me on the phone crying because she was worried about her safety, and how our daughter was so skinny because she couldn't afford much food, I would be met with a shrug of the shoulders and a "wow, that sucks." 

That was it.  Nobody gave a shit.  And there was nobody there to help me. 

I was going to sneak my family into the states through Mexico.  I got as far as speaking to Mexican workers who had made the trek several times, and I quickly realized how dangerous it was.  I was pretty much guaranteeing my family would be severely hurt, if not killed, and if they were arrested, I'd never see them again.  At the time, my daughter was a toddler, and it would have been pure hell on her. 

I also thought of making the Northern route.  There are passages through Canada into Idaho, Washington, and Minnesota we could have tried.  It would have been expensive, too arduous for my wife and daughter, and I would have risked serious consequences if caught.  In that area, it wasn't so much ICE as it was DEA agents, who would have instantly labeled me a drug runner despite not having any drugs on me at all, just because they knew they could pile on the charges. 

In my research, I had come across a story about that exact thing happening.  The guy didn't have any drugs on his at all, and he was with his wife and baby, hiking down a trail into the US.  They were caught by the DEA, and he was labeled a drug trafficker.  His wife was arrested and sent back to Thailand with their baby, and he was thrown in prison.  I've been searching Google for the link to that story, but it was about 17 years ago, pre-9/11, and I just can't find it. 

Just reading that story was enough for me.  I knew it would be a horrific risk and the odds were so far against it working, it was best not to even try.  Plus, I just didn't have the resources to try.

But here's the thing--I knew the risks.  I knew that if caught, my daughter would be divided from not only myself, but also my wife, and it would be traumatic for them both.  I knew it would be so horrific that I didn't even try it. 

With all of these news stories, I have been reliving all of the emotions I went through back then, and it has been difficult for me.  This never goes away.  It never leaves me.  I am always carrying the loss around and I can't get rid of it no matter what I try. 

The closest I have gotten to some kind of healing is realizing that with all of the things that went wrong, it's obvious to me Fate had plans for them, and those plans did not include me.  Fate needed them to be on their own, together, for whatever reason and whatever lessons.  This was not about me.  This was about the path they were supposed to walk, and Fate knew I would carry them as best as I could, so I had to be removed from their lives. 

You have no idea how painful it is to write those words.  But it has been the best way for me to deal with what I have lost.  This past weekend was Father's Day and it sucked.  I like to think I would have made a good dad to my daughter.  I try not to think about all of the horrific things that happen to girls who grow up without a dad.  When those thoughts do come around, I want to die, because that way I don't have to see the hurt and pain in my daughter's life. 

I'm trying to take a break from social media.  I'm trying to keep my mind clear of the bullshit.  Plus, I'm trying not to be angry at people.  But I'll admit there is a lot of anger there. 

But rest assured--there will be something even uglier in the press soon, and we can all move on to the next reason to be outraged. 

Anthony Bourdain and Calling it Quits

I'm not much for celebrities and I don't follow gossip pages.  But I adored Anthony Bourdain's work and looked up to him.  He was a late bloomer who moved forward into some amazing levels of achievement.  He and I had things in common and he was my hero.

Waking up to the news he committed suicide gutted me.  It was like the guy who spoke for me and at the same time educated me abandoned me.  He was the leader of us fucked up, depressed, addicted, empathic, sympathetic people.  And losing him gutted me.

Saturday was a rough fucking day.  I'm done trying to sugarcoat it and be nice.  I'm so done with everything.

Tony's death opened a conversation online about suicide and depression.  Online, on places like Twitter and Reddit, people opened up about their experiences and for the first time, people talked about what it's like when you're ready to go.  People are finally talking about what it's like for them when The End comes and they know it's time to go.

I found it to be something special.  I'm not sure if I'd call it liberating or comforting, but it was special and it meant a lot ot me.

There were a lot of people trying to figure out why Tony did it.  Or why Kate Spade did it.  Both of them hung themselves.  Everybody said they had everything.  As with any suicide, there are rumors, and nobody knows for sure.  To an outsider those rumors about this and that might seem like a small reason but you never know what it will be that finally pushes you over that edge.

It's like standing on a bridge made of woven straw.  You hear snaps and pops as bit by bit it disintegrates under your weight.  And then something happens and that's it--you're done.

For me, it's different.

I have tethers that keep me here.  Connections.  People.  Potentials.  I don't have dreams and I don't have hope.  It's the odds of something happening.  It's the odds that something will be here for me once I pull out of this nose-dive.  Maybe I'll have a heart attack tonight.  Or maybe a stroke.  Maybe my heart will finally give up trying to keep blood moving in this morbidly obese body and just stop.  Every day that I'm here, there is that chance, and I can't say I care much.

But what are the odds that even if I do crawl out of this pit I'm in that I'll figure out what I'm needing and find it?  Low.  Very low.  We're talking Las Vegas odds and as we all know, the House always wins.

But I know the Powers That Be aren't going to let me out of here so easily.  I know they want me to fight and earn some kind of happiness.  Nothing will be given.  No more tools will be offered.  No more hands of support will be sent.  I have what I need to move forward and it's all up to me now.

What holds me back is knowing how many times I've been down this path and had everything and everybody taken from me and I feel like I'm a sucker just for thinking about doing it again.

In my first day of First Grade, I had a Hot Wheels car in my pocket at school.  During recess, a kid wanted to see it.  I was a trusting sort, so I handed it over, and he threw it against the ground as hard as he could.  I picked it up and he asked to see it again.  I was a trusting sort and never knew this kind of behavior.  I gave it to him again and once again he smashed it into the ground.  My little toy car was all fucked up.

I feel like life is like that.  There's no guarantee that what we want is on the top of this mountain we're supposed to climb and I've climbed enough of them to know how worthless that journey can be.  I'm tired of feeling like the sucker who took the fool's bet.  Friends tell me it's not the destination but the journey and frankly it pisses me off.  I have no interest in that journey. 

I don't know why I'm still here.  I don't know why I even wake up in the morning.  I don't even know what I want.  I can't think of a single dream.

I exist and that's all I do.

And sometimes, I leave fingernail gouges in the dirt while I drift away.

I guess it's different for all of us.  I don't think it would be easier for anybody if  did it.  I know I'd hurt people and that tears me up.  I've had it done to me and I know what it's like.  I can't say I could do it to somebody else.  So that's a big tether that keeps me here.  I just watched a video of Chef Masa in Japan break down while talking about the loss of Anthony Bourdain.  It was heartbreaking.  And there are tons more videos like that of people who knew him and didn't know him breaking down because they were so devastated by his loss.

It's not about him.  It's about how somebody who had so much going for him took that option when so many of us are barely surviving with little to show for it and not much hope for anything more.  We're still here.  We're still waking up in the morning and putting one step forward at a time.  And this world is so awful.

Death sings the sweetest songs when the world is dark.

But I'm still here.  I don't know what to do to get beyond this but I'm working on it.  I wake up, I work, and sometimes I get the courage up to leave my apartment.  I did that yesterday but today just wasn't in the cards.  Tomorrow is another day.  And that sums it up in the end.  Tomorrow is another day and I'm not going to beat myself up because this one didn't amount to much.  I woke up, I worked, and I got through the day.  Sometimes it's the best we can hope for and it's the best we can do.

Sometimes, those are the nails dug into the dirt to keep us from drifting away into the darkness forever when there just aren't anymore tethers holding us here.  It's the best we've got and it works for another day.


  

I Love You in a Bowl

I love you.  

It's three simple words I have wanted to tell a number of women in my life but never could because of various reasons.  Most commonly, because it's too powerful of a statement and often the fastest way to get rid of somebody is to tell them you love them.  

Or worse, they will assume something is wrong with you because you love them.  They'll ask you why and how and then you'll have to go into a long monologue detailing all of the reasons your heart latched on to them like a facehugger from Alien.  

There have been times I have wanted to tell someone I loved them just because I felt to not do so was a sin against the fortune I had been given, as if not taking advantage of that moment somehow offended the gods, because they moved mountains for that moment to become a reality and I was wasting it. 

But no, I've had to hold my tongue far too often in this life.  There are women I loved a long time ago and still love today but can't say a word because it would complicate things beyond comprehension.  Telling them how I felt, and continue to feel, would fill the room (or intertubes) like a rapidly expanding and combustible gas.  It would become something so awkward it would border on toxic.  

So what is a man to do?  

I cook.  

I have lost count how many times I've made special dishes for women just so I could say "I love you" without words.  Instead, I spelled the words out in dairy, sugar, and strawberries.  Rather than eloquently recite a poem professing my fondness, I spelled with apples, oats, and brown sugar to make an apple crisp.  

I have told a woman "I would do anything for you" by means of sushi and I have told a woman she was the first person I thought of in the morning and the last person I thought of when I went to bed by giving her a slice of custard pie.  

And then there is ice cream.  

I got my first ice cream maker about 13 or 14 years ago at a St. Vincent of DePaul thrift store for only $5.00.  My first batch of ice cream was terrible but soon after I got the hang of it and embarked on a path of decadence that has taken me to all manner of pleasure.  

I'm constantly making ice cream.  Even though I'm spending money I can ill-afford to burn, I am making ice cream almost every week.  And then I take pictures of it and post them online.  I'll come back to the videos I posted on Youtube in a few paragraphs.  

As for the ice cream itself, I give that way to people I care about.  Neighbors, friends, and the select lady here and there.  There have been women who have begged me to bring them ice cream and women who have begged me to stop.  And when those moments came, I asked myself, "does she know I'm telling her how much I care about her with these bowls of ice cream?"  

I've had women be genuinely surprised at the ice cream I've given them, expecting some lame DIY kitchen effort, only to find a well-rounded and developed flavor that was rich and scoopable.  

I'm good at what I do.  

So what about those who are important to me but are too far away to actually try anything?  That's where the pictures and videos come in to play.  Food pron.  I've been posting a lot of it recently because I want watch them and get hungry.  On Twitter, I've been tagging people lately, because I want them to have happy things sing for their attention instead of dreary news stories about yet another stupid thing.  

The other reason I post food pron is envy.  My life ain't that grand so when I find something in it others want, I brag about it.  

I've found that when I post picture of my latest ice cream batch, people tend to feel better, because just seeing ice cream elevates their mood and makes their day better.  I love doing that for folks.  Especially for the ones I care about.  

Sometimes I get frustrated.  It's like showing a woman you're madly in love with picture of a dozen roses and telling her how great they smell.  I'm sure she'd love to get those roses in her hands.  Or at least be in the same room as those roses.  

It's frustrating for me, too, because I want to put that ice cream in her hands so she can decide if it goes in her belly or not.     

I used to think the fastest way to a woman's heart was through the ribcage.  But after speaking to a few of them, I learned that old say, "the fastest way to a woman's heart is through her stomach."  That's not true, either, but I'm going to go with it for now.  

There are videos on my channel dedicated to specific people.  And there are videos out there still dedicated to certain people but I kept their names out because I wanted to respect their privacy.  

Or maybe I was afraid.  Because honestly, it's easier for most people to just say, "I love you" or "I'm madly in love with you" than to make and edit, the post, a video showing them making ice cream.  

You have to be careful who you say "I love you" to because it might be the last time you speak to them.  Nobody wants a big, creepy guy in a van mysteriously falling in love with them.  Uninvited love is scary.  I am incredibly aware of this and often say little, if anything, because I'd rather be the quiet one in her presence than the talkative one she avoids.  

It's a trade-off we creepy guys have to make.  

There are times when I've asked women, "do you want some ice cream?" but the real question I was asking was, "could you please stick around for a few minutes because I really enjoy your company."  

I treat ice cream as an edible sonnet dedicated to how much I care about someone.  And while that someone might tell me it looks and sounds good, what I hear is, "I love that you're putting in the work and effort to make this for me because it shows me just how much you care."  

I'm not naive enough to think a woman will fall madly in love with me because I can make stuff in the kitchen.  Far from it.  In fact, I think it works against me on some level, because it detracts from the sparks and sexual tension that has to go into a budding relationship.  But it gets a woman's attention and that's what I enjoy--the attention.  The rest just isn't in the cards right now and I'm okay with that.  For now, anyways.  

I'm sorting a lot out in my life and this is the one thing that's going well.  Ice cream is there for me and as I tell the ladies, I'll make sure it's there for you, too, if you let me.  Because in the end of it all, I just want the people I care about to be happy, who isn't made happy by ice cream?  

Just Another Marker

Twenty-three years ago today, my dad drove his car as far as it would go until it ran out of gas in  some remote section of  Sevier County, Utah, where he rolled it to the side of the road, and shot himself in the head with a shotgun.

Some years this day passes me by and I don't even realize it.  Some years it hits me and I deal with a rolodex of emotions.  One year I'm angry, the next I'm depressed, and the next I'm upset.

This year, I'm scared.

I feel like my dad's life had some kind of groove or gravitational pull that was just too strong for him to escape and no matter what actions he took, his life was going to end the way it did.  Somehow, I've repeated the patterns in his life only faster, and with a greater sense of urgency.  I can see the same abyss that claimed him and I'm hurling toward it at twice the speed.

But I don't want to die alone in a car on the side of the road.  It's bad enough statistically I'm going to die in this apartment and nobody will notice until they smell something.  If it happens in the summertime, my window will be open, and people will walk along the sidewalk and there will be this stench...

My weight is back up to where it was when my friends had their intervention but I'm making changes.  I've made changes.

Made.  Past Tense.

I generally don't like "I'm gonna" or "I'm doing" statements because it always feels like a con.  It's as if I've given myself enough wiggle room to somehow cheat they system.  And cheating is how I got myself into this whole mess.

I got back into writing.  I actually put words on paper.  Granted, they were shitty and hollow, and clearly missing something, but that's to be expected when you scramble your brains up like I did for months at a stretch.  It's almost as if I have all new brain cells and I have to whip them into shape so they can perform the way they're supposed to when I tell them to write.

But that's not true.  Brain cells don't write.  Fingers do.  Fingers connected to an ass in the chair and eyes that aren't downloading crap.  Lately it's been a lot of Youtube videos.

At least I'm out of the habit of watching people get mangled on Liveleak.  I no longer need to see that.  I've moved beyond emotional numbness so profound I need to see the extremes of humanity just so I can feel anything.

I got word a few weeks ago that I sold a short story.  I really sold one.  For the first time ever, I will receive payment in the form of money in exchange for a piece of fiction I wrote myself.  They're even going to publish a picture of me and they didn't specify that I have to wear clothes.

I might even get my first nude photos published, too!

I've been making ice cream again.  This is important.  Ice cream is how I reach out to people.  Ice cream is how I extend myself towards others and how I show love, gratitude, and affection.  For me to make ice cream is a big step because it's just not something I do when I'm isolated and depressed.

It's something my dad never did.  He never reached out to anybody that I know of and he didn't have friends.  That's one of the biggest things I've done and it's what has made all the different. 

I have the best goddamn friends in the world.

I have people who hug me and tell me not to give up because I'm important to them.

And as I write that last sentence, I try not to think about how I could have done that for my dad and if I had, would that have even made a difference?  As he sat on the side of that road in the middle of nowhere, over 50 miles from the nearest town, he wrote his suicide note.  It was about eight pages, that I can remember, and the only thing he said about me was "Ted always wanted me dead."

I didn't.  But at the time I was just too angry at him to say much else.

My dad was a drunk who fried his brains.  I hardly ever drink.  Granted, I have my own monkeys to feed, but I'm dealing with them.

My dad destroyed his family.  I try to tell myself I didn't destroy mine.  Based on what I've gathered from so many others it is clear our fates were to be separated and nothing I could do would have changed that.   It is now clear to me there was a very specific path they were to be on and my job was to get them on it.  But they had to walk that path without me.

Dad killed himself a week after his divorce from my mother was finalized.  I've lost so much over the years and had so much taken from me, but somehow I still wake up in the morning.  Maybe that's the key to all of this--just wake up and show up.  And hug your friends when you can.  Let them hug you and tell you how you are important to them because even though you don't believe it yourself, it's hard to deny the memory.  You can't tell yourself that never happened and therefore, you can't tell yourself nobody cares.

Hugs are important like that.

My dad rode his fate to the end without fighting.  I'm fighting.  Some moments I win, some I lose.  But I take it moment by moment instead of day by day.  A day is a huge chunk of time to throw in the garbage.  A moment can be ignored.  A moment is something you can just crumple into a ball and throw away, never thinking about again.

This way, when I get cravings for deep fried dough covered in sugar, and make a bunch of funnel cakes, I can avoid beating myself up over it. 

Or when somebody goes into details about their sex life and triggers the fuck out of me until I'm anxious and ready to implode, I can unplug.

I'm not healthy but I'm not falling into the abyss anymore, either.  I'm pulling up on the reins but there's a lot of momentum here and sometimes it's like I'm sliding on black ice.  My dad didn't do that.  He did the bare minimum needed to stay alive.

My future is in ice cream and fiction.  The rest will work itself out in time.  If I'm meant to die alone, then so be it.  It sucks but some things just can't be fixed.  All I can do is keep writing and keep making the ice cream.  Whatever is supposed to happen after that will unfold. 

Sending My Resume to the White House

I swore I'd never again work in politics.

It was a mutual decision because I just don't fit in that culture very well.  I tend to make bad jokes at all the wrong times to the wrong people.

One time, I was in a campaign meeting with some of the highest ranking people in the State of Illinois.  The conversation drifted off to fine cigars.

"I found some great cigars out of Miami," said one elected official, who oversaw several powerful committees.

"I like those better than the ones I get out of Cuba," said another, even more highly ranked elected official.  He was so high on the food chain, he could openly talk about getting illegal Cuban cigars.

"Yeah," said another.  "I'm not a fan of Cubans."

Seeing my opening, I turned to one and said, "I don't like smoking Cubans--they scream too much when you light them up."

And their jaws all dropped as I walked out of the room.

So yeah, I didn't belong there.  Not with those people.

I can tell you, when the indictments came down, and the men from the Secretary of State, along with George Ryan's other people, were charged with all kinds of corruption, the men in that room were so highly ranked they were untouchable and none of them had their names come up in the newspapers.  Not a single one.

When the campaign was over, I wasn't offered a job in Springfield and I was glad.  I shudder to think of what I might have turned into had I taken that job.  I simply didn't belong and it took an internship to make me realize it.

But with the current administration in Washington, there's a chance for redemption.  President Trump is going through staffers like tissue paper and I'm sure I could get in as an aide, advisor, or even as some kind of key staffer.

This is my chance to get back into politics and use that degree in Political Science for once.

The President would totally love me, too.  I just know it.

I already know what to say in my interview, too.

"So, Mr. Theewen," they would ask.  "What can you offer us here at the Trump White House?"

"I can offer you amazing service and excellent production.  I would be so amazing, you would tell your kids about me.  I would be incredible.  So incredible, the President would tell Putin about me when they play golf together.  I would be incredible.  So incredible, you wouldn't believe it.  You would be amazed at how incredible I'd be."

I would make a great advisor to President Trump, too.  In the two weeks I would work there, I'd give him stellar advice about Russia, aliens, Area 51, and coming apocalypse.

And then he'd fire me.

That's just it--I wouldn't have to move to Washington.  This would be a temp gig for sure.  They wouldn't even bother with the security clearances because by the time they got them done, I'd be long gone.

Which is a good thing, when you think about it, because you guys know me and lets' face it--I couldn't get a legit clearance to take out the garbage at the White House, much less get close enough to offer advice on nuclear proliferation in the Middle East or why Russia should be ignored because they're our friends.

In fact, I'm still shocked and amazed I'm not on the Domestic Do Not Fly List.  I checked for my name and sure enough, I'm not on there.  Unless I'm on the secret one so many of those pesky brown people are on.  I'm sure if I changed my name to something menacing like Muhammad they would give me the stink-eye but for now, good old Ted seems to have them totally fooled.

I'll admit I have a shitty past but since they're not doing security checks, I'm golden.  It's like when an employer doesn't do a drop test and pretends to not see the track marks on the inside of an arm.

Bugs.  I got bitten by bugs.  Nothing to see here, move along.

I'd be a shoe-in for the Trump White House.  I've never been to Russia, I've never been charged with sexual assault, sexual battery, sexual abuse, sexual har--well, okay, there was that one time.  But she made that up.  And those witnesses were lying.  And I never sent those emails.

But that was a long time ago.  I mean, who cares?  It's not like I grabbed any woman by the pussy.  And if I did, I certainly wouldn't brag about it.  I've got some class.

Plus, I've never been arrested for domestic abuse and no woman has ever accused me of hitting them.

Note to Porter:  Get a van and some duct tape, you moron!  How in the hell does somebody move up the food chain as far as you did without knowing how to cover your tracks?  If you're going to be a violent abuser, at least know how to keep from getting dragged out in public and labled what you are.  I mean, sure, I'm a sociopath, but it's not like I walk around with a sign that proudly proclaims it and I certainly don't let people who won't stay with me forever (wink wink) know about it. 

So now that the White House is hiring people as fast as they can fire them, this is my golden opportunity.

Why?

Well it certainly isn't because I actually believe in them.  It would be a bit of an embarrassment to admit you even work for them.  But the White House?   That's something completely different.

If you work for the White House, you get to add that to your resume forever, and it impresses a lot of people.  So the next time I apply to flip burgers at some shitty fast-food place because I can't find a decent job anyplace else it'll totally impress the 20-something high school dropout doing the interview.

Who knows?  Having that on my resume might actually help me get a job that doesn't involve getting kicked in the nuts daily for minimum wage.  Just as long as it is something they can call to confirm, I'm golden.

I'm fairly certain that I would be fired within the first two weeks anyways.  Number one--they seem to fire everybody.  Or they "resign."  That's a trick Ross Perot used to do.  Everybody signed their Letter of Resignation on the day they were hired so when he fired them, he would just accept their resignation.  That way, he didn't have to fire anybody, which always looks bad on a campaign.  Or at least, it used to look bad, but in today's climate you can fire all the people you want and it doesn't matter.  We've come to accept a lot of crap at this point in our history.

Quitting is bad, too, but not so much.

Another reason I'm sure I'll get fired is that I don't speak Russian.  I'm sure that's important with this White House administration for some reason.  I can drink vodka.  I love to drink vodka.  But I just can't speak Russian.

The other reason I'm sure to be fired is that I'm broke.  I have no money at all and most people who work at the White House seem to be rich and born into money.   People who are born into money carry themselves differently and you can just tell by their demeanor they have wealth.  Poor fuckers like me always look like thieves and pickpockets whenever we stand next to them.

Whenever I'm around a rich person, I feel like they see me as a carnie, and the best they can hope to get out of me is cheap weed and ways to rip off people they don't like.

Now that I think about it, maybe that's why from time to time, people offer me money to kill people they want to make disappear.  It totally makes sense now.

The biggest reason why I'll get fired in a couple of weeks by the Trump White House after being hired is that I have a hard time being nice to people who piss me off.  There comes a time in this life when you simply cannot handle the company of fools and you need to let them know.  My years as a writer and a telemarketer have honed my verbal skills into a weapon.

I can strip flesh from bone with just a few words and I'm not afraid to do it.

Should I be hired by the Trump White House, it would be only a matter of time before I snapped on somebody so hard they would run home to their mama in tears.  It's happened before.  I enjoy it but it's ugly for other people to see and it scares some folks.

With my luck they'd hire me to be the White House Spokesperson to step in for Sarah Huckabee Sanders when her eventual nervous breakdown manifests.  You know it's just a matter of time before she collapses into a delirium mumbling "fake news motherfuckers..."

I have a lot of respect for her because you couldn't pay me enough to do that job.  Not if you wanted me to do it with any kind of class or respect, anyways.  I mean, I have no problems getting up there behind the podium and ripping each one of those people a new asshole.  It would be fun, even. 

I think working for this White House would be a whole bunch of running around from person to person, asking what we're doing, and then constantly monitoring Twitter to see what we're supposed to be working on.  I also think it would be the perfect environment to hide and play video games in because nobody seems to know what's going on or who is supposed to do what. 

An environment like that, one could get away with anything, like checking out their own FBI files unredacted.  That would be a blast!  I'd love to see my own FBI files without all of those black marker streaks across them.  That way, I'd finally know who ratted me out. 

I'm going to title my resume "Amazing Staffer" and in my cover letter, I'm going to say how amazing I am and how I'll do amazing things for them once they hire me.  But I am going to say I'll need a parking spot for my van.  And assurances the Secret Service will stay out of it.  Plus, whatever they do find, know that it isn't mine and I have no idea how it got there. 

I can't wait! 

A Matter of Soul

Today is the Chinese New Year.  This year is the Year of the Dog.

I haven't told many people about this but the entire reason I went to live in Asia for three years was because of a vision.  I saw a Foo Dog as bright as a projected image on a screen.  I was wide awake.

In my vision, he was emerald green and facing to the right.  He was brilliant and ferocious.  Stunning.

He hung around for a few seconds and faded away.  That's how I knew I had to get to Asia.

Foo Dogs are guardians.  They are most often seen at the front of buildings, one female and one male, protecting the building from negative spirits and emotions. 

The cycle has come around again.  Three days ago, I was wondering about my spirit animal.  Two days ago, I was drawn Tarot Card reading, pulling cards for friends at their request.  These cards I pulled were incredibly accurate and nothing about them was vague.

I just knew.

Today is the Chinese New Year.

Somebody is trying to tell me something and I just don't know what.  It's maddening sometimes because I don't believe in coincidences.  I just don't.  I've seen too much shit and too many fucked up things to believe in randomness.

It's 3:10 AM and I can't sleep.  Again.  Withdrawals are a bitch.  My legs are twitching and I keep getting cold chills that get me to the bone.  Then my skin starts to burn.  My body can't get comfortable.

I'm fighting this monster with everything I have and I'm winning.  It's been a long, hard road, but I'm winning.

It's a matter of soul.  All of this life is, really.  Everything I've done in this life has been dictated by how I view my soul, and the path it is supposed to take, or be on.  Maybe that's why I fall for women so hard.  For me, it's not just about having fun.  None of this is.  Life is serious business to me and always has been.

That mindset goes against just about everybody else's outlook on life.  I can't help it, though, because I was born serious.  I've been around the block too many fucking times and I've had too many lives and my soul is too fucking old for games.  Believe me--I wish I could lighten the fuck up.  I have no idea how.

I've been angry and agitated all day today.  Every little thing is pissing me off and I've snapped on more than a couple of people.  I've had to keep my distance from others because I don't want to shit on them.

Maybe I need a pair of foo dogs to block out the negative spirits.

My apartment has been too quiet these past few months.  I'm no longer being woken up at 3:33AM like I was for so long.  Things aren't moving around my apartment at night.  I haven't had a single appliance turn itself on and off in almost a year.  I haven't heard the harbingers laughing and chatting amongst themselves in almost as long.

I miss it.  I dearly miss the feeling of having somebody watch me or standing behind me.  It's too quiet and it bugs me.  A few months ago, something pulled my hair from behind.  I was sitting at my computer and somebody gave my ponytail a tug.  But those days are gone for now and it bothers me.  I feel abandoned and left behind.

Again.

I swear I'm the only guy in the world who misses his ghosts.

Next week, I start a new job.  I get the equipment on Monday, on Thursday we do the pre-flight stuff to make sure it's all connected right, and the Monday after that training begins.  I still haven't gotten my unemployment because the State of Illinois is broke and drags its feet anytime it has to pay somebody.

So I do what I can to avoid losing my mind.  It hasn't been easy.  I can't write for some reason.  I try and my brain short-circuits every time.  It's annoying.

But now something is changing.  I can feel it.  Something spiritual is happening.  The Universe is moving at all times and I can feel its focus on me.  I'm either being put in play or aligned for something.  I can feel it.

When I say "aligned" that usually means a big foot is getting ready to kick me like a football through a goal post.  I'll end up with a big boot print on my ass a long distance from where I was.  It'll be chaos and will hurt like hell while I'm tumbling through the air but the landing is usually soft but confusing for a while.  "How did I end up here?  Where am I?"

That sort of thing.

But there's a problem with living your life with faith The Universe (or some asshole deity) is going to watch your back.  Sometimes, the answer to your prayers is "Go fuck yourself" and sometimes you will get dropped on your head.  I've been dropped on my head a few times and having any faith whatsoever feels like being a codependent victim in an abusive relationship.

When you're an abused person in a relationship, you make excuses for the abuser, and say things like, "they did it because they love me" or "they know better than I do."  People make the same excuses for Gods.

"God knows best" or "God did this because he loves me."

Abuse by any other name is still abuse.

So I don't go by faith.  Instead, I look for paths, being mindful of opportunities as they present themselves.  A soulful path through life is much better than being pushed and shoved around by somebody who sees you more as a mindless chess piece.  I'm a person, not a function. 

I'm getting really agitated right now I'm going to wrap this up.  I feel like my skin is crawling and I want to tear it off, or slice it off, just so I can get out of it.  I'm sweating but cold and I have the urge to shave my head but I wish I had hair down to my butt.  It's like that all the time these days, too.  Like I want to scream but I just don't have the energy for it.  Everything everybody says is stupid and wrong but I don't feel like correcting them because it just won't work.  Nobody cares about any opinion but their own so I just ignore them. 

It's probably too late to put up a pair of foo dogs anyways.  The damage has already been done and now it's just a matter of time.