High Tech Mortality

Every time I type every time I type everytime because everyday throws me off. Confusing English aside, every time a new iphone comes out, I wonder about diseases. Not from disgruntled Chinese workers putting herpes in the earhole or the ghost of Steve Jobs giving us ipolio. No, it makes me wonder how so much useless and amazing shit can be stuffed into such a small package, all for $199, and yet billions of billions (I think that equals trillions. I’ll let you math nerds figure those numbers out) of dollars can’t cure cancer, or anything for that matter. I know that sounds all high school philosophical, and something you might hear a beauty contestant say to prove her shallowness is only skin deep, after doing a baton twirl in a two piece. But, it is a valid point.

The iphone factory struggled to find their way, after they dropped child labor.

The iphone factory struggled to find their way, after they dropped child labor.

 

When I was kid I heard about chemo. I’m thirty five and I hear about chemo. I’m sure there is a bit more advancement, I’m no gynecologist. If we’re going to stick with my iphone analogy, it would be the equivalent of us all carrying around rotary phones that will need to be plugged in but hey, they got caller ID.

The newspaper said next years model will have a flashlight.

The newspaper said next years model will have a flashlight.

If any of you are the betting type, I’ll make a wager. I bet my sweet ass that they find a cure for Ebola. Wanna know why? It has quick pace. You’re dead in weeks. No profit in it. I bet the cure will cost as much as one of those fancy Ford Fiestas everyone’s been all hyped up about, but, it will cure it by God.

"Just give us the keys, and the Ebola will go away."

“Just give us the keys, and the Ebola will go away.”

Conspiracy theories aren’t my cup of tea. I don’t believe the world is being controlled by a shadowy group of power bankers and Jay-Z. What I do believe in is the trail of money in which all decisions are based, in regards to things that cost money. What a cluster fuck of a sentence that was. Sheesh. (Authors note: Learn to formulate a thought before typing.) Where there is a want or need there is a hope for reliance, where there is reliance there is hope for long term profitability. Remember that when you sign up for your two year contract on your new iphone 6, and pray the damn things don’t give you cancer.

Standard

Suicides End With You. Militant Police Starts With Us.

We have a great deal to go over, and as previously discussed: you won’t read past a certain word count. Let’s go on a limited content journey together.

Robin Williams committed suicide. If you weren’t aware, good for you. Hope your coma isn’t a recurring issue. The death of a celebrity hardly registers with me. My love has a limited capacity and is currently booked up with people I actually know, empty calories, and drunken gunplay. Depression has become the hot topic on all forms of internet. A barrage of articles discussing the symptoms, signs, and solutions has either confirmed you’re a bad hair day away from a fistful of Valium and your body being found while Joy Division plays on a loop in the distance, or someone you know is.

To continue my theme of writing in a shorter form, I’ll sum up my thoughts. The series of decisions that leads to the eventual choice of suicide is just that: A choice. I’ve picked up on a general belief that suicide is a some sort of possession type experience, where the deceased really wasn’t in control of themselves. I call bullshit. If you’re going to paint that picture, you better be ready to apply the same coat to murder by passion or even murder by way of sadness. At what point do you crossover to out of control? The same logic is given to drug addicts who OD. They suffered from a disease. They know not what they do. Ok, cool. How about the drunk driver who kills a family? Is he given the same pass?

 

A series of decisions led to these pants. The only choice he didn't make was his father knocking up a feral hog.

A series of decisions led to these pants. The only choice he didn’t make was his father knocking up a feral hog.

Depression has been a hitchhiker on my life’s road for many years. I’ve dropped her off here and there but inevitably she’ll show up and I can’t help myself: I pull over. Suicidal thoughts have been with me since pubic hair. I’ve put the gun in my mouth. Here I am, typing a blog. I made a decision. We all have decisions and all of those decisions have emotional weight behind them. Only severely mentally deficient people have never felt the emotional weight of the world on their shoulders. I acknowledge the long term effect of devastating despondency ends with horrible mind tricks, and comparing that to short term spat with life, are different animals. The comparison is not totally unfair. Life is tough and we all have handicaps. Quitting is fine but that doesn’t mean it isn’t selfish.

If you have depression: Make the right decisions for yourself and your loved ones. If you don’t have any loved ones, you do now. I love you.

The other topic that has the nations balls on fire is the situation in Ferguson, MO. I’ll avoid the race issue because race in this country has become too convoluted for anyone to have a level head about it. Until we can all admit our contributions to the current state of affairs, it’s a lost cause. What I’ll focus on is the militarization of the nations police forces.

Here it is: What in the motherfuck did you think would happen to the weapons of war? If you supported the beefing up of military and more specifically the wars we’ve been in, then you are directly to blame. Once enough equipment has been manufactured to outfit an army of outnumbering the known population of India, it has to go somewhere. We can sell it to other countries or we can sell it to local police forces. I mean, I guess we could sell it to rich people but Warren Buffet doesn’t seem to be the type to cruise military vehicles while pointing his LRAD at a group of soulless stockbrokers.

Put your gas mask on, Leo! Buffet's here in his Apache again!

Put your gas mask on, Leo! Buffet’s here in his Apache again!

 

All of our decisions have long term and short term consequences. Think things to the end. Think of the possibilities. Take responsibility for your actions, and be ready to fix them. Learn shit.

 

 

 

Standard

Taking Part In The Brutal & Necessary

Do you want to hear about killing a dog? Neither do I. I don’t want to write this. I want to forget about-put it in the furthest corners of my jumbled up brain while hoping it replaces itself over time. I’ve tried to write about it for over a week. Every time I sit down to the keyboard I stand up and walk away. Three times I’ve deleted the words and told myself to drop it.

One of my goals in life is to embrace all of its quirks. The greatest periods of personal growth come from some of the most wretched places, to ignore them is to disregard a chance at an unforeseen, perhaps unimaginable perspective. Only through perspective can we achieve understanding. For me, understanding is the secret ingredient of a well made life. If I can gain enough understanding, I will hopefully turn it to peacefulness, tranquility, and the real Atlantis of human mindset: contentment.

In the following I will attempt to work my way to understanding…

Living in a farmhouse off of a semi-busy road leads to a whole mess of bullshit. We have the occasional visitor who only stops to either sell something, ask for something or steal something. A couple of months ago, we had a guy fresh out of jail, who was walking forty miles, stop and ask for a ride. He wouldn’t stop asking. I would rather be in the car with a coked up mountain gorilla than this guy. He was rough looking and smelled like the aforementioned gorilla. It wasn’t happening. We have a few people stop because of car issues and I do my best to help them. It’s not all bad, but the absolute worst are the dog droppers.

What goes through the heads of dog droppers is baffling. They take their malnourished, beaten dogs, and drop them off at country houses. I guess in the sick world of justification, they feel as though the dog will have a good home. It will flourish in its new surroundings and all the damage will wash away. What these fucktards fail to realize is they have usually permanently destroyed the trust the dog may have ever had in humans. The dogs stick around because they’ve most likely been chained up for so long they have no concept of free space. They’re usually injured and sometimes dangerous to people and pets. The homeowner is now left with a tough decision.

Small towns are not hotbeds of dog rescue organizations, and city funded dog catchers are exactly that: city funded. We live over thirteen miles away from a city. You see my predicament? I’m left with deciding the dogs fate. I used to work with a dog rescue group out of Dallas and I know that even if there was a local group, dogs like these cannot take up the precious space held for better suited animals. The dropped off dog can either be left to suffer in the elements or put down.

Last week, we had such a dog. He could have been beautiful. I tried to corral him, feed him, call him, and anything else you can think to do to avoid killing him. He, like so many others, was too broken to be helped. I have two dogs of my own and I couldn’t take the risk of them getting sick or injured. (I’m having a hard time writing this. I’ve reread it and I hate it.) I made the decision to put him down.

For this part I will not go into detail. I will keep these memories. I will sum it up in one sentence: It was not a clean kill and he suffered horribly. I was angry at myself in ways I’ve never been. I kicked myself for failing this creature. I want to do awful things to the ones who put me in the position. Fuck them.

The perspective I’ve tried to gain from this experience is that of those who have to make tough decisions with no good answer but one right answer. The correct answer can be different for different people. I’ve been thinking of the choice between a mothers life and her child. I’ve been thinking of those who must decide whether more suffering would be caused by watching their loved one hold onto life through slow breaths given by a machine, or life without them. I’ve been thinking of the those who put their lives on the line everyday for strangers. All of these are much worse than what I went through. I cannot totally relate, but I think I understand.

Standard

Gothic Benches

A position statement before I go into all this mess: I do not believe in the paranormal.

Recently, two of my best friends from high school came for a visit. These are dear friends who have been together since pagers and Tupac. She is an elementary school teacher and he is a police officer. I sucked at school and law abiding, so our friendship is most likely a lie. On the night they were leaving we stayed up telling stories and playfully pushing for wife swapping.

I vaguely recalled a story from when they were first dating, and for God only knows what reason, they would go to city parks late at night to talk. Talk? Whatever. I asked them to retell the story so Cris could hear it. Cris loves stories, and she really loves when they involve the mysterious.

The story goes that one night around 11pm in Mesquite, TX, Buttplug and Chastity (first names that popped into my head) went to Debusk Park to have their teenage-love-drama-public sex time. The park is massive, covered in trees, and at the time of the night, vacant. A walking & bicycling trail encircles the entirety and roughly every 100 feet are walkways off the main trail. The walkways have small wooden bridges. It’s picturesque and majestic except it’s located in the herpes of Dallas County.

These wooden plank mini trails lead to a circular concrete pad complete with a picnic table and benches. Once there, you’re secluded and surrounded by trees. Even during the day, no none could hear your screams, especially during the day, not over the excitement of Javier and his amigos having a go at the piñata, or the Meth Family having a go at normalcy. The place is probably safer at night, really.

Buttplug and Chastity went down one of the walkways to find the privacy they couldn’t get at home because parents. Once there, they sat down on one of the benches. Small talk, blah, blah. After about 10 minutes, they see a figure moving towards them. They said, it was as if it just appeared. Buttplug has always been and always will be the quiet badass type. He’s about as talkative as a mango, and not prone to freaking out. Before either one of them can react to the figure, a few more appear.

As the figures move closer it becomes clear that they are people, dressed in black and wearing hoods to cover their heads. The couple look towards the walkway and see the path is now being occupied by even more emo goths with too much Dungeon & Dragons coursing through their veins. Chastity looks behind her and sees they are completely surrounded by them. In total there were approximately forty.

Not a one made a noise, neither the couple nor the intruders. The mystery people did their best to keep their faces down and covered. From body types and movements, it was thought that the group was of mixed ages varying from 14-50.  Not a single face was seen. My friends have told me that the concept of time was lost. Not in the alien abduction sense but more in the “I’m scared I’m about to get gangbanged by a renegade branch of Slipknot groupies, and everything is in slow mo.” sense.

Since Buttplug is an officer of the law, he did his best to give us time frames. He said after a about 2-3 minutes of being stared at and full silence, two of the freaks began to walk towards them. One sat on his side and one on her side. Again silence. The two people acted as if the couple weren’t even there, staring straight ahead at nothing. After about two minutes the weirdos got up, and all at once the whole lot walked away.

No words, no pictures, no nothing could prepare me for the fear I would have felt if I thought I could die from a flashmob of Wiccans and Juggalos in Mesquite effing Texas. How they were able to communicate and get together before the internet was big is beyond me. This was a time when screwballs and kooks met each other through classifieds and cryptic signs on telephone poles. Their coordination is as much a mystery as their motives. Creepy shit, y’all.

Later, I’ll put another eerie story up that I was more a part of. It involves my cheating whore of an ex-wife and blood. That sounded better in my head.

Standard

Squeeze It Out

I’ve been having a hard time with life lately. How many blog posts have started with some variation of that statement? Too many, I’m sure. Stating you’re having a bad go of it will allow for numerous short term benefits. It stands to reason, many will choose to begin with such buffoonery. I’ve come to realize, half the world would cease talking if self loathing was prohibited. Sympathy and attention are top candidates for most common reasons to talk online. The downside, is people either don’t give a turd, or your personal information is used to boost their feelings about their crappy lives, while reserving the right to judge you, going forward.

My only wish is to have a laptop with a hug & tissue dispenser.

Tissue dispensers installed on PC’s would make the world a better place for all of us.

The best course of action is to shut the shit up and don’t let anyone into your hell. Form resentments and an addiction. Become a bottled up shell of yourself and purchase a firearm. Tell your loved ones it’s for safety. Use the china set you inherited from grandma for target practice. Cry. Write poetry to your furniture. Get a cat. Name it Happy and forget about it.

I had feelings once. Now all I have is spotty wi-fi and this damn cat.

I had feelings once. Now all I have is spotty wi-fi and this cat.

Screw that, get the poison out, and let it go. Proper ventilation is required. Take caution! The lines can get real blurry between venting, complaining and psycho. Keep it decent! Calling Obama ‘Hitler sans sunblock’, in the comments section of an NPR article, or  sending naughty pictures of your no-no area to your exes new boyfriend, or screaming at the top of your lungs at an empty children’s playground at three in the morning, are not ways to alleviate the strangulation of your innards.

The toxicity that has been getting me all jammed up over the past couple of weeks is a common theme in my piss poor attempt at living; The dark hole of despair I call purpose. I’ve gone through more “WTF is this shit?” moments than Avril Lavigne’s record label. Finding meaning in an unremarkable life is hard whenever you grew up thinking you’re supposed to be the next John Connor or perhaps even Karate Kid. What you don’t tend to think about is even those two had to deal with the monotony of getting through a random Tuesday. Plus, being the Karate Kid was cool and all but eventually you gotta grow up, and Karate Man sounds sad.

Martial arts leads to wearing chopped up trash bags and your dear moms bracelet, while playing Steppenwolf covers for cheeseburgers.

Martial arts leads to wearing sleeveless trash bags and the  bracelet you stole from an old lady , while playing Steppenwolf covers for cheeseburger money.

I’m well over the fact that I won’t be chosen to save the world or be able to kick a douche in the face for the pride of my janitor mentor. But, I still have those random Tuesdays to tend to. We’re told that we’re special and downright important ever since sperm. While that’s all well and good in a pretty little world called fiction, it makes for a lifetime of unfulfilled expectations and disappointments in the real world. If we’re so great, why does maintaining a consistent flow of contentment seem to be such a motherfucker? I could go on about the nonstop barrage of outside influences telling us how much we should be happy but suck. Everything from Facebook, to your Aunt’s insistence on making it clear that your cousin is a god damn genius, slated for sainthood and a solo on the next season of Glee.

I go through these patches. They happen. I’m jealous of the go-getters and the simpletons. A few months ago, I had a conversation with a good hearted but simple minded individual. We worked together and he had shit to say.

Peter: You ready for lunch?

Me: Whenever. I don’t really care.

Peter: You don’t ever think about lunch?

Me: *confused by the question* Sometimes, I guess.

Peter: I think about lunch all the time. *stares off into the distance*

What do sandwich mean?

If all we did was eat, no one would ever be sad.

It was one of the better conversations I’ve ever had. While my first inclination was to laugh and shake my head, the heaviness of what he said caught me. I’m over here, worried about fifteen thousand things I can’t control, ten million things I can’t understand, and one or two things I have a grasp of but can’t settle on. And, he’s in deep with lunch. His philosophical dilemmas were based on hunger. His stomach did the thinking. Gifted bastard.

Gratitude is the real answer. You gotta make sure it’s genuine though. A homemade batch of Stockholm Syndrome can sneak up on you if you’re not careful. Next thing you know, you’re praising Jesus for a wife with grooming issues, a boss who pinches your buttocks, and a dog who humps your elbow but hey, at least someone finds you attractive. Nope. The gratitude must be things really worth their weight. The moment, right now, where you’re breathing and somewhat alive. Another day to prove your worth to yourself.

Release the poison and concentrate your useless energy on the wondrous. Gravitate towards the blessings, and the contentment will ease in behind. Life might suck but it’s yours and it’s fucking marvelous, by God.

 

Standard

No Flow Whatsoever. Part I

I got a herpes breakout happening on my lip right now and I have a photo shoot tomorrow! Ugh!
I don’t have a photo shoot. LOL. I live in the desert, dumbass. I do have this lip herp thing going on though. 😦

On Monday, while I was doing my rounds around the perimeter of the house, checking for freeloading rabbits around the garden, a 4 ft. Bull Snake caught my eye. Ever since I was bit by a 6 inch baby python in a pet store, back in 97′, I’ve had great trepidation in regards to serpents. Luckily for both of us, he hauled ass in the opposite direction. I was heavily armed and ready for whatever. I followed him, from a good distance, until he made his way into my house. He found an open spot between the siding and the walls. We have a 4 ft snake living with us. Cris named it Bully Wooly. I’m trying to figure out how to adhere a mattress to the roof.

I hadn’t slept much for the past week. I tried every trick in the natural handbook. Such as deep breathing (panic attacks), relaxation techniques (lead to compulsive masturbation), sound machine (Who on earth sleeps better with the sounds of a rainforest? Are there tribesman out there in desperate need of sounds from home? Does Sleep Number now make hammocks from bamboo and the bones of adventurers?), dark room (see relaxation techniques). All in all, it’s been a trying time. Last night, I finally gave into science. I took a Trazodone. Pills and I are not friends. The laundry list of side effects I’ve had read like the fine print of an asbestos factory employee manual. Good news! It worked. I slept. I slept for 13 hours. Thank you, big pharma and depression!

 

Standard

Length And Satisfaction

Word count in a blog post of my sort is perplexing. I tend to write to completion, FTW. After spending a good chunk of time (10 minutes) reading others blogs this morning (2pm) I realized what an ass beating it is to keep caring past about 300 words. The author better have some profound doo doo to say to keep my interest. Being the introspective, personalize everything because I’m an only child with a confusing cocktail of low self esteem and self importance, guy that I am, I decided I better be aware of length.

I’m tempted to stop this post right there for emphasis.

Nope.

It comes down to goals for your blog. I’ve already chosen the hardest blog type to pique interest, much less make a dime. According to my research, I’d have a higher shot at success doing a “How To” blog on urinating in Spanx, than doing a humor/personal life blog.

Let it go, gurl! Let it go!

Let it go, gurl! Let it go!

My goals are attention and vindication through articulation via the written word . Not unlike the 18 year old who moves to California to achieve her low budget porn dreams, I crave life validation, if you happen to have your pants around your ankles while reading this, all the better. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope this parlays into a regular gig writing for a big time publication such as Field & Stream or Good Housekeeping. I have dreams. I’m also a realist. The odds of anything, beyond my nervous flatulence questions addressed to ‘Dear Abby’, getting published are about the same as Rick from ‘The Walking Dead’ nailing a Southern accent.
tumblr_n50n1aHS8r1rk91wjo1_1280

I’m learning on the fly here. Getting to know what people want to read, and how long they’ll hang around without prison shanking their dog, is a recipe I’m yet to master. The other worry is selling out…..I’m over 300 words, nobodies here. One time, I got my junk stuck in a vacuum cleaner. And still, no one knows.

Standard