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.

 

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Soak Up The Best Parts

A long time ago I was told, or heard, read, or made up that the only concepts people deeply care about are love and death. Therefore, the only art worth a damn either dives into these subjects or glides by them enough to force the observer to feel their presence. Different variations of the two shine through in many ways, including sex (truthfully, I tend to think sex is stronger biologically than love but when taking into account a mothers love and the need for strong bonds within a human pack in order to survive, love might win out.) overcoming insurmountable odds to cheat death, sacrifice for the lives of others, health, learning ways to enjoy life more so that death will seem distant and irrelevant, and any other number of plot lines of stories, still pictures or poems.

I’ve chewed on this idea for many years and tried to achieve ways around it. I’ve read books, watched movies and seen other mediums that don’t fit into either category. While these might have their moments of magic, they fail to touch the spirit. They might make you think a little or laugh a lot but you won’t walk away feeling overwhelmed by life. Which begs the question of what’s the point. Considering our time breathing is minuscule and not guaranteed, it would seem to be a waste of it to spend it letting our minds grow mold around lesser matters.

Over the years I’ve spent obscene amounts of time pondering love & death. In my experience, I’ve seen love live a temporal existence, while death is of the more permanent variety. The changing tides of love never made sense to me until I finally realized that love everlasting is not sustainable in an ever changing life. People change, things change. My eureka moment wasn’t pleasant or welcomed. I didn’t want to think of a world where “I love you” meant now, not tomorrow. My heart did its battle with my head, and as per usual, my head won out. It all came together when I accepted that human nature was not built to perceive relationships in huge amounts of time. Death could be coming right up. Subconsciously we know it and make decisions based on its constant hovering.

After the initial shock of this love revelation, I wrapped it up into a tiny box and set it in the furthest reaches of my brain. I’d open it later when I had acquired the proper tools to make it work to my advantage. Without death, I may have never touched the subject again. I would have kept on forcing myself to either believe in a love doomed or I would have given up on love and become a terrible person. Alas, the promise of death formulated the proper thoughts to give me the proper perspective. Fear has always been my staunchest supporter. I can say with absolute certainty, without the level of fear I carry, I would have met death well before any lessons, whatsoever, could be learned.

Surely, I’m not alone in this exercise, I know a few people can relate to my morbid ways. I on occasion will close my eyes and imagine I have a deadly disease of some kind.  I’ll do my best make believe of all the feelings one might feel with a known deadline. I can only last for so long. My breathing gets heavy and I begin to panic. The intensity is too much. After my heart has slowed and my brain has cleared, I see what, if any, clarity I’ve achieved. Normally, the good stuff won’t show up for a few days or longer. The resining lasts for a good while. It was in such a time where I finally understood love in the most profound way.

Death is coming and love is here. At this moment I have love. In the present I have a gift. I must continue to focus on the current to understand the magnitude. Today, I have love. Death is for tomorrow.

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