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.

 

 

 

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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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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!

 

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The Fridge Won’t Fill Itself

Cris and I went grocery shopping yesterday. We have to travel a decent distance to receive reasonable prices on goods. The journey for budget pretzels is about an hour round trip, and is lacking in scenic views, unless you find visual serenity in the world of sheet metal buildings.

building2“Look at that one, Martha!”

Upon arrival at our destination, Cris needed to take a wiz. I stood at the front of the store, cart in hand, looking like a child who’s mother had given up on the traditional views on raising your own children. I pretended to be interested in the new brand of Sriracha Pringles, praying no one would notice my fear of abandonment by way of the tried and true method of break-up “I need to take a wiz”. I’m left leaving the store with no girlfriend, no food and no answers. I waited just long enough to create a profile on match.com, before I see Cris eyeing the produce. She had hoped to meet me there because true love.

grocerystorelove“If you like our sensual strawberries, you’ll love our lettuce panties.”

When I reached her, she was distraught. The look of worry made me realize that she missed me as much, if not more than I missed her. I told her I loved her, and quickly stopped composing my About Me section on okcupid. She stared me straight in the eye and said “The women’s restroom smells like a pile of rotting vaginas. You, as a man will never have to deal with that.”. I concurred and knew the grocery bill would be substantially lower because I no longer wanted to eat, ever.

Through nothing but sheer will and determination were we able to complete the shopping list. Between her dealing with the stench of unclean women and my new found interest in the same sex, we had a lot to sort out.

Our checkout lady, cashier person was our final challenge. I had stepped away to look at something when the initial scanning process started so I don’t know how it came up but I heard her mumble something about Dallas.

Cashier: “Dallas must have like a million people. Maybe more!”

Cris: *defeated* “Yes.” *smile*

Me: *blank stare*

Cashier: “Dallas Cowboys! I don’t like em’ but some people do.”

Me: *defeated* “Yes.” *smile*

Cris: *blank stare*

We wanted to run out the store but instead we lightly jogged. Driving home was as exciting as the ride there.

sheet2-022“I can’t stand all this beauty, Martha. Look at it.”

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A Rehab Story

Spending time in an adolescence rehab facility will give you stories for a lifetime. It’s like summer camp for fuck ups and future felons.(They should have put that on the brochure and I wouldn’t have gone kicking and screaming.) Taking a bunch of rebellious drug addicted teens and removing their only source of happiness, leads to giggles of the strangest variety. The place I was sent was an extra special type of bat shit crazy. It was a converted dude ranch. The place was built to resemble an Old West town. Trippy shit. We had horses, the whole nine. Almost all of us were city kids detoxing on a Tombstone set for clowns.

Phillip was the new kid, full of life and not a shred of innocence, although, you couldn’t tell it by his looks. A curly headed, pasty white 14 year old just trying to make a name for himself. He stood about 6’2″ and weighed close to 250. He was big for his age.


“I’ll eat this locker for a bump.”

I can’t say I knew Phillip well. Phillip didn’t last long enough for us to get a good grip on what made him tick. If I had to guess, I’d say Tetris and date raping himself randomly.

We knew Phil had a temper, he’d get worked up and get sent off to the Lock Treatment Unit or LTU. The LTU was a shed of sorts with massive metal doors that took 1000 lbs of pressure to open once they were locked. The building had four parts. Two housing units with three sleeping areas each, a holding area, and a middle section that was plexiglass and held a staff member. You had your clothes taken away and replaced with white scrubs. It was demoralizing in a “Hey, this is what I’d look like in Huntsville!” kind of way. I’m pretty sure that was the point. Phil was on his own kind of high. He seemed to enjoy the place. I hated it. Once, I was there for about five days and by the end of it I was stark raving mad. Nothing made any sense. The only thing I had been allowed to do was read the AA books and stare at pink walls.

The LTU is where the genesis of this story really begins. Phil had been sent there, yet again, for God knows what. We all knew who was in the LTU at any given moment, even though it was outside of our boundaries. All of the staff had walkie talkies, and as soon as someone was put in, we’d hear it over the radios. Phillip couldn’t have been in the LTU for more than an hour when an S.O.S type of call went out over the radios. “Phillip has escaped the LTU! All staff! Phillip has escaped the LTU!”. At the time, I was having my lunch in the cafe. The cafe was on the main strip of our little Deadwood type of hell. It had massive windows overlooking the main courtyard. All of us future winners looked at each other in amusement because to our knowledge this was the first breakout of the LTU. We had all tried, only to be beaten into submission by hard plastic and strong magnets. Turns out, the main LTU door had been left slightly open and Phillip carpe diemed that shit.

A minute or two passes and we pretty much went back to eating because young drug addicts and short attention spans are the ying & yang of bleak futures. To our shock we hear a loud thud emanating from the front of the cafe, by the windows. I whip my head around to see Phillip in his underwear, with the largest grin I had ever seen. He had thrown his large body onto the glass, face smushed into it, arms in the air, and a beaming pride that I imagine any prison break participant would give a stamp of approval. Within a few seconds, we see a male staff member try to tackle poor Phillip but he bounced off and Phillip kept running. We ran to the window to see the whole staff chasing Phil in his tighty whities. It took about five grown men to subdue the man child. Phil was smiling the whole way down.
“Where’s your God now?”

Phil was transferred to a local mental hospital and we never saw or heard from him again.

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Coyote’s & Chicken Shit

You know what happens when you live in the boonies without a soul for miles around, besides your gf who is sick and tired of your shit, and you’re chatty? You post irrelevance on the internet.

I’m pretty sure my punctuation is so jacked in the above text, What can you do? Fifth grade was a rough time for me.

A strange occurrence has been going on for the past couple of months. I’m losing weight without trying. I move less while eating just as much. I’ve been mulling over a new diet plan for the masses. I’ll call it “The Biggest Loser”. It requires you to quit your job and to stop seeing your friends. I know I’m stealing a title. Maybe I’ll change it to “The Biggest Looser”. I’ve noticed a common misspelling of the word on the internet so it works. Third grade was a rough time for some. I get it.

looser

On to the bad news. I think I have arthritis. My left hand is giving me fits. I’m too young for such an ailment. It hit me that I turn 35 in a few months. Halfway to 70. Perhaps that’s why I have half the arthritis. I’m not a fucking doctor.

When I gave my pit bull/American bulldog a bath the other day I did so in the nude. My reasoning is solid and is based on not getting my clothes wet. My reasoning for mentioning it is to let you know how Cris has become immune to my ways. She didn’t even bat an eye as I chased him around naked. It’s nice to have someone get you.

We were offered fresh chicken shit to help our yet to be worked on garden. It was quite the gift. The gentlemen who wanted to give it to us, gave very detailed directions to his mounds of chicken shit. I found the spot but alas no chicken shit was found. He must have moved it. I didn’t know chicken shit was such the commodity that it required strategic hiding spots and black ops type of movements. I haven’t called him to find out its new location because that just seems like an awkward conversation.

images

“I sold the shit, Keg. Flu season is over. Walgreens needed a gimmack.”

Have I told you about Cris’s collection of beetles? No? Okay. Cris has managed to acquire two colonies of beetles that are of the eating dead flesh variety. They clean bones. We feed them leftover drumsticks and deli meat. The beetles make homes and breed in styrofoam. We feed beetles leftovers. I’m not sure where my life is headed.

I’m the worst hunter in the region. First off, I’m not a huge fan of killing. I don’t have the heart for it anymore. I do however need to keep the coyote population in check because they don’t share my stance on killing. I think they would if they had their own grocery stores. Secondly, hunting takes dedication, patience and stealth. I’m none of these things. So, what I do is grab my coyote call, set it up at way too close of a distance for any coyote not stricken with schizophrenia to get near, sit in the bed of my truck and play on the internet. I occasionally look up. I’m not distraught about it. I enjoy nature amongst the backdrop of dying jackrabbit sounds in the distance. I’ll play with the call features here and there by simultaneously playing dying bunny with female coyote howl. I feel like a DJ for a redneck rave. I imagine a bunch of camo’d up bearded men having spasms to the sweet melodies of my stellar nature mixes.

Louise_te_Poele_dancing_Farmer_series__

“You have a mighty fine erection, Carl.”

“DJ Buckshot gets me real amped up, Peter.”

I’m done being chatty now. All this socializing is mentally draining.

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Ruined People Go To Wal-Mart

We went to Wal-Mart. I’ve come to realize that that statement is the equivalent of “Nothing good happens after 2am.”. If you fancy the dregs of society showing off the latest in meth fashions, or people begging for a slow death while saving a dollar, than Wal-Mart is your place.

Walking through the parking lot, I saw a perfectly capable woman using one of those scooters meant for people who’s legs don’t effing work. She hit the gas, trying to beat me through the doors. I quickened my pace and cut her off, just to prove what moving your working legs can really do. I’m not saying I’m a hero but I do try to make a difference in the community.

scooters-walmart-gatorade

“We need Gatorade, Debbie. I plan on getting up later.”

The first section we went to was produce. I watched a 19 year old, very tall for his race Asian boy pick his nose and directly proceed to manhandle the tomatoes. It was all one fluid motion. Booger to tomato ninja. I immediately looked at Cris, pointed at Yao Ming and explained to her his sin. After that, I feared every non peeling item. I didn’t want to be there anymore.

Y0UJC

While loitering around the dairy section, pretending to check expiration dates on milk, a family of three strolled by. I noticed the mom first. Probably no more than 22, but she could have passed for 47. Her makeup was smeared in a way that only heroin can provide. She seemed to use eye liner as an homage to Pollack. The pail, clammy skin made me feel more black than listening to Jesse Jackson while watching Tyler Perry in ‘Madea Kills A Honkey’. The girls husband was rather rotund and could have easily played in ‘The Walking Dead’; no direction needed. The sad part was the screaming toddler in the cart. The boys face was completely covered in some sort of mess that could have been chocolate or dirt. I don’t know. Me being the piece of shit that I am, I ran to the cheese, where Cris was actually trying to accomplish something, and told her she needed to go look. These winners were hauling ass however, she never caught up.

smoke-meth-meme-generator-smoke-meth-hail-satan-c0a73e

To round out my trip down The Skid Row of Savings, I went to the restroom. As soon as I made the right into the potty, a woman was staring at me. Not an employee mind you. I knew I was in the right place because I saw urinals, and unless the women’s rights movements has gone too far, it was not a ladies room. The woman was covered in bad tattoos and looked like she smelled of spoiled cocoa butter. I give her props though. Her reason for being in there was to help her man adjust his drawers. I honestly have not the foggiest idea what they were doing. He had his pants about halfway down the crack of his ass, as she stood behind him pulling at something. I watched while I relieved myself. They occasionally looked up at me so I figured we were even. I thought that maybe she was helping him with his colostomy bag. My mind was on overdrive as I also thought they may be stuffing balloons filled with angel dust up his anus. I looked him straight in the eye when I walked out to try to get a read on his plight. He just gave me that “What can you do, life sucks?” look.

I hope this brings you some sort of peace about where you are in your life.

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