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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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.

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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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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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Introduction to WTF

I wrote this back a few months before moving to the nowhere I’ve now been for five months.

I’m about to walk into my bosses office and notify him that December 31st will be my last day. A new chapter, my friends. Join me in my journey of self exploration! For once, I mean that in a semi serious way, not as a way to get you to watch me make a pee. Cris and I are moving our life operation to a farm in West Texas. A farm in the middle of nowhere. No distractions, no humans, no coloreds or queers, and we plan on changing all that. We will be renting out the Dallas house and putting down the dogs. We even tattooed each others initials on our buttocks. It’s an exciting time. Love and ritual killings are in the air. Hopefully, you’ll understand that most of what I just said is nonsense. We are moving however, as life deserves a change of scenery.

Watching my work life become stagnated over the past decade has been a gut wrenching experience. A drop of time is all we have and I’ve spent the better part of it doing chores I do not want to do. Serving masters that are not what I want but what I’m told I need. Often times I’ll go into imagination land and dream up a scenario that I’m dying. I’ll attempt to feel all the emotions, all of the joys and all of the remorse. Usually I’m old in this scenario because a young death sucks thinking that way will only lead to group therapy sessions. Lately though, my dreary imaginary world has been me in my youth. I began to wonder why. The reason was simple, being old is not far off, dying is not far off. I’ll still feel youthful in my spirit yet my body will deceive me and decay into dusty dust, dust, dust. Very sad stuff. Wondering if I would look back on my life fondly is no longer an option I care to contemplate. I know these questions and thoughts are as old as basic human thought but they’ve been around for a reason. Accepting and fighting mortality is at the very nature of a balanced life and I feel as though the people who have the greatest grasp on this thought process also live the greatest lives.

Not that my work life has been some horrible Guantanamo Bay type of existence. It’s been fine. It’s been fair. It’s been decent. The mediocrity will lull you into a false sense of happiness and fulfillment. Insurance, 401K’s, weekends off, running water, and paid holidays are not much salve for a restless mind. I began to view them as cages. The worst of cages at that. Cages where you view the bars as privileges. It goes without saying that the items purchased with this middle class wealth only padded the cages and added decaying luxuries.

The most strenuous part of my desire to change my day to day life was deciding what the motherfuck to do. I don’t like very much and I have little to no passion. The question of how I’d spend my life if given any option in the whole wide world has always been a depressing one. I’m lazy, no motivations, no desires. Fame or fortune is of little interest. Working with my hands to create is laughable. I can’t make a straight line with a ruler, pencil and a fist full of Adderall. The laziness is my problem. Always has been. The devil on my shoulder has little interest in fucking the cute girl while in a monogamous relationship or stealing toilet paper from the office bathroom. No, my devil wants me to sit down. Sit the fuck down! Do nothing. I hate him. Unfortunately, the angel is too busy sleeping or jerking off to the cute girl to give me any help. Overall, I need new conscience representatives. I’ve put out an add in the Greensheet, wish me luck. It’s real difficult to talk yourself into making a change when the light your soul is reaching for is a half burnt out twinkle light leftover from a childhood Christmas. At times, the change seemed to be more bleak than my current situation. Total darkness. If all I’m gonna do is sit around, get fat and cynical than I should just stay put. What’s the old saying? Better to dance with the devil you know or some shit like that.

A pattern started to emerge, a flow of similar sentiments kept reaching me. I ignored them at first. People say dumb shit all the time. Filler for lack of imagination. I never viewed myself as a writer in any way shape or form. But that’s what people kept saying. “Be a writer. Are you a writer? You should write. You make me laugh. I check your Facebook page everyday to see what your crazy ass came up with. Seriously, write.” Since this was never my life goal,- What’s a life goal?-I didn’t know how to respond nor what to do. It felt amazing, making people laugh, helping them to go to places their minds won’t normally go, and maybe getting them to think about things in a nonconformist way. I’m no writer! No training. I don’t even have a a god damn G.E.D. I let these thoughts be the consensus. After all, a Facebook post is not a novel. What was I going to do? Write a book of Facebook posts? Fuck you. Thanks for the kind words but I’m a moron and you don’t know shit about shit. A funny thing happens when positive words get thrown at you. Over time you begin to believe them. Right or wrong, you believe them. I’ll write.

What I’ll write about is anyone’s guess. I have no plan.  I don’t plan any writing. Don’t know how. Maybe short stories, maybe romance novels for a new generation complete with details of modern lovemaking like Plan B and difficulty in achieving erections in the throws of porn addiction. I don’t know. What I do know is making people smile makes me happy. You could replace the word smile with squirm and I’d feel the same. I’ll mix the two and have success yet I’ll surely fail as well. I’m good with that. At least i tried.  I do not claim expertise or superiority. Quite the opposite actually, I claim an empty tank, and maybe my emptiness in ways of writing or literature in general will serve me.

The excitement of a new chapter has been delightful. The writing is only a small part of what I care to accomplish. Cris and I have plans to do comedic videos (sex tapes), a couple web pages (critical reviews of sex tapes) and any other type of creations we can come up with. Cris has been designing her clay creatures and I’m really excited for what she’s going to be able to do. We plan on learning to be more self sustaining by learning to can, grow food and butcher. So much life and so little time!

I shared this with all of you for two reasons. One- like it or not, y’all have helped form this plan, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Two- accountability, by laying out my plans I think it will add incentive to achieve at least a fraction of them. I’ll ask more from you down the road in regards to sharing our bologna or visiting our websites. I won’t spam to death and I’ll always appreciate any feedback. I’ll return the favor in any way I can. Wish me luck.

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