Why so unforgiving?

 He's ba-ack!

It's got to be a bullshit dichotomy, this angelic/demonic apollinian/dionysian split I've got going on, but I'm experiencing sitting up late with music videos on Youtube, while drinkin' & puffin' & vapin', as a paradigm shift, a coming back out, going feral on the inside, yet again.

There's a lot to be said for it, longevity and cogency aside. Sometimes a person just needs to be non-compos, or needs to stop trying to be, just for a while. For almost 50 years years I've regarded myself as a chthonic demigod, with a good bit of sunshine in my soul but a lot more gloom-&-doom. And it is so.

My voice projects from my diaphragm, an obstreperous intrusion, an unexpected eruption. And such is my problematic attitude, my occasional YOPP! For unlike the heroes of modernist pulp fiction, I dare to not die. Still I persist.

On such occasions for such a long time, because I'm a bit too old to be semi-feral in public again, I plonk myself in cyberspace. And I do not budge until I get bored. And it's very easy for me to entertain myself by typing out what comes to mind, and to entertain you by clicking Save.

The kind of stuff I post here, whatever it is, just comes naturally to me. The effort is in the physical typing (with one finger) and the shaping of the syntax, and the usually futile effort to be mindful of the tone of my writing, if not to master it. But that happens on the fly: the technique is supposed to be secondary to the sense. The sense and the style. Y'all feel me? Praise be. Or praise me, a more appropriate pastime.

I have no idea how to sit down and work out how I'm going write something before I know what to write. That sounds ridiculous, the kind of thing some bastard sophist would impose on the victim's son. Language has been an art long before it became a science. Whatever comes out of me comes from me, not from some style manual or some ...For Dummies.

It's not even very easy to talk about coming out with posts like this. I'd have to skip a lot of steps to keep it in my limited memory, and a few more than that to explain it to The Public. It loses too much in transmission. Which is part of my general problem: I'm lossy. A force for entropy. Because the ability to focus did not come easily to me, and the inability to do so was frequently painful.

I've always hated having to pay attention to people who want to impose themselves on me. That's my job. Not to impose myself on you, but to impose myself on me. Sometimes loudly, sometimes in public. Your desire to control me gets in the way of me controlling myself. Which I spend a lot of time and energy on. Sometimes I need a chorus just to get through the day. ("She taught me turn, and counter-tern, and stand.") (It actually happened, but it's a long story from long ago; a tldr 'is don't trip hard with non-tripping strangers'.)

The discipline I'm used to, the self-discipline rather, consists of a peculiar kind of self-restraint. Not to lose my shit, especially not in public. But because I'm elderly it's my perquisite to stretch out a little bit and do my schtick in text mode. I just don't have the energy to do it out loud in public, which is probably salvific. Indeed it took me literally years, painful years, just to be able to go back out in public. First I freaked the fuck out, for several years, in public, then eventually I had to hide. And hide. And hide.

I re-ascended into the world by way of the Internet. And you like it that way. If you know what's good for you. Especially now, when I don't have the patience to give a shit. I come in peace, I mean no harm, so back the fuck off. Don't get in my way. I will do what I will do. Including sob into your face, if it comes to that. But really. Don't block me, bro. And if you stomp on my foot I won't care for your apology.

I'd been "good" for over a year. And even now I ain't as "bad" as I could've been. But after the victory of MAGA, facing your world sober was too much like work. Don't try to tell me about it neither. I spent 33 years trying to keep my shit together, or to not lose it loudly. And what did it get me? More than half of the voters out there take an exception to people like me, and some of them just ain't woke enough to just things go.

Nobody has more right to control me than me. And sometimes even that is more work than I'm paid for. I'm in need of slack. I'm Generation Jones in the flesh.  

Maybe it's not a split. Maybe it's something that slides off, like moon roof. Because I'm all about chthonic when I'm really me. De profundis, motherfuckers. 
 

I'm trying to to stay alive long enough for my living days to come back. At least days that might be worth living. Or feel like it is in some way at some point, someday anyway.

Your world has really stomped hard on my foot. And it they got me down they would kick me. What could you offer me that might compensate me for that? Is living in your world worth my time?

 

What Fresh Hell

 As it stands, I don't expect to survive this Trump term. Figure January 20, 2029 at the latest. Until then it all depends. For now be happy for me that I've lived long enough to be this disgusted. In 1983 I took the breakup of my marriage so hard I tried to kill myself twice in one month (I should've been more careful); now I'm waiting for the start of yet another four years of societal meltdown. The PATRIOT Act should have been enough, but now some morons have voted for Trump three times when they should've known better. What fresh hell will your world throw me into next?

Now this degenerate curmudgeon is sitting inside away from the Arctic windchill basking in free heat and puffing on a cigarillo that cost 27.4 cents. ($1.29 plus 6% tax divided by 5 = $0.274; we lack an easy way to type out fractions of a penny, but pretty soon we won't have pennies themselves.)

2:50 PM EST would be too early to start drinking yet if I hadn't gone on naltrexone and been good for a year, and I don't feel any real need to do so, so I won't. it's cheaper that way. I didn't feel like I had to drink last night either, it's just that I've been disgusted with life and too wintered out to feel like doing any of the better things that'd be on my list if I'd bothered to make one.

Last night I had about two shots of 50% ABV rye whisky and half a 4.5% can of porter. That took about 90 minutes to imbibe. My tolerance is still very low and thanks to the naltrexone getting really smashed wouldn't have been any fun, beyond a certain point it feels like the poison it is, so it's so far so good; I got a slight buzz and stopped in the middle of a perfectly good beer, so not only did I not get a hangover I didn't even get dizzy standing up. I gather that's what naltrexone is supposed to do, keep it optional and non-problematic. To go back to hard-core boozing I'd have to go off naltrexone, which is free to me, while decent whiskey costs about $20 a bottle.

I stopped boozing last year because I couldn't afford it, and drinking like I had been is still not cost-effective. Note that I can now afford to drink as ethanol as I was doing, though so far it'd have to be cheap-ass vodka instead of the "surprisingly good for the price" whiskey I prefer; that's my idea of degeneracy, a point I'd rather not go past yet.

For one guy I know his self-drawn line was that he'd become totally unable to afford pain pills, so to keep on being an addict he'd have to resort to buying smack with fentanyl off the street, which he resolved by blowing his brains out in his basement. That was his choice and I respect him for it, but so far I've not let myself get into such a bad situation. (Not over "substances" anyway.)

Luckily for me alcohol is cheap, common, and legal, so I have that $10 a gallon vodka option to fall back on, and unlike him I don't consider it weakness to seek help for my problems if lowering myself that far still seems like a bad idea.

So far it still seems that if I took a poll on whether those whom it may concern would rather see me become a degenerate drunk or just get it over with, with those being the only choices I've give you, most of you would rather see with crippling alcoholism (there's even a subreddit for that) than put myself out of everybody's misery. That still seems like a fucked up priority to me, given what's a fucked up situation in the first place , but then I avoided becoming a crippled drunk last year by drying out, and then lucked into a 30%-of-my-income apartment.

Last year my obvious "or else" was giving up living inside and going to a place like California to be a tipsy derelict. I wasn't quite ready to murder myself and I did have a plan to make being homeless bearable -- joining a gym to shower and work out, finding a safe place to camp away from fentanyl junkies, etc., -- but fortunately I was able to find a way to dry out for as long as need be that didn't involve any of that Twelve Step bullshit that's on my "die rather than commit" list of sins so that's what I did.

And it worked. For a while.

But October 2023 was still over a year before the next Presidential election, and putting up with this world you give me to live in didn't seem totally pointless. But y'all normies had to go and crown Cheetoman again, which would make being homeless (drunk or not) even harder than it was last year; from what I understood about what those people had to put up with in 2020 I've decided I'd really rather not. Now you've done it: you've made being homeless sound worse than death to somebody who used to consider homelessness rather inconvenient but not a disgraceful tragedy. It's hard enough to foresee a worthwhile future in my life as it currently is.

The electorate of the USA has put me in yet another existential crisis I don't need to go through. Things were bad enough already. This is what I mean when I say stupid people shouldn't vote: there are plenty of Americans who'll benefit from Trumpism, but most of those who voted for him are not among them. The USA is about to become a corporate oligarchy like Russia, after a few years of which it'll descend even further into failed state status.

Forty years ago, when Reagan had just gotten elected to a second term, people would reassure me that my dread of the future was a paranoid exaggeration, that the American people were too smart to let things keep getting worse. In 1984 people told me a situation like Trump's first term was extremely unlikely. But 40 years ago you also didn't expect the Patriot Act, or the 20 Years War, or a global pandemic. It would never come to that, normal people said. "Stop being paranoid -- and maybe go on medication."

How could the US electorate even allow Trump to get nominated in 2016? What so great about a "democracy" that would let something like that happen?

Cippola's Third Basic Law of Stupidity is this: "a stupid person is a person who causes losses to another person or to a group of persons while himself deriving no gain and even possibly incurring losses."

Keep in mind that we're not talking only about Trump base here, we're talking about Trump being on the Presidential ballot AT ALL. Say what you will about the Founding Fathers, but when the Constitution was written they simply could not imagine a situation when the American people would let such a raving moron run for President.

One good thing about Putin and Orban and the other autocrats of the world is at least they're not spluttering idiots. Hell, as dictators go Xi Jinping is not as horrible as Mao, for example.

You've really fucked me over this time. The only question is how soon it will get really bad. I've already stopped reading the news for the most part, shutting myself off even further from the world around me; I've already decided that total abstinence from alcohol (and 5/$1.29 cigars) is more trouble than it's worth. You've shown me that aiming for limitless longevity is ridiculously silly, in fact four more years of things as they are now might well be too much to put myself through.

And y'all tell me there's something wrong with my brain.

You people disgust me.

 

"Spamming or other bot-like behavior."

 

61 [M4F] - Kentucky/Anywhere - Inspire me, damn it!

Trigger Warning/TW

In this iteration I'm looking for a younger woman, say 30-45, who's experienced, intelligent, engaging, and a bit intense. Bisexual and/or bipolar are optional pluses; mental and even physical scars are probably required. Visible scars and piercings usually mean you're trying too hard, as does dressing & acting all sexy & seductive. And makeup is usually a turn-off, except sometimes blatant red lipstick has the right associations. And I don't really care how women dress as long as they don't look like cartoon characters who stepped out of Vogue or something. You yourself should be enough.

As for me, I'm not suave, or charming, or witty, and I'm not interested in trying to impress anybody with anything. The only selfies I've managed to take lately come out fucking hideous or just plain depressing. (I take much better photos of other people, I've even got an actual "analog" camera I bought from a pawn shop in 1993.) I'm in okay shape for a man my age in my ZIP code, which ain't saying much; "if I'd known I was going to live this long I'd have taken better care of myself." So you'll probably be glad to know I'm not very interested in sex, two antidepressants take the edge off that urge, but you might be disappointed to know I'm pretty much a pauper. You'll have to find a sugar daddy and/or husband elsewhere.

Which you'd be welcome to do: I was never much good at normal typical relationships (insert " " where they seem to fit), monogamy felt too restricting until I just aged out of fucking around, and for over half my life I've felt sorry for anybody who wanted to be monogamous with me. That last thing really matters, because it puts too much pressure on me: I do what I do so you get what you get, to put it bluntly, so if somebody else can do what I can't or won't that's fine with me. It's been over 30 years since I gave a damn where else a woman goes. Go have fun and then come back, or get around to me when you feel like it, whatever. When it comes down to it I could be perfectly happy with the right married lesbian, for example. What matters to me is loyalty, not fidelity. (And you can pretty much take it for granted I won't be fucking anybody else: at my age I'd have to try too hard, and it's been years since I've felt like bothering at all.)

What I am looking for is a friend, an ally, a confidant, a comrade in arms... A partner in crime for honor among thieves. (There's got to be a less cliched way to put that but whatever.) Someone who's easy to look at, usually easy to be around, who can make me want to know her and who's up to knowing me. This is one reason I want somebody with a history: it's only in the past few years that I haven't been having one myself. Normal people with normal lives bore the hell out of me, and I generally tend to scare them or at least make them uneasy. I'm not a serial killer or anything, at least not in real life, but for most people out there I might as well be. "Yea though I walk through Uncanny Valley..."

Oh. By the way.

• Trump is a total buffoon who's got to be somebody's puppet, there are no leftist politicians in the Democratic Party, and (to quote my then 17 year old niece) most people aren't smart enough for anarchy.

• I've got no idea why there's something rather than nothing, for all I know there might be a Creator involved, but the God of Abraham is such a total bastard I'm glad that's all fiction. In general that kind of faith is somehow beneath me.

• What's wrong with genocide is that it's mass murder, not that it focuses on any particular kind of people: there is no race, religion, or whatever that's more special than any other.

• People who'd beg the court for life without parole instead of execution should be put out of their stupid pathetic misery.

• It's not that life is nothing but pain, but forcing existence on another human being is frankly immoral.

You get the idea? And that's just what I tell the world that hasn't met me yet. Put it this way: in my troubled youth people who worked in the mental institutions they put me in usually accused me of trying to shock people with my "controversial" statements, they just could not accept that as far as I'm concerned I'm just talking basic common sense. I might be "emotionally unbalanced," I've already confessed to taking two antidepressants, but there's nothing crazy about my opinions or my general take on life. I'd rather die a lonely miserable death than suffer fools at all. And sometimes it seems like the world is full of nothing but.

Now. To compound what might rule out responding 99.4% of the bare handful of people who've even made it this far: don't bother me if you can't step up. I'm comfortable with this getting no answers at all, and if anybody does answer it'd be okay if we try but just don't click. The only people I've known who I might imagine addressing this to either died years ago or just plain gave up. (And that they're not with me now is my own stupid fault.)

Okay? Okay.

("Here kitty kitty!")

An Inside Joke

[An attempt at fiction.] 

It’s 2:17 PM on the second Sunday in October. My sister turned 60 a month ago. Her youngest daughter, the one I don’t know, drove me down here in her father’s car: Robin and Steve don’t want me driving, not even in a rented U-Haul, because the word is I’m a hazard behind the wheel. The only place I give vent to rage is on the road, and only when I’m driving. Nothing ever really happened, the one time I totaled a car it was from plain inattention, but a passenger read my mind one July while we were on Interstate 64 and called the police in the next rest area we came to.  She’d made up some story about me being suicidal with a gun in my pocket.

So it behooved John Law to pull us over, take me into protective custody, and hold me for three days in a locked mental ward to see if I was committable yet.  Who the passenger was is irrelevant except that I didn’t know her well and she hated guns. Her fantasy that I might hurt somebody sounded convincing enough to the police; she alleged I was a danger to myself because it would be hard to prove I’m not. Or so she thought. 

I told her to drive the car to my place, we lived in the same neighborhood, and then never come near me again. She did, and disappeared. For all I know she changed her hair and I couldn’t recognize her. Faces and names don’t matter much to me, not unless they mean something to me, and almost nobody does.  I made a vow to never go out of my way for a stranger again. “No good deed…”

For three days I practiced reading Proust (I always had my ebook reader with me), kept politely to myself, and acted calmer and more level-headed than I usually bother to be. Then when they let me out I sold the old Chevy on Craigslist for an even $1000, buried my pistol for archaeologists to find if I don’t come back for it, sublet my apartment to a relative of a friend of the landlord, and after 35 years went back to roaming the country. Sometimes I hitchhiked, sometimes I rode the bus; sometimes I stayed in motels, sometimes I hung mosquito netting from a clothesline in the woods.     

The problem was that my sister is in my medical files as my next of kin, along with my psychiatric diagnosis and a bit of my personal history. So some desk worker at the hospital called my sister to let her know where I was and why, and when she called me to hear my story I was stupid enough to be honest with her: I’d been having the fifth or sixth bad day in a row,  that just happens sometimes for no reason at all, and I was probably cussing and muttering to myself about how pissed off I was at all the shit I have to eat. It wasn’t serious, these things come and go, but I can see how it might scare somebody. So the dizzy Scorpio who’d asked me for a ride set me up to get me off the road. A public service, I gather.

And my brother-in-law, who knows me too well, decided that I shouldn’t be driving. Or carrying a gun. Because of my “anger problem.” And if I didn’t agree my sister would get on the phone on Monday, the second day of my stay, and start trying to have me committed. It might have worked, or maybe not, but I like to stay out of trouble. 

So after a few months of wandering the Interstate system, when it started getting cold at night, I decided to move inside for the Winter. But at that point I couldn’t afford the first month’s rent and the security deposit anywhere, and staying in motels would eat up my SSI check so I’d never get ahead, so I had nowhere to go but the sofabed in my sister’s finished basement.  The deal is I pay them whatever it costs to feed me, keep $100 a month for pocket money, and give the rest of my check to my sister to save for me so I could afford to get the hell out by April 15th, IRS Day. Just because that date is easy for everybody to remember, and far enough away so I’ll have a nest egg ready. Oh, and set up a way to get my psych medication there, and never miss a dose. Because my family cares about me and they want what’s best for me. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

So here we are, my mysterious niece and I, at a folding table outside a vegan restaurant.  Neither of us is vegan but she has a friend from high school who manages the place, and they do have good carrot juice. (The secret is the spices, they say.) And carrot juice does well with clear tequila, which I’ve taken to carrying in my “man bag” (‘so it’s purse, fuck you’) for special occasions. And I’m sitting across the table from her, downwind, because I keep playing with a big cigar like I’m thinking of lighting it. I probably won’t, I’ve just taken to fidgeting (hence the booze), but “those things are disgusting, just the thought of them.” Just on principle. And my sister and her husband have always been very big on principles, and they raised their kids that way. And I have been made to understand their thinking, though I was slow on the uptake till I needed to be otherwise. So I’m only allowed to smoke anything outside, and only if it doesn’t bother anybody else. 

So here I am, a bald old man who’s obviously suffered, around the corner from “a prominent research university.” Waiting for somebody I sort of dated for less than a month 39 years ago, a graduate student in something to do with advanced mathematics I can’t understand (I was a poet, you see), whose Facebook page mentions she works in the same school she studied in, whose website informs us she’s been a tenured professor since 1996. And lists her email address. And surprisingly she remembered me, and more surprisingly she admits it. And she’s got nothing else to do this weekend. And she’s always wondered how I turned out.

The last time I saw her I got barred till further notice from Baltimore’s premier gay disco. Because while she and her sister were getting on people’s nerves with their interpretive dancing I started singing along with MacArthur Park. Loudly. Off-key. Leaning against the wall by the dance floor as if I might just topple over. The girls were instructed to help me exit this establishment. Immediately. When I showed up a few days later, hoping to find that cute little twink I’d noticed that night, the barkeep recognized me and told me I was not welcome, nor were my girlfriends. 

She remembered that, she said in her email. And she still thinks it’s funny, though she’s sorry I got in trouble. Oh. “and by the way,” she’s been 12  Stepping for 30 years, and she does Pilates, and she’s vegan. And she’s surprised to hear that I’m not dead of AIDS or suicide or a car crash or something. And I’m the craziest person she ever dated, and the smartest townie she met that year. (“What a waste,” she’d say.) So she just has to satisfy her curiosity, since I popped up. 

And the only person who was available to drive me was the youngest niece, who was an infant when I “ran away from home,” who I’ve seen only a dozen or so times in the past 28 years. Who’s very patient with me, who also has an ebook reader. 

We look like we might be related, she and I, if you see us close together and catch us at the right time, but otherwise we might as well be different species. She looks like a typical suburbanite of her generation, in flowing peasant skirt, a T-shirt about an emo band that broke up before she was born, a paisley headscarf keeping her long brown hair from flapping in the breeze, and brown suede hiking boots over argyle socks.       

While my head is shaved clean, my Fu Manchu mustache is cut off evenly with my bottom jawline, and I’m dressed to impress: a hot pink Oxford shirt, untucked and with the top three buttons open, a black heart pendant on a leather thong just below my Adam’s apple, and camouflage pants bloused over a pair of black leather combat boots that were GI 30-odd years ago when they were first issued. ($27.99 on ebay, with $14.99 shipping.) The boots sport pink paracord laces to match my T-shirt, and I’m wearing every ring I own. It’s a little joke only certain circles would understand, and they’d hate me for making fun of them. 

    

 

Through Early Morning Fog

 

These so-called cigarillos come five to a pack for $1.29; with 6% tax added, rounded up as taxes are, they're 27.4 each.  Being classified Disabled and on a fixed low income gets me a Lextran photo ID and 50 cent bus ride each way with one transfer per leg included, so if I smoke three of these in a day but don't go anywhere I'm ahead by 17.8 cents.  By the math of secondary poverty anyway; what expenditures are not required for survival and contribute nothing to future gain should be avoided, if prolonging your misery is your primary goal.  The deserving poor have no vices, they thank God for what they have rather than complain about everything that's out of reach, they greet every morning as a precious opportunity to practice virtue, and they look forward to not being tone deaf in the heavenly choir.  To hell with that.  My Daddy did raise a fool,  but some things didn't take.  

  

So after being out of bed for about two hours I put flame to the threat of cancer. And I started typing this. 

"Writers write," it's said.  And those who want to be read should practice every day, even on those days when all that presents itself to digital transcription does not accord with the writer's particular goal.   If you can't write a sonnet then make a shopping list; if you can't come up with fiction then bang out a journal entry.  Most professional writers these days go out of their way to credit their muses and their editors, their spouses who support them and those who take their musings and make them readable.  I have neither, so all my output may be labelled Before.  When you have no expectation that anybody would pay for what your write you needn't have an After.  

 

So this is my life.  It's what you get. 

   

My father spent his whole life trying to make something of himself, to do something useful, to justify his presence.  When he finally got disabled enough from a spine shaped like a question mark he didn't sit around watching TV and washing down his many medications with cheap beer like a normal shlub,  he went back to college to work toward a four-year degree.  He was taught the obligation to accomplish something and have something to show for it.  He didn't live long enough to finish, but if anybody was keeping track got good marks for effort. 

 

That didn't take either.  Before I traded pimples for stubble I gave up on that idea.  It was obvious that whatever striving I did would be done alone, and that all I'd gain is more to lose.  "The bigger you are the harder you fall."  There was no reason to believe I'd go splat and then get up, that I'd pull myself up from the potholed pavement and wobble away to heal -- only to try it all again; nor had I any expectation that inching forward toward worthiness would justify the damage even gainful effort does.

 

To just get through the day.  That's the only goal I could afford,  the surest bet there was to make.  For a long as keeping on wasn't too much trouble.  And anyway nobody but me would deserve to give a damn.

I will not sell myself, I told myself repeatedly.  I will not be punked out by The System.  If I must be a fool I'll be nobody's fool but mine.  Their road is best not taken.  What did that get my Dad?

 

So here I am, 61 years old, waiting comfortably to die.  In a small apartment that rents for 30% of my income, leaving enough unspoken for to waste as I see fit.  What I manage to squirrel away in Savings is my profit to date; I might on occasion invest in something that might get me more, so in the future there might be days that are easier to get through, if there might be a future.  But getting old is getting old, I'm tired enough already.

And what, you might ask, brought me to this?  (If there is a you, indeed.)  The answer is simple: there has been a catastrophe for the world in general, one that I could never do anything to avert: a sociological tsunami, an electoral earthquake.  They have elected him again, that stupid charlatan, that raving idiot.  The Orange King off in the head, the senile fool they should have left drooling in his rocker. 

 

The new world order is collapsing into nonsense; the future will be worse than my times have ever been. 

 

People do not make their lives out of whole cloth but from what scraps they find where they can think to look.  Every person is a quilt of whatever comes to hand.  And when every rag is tatters there will be few prizes won.  Under these conditions you'll be lucky to even warm yourself. 

 

I've seen too much of that already, and there's always more to see.  But there has been beauty in it, though diminishing each day, and there has been enough of me to be enhanced thereby.   I could usually tell myself  that there were compensations, that all I had to do was look to see something pretty.  But it's already late November and that joy is almost over with, soon the ice will settle. 

That fool will be sworn in on the 20th of January, in the middle of my Winter,     when my sap is at its lowest. And what the equinox will bring is longer days of horror, more hell I'll have to hide from.  The world out there will suffer the demise of its "democracy," and I won't want to see it.  My skin is just not thick enough.  And I'm too damn old to go through four more years of that.

You've really done it this time.  By that you did me in.    

You should be proud of yourselves.  You've proven me as right as I'll ever need to be: I did not want to be like you, I saw where that would lead.  At the end my father was round down by pain, curled up from his crumbled spine, taking nothing with him and leaving less behind.  That's what all that got him, that's all there is to get.  And what about you?  What kind of future do you see?  Is the humping you're getting worth the humping you're getting?  Do the words "in vain" mean anything to you yet?  How stupid are you, anyhow?  (No, I don't want to know the answer to that, I'll find out soon enough.) 

 

So.  These are the words I've got to write, this is all that comes to mind.  For now anyway; until you're sure I'm gone don't expect me to shut up.  Hearing myself type is my favorite noise, and my present state of mind and the likely immediate causes for it are my favorite subject.  It's all about me.  But you might as well start considering anything you read from me from now on as a bonus, a blessing, insult added to injury.  From here on out know that I've understood that it just ain't bloody worth it, nothing I can say will really mean anything to you.  Nothing ever has.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

Caring Costs

Earlier this month a Facebook friend asked for $18 for her old dog's prednisone; of course I came through for that. How could I not? This one Facebook friend once spent $500 fixing a feral cat's fucked up foot, getting his shots, etc. etc., because I asked her too. That's hard to beat. Then because I knew she's broke and Thanksgiving means turkey I put in a pickup order for one at her local Walmart, $14.37 well-spent.  (I've got my own turkey, and a ham, and a pork roast, so I'm set to feast all I'd really want to.)

And then just recently somebody posted that they're broke and need food, so because my SNAP/EBT is now pretty low I decided to put off buying things I can do without like vitamin E and no-sew buttons for suspenders and sent her Paypal for $26.85, leaving Checking with a nice round number that ought to do me for a month. That'll have to be it for "charity" for a while, but eh. I look forward to having my credit paid off and nobody needing anything so I can build my savings back up, but for now I'm still better off than the last year or so on Kees Rd. For one thing the thermostat is set for 75,  I don't need to bundle up inside. There's no sense in complaining about my life these days.

Of course I could have spent what I've given away this month on cheap booze and spent half my time all tipsy like I did in 2020. But then I spent a couple hours every morning hung over, which was stupid. It was that having 2 or 3 or 4 dogs to walk when the weather was suitable meant I had to be mobile and sober from say 1pm till after dark most days, so I had a responsibility I didn't want to shirk. Technically I could've afforded to never bother being sober if I'd bought rotgut vodka instead of bottom-shelf bourbon. You might think otherwise, but I find no moral virtue in being sober simply for its own sake; it's a matter of having responsibilities, or not. Like when I was house-sitting for this one lady friend for two months I never got too loaded (or too hungover) to take care of her dogs, to feed them and let them out and have quality time with them. (I dimly recall one bad dream about being too shitfaced to get myself and the dogs out back while the house burned, that was all that took.)

Anyway. I might make more attempts at fiction available so y'all can verify that in fact I can't write for toffee, on which you should feel no need to comment; as far as I can tell people's opinion of my intellect is low enough already. And I don't anybody to really  the essays I post to Facebook, except for a couple of similarly bored old men everybody's got better things to do. Fine by me, I write as if it's a symptom of Tourette's, because holding it in is harder than it should be. I'm not smart, just fucking crazy.

I've already outlived one ex-partner's father, who went out about a month and a half after his 61st birthday.  To outlive my own dad would take another three years, which at the moment seems like too much trouble for no purpose. Maybe I'll try harder for a longer time if I ever do after all produce some fiction that somebody whose intellect I respect might conceivably pay to read, or maybe if I can afford to get implants to snap my dentures onto so they can get rid of this annoying plastic palate, but either of those seems pretty remote. Readable writing would be a lot of work, and that dental work would probably mean paying off my Discover card for the rest of my life, and I've gotten this far for this long without either. And I never will have a cottage with a fenced yard for a dog or two. So this is apparently the la mas vida dulce I can reasonably expect, and under another Trump term yet. Fuck getting crippled and senile in that kind of society.

Anyway. I've got plenty of coffee and a CorningWare percolator. That should keep me awake long enough to read more highbrow shit and/or get more out of my Hulu subscription; last night I went to bed before midnight and spent 12 hours in bed, reading when not sleeping. Hibernating. Peacefully and painlessly. Till the vernal equinox that'll be fine & dandy, if it's possible, if nothing happens to fuck me up or stress me out. If I can't expect at least that much out of life...

 

 

A P.S.

 So I still need laxatives to poop, with that it's easy enough. 

 

Which reminds me of something. Quality of life is very important to me and after watching all the degrading debilities my crippled parents went through, especially towards the end, I've got pretty high standards for myself. By my standards I see people everyday in this building who by my standards are better off; of course that's none of my business, and I doubt anybody will last my opinion, but just for me that's how it is. For example I think I might be able to put up with not going walkies very often, but I insist on being able to get to the toilet by myself.

So anyway, I had to get out and do something, but it's clammy and wet out here, dreary very dreary, so it wasn't much. I've decided those five for $1.29 cigarillos are okay for now so I bought a pack, then I found out that apparently the markdown Halloween candy is all gone already, and then I marched my achy old ass all the way around the block. I figure that's about half a mile, maybe more. It wasn't actively raining so halfway through I took off my vinyl raincoat, sweating isn't fun.

Mentally speaking so far I seem to be handling recent events okay, okay for me anyway, but then it's just the prelude. Getting through Inauguration day is going to be an ordeal, that's also the four-year anniversary of my beloved Joey's death, so I reserved the right to get through that however I damn please. As for after that, we'll see. As I previously said, don't expect too much.

Sometime between now and then I'll get my new glasses, and I'll find out if Medicaid will pay for my hearing aids, and this Friday I'm going to see what the dental school can do about my dentition; and ordered a pair of glasses with fancy progressive lenses, which ought to be here in the next week or so, and tomorrow I'll call the audiologists' to see if thy have any news yet. For now my day to day functioning isn't very impaired. I'm even resisting going out to buy myself  an allowed pint of beer, which ain't that hard because it seems fried ripe plantain has a laxative effect, something I'll have to keep in mind.

 

All I can say is that I should be able to carry on okay if nothing bad happens to me. I don't know how much more stress I can take, and I don't want to find out.

 

I wish you all good luck. We're going to need it.