Caterwauling

A friend asked that at a rare dinner out last night. And yes it was outdoors.

I told a few stories in the affirmative. And that was before she inserted herself into a meme about someone who drives a nice car.

At least she finally confirmed why she’s obsessed with me.

I had a horrible dream a while back. That she requested me as her Handmaid.

And while the partner was conducting his portion of the ceremony, instead of holding my arms down, she was using my hands to touch me.

I’m going to need therapy.

I appreciate others’!

This was my Late Lent last year. It was the last time I looked at a delightful delight’s not-delightful social media.

Late Lent lasted till August. Whereupon I discovered that Delightless was still my biggest fan.

Still is.

I recently offered to sign autographs. It’s awesome to have a fan club. Cheers me right up.

Makes me want to rethink Late Lent for 2022!

The first time is always the hardest.

Beats going to places to insert oneself in a photo that was always meant to disappear.

Martin, Walter, Ian and Toby are all bosses I’ve had.

If we are going with that theme, we need to name a storm Brad. He wouldn’t bother to show up and it would be a big, expensive letdown when he did.

I don’t think about getting older. But I do spend an insane amount of time thinking about what I wouldn’t be able to do without my (admittedly decreasingly optimal) health.

Rather, I spend an insane amount of time thinking about HOLY SHIT, WHAT IF I NEVER GET TO DO ANY OF THE THINGS I’VE DELAYED.

I was just looking at some artwork in a medical establishment, done by patients, children, spouses and supporters who were/are part of this important journey.

I used to think that if some horrible diagnosis or other misfortune would befall me, I’d beat the odds.

Fuck the odds. I would be the miracle. I’d make them RECALCULATE THE ODDS.

Now … enh.

I see average people doing just fine in this world. Average students who went on to average existences. They seem happier than us ex-overachievers who have the nice cars and nervous breakdowns and questionable health to show for it.

In the face of, let’s say, not the best news, you look at a median survival rate of, let’s say, five years. I imagine many would say, “I’ll make it 25!” And I’m over here like, I can’t commit to a diet for five minutes. Dealing with something you can’t quit for five months … that may not be overcome-able even after five years … sounds pretty goddamned exhausting to me.

In any event, when faced with insurmountable things, I know the moment I stopped being the exception.

I just wonder when I stopped assuming I’d be the exception. And how that could/have changed things.

When I was at the last job, I longed to be back at this one.

Now … I just want to retire.

Which, according to my target year fund on my 401(k), is 23 years from now.

Which makes me wonder … I already know I don’t have the energy I once did for this insanity. I will never work those 14-hour days with two-hour commutes again.

And I’m not real sure I can keep doing 8-10 hours anymore either. It’s too intense, man. And the only solution is to give up projects I want because the rest are quite consuming.

This makes me to examine the lives and livelihoods of my Silent Generation and Boomer-age extended family. Some will never die. Others are so tired of hurting that they would welcome it. Every damn one of them retired early or on time, either way.

Makes me wonder, does my evil ass live to 100 like the hypocritical religious ones who feel entitled to long life?

Or do I kick off by/at retirement age as a result of un-/under-treated illnesses and pain like the (other?) good ones?

Just look at the Van Zant family. Ronnie — the one with all the talent, the one who wrote songs about the environment and voted for Carter — died young. And his idiot brothers are now serenading Wrong DeathSantis in song.

(Also, fuck Johnny. Seriously. His “Brickyard Road” got me through a very frustrating time in high school. The only reason that song was a success was because it was ABOUT his brother, I see that now. Just go back to fronting a cover band, bud, and I’ll just be over here burning your cassette.)

I used to think of myself as supra-human. I felt like I could rise above any sort of genetics or other preordained fate.

There’s also beauty in not knowing half my family. My chances of mortal pain and suffering are instantly slashed.

Unfortunately, I kind of had that bubble popped when my half-sister’s mom died last year.

Not that there’s any blood relation there. But I’m guessing she must have been a good person and that the rest probably aren’t quite in that league.

Probably a good guess. Also, damn it.

In any event, I’m not going anywhere yet. (Sorry TuhNaKYiz.)

Staying alive and sane is my main goal right now. But if at some point, I can’t muster the energy to do it even out of spite, assume faulty genetics won.

Actually, don’t assume anything. I plan to outlive my superfans even if it’s only by 15 minutes.

Maybe I need to scale back on the stress sooner rather than later to do that.

Gotta love when people who don’t care about you send others to get information on your health. So they can tweet about that, probably.

And, after that fails because I am not stupid, bragging that they have good health and good insurance.

Good for you.

On this day in 1989, “Heathers” was released in cinemas.

“What Is Your Damage, Heather?”

I got to thinking as I was processing my Big Will Smith Energy yesterday.

Am I the asshole?

Yes.

Do I feel any particular way about that?

Not especially.

I was thinking about all the shit I wish I said over the years. Every time I smiled publicly and wept privately. Every time I walked away and the perfect zinger popped into my brain 10 seconds too late.

After you’ve been hurt enough, your filter disintegrates.

Not to say I haven’t said some mean and accurate shit over time. If there’s anything I miss Psycho for, it’s how we could sit and be bitches together. It was when we turned on each other that I felt the sting. Like, damn, we are evil when we feel wronged. Better to team up and be evil together, at least for my own sense of safety.

I remember the day I walked away for good. He called to tell me his dog had died. I loved that dog and wept more than I’d ever admit. But then more calls came. And I didn’t want to go back to that cycle of (co)dependence. I didn’t want to go pick up the ashes. I didn’t want to be there for the other favors that would follow.

I thought about the night we had to call the cops because a friend OD’d. How I had to beg the cops not to arrest these clearly troubled souls for the trace amount of pot they found and were marking as evidence. How we camped out in the OR at the expense of a major deadline I was on. How my heart was just wearing out from the velocity that came with “having friends.”

He always made fun of me that I wanted to be a homebody. It wasn’t that. Anyone who knows me, knows I can’t sit my pudgy pork roast ass at home. I just didn’t want the drama that sometimes came with going out and the substances we all consumed that amped it up to 11.

In any event, I know he holds that time against me. It was me choosing me. It was a rare occasion of me honoring my boundaries.

It also led to living in absolute fear of being stalked, attacked, having my identity compromised and losing my job. All of those fears were founded, BTW. All of them.

Again, enemies are often better closer.

Happy anniversary, “Beetlejuice”

What’s sad is the few thoughts I’ve had about this person, he would probably have appreciated. We always did love a good joke, even when we were the butt of it.

I think that’s why I don’t let much slide anymore. For all the years I shut my face so Beetlejuice wouldn’t reappear. It’s the reason comments are closed on the blog, after years of getting cute comments from cool bloggers with whom I am real-life friends now. It wasn’t worth it.

I’ve oft pulled the plug on my social media for the same reason. But determined people get around the blocks and bans. It’s really not worth it to exert effort for people you wouldn’t even hold a door open for if you saw them running toward you.

Read away. Thank you for finding me so wildly compelling.

In any event, I could very well admit to being wrong or at least being an asshole about some things. But when I dig deep in my black heart, I see nothing.

Heck, a part of me WANTS to find some ounce of compassion to prove that I have some for beings other than my mom and cats.

And if that makes me an asshole, well, as I told the original menace, I hope the next time you’re up someone’s ass, they get diarrhea.

I guess that makes me Team Chris Rock after all.