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I’ve been through a metric shitton of therapy, both individual and group, to varying degrees of success. Spent two years in an intensive outpatient program (IOP), in fact. Grief recovery and suicide prevention was the main focus. Most everyone in that group – and I saw people come and go over time as I became the senior member – probably suffered some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (amongst other maladies).

I recall my very first day of IOP. I’d had a nervous breakdown and couldn’t work. Showed up at the encouragement of my individual therapist.

There might have been 6 or 7 others there that first day. I had no idea what to expect. The first (of four) hours of each day was check-in time. Everyone in group spent 5 minutes “checking in,” telling the therapists what was going on. Because it was my first day, I got to check in last. Which seemed to be a mistake.

As each stranger reported in on their life, I heard stories that made me question what the fuck *I* was doing there.

Jesus, I don’t have any fucking problems compared to these people. What’s my deal?

Horror stories, some of them. If I weren’t so polite, I might have just sat there with my jaw hanging open, listening to it all.

Turns out, as I’d learn over time, there were more than a handful of distortions I was clinging to. Everyone’s problems are different, everyone’s life is different. Trying to compare your struggles to mine isn’t a fair comparison most of the time. Apples and oranges, etc. Or, as I tended to say, one person’s savior is another person’s pair of lead boots.

We had these sheets we’d fill out called Trauma Sheets, where we’d discuss traumatic events in our life and “process” these things with the group. The first time I told a story from my past, I was stunned. Mostly because my group members were stunned and more than one of them were left with their jaws hanging open.

“What?” I said. “That’s not normal?”

Come to find out lots of things from my childhood weren’t “normal.”

You can’t spend five days a week, four hours a day, with a small group of people and not make friends. Some of us hung out outside group, spending even more time together. Naturally, there were rules in IOP. We weren’t allowed to engage in any sexual activity with each other. Group members weren’t allowed to loan or borrow money. (The group represented most cross-sections of society…some of us were poor and relying on food banks, others were pretty damn well off.) These rules were meant to keep the group a safe place. There was already enough conflict and stuff to deal with – didn’t need to create more drama between us (though there was some of that, too, because not everyone followed the rules all the time).

Lots of group therapy stories, but I ramble enough already. Oddly, I left group and quickly lost track of most all those folks. Haven’t been in a group therapy situation since.

So when the Matrix Therapist suggested yesterday the notion of group therapy, I said that I didn’t have a problem with it. EXCEPT that the groups she was suggesting were at the main VA facility in Tampa. Being in Sebring, there’s only a small clinic here…most anything specialized requires a visit to the main hospital, about 2 hours away from me.

“Depending on how often these groups meet,” I said, “that could be a lot of traveling.” I mean, two hours there, one or two hours of group (I’m assuming), then two hours back home? That’s a full fucking day. And even once a week, that’d add up pretty fast to lots of gas money.

Which is what led the Matrix Therapist bring up something I’ve never experienced: INpatient treatment. Meaning: you stay in facility instead of staying at home.

Whoa.

But let’s face facts: whatever I’m doing now ain’t working. I’m stuck. Again. Stagnant, even, and I find that to be the equivalent of a 4-letter word. The meds aren’t doing their thing (so far). Being in-house would let them aggressively play with meds while I’m under their watch. Plus, there’d (presumably) be a lot of structure with the group situation.

What terrifies me about this (much as I can see the potential good in it) is that I’d be totally outside my comfort zone. The likelihood of there being unrestricted Internet access is slim to none. And most all of my friends are living inside my computer. Yikes. Sure, they’ll probably let me keep my iPhone, but I’ve been to that hospital and the signal inside (as is true for many hospitals) sucks ass.

I’d be not only hanging with strangers – and sharing lots of stories/events with them – but living with them, as well.

*ring ring*

Hello?

Hi, Karl, it’s me, Social Phobia.

I don’t know how long this inpatient thing typically lasts, but the MT said yesterday it could be as little as 3 or 4 days.

“No way,” I told her. “That’s not enough time to do shit with medication.” Hell, we’ve been playing this round of the Pharmaceutical Game for many months now. I’m no stranger to being a lab rat. Meds that mess with the brain take weeks/months to gain efficacy.

My educated guess for how long I’d stay is something along the lines of at least 2-3 weeks, if not more. Which, in Karl Time, is like 2-3 months of not sleeping in my own bed, not being able to get online any time I want to, not being able to stay up till 1 in the morning, not being able to walk around in my boxers all the time. The list goes on.

That’s a long time to be outside my comfort zone.

Nevertheless, I told the MT that I’m not averse to the options. So this morning I went back in and, after getting blood drawn for my diabetes, met with the Matrix Therapist again to fill out a qualifying questionnaire.

I should hear either today or maybe Monday from the VA about if I qualify and, subsequently, where I fall on the waiting list. Then I can ask questions like:

• How long is the average stay?
• What am I allowed to bring with me from home?
• What is the structure of the program? How many hours of the day are scheduled, and how much free time do we get?
• Is there wifi?
• What’s the bed time?
• Do I have to be roomies with anyone possessing that old-man smell? (What? This is the VA we’re talking about. I’m a young whippersnapper compared to most of these people.)
• How do we deal with things like my insulin and syringes?
• Is there live-tweeting allowed from group?

I don’t have answers to any of these yet, but hope to soon. If anything, as Sybil was keen to point out last night on the phone, I should get some decent blog posts out of it.

So there’s that.

--- Thanks for reading! SecondHand Tryptophan

Enjoyed last night’s episode of 2HRadio with Cissa, where we talked about all sorts of things, including last weekend’s SillyBring. She and Shannon both wrote about the weekend on their blogs.

We had six of us for Sillybring: CheekySweetie, Shannon, Cissa, Whostolemyzen, NoelleD, and of course myself. Even though I brought my camera, I didn’t get any shots (aside from when Shannon and I went to Gatorama).

So let’s go with a couple of good photo sets from Cissa and Shannon, because they had the presence of mind to take lots of pics.

Here’s Shannon’s photos on Flickr.

And Cissa’s.

And my photos from Gatorama, which include the grinning Pepe LePew, who is getting laid. Lucky fucking skunk. If I want to get laid, I have to recruit crack whores…and even they are a tad picky.

Because I’m lazy and undergoing a series of anxiety attacks the last couple of days, I’m going to bulletize SillyBring.

• Shannon’s first night in Sebring nearly brought a live possum to her chair on my front porch. It was a big fucker, too. I shooed it away like it was a dog, half chasing it across my yard so that Shannon wouldn’t freak. Fortunately, despite having a run of bad luck lately, this particular possum was not, in fact, rabid, and did not leap for my throat and bite through my jugular. I assured Shannon I’d never seen a possum before, let alone had one walk up my sidewalk straight up to me…I don’t know that she believed me.
• Gatorama once again proved to kick ass. It was the one time I had my camera with me throughout the weekend. I was too busy enjoying everyone else’s company beyond that. We both got to hold a baby gator and croc, see TONS of gators in the lake (all of whom seem to be Jewish, since they swam for bagels like they were heroine), and the fucking skunks (literally). Also hung around long enough to see the gators being fed, which was something else. All in all, a fun afternoon with a VERY Floridian activity. Gator jerky available in the gift shop, please come again.
• CheekySweetie arrived a day before SillyBring to hang with Shannon and I before the other ladies got to town. Love, love, love her and enjoyed having two of my fave women together in one location again. Her laugh always gets me to smiling and laughing myself…much needed.
• Met up with Cissa, WhostolemyZen, and NoelleD at the Blue Lagoon for lunch (corn nuggets!) on Saturday. Fun and hilarity ensued (for pretty much the next 24 hours). WhostolemyZen and NoelleD and the others soon realized that corn nuggets are much like crack. Cissa was not overly impressed. Witches, whaddya gonna do?
• The next few hours were filled with shopping at Ross Dress For Less, Michaels, and some other clothing store. Shannon has been losing quite a bit of weight, and wanted some girl power to help her find clothes. The mumu looked great, but she went with different looks for some reason.
• There was much Foursquaring going on all weekend, of course. Vying for Mayorships in new venues was exhausting, but I wound up Mayor of a couple more places, even if it meant ousting some friends in the process. That’s right, bitches, I’m now a Super Mayor!
• We all spent quite a bit of time in our hotel room…2 bedroom suite, 2 bathrooms. It was perfect for the 6 of us to gather and hang. We also spent some time in the pool and hot tub. Mmm.
• Dinner at Don Jose’s Mexican that night. My Mom joined us all. It was Angel’s first time at a Mexican restaurant!
• The Why Not Lounge was perfection that night. Ladies drink free from 10-midnight (y’know, thinking of my ladies) and the people-watching was out of this world. People straight out of “Deliverance” were at the next table. I was just waiting for the banjo music to start. There were lots of big eyes (as SillyBringers stared openly at family members grinding on each other during songs, incredibly drunk folks who couldn’t talk or sing but tried anyway, and an amorous couple getting it on in the ladies’ bathroom) and laughs. Oh, and branding…can’t forget the branding. Shannon and Cissa and I sang karaoke, while Angel, WhostolemyZen, and NoelleD said “There’s not enough booze on Earth to get us up there.”
• Next morning, the girls came back to Shannon’s, Angel’s, and my hotel room and hung out some more, doing girly things like hairwraps for Shannon and Angel. I figured I’d forego the hairwrap, since my hair is maybe half an inch long.
• We went to Bob Evans for brunch (yay for blueberry crepes), lots more laughter, and ultimately our goodbyes. We took a few more photos outside, hugged and kissed each other farewell, then Cissa and WhostolemyZen and Noelle D took off for home.
• Shannon and Angel and I hung out at my house for a little while before Angel went back home. Then Shannon and I, though sad to see everybody leave, kinda vegged out and napped. I may have uttered the words, “I’m too old for this partying shit” once or twice.

And that was pretty much SillyBring. Shannon stayed another day, we enjoyed some mindless TV after our naps on Sunday. She made a delicious steak dinner for my Mom and I. Think we played some more “Price is Right” on the Wii before hitting the sack, exhausted. Next morning, more mindless TV (including RuPaul’s Drag Show). Enjoyed Shannon’s company immensely.

Then it was time to drive Shannon back to Orlando International to fly home. We listened to the Kick-Ass soundtrack on the way, having both LOVED the movie. Dropped her off at the Southwest check-in, hugs and kisses, and that was that. I drove home, sad to see Shannon go. Sad to see the extended weekend come to a close. Sad to be back in Sebring all by my lonesome.

And not to be a bummer, but my depression has really been taking a nasty turn for the worst, ramping up throughout the week ever since Shannon left. Nothing seems to be clicking for me…no matter what I try, I’m not feeling it. Reading, TV, music, being online, even rubbing one out – fucking anhedonia can suck my left one.

My naps aren’t all that great because (I think) of the Abilify. Which sucks, because naps are one of my escapes from reality. I feel paralyzed and overwhelmed, too. So much to do, some of it complicated, all of which led to anxiety attacks yesterday, where I had to constantly remind myself to breathe.

You’ve got to be a special kind of stupid to forget to breathe, yeah? I thought so, too.

a

Thanks to all of you that sent in entries for the Funniest Sex Story contest. We had eight funny stories. They’ve all been read and the votes are in. Thanks to Shannon, Mike, and Janet, my amazing judges.

The Runner-Up is Sandi, who wins a special prize from the SecondHand TryptoGear store:

As a diligent public servant, I worked as a court clerk in a public safety building which consisted of only 2 stories. Rumors were rampant as police, fire, and the courts were all in 1 building, and well, boys will be boys. I kept my nose clean and my reputation cleaner refusing to “fish off my own pier.”

I had been dating someone in the legal field, which often brought them to the building several times a week. As our relationship intensified (got closer to having sex), one day 3 dozen long stem roses were delivered to my office, to celebrate our 3 weeks of dating and his 3 weeks of waiting. This of course caused quite a bit of ruckus in the rumor mill and secretaries to cops were putting out APB’s trying to figure out just what innocent little me could have done to receive 3 dozen roses.

Shortly thereafter, he arrived at my office with a single rose. He had paid his penance and waited quite gallantly. We used the NEVER used elevator since the building was only 2 stories, pushed the emergency stop button, and I began to show my appreciation for the flowers. However, a building full of firemen and cops that hear an emergency bell tend to come running quickly, and our episode was cut short. It was clear to the huge crowd when we exited the elevator either something of a sexual nature had/was going to happen or this young man had a subway sandwich in his pants.

Embarrassed highly – but not thwarted – our hormones took over once we entered my office just off the courtroom. It was a Tuesday, meaning no court, no judge, empty huge room with solid furniture. I slipped on the judges robe (why? who the fuck knows? I was horny) and we began to “make mad passionate rulings” right there on top of the judges mahogany bench.

I had the gavel in my hand and it was just insane crazy good shit, like when you haven’t eaten in a week and you eat a cracker. Yeah, damn good cracker. We were letting loose over a month’s worth of pent up sexual anxiety and tension and it was awesome. Well until the point the mayor and the local news crew with cameras rolling came thru the court room double doors and looked straight at us.

Yeah, apparently it was “student government day” and there was a high school boy shadowing the mayor and the stupid TV News thought that was a worthy story. As the mayor was showing this kid around his kingdom, I don’t think they thought they would run across a court clerk being pounded on the judges bench with cameras rolling.

Much to my pleasure, the local news was kind enough (paid off) and didn’t air the story. The guy I was dating sent more flowers but I just knew it would never be as good as it was that day so I dumped him. Plus, the mayor kind of said something about conflict of interest. Oh yeah, I had to have the judge’s robe cleaned and apologize …that sucked.

And the Winner of the $25 gift certificate from Eden Fantasys is…

Certifiable Princess! Congrats, CP. Here’s her story:

So there I was, minding my own business.

No. Really. I was.

“Minding my own business” is probably a very polite way of saying “so I was in front of the computer, getting myself off, when all of a sudden…”

Oh yeah. Like you don’t. Pffft. Whatever.

Let me take you back, back, back…way back, to a time before the hotband was in the picture. To a time when internet porn reigned supreme in my life, because frankly A) I was checking out women, not men, B) The ex was a little lacking in the “give it to me night and day, baby” department and finally C) I don’t know. I was bored, it was there.

Again. Don’t judge me. You know damn well you do it too. You just don’t admit it on your blogs.

So there I am, in my computer chair. No kids at home. No (ex) husband was home at the time. It was just me, my computer and my portable little friend, Buzz Lightyear.

*blinks* Yeah. Like you don’t have a name for your vibrators (and/or penises!).

Lawdy, so judgmental!

I am pullin’ up some sweetass lesbo porn, a few threesomes, some gangbangs, couple of upskirts…you know, your average male porn, except it was being enjoyed by me…a female. Isn’t that so erotic? *eye roll* (I can literally hear my hotband panting all the way from NYC) *snort* HONEY! You’ve heard this story already. Get over it.

Anyway, when I feel I am primed and supremely ready for the thrills to begin, CLICK! On goes Buzz Lightyear! Yes! TAKE ME THERE! To Infinity…and BEYOND! Mouse in the right hand, Buzz in my left (yes, I am ambidextrous. I am also sodium free and low in monotriglycerides) and going to funky town! Wee hoo! When all of a sudden…

*snap*

My nail breaks.

Now, most women would have ignored this completely and continued with their quest to find the honeypot, the top of the mountain, the promised land. Nope. Not me. I cannot bear to look at the brunette babe, spread-eagle in front of me, a vision of celluloid perfection…WHILE I AM SPORTING A BROKEN NAIL! No. The Jewish princess in me takes over. This simply will not do. I mean, come on. How tacky is this? I won’t even look at porn that has a poorly manicured or pedicured model. It’s not that I am a porn snob, it’s just that I am…well, okay, so I’m a porn snob. But if I expect the most from my porn, then dammit, I will be nothing less than perfect when I cum too!

I place Buzz down on my bare lap, pants down around my ankles and lean down to my purse to get out my nail glue.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

SQUEEZE.

Nothing.

*stab stab stab the top of the tube of glue with safety pin and SQQQQQQQUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEZE…*

SPLOOGE!

Crazy glue explodes everywhere. I drop my fingernail. Bends over to pick up said fingernail, gluing her extremely large tits to the crazy glue that has pooled in my lap.

“SHIT!” I exclaim.

“Bzzzzzzz,” replies Buzz Lightyear with a muffled cry from below my mammaries.

“HA!” snorts extremely hot brunette spread eagle on my computer screen. If she could be laughing at me, she would be.

“What the fuck could be worse than this,” I think aloud, while trying to dislodge her vibrator from between her nipple and her labia.

*sound of garage door opening*

“HOLY FUCK,” I shriek, and jump jump jump, bent over, ass out, tits glued to thighs, into my bathroom and turn on the shower.

“Honey,” says the (ex) husband, “are you here?”

“I’m in the shower,” I call back.

“But I’m here,” says the hot brunette still dangling on the computer screen.

Fuck.

It was sort of hard explaining to my (ex) husband why there was a naked woman on my computer monitor.

“There was??? Really???” I feign complete ignorance. “Oh my gosh, someone must have sent me a virus.”

*blink. blink*

After 8 years, I think the patch of skin on my upper thigh is finally the same color as the rest of my thigh. For a long time, I had a tell-tale dildo shaped white spot where my tan tore away in the shape of my vibrator.

I now refer to it as my “birthmark”. It’s this version of the story that allows me to keep my PTA membership intact.

a

Tonight on SecondHand Radio, my guest is the lovely and nude Naked Jen! I met Jen at BlogHer ‘09 in Chicago. Actually, the first time I saw her, she was, well, naked. Paraded herself in all her glory down the escalator, through the hotel lobby, and got cheered the whole way.

I thought, “I really need to meet this woman.” She’s totally taken my Dancing in My Boxers idea to the ultimate level. While I’ve been naked on my blog, I don’t know that I have the guts Jen has.

She’s also a vegetarian, into the homeopathic scene, and loves dogs. We’re gonna have a great time chatting and I hope you can join us.

Showtime: 10:00 PM EST, 9PM Central, 8PM Mountain, 7PM Pacific. Chatroom opens 15 minutes before showtime.

Call-In Number: 724-444-7444, Call ID 23738

Show Link: http://www.talkshoe.com/tc/23738

List of future guests can be found here.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED: To avoid browser problems (which some people tend to have with Talkshoe), you should do the following:

1. REGISTER AT TALKSHOE BEFORE THE SHOW.

2. DOWNLOAD THE TALKSHOE CLIENT.

3. If you have trouble logging in, feel free to call in and I’ll leave you on mute. You can listen to the show live that way.

The Talkshoe Live client works great and (for my money, though it’s free) offers a better chatroom experience.

Look forward to seeing you all there tonight. You’re all welcome to call in and chat.

a

If you've come to the site you probably see that really annoying box that already broke the news. It's what we in the biz call a "spoiler". In fact, you may have lingered 6 seconds too long and moved on already. It happens.

However, you might be reading this in your feed reader and to that I say, a) thank you, and b) the blog has moved. After 5 years of flirting with Blogger I figured it was time to buy a domain and settle down. So I did. The New Honea Express can be found at www.whithonea -- yes, I'm somebody. Thank you for making it happen.

I hope you've enjoyed yourself enough to consider an update to your feed reader and continue the journey. I'd love to have you.

Anything can happen.

I can see the cat, white and quick, through the bare, gray trees. The cat runs in sudden bursts and stops on a dime, or whatever passes for currency amongst the wild. He stops and he stares.

There is a pattern here, for I too am stopped. I too am staring. I am watching him watch something else and that thing may be watching yet another something and so forth and so on and I can't help but wonder who is watching me.

I live in a glass house. I like to throw stones.

This past Monday my little blog turned five. That's like 80 in blog years. We didn't have a party. We didn't decorate. You didn't get me anything.

It's okay.

I take solace in the thought that you are there. Each post is a piece of me and together they blur like the trees for the forest. Sometimes I run. Sometimes I sit. Sometimes I stare at something else.

And always you've been there for me. Thank you for watching.

When I decided to do the Year of Resolutions thing, I had no idea what was coming my way. Clearly. Had I, I never would have ventured forth with the project, no matter how brilliant an idea it was for me.

I just figured that I’m better with bite-sized chunks, rather than full-blown permanent resolutions. One resolution, 30 days, no biggie. And at the end of each month, to quantitatively know if it’s been a success or not – or even a relative success (because I’m far from perfect) – is pretty cool.

But almost three weeks in and I’m going slightly mad. I’m sleep-deprived, stressed to the gills, not to mention stir-crazy. It’s only been a week, folks. Mom broke her kneecap a week ago Monday and I’m already melting down. There’s a long road ahead still.

Yes, to be fair to myself (something I’m not very often), I have other birds and kettles of fish in the bush (or whatever). It’s not just caretaking Mom that’s stressing me out. Nevertheless, if I don’t find a rhythm soon and pace myself, I’m seriously going to be fucked. I mean, more fucked than I was twice the past week with my diabetes episodes.

I have snapped at some of my favorite people on Earth recently. I’ve said things I regret. I’ve made a record number of poor decisions and judgment calls the last week. I’ve even pulled passive-aggressive bullshit that would infuriate me from anyone else. I’m not slamming myself  here (mostly), I’m just stating facts. I’m not happy with myself since Mom’s accident. My emotions seem like exposed nerve endings, raw to the touch. I’ve come perilously close to bawling my eyes out. Sunday night, in fact, I had what can only be described as the “dry heaves” equivalent of crying.

Couldn’t make them come.

Here’s how messed in the head I am of late. Monday, I came *this* close to shutting it all down. Deleting EVERYTHING…Twitter, Facebook, my blog…all of it. So overwhelmed by my own assininity that I just figured it’d be easier to say “Fuck it all!” and never worry about social media again.

Fortunately, a leveler head was in mine *somewhere* and I realized that would be stupid. First off, out of all my years blogging, I’ve only seen one person successfully (meaning, permanently) shut down their blog. Everyone else is pretty much full of shit. They come crawling back, usually within a week. “Oops, my goof. I’m back. Please disregard that whole 2,000-word rant about how I’m disappearing forever and deleting everything FOREVER. I couldn’t stay away.”

And that’s the thing. I KNOW I can’t stay away for long. So I followed the advice I usually reserve for my idiot friends who are overwhelmed and ready to shoot their online identities in the face at point-blank range.

That advice? Don’t post. Don’t tweet. Don’t do any of it. For now. Come back when you’re ready. Anything more drastic than that, and you’re gonna regret it.

I have enough regrets already, I don’t need any free refills, thanks.

On top of that, I’m actually (slowly but Shirley) finding a new blogging rhythm. I’ve blogged more this month than I have in a long time. And I think that’ s a good thing. For me, at least, and isn’t that what matters?

What I have done is create an anonymous blog that only *I* know about for the sorts of things that I can’t (or won’t) say here. Don’t ask me for the URL. I don’t care WHO you are, you’re not getting it. It’s for me, and me only.

Then there’s the YOR. I started it, I need to do my best to see it through. It’s daunting, but it’s far less daunting than telling myself at midnight as the big ball drops down in Times Square that I’ll never smoke a cigarette again. That’s the whole point behind my YOR concept. You can do almost *anything* for 30 days.

In order to really make the YOR effective for me, I need to blog about it. Not only does it help me keep a record of my progress (and setbacks) but it also keeps me accountable. My friends read this fucking thing (for some reason that often escapes me). I have a Prick Buddy, one of my favorite ladies on Earth, who swaps blood sugar readings with me via text and Tweets. That helps a lot. So much so that I’m going to try to find a way to have a Buddy for each of the 11 Resolutions to follow this year.

Here’s where I bring up the fact that I do a great ostrich impersonation. My primary method of coping throughout my life has been avoidance…pretending it’s not happening. That’s not healthy. I’ve dropped off the grid many times and I made a promise a while back to Hilly (one of many victims of my sudden and thorough disappearances) that I would NOT disappear again. And I may make a lot of mistakes, but I do try hard to stick by my promises. Not always possible, but I go by the motto: “Make very few promises, and bust your ass to keep the few you do make.”

So I’ll reiterate, if only for my own clarity and peace of mind (fragile as that may be at the moment). I won’t completely drop off the grid. That’s not to say I may not stop posting for a while, if necessary. Or that I won’t stay off Facebook and Twitter for a while at a time. But I won’t totally ignore all of my email (permanently) or phone calls. And I’ll make an effort to stay in touch with my friends to let them KNOW I’m taking a social media breather. For now, though, you’re stuck with me.

I have spent relatively little time on Twitter of late, less than usual. That’s not likely to change soon. I’m still myopic (perhaps more so than when I wrote that post). Mostly, I send out Tweets and only respond to those who address me first. I don’t ever sit in front of Tweetdeck for 45 minutes and spend time interacting, really…reading other people’s Tweets. Not feeling Twitter that way, and I don’t feel guilty about it, either. Twitter is a tool and I’ll use the tool however I want. Heh, I said “tool.” Twice. Well, three times now, actually.

My friends know how to reach me, anyway. You’ve got my number. I sure as hell hope you’re not waiting for ME to call. I’m a little swamped, in case you  haven’t noticed.

Today is January 20th. I have 11 days to figure out what February’s resolution is going to be. Open to suggestions. I have one in mind that seems very fitting to follow up this month’s, but with 12 resolutions in 12 months, I need all the help I can get.

Last night, I was given the chance to get out of the house for a while, and I took it. My TNT girls came over for Tuesday night dinner and they kept Mom company, while my best bud and I went to go see “Youth in Revolt.” It was truly what I needed, a respite from…well, everything.

Lots of laughs (till we were both crying). And as an aside, how come I can be so fucking funny OFF my blog but can’t ever seem to bring it here any more? Dunno. But we ate in the mall food court so we could mock people watch. Then we saw a really good movie.

“Youth in Revolt” has been one of my all-time favorite novels for over 15 years now. I picked it up at a Barnes & Noble and laughed out loud on page 1. Within 120 seconds, I owned it. And there were a LOT more laughs after that. Funny as shit, and very smart comedy, too. I’ve bought that book at least a dozen times over the years, only to loan it out to friends and never see it again. Usually, because THEY loan it out to THEIR friends…it’s a vicious cycle. And I don’t care because it’s THAT good.

The concessions stand guy was talking about “Revolt” last night, saying that the movie seems to have a “cult following.” I didn’t even snicker at what a cult following in Sebring might look like. I just said, “There *is* a cult following, because it’s one of the funniest books I’ve ever read.”

“Really?”

My bud agreed, because I’m the one responsible for getting HER to read it and subsequently chomping at the bit to see the film.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s like Ferris Bueller on steroids.” I was pretty proud of that summation because it’s apt and rolls off the tongue well. At any rate, I think I have 3 more converts to the books of C.D. Payne. Yes, people, there are SIX books in the Twisp series and they’re all good.

The movie? Fantastic. I’ve waited over a decade for this flick and I’m happy to say they do the first book justice. Sure, there’s a lot missing, but they did a really good job condensing it down into a 90-minute flick (not to mention modernizing a book that is nearly 20 years old). I’m impressed with screenwriter Gustin Nash, who is also responsible for the sublime “Charlie Bartlett” a couple of years ago.

The casting was superb. Michael Cera nails the part. Steve Buscemi? Ray Liotta? Fred Willard on shrooms? Rockin’.

If you haven’t yet met Nick Twisp, the 14-year-old protagonist of “Youth in Revolt,” I highly recommend you get to a bookstore or library and pick up a copy. It used to be an obscure thing to find, but with a movie out, it’s probably a lot easier to get a hold of. I snickered at “Confederacy of Dunces,” but SNORTED with “Revolt.” Many times over.

Laugh out loud expel liquid through your nose funny, people.

On top of the movie and the company, I had a really amazing texting session with a very dear one and that helped to calm me, too. Temporarily. Which I’ll take.

Yes, I know this is a long post, but seriously…can you really be surprised? You’re at MY blog, after all. Maybe it’ll help you to know that this was originally supposed to be two posts. Nah, probably not.

Gonna wrap up with the doctor updates. This morning, I went in for blood (and pee) tests. First step in correcting my medications. It occurred to me, while peeing in a little cup and trying to keep my guggenheimer from actually dipping into my own urine, that I have NO idea how WOMEN do that shit. And I don’t want to know, either. I’m just going to assume it gets done somehow, probably by magic Urine Elves or something.

I go back Friday morning for my follow-up, after my blood test results are in. We’ll make adjustments from there. For now, I’m supposed to test my sugar FOUR times a day. Ugh. Before each of my three meals (oh yeah, I’m suppose to eat three times a day), and then two hours after dinner. And I’m off long-acting insulin and one of my diabetes pills till then, too. Which is good, because I’ve already been doing that. Something about crashing twice in a week has made me pretty skittish about taking insulin before bedtime.

Odd part about that is – much as I fantasize about blinking out of existence with nary a POPping sound – I actually fear NOT waking up. I can’t say I’m happy to be alive, but I CAN say I’d rather not be dead. I suppose that’s something.

I also have the Matrix Therapist Friday afternoon, first time in over a month, I think.

AND Friday morning is Mom’s surgery for her kneecap. Lots of friends to sit with me in the waiting room, even stay while I go to my own doctor appointment. Much as I’d rather be at the hospital the whole time, I’ve got to get MY proverbial house in order so I can take care of Mom. So I’ll keep my appointments.

Yeah, another (of many) lessons I’m learning lately: ask for help and don’t hesitate to use it when offered. That’s a biggie for me. I’m not a guy who easily admits he needs a hug, let alone help.

I’m still hurting. A lot. But it’s not quite as bad today as it was early yesterday morning when I started writing this diatribe.

Thanks to all of you for your texts, Tweets, Facebook love, emails, and phone calls. I may not be the speediest to respond, but I do see it all and appreciate it.

Now I need a nap. Mom is sleeping and I should take advantage of it.

a

I wrote this late last Sunday for CheekySweetie’s blog. I know it was overdue, but I did get it done. -K

So there was this bet that Angel and I made. She claimed that the carpet in her bedroom was the ugliest carpet on Earth. I told her that I have 10 years on her, grew up in the 70’s, and have seen a TON of ugly carpet. Hello? Lime green and burnt orange, people? Shag carpeting?

If, in fact, she did possess the ugliest carpet on Earth, I would have to write her a guest post for her blog. This, during a time when I barely touched my own blog. Good choice. She wanted to make me work.

If, in fact, she did NOT own the nastiest carpet on the planet, well…shit, I forget what I would have won. It doesn’t matter, clearly, because I’m here, aren’t I?

I lose. Story of my life.

She really does have the ugliest carpet on the planet. It has dark orange and blood red and puce and cream, all swirled together in this melange that you’d think would look like a creamsicle but, in fact, looks like someone vomited all over her floor. I wish I’d gotten photos of it.

Thought about it a lot over the holidays. Wasn’t sure what I’d write, but came up with a Top 10 list because I’m lazy.

I don’t ever talk about my love life on my own blog, but then, I’m not exactly AT my blog, now am I? See? This is what you get for getting me to write a guest post for you, Angel. Next time you’ll think twice.

Why CheekySweetie Rocks

1. Angel blogs. I’ve always said that my future girlfriend was going to have to be a blogger. Blogger girls are the only ones who’d understand all the time I spend on a computer. Facebook, Twitter, blogging…she does it all and more often than I do. She doesn’t even blink when my thumbs are blazing across my iPhone’s virtual keyboard, mostly because she’s on her Droid Eris playing Bonsai Blast and doesn’t give a fuck. Me likey.
2. Angel is smart and shit. Like, really really smart. Case in point, she beats me at least 50% of the time on Words With Friends (a Scrabble clone). This is why I like her intelligence only 50% of the time (at least). Seriously, smart chicks are very sexy, and she has the sexy in spades. She’s not *too* smart, though. She still gets that impish grin when I say something juvenile like, “Heh, you just said ‘hard.’”
3. Angel is geeky. One time (not in band camp), I was on my iPhone and I gasped with excitement. “You know what I love?” I said to her. Without even looking up from her iPod Touch, she said, “When you go to the App Store and there are updates for your apps waiting?” Oh. My. God. I showed her my phone…4 app updates ready. “YES!” She totally gets me.
4. Angel is low-maintenance. I need to make this the criteria for all my relationships, friendship or otherwise. I like low-mai. She doesn’t care that my main wardrobe consists of silly t-shirts and cargo shorts. She doesn’t demand a lot of phone time. In fact, half the time, our dialogue is via text messaging. Don’t get me wrong. We talk on the phone frequently, and I always enjoy it, but she’s not big into the phone talk, and either am I. Usually.
5. Angel is generous. Spent a few days with her and the kids in Daytona Beach right after New Year’s. I was outside on the balcony smoking (what can I say? I’m smoking hot) and she told me what there was for lunch. I said I’d make a sandwich when I got back inside. When I did get back inside (brr! It was FREEZING out!) there was a sandwich already waiting. “You didn’t have to do that, babe,” I said. She just smiled and said, “I know.” That’s just one example out of dozens, if not hundreds. Oh, and she rubs my shoulders a lot, which kinda makes me purr.
6. Angel is kind. Time and time again, I’ve watched her with others. She’s always encouraging, always has nice things to say…kind of the opposite of me, really.
7. Angel makes me laugh. A lot. This fits well into my new life philosophy: Laugh more, laugh more. On top of that, she has a great laugh herself, though she might not agree with me on that. Always makes me smile to hear it, and really, aren’t I what matters most?
8. Angel says what she’s feeling. Like, without head games and crap. Do you know how rare this is? She tells it like it is, and doesn’t mince words about it, either. I dig that. Heavily. Her honesty is refreshing and never laced with malice, and I dig that, too.
9. Angel is a phenomenal mother. I’ve watched her with those children of hers, and I’ve spent time with those kids. They’re super-smart, polite kids, all three of whom are a delight to be around. Well, save for the teen boy, who is excelling at his misanthrope duties. Angel is amazing at showing her kids that they have choices, and that there are consequences for our choices. She’s also very good at follow-through, which many of us parents sadly lack a lot of the time.
10. Angel doesn’t think I suck. Really, this should be at the top of the list…y’know, if I were prioritizing the list. It should go without saying that a girlfriend would not think her boyfriend sucks, but I continue to find this amazing. My insecurities run rampant (depending on the day) and I often wonder what any woman in her right mind would see in me. Angel doesn’t hesitate to tell me. And I almost believe her.

So, to sum up, Angel is like a comedic slightly-raunchy version of Mother Teresa. Just with better boobs.

a

I had a great freaking holiday weekend. I really needed it. So much stress, so much bad juju floating around my neck of the blogosphere. Many loved ones in pain right now, myself included.

So I really needed the laughs, and I got them. You can’t not laugh around children; and if you can, we probably won’t get along.

A dear friend of mine - Faith, 6 - routinely makes me spew beverages through my nostrils. She’s a lover of fine cereals, as am I. Her favorite is Lucky Charms, mine is Crunchberries…whatever, it’s a personal preference.

Faith was disappointed to find that the Bob Evans restaurant does not have cereal on their menu. (Course, even if they did, they probably wouldn’t have Lucky Charms.) So the other night, we were all talking about where to go for dinner and I suggested this buffet place.

Before we left, I asked her if she knew where we were going.

“Yes,” she said. “The buffet.”

“You know something, Faith? I’m not sure I understand what a buffet is. Can you explain it to me?”

She nodded. “A buffet,” she said, with big sweeping arm gestures, “is a place where you can have aaaaaaanything you want…except cereal.”

Had I been drinking at the time, I’m sure I would have spewed said beverage about 20 yards through my nostrils. I need more of that for the new year. Laughter. Less stress. I’d forgotten what it feels like to truly relax, to play and be childlike. I hope it’s not something I forget again.

It’s the last day of 2009. Time for me to get my crap together, snap out of the fucking fog that this year has been for me. Time for me to work, get back on the horse, make life a lot less stressful by earning some money.

I have a lot of ideas I want to see happen, a couple of them could really take off.

I want a blog redesign. I want to blog. I want to READ blogs.

I want to continue cutting toxic people out of my life. I simply don’t have the patience to deal with them. And even if I did, I don’t have the desire.

2010 is going to be different. I can feel it. Big things are coming. Good things. The final season of Lost, for one. Listen, I’m not ashamed to tell you this… in my darkest hours, when I’ve all but given up on life? It’s my need to know all the answers on Lost that keeps me hanging on. And they damn well better give me those answers. And if, in the last 3 minutes of the last episode, they show that John Locke IS the Smoke Monster, I’m gonna go postal.

Right, the good things. It’s going to rain Butterfingers in 2010. Cancer will die forever. A Greatest American Hero/Quantum Leap TV reunion mashup movie will be announced. Tiger Woods will join Sexaholics Anonymous. Balloon Boy will inspire a new cult, filled with Balloon Boys and Balloon Girls, and the skies will be filled with mylar and Twitter will freak the fuck out. Again. Dickish ex-spouses and ex-significant-others will stop harassing my friends. Sarah Palin will announce her candidacy for President in 2012, thus assuring that I will vote Democrat for the second time in my life.  Fox TV will stop being an asshole about trying to charge people for broadcast fucking television, like the ads aren’t enough revenue for them.

A shiny new 32GB iPhone will be mine.

People around the world will realize that we all have far more in common than not, and they’ll all stop fighting and killing each other over stupid ass shit, like land and drugs and politics and (for the love of God) God. The lion will lay down with the lamb and all that jazz. OK, maybe I’m getting a little crazy.

It’s gonna be good, people, that’s all I’m saying. I demand it.

I’m off to celebrate the end of this hot mess known as 2009. I hope you all have a great night and that none of you drinks and drives (cuz then I’d have to disown you). For those alone tonight, I hope you’ll take in some warm, fuzzy movies on the telly…or some schlocky B-movie sci-fi. And those of my friends that have my cell can call me, of course. Or text. Just know that I plan on getting my drink on tonight, so I can’t guarantee a speedy delivery on the response track.

So all of you have a great New Year.

2010 - now with Improved Flavor and 90% less injunctions!

a

If I thought my last few lists were hard, I didn't have a clue. Trying to comb the over 550 blogs that I have in my feedreader to find the ones I consider to be the top ten is a nigh impossible task. I tried to ignore the blogger behind the blog and instead look at three main questions:

1. Would I read this blog even if I didn't know the person writing it (or do I already read it without knowing the author)?

2. Does the blog's content impress me on every level?

3. Do I look forward to every post they write?

Does that mean that blogs not mentioned didn't meet these criteria? No. Since I've limited myself to ten, though, it means that I had to think very carefully before deciding whether I was ranking the blog or the blogger. And, as a side note, if you are reading this and you weren't mentioned, please don't see that as a slight in any way!

Since I was told by someone that the mini-reviews I write in lists like this are always technical and boring, I decided to just describe each blog with three words instead. And now, without further ado, for my last post in 2009, here, in no particular order, are my top ten blogs of 2009.

10. Blogography: Creative. Bittersweet. Entertaining.

9. Native Born: Principled. Strong. Compelling.

8. Mocha Momma: Heartstrings. Motivational. Inspiring.

7. Splendid Mishap: Funny. Raunchy. Vagina.

6. Mommy Melee: Righteous. Heartfelt. Authentic.

5. The Trephine: Thoughtful. Amazing. Humorous.

4. The Verdant Dude: Unique. Clever. Hirsute.

3. Cheaper Than Therapy: Stream-of-consciousness. Quirky. Hilarious.

2. Metalia: Hysterical. Peculiar. Nerd-o-riffic.

1. Miss Britt: Honest. Deep. Genuine.

Honorable Mentions:

• Snackiepoo
• A Life Less Ordinary
• ShaunaGlenn
• Life Candy
• LeSombre

See you next year!