blogclubformen.com

TODAY IS THE LAST DAY TO ENTER THE CONTEST for a $25 gift certificate! Make me laugh.

When I was in group therapy (hereafter known as IOP, for Intensive Outpatient Therapy), we did art therapy on a routine basis. A collage was the order of the day, so eight magazines were strewn about the floor, one mag for each patient.

“Choose one to use for your collage,” the therapist said.

Now, there were no rules associated with that. No choosing ORDER. You see a magazine you want? Bend down and grab it.

As is often the case, I have a tough time when I’m given more than a few choices. Those White Elephant Christmas gift exchange thingies? Maddening.

I remember for my 10th or 11th birthday my Uncle Giac (pronounced Jack, but in Eyetalian) took me to KayBee Toys in the mall and said I could have anything in the store for $20 or under. Holy Mindblower, Batman!

We spent nearly two fucking hours in that store before Uncle Giac said, “That’s it. PICK something!” I chose the Bruce Jenner Decathlon Game, in case you were wondering. What? I also had the Welcome Back, Kotter Game, where the goal was to collect cards that, put together, spelled “Up Your Nose With A Rubber Hose.”

So I’m sitting there, staring at the tableaux of glossy covers before me. Ladies Home Journal. National Geographic. Budget Travel. Weasel Fancy.

Which magazine do you think I took? I don’t remember the title, but I do know that it was the very last mag on the floor.

“What magazine did you choose, Karl?” she asked.

“Don’t know that ‘choose‘ is the word,” I replied.

“Not making a choice is still a choice.”

Everyone quit looking through their magazines and stared at the therapist. Me, I mulled that whopper over in my noggin. The ramifications of that statement were astounding to me.

Wait a second now. My procrastinating on making a decision – until it’s too late and there’s only one option left – is still a CHOICE? Fuuuuuck.

A forced choice, they call it. You’re forced to choose the only remaining item because you waited too long.

My entire life I’ve been doing that. I’m better about it now than I was then, but still, it happens regularly.

The mechanics BEHIND me making the forced choice are not all that difficult to surmise. I’m not worthy. I don’t deserve the choice to begin with. That’s not to say that a staggering number of options isn’t difficult for me to ponder; a restaurant menu is rough for me. But the essence behind the forced choice for me is that I deserve the leftovers.

And hell, I should be grateful for those.

Growing up, I was always small for my age. Wore glasses from 18 months (yes, months). Asthma. Braces, retainers, headgear (in school).

And in gym class for Dodgeball? Where there are two team captains and they choose teammates, going back and forth between the two teams?

I was always dead last to be picked. I was the forced choice. Time and time again. Not a feeling I’d wish on my worst enemy.

To be honest, I still feel that way more than you’d think. I still don’t feel worthy of options. I still think leftovers are all I should get. The forced choice.

Which is exactly the opposite of Harley.

Angel’s dog Harley was NOT a forced choice at all. He was chosen specifically because that’s who Angel and her family fell in love with, and also because he chose HER and her family. Out of the many options in that shelter, Harley was the dog they chose.

Which is why I think adopted children are so special. You didn’t just HAVE them, you CHOSE them.

I’m glad I got to meet Harley in his very short stay with Angel. Him departing while we were in Destin was heart-wrenching. But only because the love for him was so strong.

a

Odd, just a day after Christmas, I was sitting at the computer, wanting to listen to music. I love Pandora, have it on my iPhone, too. Personalized radio is the future, people, believe it. And even more than Pandora, I love Slacker (also on the iPhone). I think Slacker has a better mix of artists. If I create a station around, say, Beth Hart on Pandora, and do the same on Slacker? Slacker comes out with a more organic-sounding mix, I think.

But I was on the Last.fm site the other day. And I saw Lisa’s profile there. I’ve been using Last.fm longer than any other music site, and I like that it scrobbles the music from my iPod. Anyway, Last.fm says that Lisa and I have a High Musical Compatibility…Buckcherry, The Cars, INXS. Cool. Hmm, I think I’ll listen to Lisa’s station.

Then I saw the artists on Lisa’s station.

Audioslave. Rob Zombie. Metallica. System of a Down.

Fuck.

Lisa is way more hardcore than me. I went with a station based on a mix of New Order and Duran Duran instead.

I still think of her daily. Any time someone comments on Lisa’s blog, I get an email. Two or three times a week, Facebook reminds me I should put something on Lisa’s wall. Clusterfook.com sends people to my blog nearly every day.

I miss her.

Happy Birthday, Lisa. You really ARE the Rock Bitch.

a

I wish amazing things for you today. For real.

Even if you’re in a total shit place at the moment, I hope that you feel at least one little tiny moment of joy today. A dog licking your face, a child catching your eye and then smiling big, finding a $20 bill in a jacket pocket. There being a whole sleeve of Oreos in the back of the damn pantry, whatever.

Even if you want to beat your inlaw(s) bloody with a frozen ham, I hope you can laugh at the fact that Uncle Bernie has had that fucking piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe for almost three hours now.

Even if you’re all by yourself, especially then. I hope you have someone you can call. I’ve been there, the alone Christmases. Maybe just go to the damn movies, I’ve done that.  At least gives me the illusion I’m not alone…get some quality people-watching in.

Even if you’re hurting. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. I hope you know you’re loved. You’re cared about. You matter.

And if you were here, I’d have you sign a confidentiality agreement, and then I’d hug you and say things like, “It’s all going to be okay.” What? I have a rep. I’m the misogynistic dick, remember?

Then I’d say, “Merry Christmas!” and you’d mumble something about how you don’t celebrate Christmas because you’re Jewish or Muslim or Wiccan or an atheist or a Reformed Fundamentalist Vegan or a Catholic*, and I’d say “Are you going to get all indignant on me for wishing you a happy holiday?” and you’d say “I don’t have a problem with you saying Happy Holidays but I do have a problem with you saying Merry Christmas because isn’t that just really you being insensitive to my religious or non-religious beliefs by assuming I’m a Christian?”, and I’d say “For fuck’s sake, try not being offended for just one day…you might find you like it,” and you’d shove me and call me a prunt, and I’d shove you back and say “You better step off!” and then we’d have a smackdown situation cuz it would be on like Donkey Kong, and I’d be pulling Chinese throwing stars from these anklet thingies that you hadn’t quite noticed before because they were under my pantslegs, and just as I chuck the stars at you, time slows down and we can wave our hands around and make these cool glowing lines in the air like we’re all Matrix and shit, and now you growl and bat the slow-motion Chinese throwing stars out of the air like they were nothing, and you pull out a bazooka (which I think, really, is escalating things a bit too far, since I only had throwing stars and not even anything remotely involving gunpowder) and I say, “Whoa!” and point to the Guinness on the table beside me and you say, “Ooh, Guinness, say no more,” and you put the bazooka back under your trenchcoat and say, “Wanna go get a beer?” and I say “Well, I just showed you I already have a beer, but sure. More Guinness? Can’t go wrong there,” and we take off to the Blue Lagoon and have ourselves some beers and think about how silly everything was and how we got all pissed off for no good reason and we’ll never let that happen again, and so we raise our pint glasses up in the air to make a toast and clink them together and I say

“Merry Christmas!”

Oh, hell yeah. Like Donkey Kong, betch!

*Yes, I know Catholics are Christians. It’s a joke. I’m Catholic. It’s just funny to me how many Christians don’t consider Catholics to be Christians. Why am I explaining myself to you? You know what? You’re really walking on my spine today! Back the fuck off and go get drunk. That’s what I’m doing.

a

(Also, happy birthday to my friends Mew, ADW, and Stephanie!)

Three men wandering the streets of Bethlehem, circa 2,000 years ago, give or take.

Bob: Bollocks! I keep stepping on my robes!

Chuck: I told you to get that shit altered, dude. What part of “an angel of the Lord said the Messiah is being born in Nazareth” didn’t you get?

Larry: Seriously, Bob, you didn’t think there’d be walking involved?

Bob: Assumed we’d be cameling most of the way.

Chuck: You know what they say about assuming. Doesn’t make you very wise.

Larry: What’d you get the kid?

Chuck: Gold.

Larry: Nice. Hard to go wrong with gold.

Chuck: That was my thinking, too.

Bob: I got Him some jewels. Rubies, emeralds -

Larry: What the fuck, Bob?! You can’t give the baby Messiah jewels! That’s a choking hazard!

Chuck: Clearly. Why not just give him a bag of broken glass, or a basket of asps?

Bob: What?

Chuck: Why do you think I went with gold bars? Coins? Not child-friendly.

Larry: Hello? Hello? Anybody in there? THINK, McFly! Are you trying to KILL the freaking Son of God?

Bob: No, of course not. I’m just stupid when it comes to kids.

Chuck: Should have got Mable to help pick out the gift, man.

Larry: I still need to get something, anyway.

Chuck: Not like you to be last minute. Everything okay at home?

Larry: Damn teenage son. Caught him hitting the poppies again.

Bob: Shit. Sorry, Larry.

Larry: Hell, who hasn’t enjoyed some smoke every now and again, but at 13?

Chuck: The mind is still forming at that point, critical development stage…

Larry: Right? *sigh*

Bob: Hey, look! A mini mart!

Chuck: You’re getting the Christ Child gifts from a convenience store? Really?

Bob: What are we supposed to do, Chuck? It’s fucking December 24th! Not like there are a lot of choices!

Larry: Ooh, teriyaki camel jerky! I love that shit.

Chuck: Well, smack my ass and call me a gentile! They have myrrh! Can you believe it?

Larry: What brand?

Chuck: What does it fucking matter, Larry? It’s myrrh from a mini mart. What do you think you’re gonna find here? Dolce?

Larry: Good point.

Chuck: Now, Bob, see if they have some frankinsence. We may be able to pull this out of our asses yet, gents!

a

Two years ago I wrote my own version of "Twas the Night Before Christmas". I thought I'd share it with you again:

Twas the night
With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore:

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through my home,
there was no porn being watched, no stroking the bone;
The lotions and tissues, put away with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

The dildos and buttplugs were snug in their beds,
While visions of dolphin porn danced in their heads;
And Amy in her pjs, and I in my bare ass,
Had just settled down and fallen asleep fast.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I opened and flashed,
And saw it was my neighbor, her face aghast.
I waved with both hands and a penis that was hard.
I was shutting the blinds as she called me a fucktard.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, looking drunk at the wheel,
"It's Santa Claus!" I said with a squeal.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and slurred and called them by name;
"Now, Dasher! Now Dancsher, Now Prancsher and Viksshen!
On, Comet! On Kyoopid! On Donner and Blitzshen!
To the *hic* of the porsh! To the top of that wall!
Now *hic* away! Dash a*hic*! Dash away all!"

And then I heard him tinkling up on our roof
And a retching and vomiting and a sound like "BLARGHOOF".
As I grabbed a wreath and covered my crotch,
Down the chimney St. Nick came, smelling like Scotch.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot.
And he was covered in puke and ashes and soot.

A bag filled of toys spilled off his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes were bloodshot and his breath smelled like sherry,
His cheeks were bright red, his nose like a cherry!
His drooling mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as yellow snow.
The stub of a roach he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke reminded me of high school – 1993.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was fat and wasted, a right jolly old bum,
And I laughed when I saw him, and offered some gum.
A shake of his head, and a flick of his arm,
The glint of a knife told me he meant me some harm.

"Get out of here, you old fucking drunk,
You smell like you just shit out a dead skunk!"
I grabbed a bat that was a present from my wife,
And smacked him in the face before I got stabbed with his knife.

He spoke not a word, but circled me quick,
And jabbed once, twice, the third causing a nick.
As I noticed the blood, I lashed out with my foot,
Catching his crotch, I heard a grunt and a toot.

He shook his fist and put his finger on his nose,
Gave me the other finger, and up the chimney he rose.
He stumbled to his sleigh, to his slaves he called,
And away they flew while he clutched his balls.

But I heard him exclaim as his sleigh became less visible,
"Merry Christmas to all except that fucker Avitable!"

It's almost Christmas, and Santa has been checking his list, trying to see who's getting coal and who's not. It's also time to steal a page from Snackie's book, and open up the comments for HOLIDAY CONFESSIONS!

Did you ever steal someone's present? Have you regifted? Have you ever masturbated into the punch at the company party?

You can confess whatever holiday-related (or not) sin you want, no matter how small or how momentous. Confess something that you'd never post on your own blog – you don't have to worry about your readers seeing it here. Confess something that you've just wanted to get off of your chest. Confess something that you don't really care about. If you want to leave your comment anonymously, make sure to change your email address, too, so that Gravatar doesn't pick up your avatar.

I'll start:

Confession #1: I have, on occasion, given presents to people that increased in value depending on how much I liked them.

Confession #2: One year, I, along with a few friends, roamed our neighborhood and the neighborhood next to ours and pulled out a few random bulbs on people's lights, causing all their lights to go out, stole candy canes or lighted bulbs that lined their walkways, and broke the floating lit up Christmas trees in the lake. I feel bad every time I think about it.

Confession #3: I figured out that there was no Santa when I was four, and I always delighted in the fact that my brother and sister took much, much longer to figure it out.

Confession #4: I would consider converting to Judaism just for the potato latkes.

Okay, it's your turn. Let's hear it!

First of all, my heart goes out to Kim, who lost her daddy early today. I’m sorry, babe. Cancer fucking blows.

There’s also a brand new holiday update from Clusterfook’s family on her blog today. Her husband, John, gives a bit of news about what they’ve been up to this year, along with some photos.

Tonight, it’s the last episode of SecondHand Radio for 2009, and I hope you’ll be there as we celebrate the holidays in style with Nobody. Yes, Nobody. I’m not allowed to use the photo I have of him because it turns out that Google owns the rights to Nobody’s face, and I don’t have money for Christmas shopping, let alone royalties. On top of that, he’s wanted by 3 out of 4 police in the East Undershirt area. But still, he pretty much looks like his Twitter avatar.

Show starts at 10pm Eastern, and the chatroom opens 15 minutes before showtime.

The phone number is 724-444-7444, Call ID 23738. You can call in just to say hi to Nobody, ask him his theories on Santa Claus’ involvement in the death of Britney Murphy, or just tell us what you want for Christmas. Or Hannukah. Or Kwanzaa. Festivus. Whatever.

I highly recommend that you go to my SecondHand Radio info page, register at Talkshoe.com and download the Talkshoe client (though not required, I think it’s a superior chatroom experience).

Tell all your friends. And if you have trouble getting into the show for some reason, feel free to call in (using the phone number below) and you can listen on the phone that way. I can leave you on mute, if you prefer.

Showtime: 10PM EST, 9PM CST, 8PM Mountain, 7PM Pacific (and that’s 3:00 AM GMT)

Show Link:

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

Call-in Number: (724) 444-7444, Call ID 23738

2HRadio Info (including complete list of upcoming guests)

a

Recognize this dude? No? Well, that’s because that’s his Witness Protection Disguise.

Recognize him now? YES! It’s Mr. Schmutzie! You probably know him as the Palinode, purveyor of fine leathers and riding crops. And yes, he really is that blurry in person. His REAL name is Aidan Morgan. Oops.

Shit.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that, with the whole Witness Protection thing and all. Right.

Aidan was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia. And I’ve been to Halifax, Nova Scotia! My oldest Internet friend, Cindy, lives there. And when I say “oldest,” I mean “longest.” Yeah, she’s really, really long. Like 249 inches long. Bizarre, right? Anyhow, we’ve known each other since 1995. So…clearly, both of them having resided in Halifax, Cindy and Aidan have to know each other. Just as they know everyone else in Canada, it being such a small country and all.

Palinode has done a lot of those 5 Questions things with Onlyaman. And he’s on my show tonight, so…

What would you like me to ask The Palinode? Comment here and let me know. Or better yet, tune in live tonight at 10:00 Eastern and ask him yourself!

This is the penultimate show for 2009, you know.

The phone number is 724-444-7444, Call ID 23738. You can call in just to say hi to Aidan, ask him anything you want, or tell us what you want for Christmas. Or Hannukah. Or Kwanzaa. Whatever.

I highly recommend that you go to my SecondHand Radio info page, register at Talkshoe.com and download the Talkshoe client (though not required, I think it’s a superior chatroom experience).

Tell all your friends. And if you have trouble getting into the show for some reason, feel free to call in (using the phone number below) and you can listen on the phone that way. I can leave you on mute, if you prefer.

Showtime: 10PM EST, 9PM CST, 8PM Mountain, 7PM Pacific (and that’s 3:00 AM GMT)

Show Link:

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

Call-in Number: (724) 444-7444, Call ID 23738

2HRadio Info (including complete list of upcoming guests)

a

Fuck, it’s DECEMBER. The last month of the year. How’d that happen, right?

Worse yet, it’s the Holidays. Fuck me with something hard and sandpapery. Yeah, so not a fan.

When I was a wee lad, the Magic was still there. Months in advance, I’d pour through the Sears Wishbook and make a 1970’s version of an Excel spreadsheet, noting everything I wanted for Christmas. Item name, page number, Stock #, price, color and size (if appropriate). Yeah, I was really thinking of Santa, trying to make it easier for him to fulfill my needs.

What can I say? I’m a giver.

Christmas Eve? Forget it. I couldn’t sleep if you’d slipped gingerbread roofies into my warm milk. Not that I was allowed to have warm milk before bed, mind you (or water, for that matter). I was a bed-wetter. But you catch my drift.

In my early years - both before and just after my parents’ divorce - Christmas morning was all about navigating a very tight path through the myriad of presents carpeting the living room floor. An obscene amount of pressies, really, but I didn’t think so at the time. My parents weren’t rich, but they were doing pretty well.

In my tweens and teens - both in New York, and then New Mexico - it was the opposite. We were poor. Food stamps poor. And when I started working at 16, and subsequently having to hand over the bulk of my paychecks to my parents just so the five of us could eat, I think that’s where I started getting jaded. It was probably well before that, but it was around 16 that I specifically remember HATING Christmas.

I hated having to wake up early on Christmas morning. I hated having to put on a cheerful face when all I wanted to do was sleep. I hated having to act like a 6-pack of tube socks was exactly what I wanted. Well, everyone else pretended. I was just a total dickhead of a teenager, who felt that my job was to make everyone around me as miserable as I was.

At 18, I was freshly on my own. In fact, everyone else in the family had moved back to New York and left me in New Mexico. It was my first Christmas alone. And I hated that, too, fucking despised it.

Magic returned a couple of years later. I was married and a new daddy. It was the first Christmas for the twins and I was happy. I was in the Air Force, in love, a proud papa of 6-month-old girls…everything was good. For a while.

Flashforward a few years, when the marriage started sailing to southern climes. Christmas itself was still good because it was all about the girls. The Little Mermaid was brand new on VHS (and yeah, I’ve seen it about 2,742 times), my daughters had adorable British accents (because we lived in England at the time), and my wife and I always wore a happy face for the holidays.

Another few years and a divorce later, and I was depressed - yes - but still OK when my girls were around for Christmas. They’d visit me in San Antonio, and then Dallas (when I got out of the Air Force)…Santa would leave notes for the girls on the computer. It was fun.

Little later. Severe depression. Drugs. Even a suicide attempt. This was right after the flashbacks started hitting me enough to where I couldn’t ignore them any longer. My protective barriers were crumbling. All of this led me to neglect my girls. Don’t get me wrong, I was trying to protect them. Keep them away from the Fucking Disaster Formerly Known As Their Father, you know? Ugh. I could get really specific about all the ways I fucked up in those years (and since), but it’s not really relevant to the point.

Oh, yes, there IS a point. Somewhere. The Magic has been gone for a long time, that’s the point.

Nowadays, the holidays are nothing more than a 2-month period that I’d rather skip past, thanks very much. Love the Halloween. But from November 1 through,  oh, let’s say the day after New Year’s, I’d just like to fast forward through it all a’la Tivo.

It’s a ton of forced socializing, being “on” the whole time, putting on a happy face when I’m not happy, and family dynamics that sometimes make The Simpsons look like The Brady Bunch. Trust me, my mother and father got divorced for a reason. It should be against the law for them to be under the same roof these days…yet they are, right around this time every year. At my sister’s house.

Awkward, thy name is FAMILY.

And there’s always the political discussions. Most everyone in my immediate family is staunchly conservative in every way. Me, on the other hand…I’ve been growing more and more liberal as the years go by. Relative to them, I mean. Shit, I voted for Barack a year ago, and that’s grounds for castration in my family. Verbally speaking, of course.

Just you wait until Barack gets his thumbs in the health care system.

The economy is only going to get worse with a Democrat in the White House.

Barack isn’t really a Christian, you know.

Yeah, yeah. There’s a lot of tongue-biting on my part. It’s truly not worth trying to have a political discussion with my family. It’s not as if there’s going to be any actual  mind-changing going on. It’s all about the bashing, not the exchange of ideas. I’m very good at the occasional nodding, raising of the eyebrow, and mmm-hmm’ing.

Of course I enjoy my nieces. And I get along fine with my family, really. I’m not saying it’s ALL this horrible experience 24/7. It’s not.

But I don’t enjoy being out of my element for days at a time…sleeping in a foreign bed, not being able to socially retreat whenever I want to, having to wagon-train all over town to various relatives’ houses for brunches and dinners and gatherings, being subject to frou-frou coffee flavors like Vanilla Candy Cane Guava Hazelnut Chai Nectarine, and worse - single ply toilet paper.

Mix all that together with no wifi? Well, folks, all you need to do is add a few grains of sand in my crack and you have the Oxford English Dictionary definition of “hell.”

Add to that all the shit that has been 2009 and I’m stressed to the gills. I lost Lisa this year. Cancer. And then more cancer in my family…and more in friends and their families. Sickness, too, aside from the cancer. Anissa and her stroke.

Financial troubles (many of which have been caused by my not working for a while now - by choice, I might add). Relationship troubles with friends both new and old. Pyschotic assholes stalking dear friends of mine, sociopathic dickhead ex-spouses fucking with friends, too.

Hell, even people I don’t know who just lost a child in a tragic accident. And subsequent SHITHEADS that cast aspersions and say horrible things to a woman that just lost her fucking child. Clearly there’s no accounting for compassionless assholes. Happy fucking holidays, people.

For real… I can haz 2010 now pleaze? I’ve been done with this godforsaken year for a while now.

Thank God I started therapy again this year, or I’d be even more fucked. Hell, here’s how messed up in the head I’ve been lately. I’ve missed not only one, but TWO therapy sessions in the last month. I never do that shit.

Spent a couple days away from home over the weekend, right? Thought I’d enjoy a stress-free break. And I did have a great weekend. BUT…

Before I even got out of town, it started with my Garmin GPS sliding off the dashboard onto the floor and breaking.

Out of warranty, natch.

And then, having parked my car for two days, I discovered that some asshats had tried to break into it. Now the driver’s side lock is all stripped out and I have to unlock the car from the passenger’s side. And yes, this is the car that I JUST got out of the repair shop a week ago.

Because, y’know, my car is such an amazing Piece Of Shit that people are just dying to steal it. Not everyone can swim in the back of their car. No one got IN the car, at least. Not that there was anything to take…except for the busted-ass GPS.

This time of year always brings me a lot of anxiety. And I’ve noticed how short my fuse is lately, too, which isn’t making it any easier. I feel like snapping at close friends, let alone the fuckwad prunts that annoy the living shit out of me…which is much easier to do right now.

I’d just like to betchslap the dumb out of EVERYONE and EVERYTHING, really.

1. Stalkers. Seriously, WTF? Is your life so pathetic that you can’t do anything but harass people that want nothing to do with you? When I was a kid, I got bullied a lot. The problem with the Internet is that it allows people that can’t physically bully you to bully you electronically. Die, bitches, die. Though I now have a better understanding of restraining orders, so there’s that.
2. Mind Games. Played by 95% of the population, I have no patience for them, either. Fuck off. If you cannot flat out TELL ME what you want to tell me, without resorting to passive-aggressive tactics, I’m done. People are (for the most part) rather transparent, particularly those that feel confident they’re being clever. Try pretending you’re a grown-up. For once.
3. Mean People. Suck. Period.
4. Closed-Minded People. My friends are from all walks of life, and I dig that. Political spectrum, religious/spiritual spectrum…they’re all over the board, and I dig that. The people I want to be around are the kinds of people that can talk about any topic under the sun without screaming or yelling or namecalling. When you’re the OPPOSITE of that? Piss off.
5. Bad Drivers. They’re everywhere, I know. But it’s this time of year when southern Florida gets the Snowbirds. Snowbirds, if you don’t know, are the people that live here for half the year, and live up north the other half of the year. It’s warm in Florida (today’s high is 77) while they have penis-shrinking temperatures up north. Good for the local economy, bad for your sanity if you’re driving. Yesterday, some dipshit with an Ontario license plate  pulled out in front of me and I had to slam on my brakes. There was no one behind me for half a mile, so the dipshit could have waited 8 more seconds and then pulled out with no trouble. But no. It’s a shame my Scanners powers haven’t yet developed, cuz that fucker’s brains would have covered the entire interior of that Ford Taurus.
6. Garmin. WTF? My nice little sandbagged bracket (which worked just fine for over a year) slid off the side of the dash, onto the floor…the GPS hit NOTHING but the carpet and the screen BREAKS? Grrr. $80 I don’t have right now.
7. My Laptop. Beyond 3 years old now, it’s on its last legs, and has been for a while. Sometimes, Firefox acts all wonky and I have to reboot. Internal hard drive is maxed. RAM is maxed. Friends talk to me about doing a clean install with XP, but that scares the crap out of me because I don’t know where all my software discs are. Reinstalling all that crap? Not high on my list of fun things to do. 2010 is  most definitely the year for a new computer. Y’know, when I work and make some money and can make that happen. Right now, though? I wanna put a bullet right through the middle of this POS Dell laptop.
8. My Car. Yes, it drives fine. I’m not one of those people that really obsesses over vehicles. To me, it’s merely a tool to get from Point A to Point B, and I drive my cars into the ground before getting a new one. But it’s time for my car, too, I think. There is literally a fucking pool of water on the floorboard in the back seat. I have  no idea where it’s coming from but it’s moldy and nasty. And when I have money again, I don’t know that I want to spend a ton of money to fix what is clearly going to be replaced relatively soon. And with the new driver’s side keyhole party? I want to kick my car in the junk, too.
9. Christmas Shopping. Haven’t done one damn bit of it. Yet. Looks like an Amazon year, if you ask me. Do I need to mention again that I have no money?
10. ME. Last but not least, yeah. I am my own worst enemy. I haven’t worked consistently since Lisa died, and that’s been ALMOST A YEAR. I’ve been repeating major mistakes that I haven’t made in decades. I’m neglecting all sorts of relationships because of my blinders. I’ve been attempting to change bedrooms in my house for a year, but never really getting anything accomplished. I don’t know where the hell my days are going! I’m not doing SHIT. Well, that’s not true, exactly. I’m putting out one fire after another, only to have THREE MORE FIRES take their place as soon as I extinguish one. Yeah, I’m a mucking foron.

I just want to retreat away somewhere, curl up into the fetal position, and hide. Unplug everything. Delete all my damn accounts and just…disappear. I don’t feel like I can take one more straw on my back, not even a teeny tiny Barbie straw.

Moments like this make me seriously question whether or not there’s enough Guinness on the planet.

Nevertheless, I look forward to seeing some friends this weekend. Cissa is driving through North Carolina as I type this, and I’m glad she’ll be local to me very soon.

I have episodes of Supernatural, Smallville, and Fringe to watch, too. So that’s something.

I’ve lost 40 pounds over the course of the last year. Recently had to go spend $90 just on new underwear and jeans because I’m down from a size 38 waist to a 30 now, something I haven’t been able to say since I was in my 20s. EARLY 20’s. So there’s that. Even if my incredible t-shirt collection is of the Large variety and I now wear a Medium.

And I’ve decided that I ultimately can’t wait to move to one of the following states: Alaska, California, Hawaii, Colorado, Maine, Michigan, Montana, Nevada, Oregon, New Mexico, Washington, Rhode Island, or Vermont. So there’s that.

I’ll take some stress-free happy moments, please. Or maybe I’ll just taken enough Ambien to put me out like Rip Van Winkle for a while. Either way.

a