Thanks-fucking-giving

Ah, the holidays: the time of year when we give thanks for what we have, at least in theory anyway.  In truth it’s a time of stress and/or depression.  It’s the time of year when far too many of us lament the lack of fulfillment or, for those on the flip-side of the coin, resent the burden of obligation they have to their family and friends that cause them stress and monopolizes their time and money.  For the sad-sacks, such as myself, we lament the lack of real flesh and blood people in our lives that care about us.  We see the smiling couples and laughing families out and about as we walk the cold and damp November streets alone and desperately hoping and searching for a meaningful connection with somebody, anybody, that might prove, to ourselves, that we are not alone in this harsh and brutally indifferent world and that, if we should die, somebody might actually care to notice and maybe even mourn our passing.  I’ve seen the pictures of the lonely and isolated people who have died in their sad little homes swelling to balloon-like proportions before the horrific smell of decomposition finally drives somebody to inquire about their existence, or lack-thereof, and I know, with terrible certainty, that there lies my pathetic fate if things don’t change.  Sure, my cell phone, that for the most part remains depressingly silent save the notifications of junk mail, might ring a few times when I don’t show up for work, but nobody I know would actually come looking for me if something fatalistic were to occur.  There would be no knock on my door until a neighbor just can’t stand the smell any longer, and since I live in a diverse community with many immigrants having brought with them various sorts of interesting odors to the land of the free, I know it would take some time before the odoriferous emanations of my rotting corpse would be noticed and addressed.  Even though, at this time of year, we are supposed to acknowledge what we are lucky to have, it only reminds some people of the exact opposite. 

Exacerbating the problem is the cursed knowledge that we really shouldn’t feel this way, even if we’re truly as alone as we feel, because we know it could be so much worse (side note: I’m using the royal we as I can’t possibly believe that I’m alone in these feelings, and though it would be nice to believe that I am unique in feeling this way, as that would set me apart from the rest of mankind in an interesting, though depressing, way; I’m far too realistic, and honest with myself, to believe that I’m original in any significant facet), making us hate ourselves, all that much more, for being so self-pitying and pathetic.  I mean, for god’s sake, there are people in the world whose lives are in danger every single day.  There are parts of Africa that are a living nightmare, such as which most Americans can’t relate to on any level regardless of the ghetto they may live in, where children are forced to murder their parents, where women are raped on a daily basis, where disease and famine are rampant, and here we are complaining that we’re lonely and unloved while we walk the streets with a steaming hot white mocha latte in one hand and a smartphone in the other.  I, for one, hate myself, that much more, for feeling this way, but I can’t pretend those feelings exist without lying to myself and living in denial.  I believe honesty is better than denial even if it’s negative.  At least that way we can face the problem head-on.

             Personally, I am honestly thankful that I still have my mother after her having battled breast cancer this past year.  She lives far enough away from me that I don’t see her often but if she were to pass away I would truly be alone.  My siblings and I are not close and I don’t have a father so once she’s gone I will have, essentially, lost my family.  However, I don’t have kids and it seems that there’s some unwritten rule for my parents, and maybe other’s as well, that if you haven’t given them grandchildren to visit then there’s really no reason to make the trip.  I’ll get the call, usually the day after they actually arrive, letting me know they’re in town and want to see me, but I had better drive across town to my step-brother’s house, where there are two grandchildren of course, if I want to see them.  They are from a very rural area and I’m just not worth braving the “crazy” Denver traffic to visit without having grandchildren to motivate them.  In the almost twenty years since I’ve moved out of their house they have seen all of three of my apartments.  So while I’m thankful I have my family I still resent the fact that they don’t seem to consider me worthy of their effort or time.  It’s a horrible feeling when you realize that your family considers you a second class member, and their affection and love have more to do with convenience that anything else

Thank you, oh so much, Thanksgiving for making me recognize all that I hate about myself.  I really appreciate it.

Thus ends my whiny little woe-is-me rant.  Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.  Isn't that what the holidays are for?  :)

In The Beginning...

          I created this blog, long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away that I call the What The Fuck was I Thinking Moving In With That Crazy Bitch Galaxy, as a way of documenting the painfully slow downward spiral of a toxic relationship I was in with an angry little woman I was living with at the time.  A woman with the unfortunate combination of crippling insecurities and an arrogant and self-entitled attitude on par with the worst of the reality television stars that she so loved to watch. The whole relationship was a mistake, to say the least, but I thought it would be interesting to document the torrid details of the asinine conflicts within the relationship.  We would fight endlessly over the most trivial of matters and it seemed to me, at the time, that it would be of great benefit, to all mankind, to make an historical record of these ridiculous fights and show the world just who this woman really was.  People should know, not only for their own edification, but for their own safety as well.  “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.  This bitch is fucking insane!”  They need to know she's not the laid back woman she would have you to believe.  That she is one of the most selfish and self-deluded people on the planet.  That she was riddled with double-standards and hypocrisies.  That she lived in a world where her own rules applied to everyone but herself.  That, for her, anger is the default emotion, and if there's nothing to be happy about then she will be angry.  That this anger consumes her and she's left with nowhere to turn it except on those who are closest to her, and as I learned from, both, experience and from her stories about her past, her boyfriend will always take the brunt of the anger.  I thought people needed to know and I should be the one to call her out, but I never started this documentation of our pathetic decline.  I didn’t really have enough free time away from her to write anything and I didn’t want her to see what I was writing as that would just result in many more fights.  In all honesty, I also realized I really didn’t want to hurt her and I knew I’d really just be embarrassing myself in the process.  I just needed to get out of the relationship.

I either had too much respect for myself to put up with it or I wasn't a strong enough man to give her what she wanted, depending on whose side one chose to believe.  If I'm being honest with myself; it was probably both but obviously I lean toward the former, and I refuse to believe any man should have to fight for the right to get out of bed in the morning before his significant other, whoever that might be, has awaken.  Yes, that was a real argument we had; she, literally, wanted me to lay in bed until she woke up on her own, even if it was for hours ("But don't move too much or you'll wake me up").  Back to the point I was making; I never began the documentation of our fights, and several months after I created this blog I broke up with the woman and have moved on.  Although after reading this I wonder if that's true.  The ghosts of a dead relationship linger longer that we’d like to admit, I think.

          Here I am, months later, and I realize I have a blog that I've never used.  So what is a man to do?  Like they say: you gotta use it or lose it.  So I'm gonna use it.  For what, exactly, I'm not sure.  Mostly to vent and display any of my work, I imagine, but, as a highly unsuccessful artist, I know that what you aim for isn't always what you get.  And that's a good thing.  My art school instructors (RIP E.C. Cunningham) were all very fond of telling us to "let the process inform the work," or something to that nature, meaning that the work will change and evolve, during its creation, in a way that may diverge from the artist's original vision.  The concept remains the same but the execution changes, even if just a little.  And that's a good thing.  Artists are flawed gods that create life with a false idea of perfection.  I doubt any painter has ever created a work of art that's exactly as they had pictured it in their mind.  That being said, this blog will probably start as a way for me to vent about any and everything before evolving into something unforeseen.  I see the title “Those Fucking Kids and Their Skinny Jeans” somewhere in the future.  Most of it, I'm sure, will be trite and narcissistic, as the rants of the deranged often are, but I need not worry about the lack of focus this blog may exhibit as there will, no doubt, be few, if any, readers to judge and criticize.  To the unfortunate souls who might happen to stumble upon this, I apologize for the quality but thank you for your time.  

          That’s more than enough of me droning on.  For this first post I will end with a short story that’s rather lighthearted.  I just can’t resist the compulsion to display a bit of creativity since this has been rather dry and lacking in originality so far.  I hope you enjoy; it’s an old one but I still find it amusing in its simplicity.  Much darker work will follow in the future, I assure you.

Afterwards

     Contrary to popular belief one actually has several options upon entering the afterlife.  Most theologies are correct in their interpretation of the afterlife, but they only have part of the picture.  There is a god, but it’s more of a position than anything else.  Once someone is voted in as God he has a 500 year term at the end of which he may retire or run for God again.  Their campaign tactics are surprisingly dirty to say the least, and listening to those damn election commercials are just as annoying up here as they are down there. Reincarnation, Hell, purgatory, and Heaven are just a few of the possibilities.  If you want to spend your next life as a candle in the castle of King Henry VIII or stay in the here-after and just get a job; the choice is yours.  The jobs vary widely from guardian angels (the most popular) to file clerk to maintenance to custodial and everything in between. 

I tried Heaven for a while, but it was just a little too pious for me.  I heard it used to be a pretty nice place.  You know: it was clean, the food was great, it had a great nightlife, and the women were…well, let’s just say they were divine.  But then the Christians came and ruined it.  They are the mall police of Heaven.  They’re always passing out pamphlets, lecturing you on how to behave properly, and telling you about the sins you’re committing.  Let’s get one thing straight, shall we?  There are no sins.    The fact is murder’s the only thing that will keep you out of heaven, and even that’s really just sort of a suspension.  One thousand years and then you get another chance.  But they act like they did something special to get in.  They even tried to change the rules and make the standards for admission a little tougher because too many sinners were being allowed inside the pearly gates.  The Big Guy vetoed that down right away.  If you ask me I don’t think he cares much for Christians either, but what are you going to do, right?  It didn’t take me long before I decided to get out.

Hell was a little better actually.  It’s really not a punishment at all.  I mean if you choose to go there then how can it be.  The only down side is all the trash.  That’s how Hell got started in the first place: Lucifer was sent down here as Waste Disposal Manager to incinerate all of Heaven’s trash.  That’s where all those images of fire and molten pits of lava come from, but that’s really just a small section of Hell that we jokingly refer to as “Heaven”.  The rest is actually quite nice.  There’s always a barbecue to go to, we get all the really good movies, and all the great musicians are here from Beethoven to Kurt Cobain.  It is a little hot but it’s really not all that bad.  It’s like Florida in July except without the old people.    They never even intended for people to live down here, but once the Christians ruined Heaven some folks decided to clean Hell up a little and live down here.  Lucifer is actually a pretty cool guy once you get to know him.  He’s a little rough around the edges, but he is a janitor after all.  I can’t imagine anybody being too incredibly chipper after burning trash for thousands of years.  And, let me tell you, once he’s got a few shots of Jack Daniels in him he’ll tell you some of the craziest stories you’ve ever heard.  Ask him to tell you the one about Gandhi, Charlie Chaplin, this guy named Jack, and Haley’s Comet.  I was laughing about that one for weeks.  Eventually the heat got to me and I had to leave, but I still pay ol’ Cifer a visit every now and then.

I tried reincarnation a few times, but I didn’t really like it.  Once you’re reincarnated you’re stuck there until you’re dead.  That can be a pretty long wait if you get stuck with a lemon of a life.  Choosing a fun life isn’t as easy as it sounds.  Let me tell ya: being rich and famous is fun until you’re broke and sitting in a bar trying to convince some guy with one hand and a drooling problem that you used to be “somebody”.  I got three years of bliss and fifty-four years of crap on that one.  I tried out British royalty and my brother assassinated me when I nine.  I came back as a physics genius, but ended up spending my socially awkward life alone until the age of seventy-three.  There are two major problems with reincarnation.  One: you’re not privy to the details of your next life so you don’t know what to expect exactly.  It’s a crapshoot; you choose a life and just cross your fingers.  And two: you don’t remember anything you’ve learned in past lives so you just end up repeating the same mistakes over and over again.  Oh sure, you can choose to go back as Frank Sinatra or Hugh Hefner and run with the mob or surround yourself with shallow easy women, but the waiting list is long as hell.  I think I have another fifteen thousand years before I’m up.  So I moved on to something else while I wait my turn for old blue eyes.

I decided to get a job in the nether world.  One of the more sought after positions is that of Death.  There are a countless number of them walking the earth bumping people off.  It’s a good job, really.  It has great benefits, it’s relatively simple, and everyone respects, if not fears, Death.  I even get great rates on insurance just for being Death.  The only down-side is that you’re always on call, but it’s the price you pay I guess. 

It’s quite a process in just getting the job.  If you’re lucky enough to be picked then you have to go through training.  I just finished it and let me tell you: it was brutal.  I had to go through a week of just learning what the dress code is.  You have to have the right cape, the clothes have to be skintight, and you have to wear the right makeup.  Oy, it’s a whole ordeal.  Then you have to learn what the different degrees of death are.  Did you know you can actually overkill a person?  If you’re not careful you might just fry a person’s soul to a crisp and boy will you catch hell for that one.  We had to go through physical training where they whipped us into shape and taught us how to fight.  FYI: if a person’s tough enough they can kick Death’s ass and prevent himself from dying, but let’s just keep that between you and me, okay?  We had to take courses on metaphysics, astrophysics, and philosophy.  I damn near failed the final.  Got through by the skin of my teeth on that one thanks to some cleverly hidden cheat sheets and some duct tape.  But I made it and now I’m off on my first job. Maybe afterwards I’ll stop by Hell and shoot the breeze with my old cronies.  Better pick up a bottle of Jack. 

The End