You were making out during Schindler’s List?

 

I’ve been upgrading my electronic drum kit.  Nothing from the original kit survived.  (I’m using the entry setup for Rockband, instead.)  I got a beautiful, shiny rack.  It took me an embarrassingly long time to assemble it.  It didn’t come with any instructions, and the Gibralter website sucks.  So I studied what is possibly the only photo on the internet of this particular rack, and winged it.  (Every musician site I visited had the same description and photo pasted from the Gibraltar website.)

It’s all curved, which made it more difficult than the straight poles on the entry kit.  It looks great.  So shiny.  I got the Yamaha DTX502 module.  I also got three 8″ Alesis mesh pads, each for cheaper than it cost me to make one.  I did a lot of research to find what will help me improve and get the most for my money.  It’s so quiet now.  I decided to try Yamaha’s electronic 3 zone choke-able cymbals.  I love them so much, I ordered the Yamaha 12″ 3 zoned textured silicone snare.  It hasn’t arrived yet, but I’m excited.  I’m not skilled enough to justify the Roland TD 30K V-Pro kit (yet).  I’m using trigger pedals instead of a traditional hi-hat pedal and kick pedal because people live below me.

I also have 2 rug pads, a wool rug, and a thick workout mat under my kit.  It’s my third kit, but the first one never even made it out of the boxes.  It was a Roland TD-11K V-drum kit.  It went to a nephew with an acoustic kit whose neighbors were complaining.  I didn’t have the heart to tell his parents I gave him the amp, too.  He promised to use headphones at home.  He plays for their church now.  I wish he were local so he could have helped me set up the new rack.  Now that it’s done, I do feel a sense of accomplishment.  Even though it took me a really long time.  I’m cracking myself up.  I started assembling it at around 6 PM because Seinfeld was on.  I wiped all my fingerprints (and a few tears) off just after 3 AM.

I took a few frustration breaks.  I distinctly recall playing with Amelia Bedelia when she dragged her string toy into the mix, too.  It was so cute!  I have a habit of narrating what I assume my cat is thinking.  (I blame Mystery Science Theater 3000.)  I’m pretty confident she sees herself as the Queen, and I’m her faithful servant (who occasionally forgets her place.)  I hope all cat owners do this.  Cats suck at playing fetch.  One time, years ago, I tossed a plastic cat toy down the hall, and she chased after it like a puppy.  Unfortunately, when she discovered what I tossed wasn’t edible, she decided she was done with fetch forever, I think.

Her idea of fun is playing Peek-a-boo, I’m Gonna Get You.  I have a love/hate relationship with the game.  It makes me laugh really hard, but it also can trigger a panic attack.  It’s not like playing with a toddler.  She stalks then pounces, but never when I anticipate.  I’ll think she wandered off and peek around the corner to see her little butt shaking in preparation to get me.  One time, I looked at the same time as she pounced and we banged heads.  It was hilarious, but I suppose you had to be there.  She has a few blankets I rotate for her to drag around.  She knows they belong to her, which surprised me.  My nephew tried to borrow one, and she had a cow, so I made him give it to her.  She sat on it and stared him down for a while.

I made the wrong decision of narrating her hissy fit in front of my then 13-year-old nephew.  He started doing it too.  Only, his narration turned my beautiful, sweet cat into a sarcastic little shit waiting for me to die so she can eat me.  (It was still funny, though.)  I’m off to serve breakfast to her majesty.

Still with the neck hole?

Content Warning:  Descriptions of severe depression, the aftermath of sexual assault.

 

 

I’m feeling much better.  Turns out, it wasn’t a round of severe depression, as evidenced by my improved condition a few days later.  I believe the suddenness (that word is spelled so redundantly) in which my happy-go-lucky stasis was shattered led me to panic and overreact.  My bad.  (Please, dear Universe, don’t use this as an excuse to teach me the difference between mild and severe depression.)  I do remember on some level.  A level I can push away at will.  Usually.

The scenario that stands out the most for me is when I was an inpatient at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.  I was severely depressed.  I remember walking outside to a roofless enclosure within the ward.  I don’t recall any thoughts.  I crashed in a moment.  I had to lay down on the cement.  I remember only being able to muster the necessary energy to lower myself somewhat gently.  Then that was all I had.  I could only breathe and lay there.  It was like I was paralyzed.  I couldn’t move, but I had no idea why.  I didn’t even feel upset or concerned about it because it took more than what I had.  I’m the type of person who seriously considers abandoning my apartment over a spider.  I hate bugs.  I have the willies just sharing that fact.

That’s how I remember severe depression.  It’s nothingness.  No control, no abilities, and no drive.  It’s laying on the bare ground while a Daddy Long-Legs spider crawls on my face (when typically it would have resulted in a frenzied attempt to practically peel the skin off my face.)  It took 18 months of my life to get from that point to the person who could do a task without weeping.  I remember my Mom suggested I do a load of laundry one day after I was out of the hospital.  The question filled me with panic.  I learned how to do laundry when I was 12.  I relearned when I was 28.

The second time required me to trust in myself and my abilities again, after spending so long as an inpatient.  I wish I didn’t remember that part so well.  My mom’s suggestion sent my mind racing immediately.  What else am I going to have to start doing again?  Why is this so hard?  Why are you doing this to me?  Can’t you see I’m broken?  I deeply resent the interruption to my life, the termination of my military career, and the murder of who I used to be.  All because a man decided his momentary pleasure was more valuable than my existence.  The mindset is where I focus my fury.  Those who view women as mere sex toys and worse.

Severe depression is traumatic.  The women who slept on my right at Walter Reed was undergoing ECT for depression at the time.  She was funny, I liked her.  There were people from all branches of the military at Walter Reed.  I met a lot of individuals who were there for attempting suicide, often over their sexuality.  They were always quickly processed out of the service back when it was Don’t ask, Don’t tell.  I’m glad they stopped that bullshit.  It should have been, Don’t treat humans like shit, Don’t drink and drive.  I bet my slogan would have resulted in far fewer deaths.  (Don’t worry, I’m keeping my day job.)

I just needed to clarify the varying degrees of depressive episodes.  It’s easy to get the impression PTSD is a walk in the park based on what I share when in actuality, I’ve been living with it for several years.  I’ve had psych nurses teach me all about coping skills, how to distract myself, and most importantly, how to trust my ability to endure.  Then I had the remedial course, the refresher, and the graduation ceremony, (when the nurse kindly but firmly reminds you about having the skills but needing to actually use them.)  I earned my walk in the park through endurance, experience, and a blessedly short attention span.

Side note: Thanks, J. and M.

Irritability 

These are the droids (words) I was looking for (but didn’t know it!) Understanding is wonderful.

the silent wave

I have almost always been prone to irritability. I could never quite understand where it came from. It would just be there, instantly, as if on 24-hour standby.

Anything could set it off. Looking back to early childhood, I remember setting something on a dresser in my room, only for it to fall back off.

Boom! Irritability sprung, and often, anger lashed out.

As I grew older, fresher situations come to mind, such as the inattentive driver who almost hit our truck. Another near-miss (or would that be “near-hit”? The English language is quite peculiar sometimes). We might have made it through the harrowing situation unharmed this time, but would we be so lucky next time? Roll the bones. And why in the hell couldn’t the driver paid more attention?

Boom! Four-letter words escape my lips.

Anger doesn’t come from nowhere, of course. There’s always a precipitator. Sometimes it’s a…

View original post 1,716 more words

You bought a car because it was owned by Jon Voight?

Content Warning:  Sweary as fuck, angry, and unsafe for anyone feeling fragile/suicidal.

 

 

I’ve gone and tripped into severe depression.  I usually only dabble in low-level depression.  For some reason, I forget what it’s like to be severely depressed soon after I stop experiencing it.  I can recall feeling wrecked, but my mind shies away from remembering it well or lingering.  There were signs, but I don’t tend to pay attention until one of them smacks me in the head.

All the things I worry about silently have surfaced and demanded I pay up in stomach acid, anxiety, and restlessness.  My thoughts are all over the place.  I forget what I was about to do every time I try to do something.  I can’t find my empathy.  I feel cold and emotionally detached.  It feels like I’m on a rollercoaster.  Every few minutes my stomach drops like I’m free falling.  I’m out of breath like I just sprinted, yet I’m sitting here, rigid and numb.  I want to run so badly, but it’s against the rules.  I have very strict rules during these episodes.  It’s how I’ve lived this long.

I don’t interact with people when severely depressed.  I also don’t drive, shop online, or leave my home.  It upsets me how severe depression alters my thoughts.  I feel like a parasite has invaded my mind and has taken control while I’m still in here, alarmed by what it’s doing.  But nobody can hear me scream.  Some parasite hijacked my perception.  Intellectually, I’m aware it’s because I’m depressed, but this fucking parasite doesn’t believe me.

It’s like I’m in a heated debate with the parasite over which of our perceptions is accurate.  I used to like debating.  Now it just makes me tired.  The parasite insists everyone I know despises me overtly, and everyone realizes it but me.  How the fuck do I debate that?  So I wing it and throw out statistical norms.  I’m not falling for that shit this time!  So of course, the parasite comes at me with my sparkling history of making and maintaining friendships.  (It doesn’t sparkle at all, it’s sarcasm.)  Damn.  Right in the nuts.  Sigh.

That’s alright.  Fuck everyone.  Fuck you, fuck me, and fuck that guy over there.  I can convince myself I don’t care if everybody hates me.  I’m autistic; I’ve had lots of practice.  So take that, you parasitic prick-face.  And more of the like.  I’d like to go for a run.   But shit!  Why does it have to be so fucking hard?  I want my mind back.  I need it!  I was using it!  It’s fucking mine!  Parasite, get out and die in a fire!

I want to break lots of things.  Preferably those that shatter on impact.  Why am I so angry?  Why am I feeling this way when I didn’t do anything wrong?  I do every little fucking thing depression demands.  It’s a lot.  I could use that time to do other stuff.  But no, I have to fucking deal with depression.  I have to fucking exercise even when I don’t fucking want to.  I have to pass on delicious things like Cheetos and Pringles because if I indulge just one fucking time, I fall off a fucking cliff of despair.  Is that fair?  No.  No, that is not fucking fair.

This shit should only happen to people who are hateful and vile and mean.  The ones who do horrible shit to others just because they’re fucking evil.  They’re the ones who should have a parasite in their brain trying to convince them life isn’t worth enduring times like these.  But no, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.  I hate this.  It isn’t worth it.  I just keep fighting likely out of habit.  Maybe one day I’ll be the first person to die from eating Cheetos (in a roundabout way only others who get it comprehend.)  Although, it would be cool to die hilariously.  I’m going to go stim and not die.  Because fuck depression.

She was murdered by Jerry Seinfeld!

Today I completed my mission.  The child I’m mentoring fascinates me.  She makes me feel intellectually challenged sometimes, she’s so brilliant.  Who knew that would make me so happy.  I’ve given her information, encouragement, tools, and my time.  I’m so glad I learned Spanish.  My fluency level is lacking, but she helps.  I understand another aspect of being a parent from this experience.  I comprehend the desire to give your child everything you can, and still, want to give more.   I get that deciding what’s appropriate to give a child is rocket science.  I feel the desire to make her life easier, and the restraint necessary to allow her to grow.

I’m practically drunk on joy right now.  I also got a bag of Skittles for May Day, which made it better.  And on top of all that, there’s some sort of construction going on in the parking lot, and I have a front row seat on my balcony.  There are at least three yellow tracked vehicles parked out there, along with lots of safety cones and a yellow tape perimeter.  They used a huge scoop loader to dig a giant hole.  It felt like we were experiencing an earthquake when they repeatedly smashed the teeth into the ground to break through the top layer.  It was really cool.  It reminded me of what it feels like to be near an M1 tracked vehicle when it fires.  (The first time I experienced it, I immediately started crying, as it scared the shit out of me, and probably took a few years off my life expectancy.)

In basic training, you go to what’s virtually the Army showing off some of her weapons.  One of them is an M1 Abrahms.  They warn in advance to put in ear protection and brace for a loud sound.  They don’t warn of the ground shaking, and loud is not a sufficient word for the sound it makes.  The oddest thing was later when I was stationed in Germany, I lived in barracks near a range where they fired so often, everyone stopped noticing.  We could always tell who was new because they were the ones who still jumped when they fired.  The human ability to adjust fascinates me so much.

I’m pleased the child who did incredibly well on my test and fit my criteria resides in Mexico (no additional cost to text.)  I was honestly expecting a kid from India.  It’s probably because so many of my colleagues are Indian.  At first, I was glad she’s a girl.  Then I realized it was a knee-jerk gladness.  So I told myself off for being an asshole.  I’m so used to encouraging girls to pursue STEM interests, and I didn’t take the time to think it through.  Yes, sexism is cancer on society.  But swinging from one extreme to another is not problem-solving, it’s time wasting.  So now I encourage humans to pursue STEM interests.  Gender identification is in the agonizing process of overcoming vast ignorance.  I know what it feels like to be treated like shit, and I very much want to prevent others from experiencing that feeling because of me.

I feel really light knowing I accomplished what I intended.  I’ll admit, the first thought that occurred was, “I can die now.”  It probably sounds macabre, but it’s just accurate.  I suppose it’s like realizing you don’t have any regrets.  I think this is a symptom of being over 40 years old.  Frankly, I’m amazed I still exist.  I’ve had some close calls, but I bounce back like I’m made of rubber.  Eventually, that is.  I’m slow rubber.  I’ve steered clear of sharing a lot of my history on this blog.  I haven’t shared about my relationships with people who are currently alive.   I haven’t shared much about my adulthood.  (I might change this policy now.)  I only count the second half of my service as part of my adulthood.

The first year was mostly me getting screamed at,  doing pushups, KP, digging deep holes, and filling them back in to develop a filter between my brain and mouth, (and unlearn eye rolling.)  I hate to admit it, but I was a total dick when I was a teenager.  I seriously thought I was more intelligent than everyone else and therefore superior, and behaved accordingly.  I kinda want to go back in time and punch myself in the face.  But I know it wouldn’t have helped matters.  Sigh.  It would make me feel better about it, though.  In the Army, I learned lots about human intellect.  Mainly, I learned we suck at measuring intelligence in others.  The IQ test only measures a small slice of data.  A superior IQ is overrated.  The only thing it seems to guarantee is mental illness.  Some have high intelligence in areas that earn money, plus the drive and personality to succeed financially.  Unfortunately, that often means sociopaths climb highest.  America rewards sociopathic behavior.  It’s all Hunger Games.

I no longer hold much faith in humanity (regarding our ability to value human life.)  Our society is tailored to appreciate the white man who has the most money above all other humans.  No other criteria matters anymore.  Raping women and children doesn’t lower his value.  Nothing he says or does can reduce his value in our society.  It’s fucking twisted.  It leaves me feeling like an alien without a ship to get home.  I recently realized I’m isolating.  I don’t socialize any longer.  I’ve been so focused.  I don’t plan to pursue it again.  I guess I’m feeling tremendous relief.  I can die now.  I’m done.  (Of course, I’m not rushing to get a helium tank to smurf off.)  I’m going to get rid of more stuff until I have only what I need.  It will have to fit in my car, so need will probably be redefined until I meet that goal.  Then I’m out of here.  I’m going to quit my job and go look at all the cool stuff on this continent.  I’m going to chase The Shiny because I’m fucking done.  Yay.

It’s vastly superior to any shaving cream.

Comfort.  It’s such a simple word.  Something sought after, craved, and even worshiped by some.  We’re not sufficiently warned of the dangers of over seeking comfort, in America.  At least not in my opinion.  When I think of comfort, I imagine a soft blanket fresh from the dryer.  Or my bed (which is extremely comfy despite my habit of avoiding it.)  Then I picture Admiral Ackbar shouting, “It’s a trap!”  Life taught me not to strive for comfort because it makes me weaken.  I’m strong.  Strong will, experience, and character.  I’m proud of my strength.  I earned every muscle, (figuratively and literally.)

When I see so many who seek comfort in all things, to an obsessive degree, I wonder why anyone would deliberately disable their own potential.  An example somewhere with a pleasant climate:  You’re given the task of transporting yourself to Location Alpha.  You get to pick either Option 1: Chauffered there in a new Lincoln Navigator or Option 2:  Walking, using a wheelchair, or biking, etc.  I’m sure most humans would find riding in a luxury vehicle more comfortable.  However, one choice leads to comfort, the other to strength.  The latter is a decision to use your own mobility and skills.  Option 2 requires active participation, which is how we gain experience in life.

Those who habitually choose the more comfortable road in life are easy to identify.  The person who is weak in ways surprising in an adult, for instance.  45 is an example.  He’s thin skinned because of his choices.  He’s 70 years old, yet has virtually no character or life skills, (lying doesn’t count.)  He’s weak and fragile because he refuses to be uncomfortable.  He lives for ease, comfort, and image.  I can’t fathom what he wouldn’t do to maintain his three obsessions.  He doesn’t know how to exist without all three.

In a way, I’m impressed anyone can live on earth in such a pathetic, weakened state.  I view it as walking on a mine field without realizing you’re walking on a mine field.  It could possibly be ballsy if you knew, but you don’t know.  So it’s just foolish and will probably end in tears.  It makes me cringe and feel baffled.  Why are so many people determined, not only to self-destruct but also damage the lives of others?  Who the fuck gives anyone the right to trespass in the life of a separate living being?  Such audacity.

When children state they hope to be rich when they grow up, it’s cute because they don’t have much life experience.  When adults do it, it’s just embarrassing.  Right up there with stating you want to be a junkie, folks.  You think you want to obsessively hoard a tool allegedly able to provide joy and safety on our violent planet.  In reality, you probably don’t understand where happiness comes from, and haven’t experienced enough to recognize safety doesn’t exist for the living.  We survive, or we don’t.

We’re still far too short-sighted to survive for long.  We’re at the top of the food chain and are nearly the top predator on this planet.  (We’ll probably never out predator virii, but not from lack of trying.)  Unfortunately, we prey on our own species.  And the number one reason to kill our own kind is greed.  The desire for increased comfort, ease, and image.  Lots of money will get you all three.  But all three are things you can lose in an instant.  You can’t buy everything.  The strength of will, character, and compassion are acquired through effort, contemplative thought, and experience, not purchase.

Money is a tool.  (I’m going to try another analogy.)  Excessive wealth is like ice cream.  Many think it’s delicious, but few eat it exclusively to survive, (for obvious reasons.)  Food is a tool to acquire nutrition.  If you consume food excessively, or too little, and/or pick foods with little nutritional value, you defeat the purpose of using nutrition to survive. You’re doing it wrong.  It’s the same with money.  If you’re using it as a sole means of surviving in this world, it’s like you’re suffering from malnutrition.

I believe it’s wisest to develop skills, character, and to experience life as fully (and honestly) as you’re able.  It’s a less simple path in life than lying, cheating, and stealing your way through (like 45), but it leads to strength, not self-inflicted pathetic.  Strength is more reliable.  Banks don’t repossess life experience, skills, education, etc.  It’s harder to rob someone of their strength than their money.  The Stock Market Swamp has no power over your character.  Choices are a joystick allowing some semblance of control in life.  Make them wisely (and diversify your survival portfolio.)  I’m off to continue enjoying Perdido Street Station, by China Mièville.

It’s like my brain is facing my penis in a chess game.

I laughed when I chose today’s Seinfeld quote.  Mostly because I love referring to my (figurative) penis when going postal on a misogynist.  There are few groups I consider fair game for an all-out verbal attack.  Misogynists top the list.  I barely consider them human.  They’re contaminating the gene pool.  They cling to ignorance, and a false sense of superiority like their life depends on it.  It’s sad.  I’m happy to report they’re dying off.  In twenty years the word misogynist will only show up in novels and word games.  Glory days.  In the meantime, they usually insist on identifying themselves within minutes of contact, so at least they’re easy to avoid.

I’ve been enjoying the hell out of my electronic drum kit.  Unfortunately, I damaged the snare drum pad.  Now, It only plays softly no matter how hard I hit it.  Disclaimer:  I void warranties religiously.  I took it apart.  I could fix it for a few bucks, or I could build a better one.  I wasn’t about to fix a cheap rubber snare drum pad.  Clearly, they’re too easy to break.  Although, for a cheap entry kit, I’m astonished by what I got in a good way.  The rack and module alone are worth what I paid for the whole kit.  The drum pads and cymbals are temporary, and I’m in the process of replacing them.

I love the rack because it’s matte black everywhere, it’s compact and sturdy, and I can use standard hardware on it.  I ordered a 10″ rim, some 35mm piezo discs, foam tabs, a 1/4″ instrument input, cables, and a mesh head to make a better snare drum.  It’s now a dual trigger, shiny, mesh pad and is a joy to beat with sticks.  I can do rolls, and the velocity triggers beautifully, too.

I’m debating on how I want to address my hi-hat replacement, which is next.  Part of me thinks I’ll never want an acoustic kit, and shouldn’t limit my choices in that respect going forward.  I much prefer having the sounds from multiple super expensive kits recorded in high-end studios than whatever I could reproduce.  In that instance, I’d prefer using a mesh head pad for my hi-hat and cymbals, too.  It’s a quiet enough trigger that I can practice anytime I want, day or night.  How very attractive to this insomniac.  If I decide against the mesh cymbals, I’m just going to get acoustic cymbals because the rubber and plastic cymbal pads currently being sold are unbelievably shitty substitutes.

I have a tendency to read all night.  I’ve been doing it often since I learned how to read.  I was raised to believe laying still in bed while wearing pajamas counts as sleeping.  The laying still part really means being silent enough not to awaken others.  Laughing out loud at a book while reading is something I’ll admit to often doing.  In my head, I’m in another world where something funny just happened.  Not laughing would be weird.  Immediately after, I feel guilty for making noise.

The guilt part is just a habit at this point.  When Heather died, her diaries were given to me.  (All my siblings kept a journal growing up but only the girls continued in adulthood.)  She wrote about my late night giggles with fondness as an adult.  She wasn’t so fond of them at the time, I recall.  We shared a bedroom until I started 7th grade.  My Mom decorated it, but it looked like Holly Hobby threw up in there to me.  Yellow gingham fabric with lots of ruffles everywhere.

Starting in Junior High, I got to decorate my own room.  Heather was so worried about me having my own room.  She didn’t think I could handle it (Queen of Nightmares is my original title).  Thinking back now it makes me laugh.  She was really the big sister at times.  She was my self-appointed voice for much of my childhood.  At first, it was because I didn’t speak, but later because it amused me so much.  (Heather was always a bit of a loud talker who didn’t hesitate to demand being heard.)  We were opposites in so many ways, but we always had the same sense of humor.  On that nostalgic note, I’m off to continue reading Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving again.  It’s so fucking good.  (That’s my review.)

I thought we all agreed on Soda.

I had a busy weekend.  I took a short jaunt to Denver, then began my spring cleaning when I got home.  I’m disappointed over the first period I’ve had since the election.  I was hoping so hard it meant I was done with them (early-ish.)  I knew it was too good to be true.  I’m especially eager for this event because I’m sterile, which means it’s unnecessary bullshit no matter my age.  There should be a consolation prize of no periods if you can’t make babies, dammit.  It was probably just stress.  My disappointment level is hovering around saw there was chocolate cake, then found out it was really carrot cake.  

I didn’t sleep at all last night.  I didn’t even bother laying down. I found myself in the middle of a mess at 2 AM.  I almost tripped into panic mode looking at all that stuff that needed to be organized and put away.  I broke it down into smaller tasks and soldiered through.  By the time I finished, my cat was ready to play.  Her favorite time to play is around 3 AM.  Refusing to participate often results in her walking on me like I’m playground equipment.  I’ve yet to successfully ignore this behavior.  Worse, I end up laughing which I’m positive encourages her.

My body is aching like it’s sleeping without my consent.  It’s pleasant weather today, aside from some light rain here and there.  I’m going for a long run in a few.  Exercise is the best way to get rid of cramps for me.  Hopefully, it will increase the chances of my sleeping tonight as well.

I don’t even really work here!

It rained all day today.  It’s still raining now.  I don’t like when it’s also windy because it blows the water under my umbrella, rendering my battle to keep it above me futile.  I was drenched by the time I finished my Meals on Wheels route.  My last stop is inside an apartment complex with long hallways to reach each unit.  I’ve gotten lost in this odd complex more than once.  I suspect it used to be two buildings, and they later built a lobby in between, connecting them.  I have to remember which side for each unit because there are two apartments with the same number on each floor.  The division is only noticeable on the ground floor.

All three of my clients have made a habit of meeting me in the lobby for about a month now.  I have a hard time keeping my giggles inside during that stop because I imagine they underestimate my intelligence based on my building navigation skills.  (Or the lack thereof.)  I don’t know why it amuses me so much when people underestimate me.  I don’t lift a finger to dissuade misguided estimations because I can’t imagine a scenario where being more capable than expected is a con (for me).

I need to work out a few bugs in my delivering.  I don’t pull into people’s driveways, I park on the street.  This is because I can’t drive backward (well).  Backing out of that many driveways in a 90-minute window is statistically unwise.  In fact, based on my current record, it’s likely it would result in no less than four incidents a week.  By incidents, I mean me spontaneously rearranging the front yard landscaping by lurching and braking every five feet until I go over the curb and hit the street again.  (And that’s practically a best case scenario.)  Sigh.  I do much better driving forward.  I think it’ll be easier to work out the kinks when the weather acts right.

I’m going to look into volunteering for Habitat for Humanity soon.  I don’t know how to build a house, but I can use a hammer.  I need more physical labor in my life.  I love how it makes me feel, and it’s probably the best option for my insomnia.  (I won’t take prescription sleep meds.)  My body sleeps when it needs it badly enough.  I’d just prefer feeling more rested than what around three hours a night provide.  I’m convinced I’d act more like a morning person if I got up in the afternoon.  I’m off to read.

What do I have to do to put you two in a relationship today?

Today passed quickly.  It occurred to me earlier I’ve reached equilibrium again.  I’m comfortable, which means it’s time to shake things up.  I don’t want to become weak.  I’m going to sleep on it, and decide tomorrow what to do.  On the physical side, I’ve been maintaining my upper body strength with daily pushups and 5 lb. barbels.  I remember speaking with an old classmate at a wellness center about arm definition.  It was one of those situations where someone touched me unexpectedly, and I mentally took a giant step backward and booted into safe mode.  (Fortunately, I can play it back in my head after I recover. )  It was the first time I ever thought about arm definition.  She asked me about my workout, stating she was seeking my arm definition.  I don’t think I responded, much to my chagrin.

Now that I just pondered how I would have answered her, it’s probably better I just stood there.  I have a horrible history of saying things that are politically incorrect without realizing it.  Like… When someone asked me if I ever thought about getting a tattoo, my response was, “But I’m already colored in.”  In my defense, I’m not disrespectful to people with brown skin.  On an entirely unrelated note; I have brown skin.  It’s more an issue of speaking.  While I sometimes struggle to maintain the ability, nevertheless, I still do it more than I should, often before thinking first.  The older I get, the more I recognize nothing is often the best thing to say.

I’m on the 3rd book of The Magicians trilogy by Lev Grossman.  It’s love at first novel, although the second in the trilogy is better.  I might check out the TV show just to see how someone else imagined it.  You know how every so often you come across a story that feels as if it was created just for you?  It’s like an inside joke with someone you’ve never met.  The last novel that delighted me on this level was Ready Player One by Ernest Cline.  I’m going to read something without rivets or dragons next.  I haven’t picked yet.  Probably something by John Irving.  I still think about Lupe from Avenue of Mysteries often.  I reread everything he writes multiple times.  He’s my American Dickens.  I’m off to read.