“Fight for her, Jerry! She’s sure as hell fighting for you!”

Camera lenses

I found out a few days ago the Fleetwood Mac concert is now in February.  I narrowly escaped a meltdown over canceled plans.  Instead, I’ve been coping with brain fog, but at least I still get to anticipate the new date gleefully for three months.  Brain fog sucks, but it’s much better than shutting down altogether.  I fought off The New and Improved Depression Monster (TNAIDM) last night.  I’m surprised by how quickly I managed to kick his sorry ass.  I’m trying not to think about it too much (because I’m worried it may have just been a flyby before an epic battle.)

The lingering melancholy is yet another round of recognizing I messed up (socially) again, but I haven’t yet figured out what I did wrong, or with whom.  It’s merely a sense I’ve offended without intent.  The evidence is so tenuous and speculative; I don’t dare accept it as a certainty.  Instead, I’m struggling to refrain from beating myself up over it, while also trying to convince myself refraining from all social situations isn’t an optimal solution.  (I wasn’t kidding when I confessed my inner five-year-old is usually in charge.)

bridge

I’m frustrated because I know social isolation is not only doable, it’s often attractive.  The downside is the fact it limits the depth of happiness.  I’m once again debating constant but lonely contentment in isolation, versus what is allegedly more healthy, positively more joyful, but also filled with lots of pain:  socializing.  I spend much time here; I should probably decorate this Freaking Chamber of Perpetual Deliberation.  Sigh.  Presently, the desire to withdraw emotionally and STFU be silent is overwhelming.  Sharing my thoughts is (evidently) irresistible and eventually devastating.  (All the swears.)

I love that humans are so complicated, with infinite depths within each.  It’s why they fascinate me.  Observing and interacting with them is like a drug to which I’m addicted.  It’s just that I can’t seem to master communicating.  It’s as if there’s an intricate dance I must perform to gain access, but I can’t hear the music.  I can almost hear the universe belly-laughing at me, though.  Chase that carrot, bitch!  I suppose it is a bit funny from a particular perspective.  I may suck at talking to people, but perhaps I’m like Wanda Sykes to the aliens watching us for entertainment.

Take Me Please t-shirt by Darruda

That’s the shirt I’m wearing right now, (expressing my usual sentiments toward aliens.)  I’m going to design one that says; I Might Be a Famous Comedian on Kepler-186f, then order it and wear it.  Yep.  I’m that weird, don’t you know.  😂  (And this is after decades of trying desperately to fit in.)  Fortunately, the older I get, the less I bother stressing over silly shit like clothes.  Clean and comfortable are the only criteria I aim for, these days.  I still get a good chuckle whenever I remember all the time I wasted worrying about what others think of what I’m wearing.  If you don’t like it, don’t wear my clothes.  😂 💜✌🏽

“Let’s go, Pop. White belt, white pants, white shoes, get in the back.”

What you gonna do?

Okay.  I had to let go of my rage.  I can’t afford to waste any more energy.  I do apologize for throwing all cops under the bus in my anger, knowing not all of them are racist pricks.  None have ever abused their authority with me (that I know of.)  My fears, although rational, are frustrating because I can’t identify a racist by sight.  Unless they’re wearing a MAGAt uniform or something, that is.  (No hesitation to say that with confidence anymore, dontchaknow.  The bridge pic in front of a youth indoctrination center in my last post did it.)

I decided I’m not going to respond to the letter.  If the police show up, come what may.  I’m not thick enough to answer the door.  I’m not likely to forget I’m black.  😂🤣  Yep.  I’m bitter.  I think it’s because being hated doesn’t grant me the ability to hate back.  Heather was a racist by age seven.  I don’t think it’s fair I can’t even fake it.  We had the same freaking environment and were only 13 months apart.  This can’t be my planet.

I told M. to give me a week before we talk about him coming back.  You know why so many veterans succeed at committing suicide?  It’s because we’re trained to only attempt that which we’re sure to acomplish.  We instinctively include redundancy, and don’t shy away from gruesomely violent methods.  We’re also more likely to own weapons.  Twenty-two veterans will commit suicide today, according to statistics.  (Google it.  I’m cranky.)  And tomorrow.  And the day after that.  You get it.  (I’m being morbid because I’m hurt, offended, and not trying very hard to adult.)

I think the veteran suicide rate is by design.  Mostly because it makes fiscal sense.  If you’ve read more than a few of my posts, you know I analyze the shit out of everything.  Why the hell do you think I joined the Army?  Sure, partly because I was an arrogant, spoiled rotten brat an inch away from rationalizing my way into some white collar crime that wasn’t technically invented yet, and I didn’t truthfully want that easy, easy path in life.  But mostly because I wanted answers to several questions, am impatient, and didn’t understand what fear meant yet.  The shortest distance from spoiled rotten brat to adult was surrendering to Uncle Sam’s ironic call for volunteers.

plastic soldier

Oddly, it had to be either the Army or the Marines.  I did my research.  I didn’t do enough joint operations with Navy or Air Force to narrow down why.  Coast Guard seemed a silly choice for a Dakotan.  I didn’t consider the Marines at all.  I’m pretty confident I would not have lasted another two weeks in boot camp, thankyouverymuch.  (Failing basic is usually because you changed your mind, or you got hurt, in my opinion.)  The only hard part is acting despite fear, staying awake on fire watch, and living with 49 other children experiencing the same trauma.  If you want it enough, you graduate.

I came too close to a meltdown today, so my brain is defragmenting.  I’m amazed I’ve stuck to something resembling a topic this long.  I’m operating on dark humor and cynicism.  (I don’t mind this phase of the process because it mostly amuses me.)  This weekend is ruined, though.  I can tell I won’t be sleeping anytime soon.  I can’t even work on my song because the Muse won’t acknowledge my existence when I’m carrying around negativity for no reason. I already forgave my cat for continuously thwarting my ability to off myself without going through the agonizing mental exercise first.  (I haven’t needed a plan in years.)

Yep, I’m that weird.  I don’t care.  (You wouldn’t either if you were me.)  I forgot to eat today.  +10 for remembering before midnight.  Although, I broke a tooth from grinding my teeth too hard a bit ago.  Thanks, Prozac, you evil, dry-mouth causing bitch.  Even when I’m just recovering from losing my shit, I’m still aware I have an indefinable bond with my healing sisters, (Stevie Nicks, Amy Lee, Lorde, etc.)  It’s probably why I’m able to talk shit while my CPU is under such a heavy load.  I’m as strong as I am weird, now.  I bet that scares you.  😂  (No, seriously, I hope not.)  I’m going to go eat before I type something even more regrettable.  Seeya.