A Typical, But Not Completely, Typical Day

I woke up, today, around 11:00, after about fours of sleep. Seems like I can't sleep any longer than that, lately, without waking up from some strange dream. They're mostly "guilt dreams". I'm only theorizing about that. But I guess I've been burying my conscious and it only escapes during my sleep. This beast has been having it's fun with me for the past month and IT is getting mighty annoying.

Pop goes the nasty shit! It's running out of my mind's door! Unfortunately, it's still in my sleepy head, where it stays trapped. Fuckin' guilt! I liked it better when I didn't dream. A decent sex dream would be welcome, for certain.

When I'm awake, I don't think about anything "I believe" I've done wrong. Normally. But, like the therapist pointed out during one session several years ago... He said I persecute myself and think I deserve punishment for things I've said or have done towards people. He also said that I seem to have the tendency to formulate it in my head like whatever I said or did- to be blown out of proportion. He based it on things I had said, when I was around this or that person, from other sessions.

Makes sense. So now the shitty goop of misplaced or unwarranted guilt is popping up in my dreams. Ah, how nice. But I'm going to confront it head on and admit that I'm not that bad a person and carry on... Even if it takes a hammer to my head to knock the evil goop out my ears. I can't afford therapy at the moment, so I'm going to do battle with my stupid brain, by myself. Like Homer Simpson, I'm going to give it a good talking to and tell it who's boss. If that doesn't work, it's HAMMER TIME, baby.

As I was saying, I woke up, made coffee, petted the cat and put two Bacon and Cheese Hot Pockets in the microwave. Soon enough, I ate them and played my messages on the answering machine. One was from the wifey, telling me she made it to work alright. Good. Next, was the receptionist from my doctor's office. She was letting me know that my insulin pens for my diabetes came in from the patient assistance program. Definitely good news. They had messed up the order of insulin last time and if I hadn't caught that it was the wrong stuff-- when I picked it up from the doctor's office, I could have taken it home, injected it into myself and.... Who knows?

After that, I showered, made supper for later tonight and got my clothes on. That's right! I was cooking in the nude! Excited? No? Alrighty then. Anyway, while I was managing to cook up some Tuna Helper, the cat started going nuts when he smelled the tuna cans I was opening. He kept leaping on my legs as the cans slowly turned round and round the electric can opener. At one point, I thought he was going to strike at my lopsided nutsack and rip into it. Then my precious jelly beans would fall out! Then I would feel blue. My solution is to give him a can of Fancy Feast cat food in a can. It's something we give him as a treat, once in awhile. It says on the can that it is Whitefish and Tuna flavored. Ah ha... That will fool him, I think, patting myself on the back.

I set the bowl of juicy, succulent cat food down on the floor (are you as horny as I am?) and he eats it like a little piggy. His normal bowl of cat food is sitting there, halfway full, next to the water bowl. He's a spoiled little bastard. But then I feel sorry for him because he is our only "child" now. Mufasa, our eldest cat, died, recently. We only have Victor now. He's loving and playful and lonely. We plan on getting him a playmate after Christmas. It's too hectic these days and it takes patience to train a kitten, which is what we'll be looking for when the time comes. No pound kitties, though. We had extremely bad luck with that. That was years ago. Max the Cat was his name and shitting behind and beneath megaton furniture, for no good reason, was his game. Sometimes we didn't find his piss and shit surprises until it was too late. Almost needless to say, Max was returned before I could kill him. We gave him four weeks too many. If I wanted to clean up shit for longer than four weeks, I would have had a friggin' kid. No thanks. There's already enough breeders in this world as it is. Many of them aren't equipped with enough brains or conscious to do battle with themselves.

But, on the same token, responsible parents are just as easy to spot.

I say we give the rotten adults an abortion. Or... Any more than two kids, then you have to give up your genitals. Sorry. Rules are rules and we know how humans love their rules. Lap dog, over breeding imbeciles that don't put on their turn signal when they're changing lanes, by damned it! What was I talking about? Damn those voices in my head.

Immediately, when I finished cooking, I got dressed, brushed my teeth, put on my jacket and hat and out the door I went. I went to doctor's office to pick up the insulin pens, went to the grocery store to pick up lunch meat and bread, went to get monetarily raped at the gas station where the gas is currently at $2.85 a gallon and then I went back home. I checked to see if they got my insulin order right this time. They did! Jackpot! I get to live a couple more months. Hooray. And stuff. After putting everything away, I got back in the truck and drove to the park, with haste.

I had to get my daily park walking done in a hurry. It would be dark soon and wifey was going to be home in a half hour. I try to be there for her so I can be a good husband and not get a beating with the baseball bat. I'm so abused. OK. I might be exaggerating just a little. But she does confide in me that she would like to cut my dick off while I'm asleep. But strangely, that's not why I have trouble sleeping at night. By the way, I laugh when she says such things because I threaten to twist her nipple off now and then. It's like an ongoing comedy routine we have going on. 21 years. Quite healthy.

So off to the park I go. The first person I see is the guy by the athletics supply building. This building sits close to the tennis court that is hardly used and still looks new and the basketball court, nearby, that is the same way. The guy, I'm guessing, is the guy who takes care of supplying the athletes with enough balls and stuff to do their thing. The door was open, obviously, with a key. He looked at me, giving off a little vibe of nervousness. Maybe I imagined it.

All I've ever seen, as far as any games being played at the park, is two Pee Wee football games attended by millions of crazed parents and the other times when a couple kids were playing a few basketball games. Anybody else you see in that park are walkers, runners, people trying to fish at a lake without fish and the park employees. Maybe once a week, you'll see a cop car run through the park. If you wanted to, you could probably get away with fucking, sucking, fisting, lickin' the va-jay-jay and other horseplay down at the large gazebo by the lake without too much trouble. Party time.

Anyway, the supply guy at the building says, ""It's getting colder out here."

I say, "Yeah, it is."

Hell, I don't know what else to say. Supply Guy didn't give me much to work with. By the way, it was getting colder. It was about 45 degrees Fahrenheit at the time. For the rest of you, in other countries, I have no idea what that is in Celsius. I won't check, either, because I'm American and don't give a shit. I think that's the American Way. The metric system can go fuck itself, too. The last person who tried to teach me the metric system was a nun from the parochial school I attended. I rammed a pencil in her eye. Not to worry, though. It was a No. 2 Pencil. And she cried out, "Praise da Lawd!"

After walking the usual path, I find a second person. He is walking toward me from the other direction. He looks like he could be crazy. He's wearing a grey coat with a black sock cap on his head. So I nod to him and do what most folks do in that situation. I say, "Hi.", without really looking at him. He does nothing but nod his head, not wanting to be bothered by my evil, intrusive greetings and keep his hands in his pockets. I wonder if he's hiding Barbie Doll heads in his pockets. Then I wonder if they still have the bathrooms locked or unlocked up ahead in the yellow building. I have problems with my butt. It likes to shit. Although I'm not at the stage of routine adult diaper wear, I have had an accident at the park because they will lock them when it gets closer to winter. During that accident, it was so cold... The turds froze to my leg underneath my pants. Talk about feeling blue... and brown.

When I got home, I was able to shake a leg to pop the turdcicles from the very bottoms of my pants legs.

Minutes go by during my walk now. I have to stop every five to ten minutes because of my foot conditions. I have inoperable 2 and a half inch heel spurs (my feet have been X-rayed so many times, I lost count) and equinus deformity on both feet. The heel spurs have connected to the rest of the bones in my footsies. It's like walking on railroad spikes with misshapen, unbalanced feet. I've tried everything so spare me the advice that I've heard a billion times. Thanks, anyway, stranger. I've done my time with the fancy insoles, shoes and whatever. I've had almost thirty years of experience with it. But I force myself to walk short distances, anyway, because I still need to exercise. It's called perseverance, people. I was going to the gym almost every day for a year and a half and lost thirty pounds but that routine got fucked up during the continuous moving fiasco with my dad's old place that lasted 6 weeks. Now, I'm just trying to keep up with my walking routine.

Regardless, I see a couple walking their pet dog. It has a pink outfit on. I restrain myself from killing the couple. I smile, then say, "Hi. How are you tonight?" They say something back but it doesn't matter. I'm not listening. I'm still thinking of the poor dog in the pink cowboy outfit. As I walk further, I wonder if it's too late to limp back and bash the couple in their heads, thus freeing the dog. Then I think, Well the next thing to happen, if successful, would be the dog rewarding me, with it's rescue of it, by biting a finger off from my hand and taking my nose off my face. Oh well. I keep walking. No good deed goes unpunished. This has always been especially true, in my experience.

In conclusion, I struggle through the rest of my walk, make it home in time before the wife, serve her and I supper and watch a couple shows that we pre-recorded the night before. We talk for awhile. My wife goes to bed early. She's tired. It's getting busier where she works. And now, I'm typing on this keyboard and telling you I'm about to sign off. Who knows? I may come to your blog and leave a comment. Ah, can you feel the excitement?

Behold! You are at the end of this journey I took you on, brave soldier. You must celebrate by flagellating yourself. Or by fixing yourself a hot cup of coffee. Your choice. I won't peek.

Sorry If I've Caused Concern -Part 3

As mentioned before, I felt guilty for not being able to get up to mom and dad's place in time. I felt I let mom die.

This and missing Mom for her unconditional love and advice started my depression. Sure, I was told by friends, co-workers and family that it wasn't my fault. But there were a few who gave no response. Which I didn't know how to take. Most of the time, I felt they were judging me. Either that or I thought they were androids from some unknown galaxy. Anyway, I felt responsible no matter how much logic was thrown at me.

So while my depression was literally killing me in health and spirit, my time on my last few jobs was pure hell for one and all. On more than a few occasions, in the middle of putting together a brake part, I would either cry or have a fit with myself. I would even talk and answer myself. What fun! It's always so nice when you have a bunch of people you know (and semi-respect) give you that look of dismay and extreme confusion. In the old days, when friends would give me that look, I would treasure it like a badge of honor. But a little over two years ago, those days had been long gone. This is what I found out.... in hard and unusual ways. I was not fit to work anywhere.

And my next two jobs, after that brake assembly job, made that judgement call all the more true.

I would throw things, yell at people, break stuff and create some type of verbal chaos now and then that would result in being reprimanded in some way. Never before had I acted so irrationally on the job. Now.... I would have a confrontation with a person or two, in the past, if I thought they were doing something wrong, but this shit was something different.

I remember pushing over twenty, ten foot high stacks of plastic crates over a catwalk type area and causing most everyone in the warehouse to shit their pants, at once. No one died, if that's what you're wondering. Twenty plus years of working hard in the retail business and warehouses and now I was having a fucking meltdown. Sing ta BuhJesus and halley-yoooo-ya!

Now here's another element to the story you should know: I have two and a half inch heel spurs in both of my goddamn feet. They have been causing me tremendous pain for most of my life. And yes, I have used every kind of cushion, foam or whatever footware contraption to help with the pain. The podiatrist I have been seeing, off and on since my early twenties, said they were the biggest he had ever seen. He still says that. I saw the x-rays. They look and feel like curved railroad spikes. The podiatrist has said both verbally and in health records that they cannot be removed due to the fact the spurs have grown so large, they have connected completely to the bones in my feet.

Little medical lesson:

Spurs are formed at the at heel by way of calcium deposits travelling down your leg. Your brain is responsible for sending a message to your feet (by way of sending these little bits of bony crap) as an attempt to somehow "protect" your damaged heel area. Unfortunately, your brain fails miserably in this scenario.

Note: I also have neuropathy of the feet. Look it up if you're curious. I'm also 80% deaf in one year and have astigmatism in both eyes. And don't forget the high blood pressure. Eight pills, two insulin shots and still counting. Have I mentioned the depression?

I'm 46, in case you're wondering.

Life is grand. Sarcasm. Yes, I know I could have it much worse but when you put everything altogether, it does make an impressive list.

But I'm not done yet.

I also have a condition called "equinus foot". Click the link if you're interested in knowing more about that. The short version is... It's a deformity of the feet. Because of my "equinus foot" condition, my heel spurs formed. When I walked or stood, I was growing spurs and suffering from them as they developed over the years. I was told long ago by my podiatrist that if he were to operate and remove my heel spurs, they would eventually grow back in a couple of years. This is why I didn't have the procedure done. Too costly and ineffective.

While my working years ached onward, my condition worsened. I was often asked by people I knew, co-workers and people I didn't know, why I wasn't trying to get social security disability. I had told them I wasn't going to try that because (1) I didn't think I would get it. And (2) I had too much pride to accept it. In my mind, you were a lazy, cheating piece of shit if you got it and you were still able to move.

But now I understand the truth.

Cutting to the chase of the story, I had become convinced that I should try to get social security benefits. It took 3 attempts, a judge on a monitor from an out-of-state web cam, an asshole for a lawyer and lots of legwork (from me) but I finally won the case after a year and eight months.

As for my physical health, I am exorcising on a Nu-Step bike/rowboat thing at the Community Center. I do 35 minutes of that, putting in close to two miles. They have an excellent compilation of exercise equipment. I also take walks, stopping occasionally, behind my apartment at a city park.

I am fighting.

I don't feel as guilty about things I've done in the past, either. In fact, I feel very non-guilty about anything I do or say anymore. I never felt like that in the past. This feeling may be a very bad thing for everyone involved. We'll see. Or, I'll see. See. Told you I was crazy.

The best piece of wisdom I had ever gotten from a psychiatrist was just recently:

To fight.

Don't wonder or care how you're going to get through it. Just fight. He told me he could tell I was a fighter by three different signs. The first was: I was there, in the room, talking to him, seeking help. Two, he had me perform a test that seemed incredibly simple the first few seconds. My psychiatrist gave me five pieces of folded cardboard. Then he told me to rip them in half. It was a thick and bulky block but I thought it was going to be easy. I must have tried ripping the shit apart for five or more minutes. I was gritting my teeth. Cursing. And so on.

Then I asked him if I could unfold each piece and rip each individual piece of cardboard apart. He said, "And that's the other reason you are a fighter. You would do anything to accomplish anything you wanted. You tried brute force. That didn't work. You went at your objective at every angle. No luck. You even tried to cheat, in a manner, to reach your goal. Your passion, no matter how deep you bury it, is still there. You do not stop."

And then I knew what he meant. It hit me. Lightning bolt. Boom.

It really isn't the end result you should concentrate on. It isn't the horrible hurdles you have to go through. It's the fighting to get up in the morning and live is what matters.

There was a third sign but it had to do with a personal story of his own. Unfortunately, I could hardly understand it due to his thick foreign accent but he already had me at the second sign. Heh heh.

And now I've changed again in my life, still with some bad thoughts, but not like before. I'm still negative about this world's populace and I'm still crazy, maybe even more so, but now my depression has lessened and I'm working on getting healthier. So there you go.

Cool New Widget

The World Clock widget I've added below in my footer is an entertaining, informative gadget I snagged off of poodwaddle.com. It's much more than just a clock that tells you the time in all the major cities of the world. The statistics that are continually displayed are mind boggling. It would behoove you to hit the Pause button on the upper right hand corner to really check out the numbers and information-- unless you can read a hundred words a second.

I know I can't.

The side panel on the left features a variety of buttons. Such as: World Time. Population (totals). Environment (global warming stats). Food (for stats on production, including how many and what kind of animals are being slaughtered on a daily, monthly, yearly basis). US Crimes (wow!). And more.

Being the voracious carnivore that I am, all the info presented in the Food stats made me want to go out in the forest, grab an animal and start devouring it's flesh, right away. Yahoo.

You'll just have to play around and have fun with the World Clock. Of course, all the statistics given are estimates, calculated and provided by various sources. Click the Help button for more on this. To see what sources the information has been collected from, click the Sources button.

Scroll on down and check it out. You may want one for yourself.