You might as well stop. You know I don't care anymore and you are just taking up space and being annoying. You know, YOU KNOW, that once I stop caring, that is it. I never start caring again. So just quit. Okay?
Or is being annoying enough validation for your pitiful self?
I am proud of my blog. I am glad people read it. I find the stats fascinating. I understand it is public. There is stuff I have regretted posting and have removed, not sentences, but groups of actual long blogs. (Yeah. You WISH you had a chance to read those, don't you?) But there are people who are just sick, and maybe they just surf blogs like I do, but I don't think this is random. This is someone who knows what they are doing, and this person has their own pitiful and poignant reason for doing it, and what I feel is pity. Pity and sadness for this person's tragic outlook on life. There have been porno links. No, you can't link to them, but they are in my referring sites. I guess so if someone is looking at that particular porno site, then they can link here and see an occasional naughty word and get some kind of thrill. Or maybe they are just trying to make their expertise more well known in a way that is so subtle it is fucking weird. And then an occasional referring site that is medically curious but obscure. It must be sad when someone spends time, especially when there are dishes to wash and friends to talk to and jobs to look for, to concoct this elaborate scheme and then the recipient totally does not get it and is only mildly puzzled since the creator of this circuitously planned and executed technological foible is worthy of only a brief passing thought.
I am supervising the life of my ninety two year old dad and the job fills my life with so much guilt and worry and sadness and I have so little time to think of anything I would enjoy thinking about like a better way to end book two, that I so heartily wish the enactor of this pitiful little scheme is getting enough of a thrill out of it to make it worth their time and effort. Good luck with that.
Tomorrow is Easter. There was a kind of a cute cartoon in B.C. today about it. I like when they get the message across and don't labor over it or overdo it or PREACH or EVANGELIZE. And it goes over smoothly. Not like a clunk on the head. And when you see subtle stuff like that, you kind of feel good, like you know what you know and you believe what you believe and it is cool. A while back I got all over someone and said they didn't need to worry about my soul cuz God gets me, and we are buds. I am comfortable with that and I think people who think I am irreverant need to take some special kind of yoga class that teaches you how to unpucker your asshole.
So, somehow, I got linked to this rather erudite website, mises(dot)org. I think it was some economic revelation that Louie sent to me. (It is a website espousing the Austrian school of economics and I was able to get info from the resident economics major on why Keynesian won out even when it shouldn't have. Politics and stuff. ) He always feels he needs to lend me some ammo when one of my intellectually superior friends takes aim at my simplistic way of thinking. It is really kind of sweet of him. Actually, I would have to say it is generous of him, and I can do that and suppress, at the very same time, my feelings that my intellect is just fine, thanks. Anyway, the totally coolest thing about mises(dot)org is that it showers my blog stats with hits, and I think it is just great that all these people who get all philosophical about economics read my words. I mean, not to be a reverse snob, but some of the stuff they write is right on. And I really enjoy it and they go off on a bunch of tangents like movie reviews and it kinda gets you thinking there is a kind of a network that is holding us all together and it feels good to get a glimpse of it every now and then. Humanity, maybe?
So, they were going on about outlawing certain chemicals and how it is counter productive and stuff, which we all know is true, and it was so spot on and enjoyable and some freak from some OTHER country (mises(dot)org if you want to look), starts in about whoa is this wonderful America you are talking about and goes on about how fucked up our country is. Yeah? I didn't take my daughter to the shaman for circumcision, did you? So, I got in a rant, oh, God, how I love that, with only one typo, but I used a vulgar word that I have not seen on there, which you have already seen maybe three times just in this episode, so I am a little afraid they may not print it, but I will go back and check, and I will feel powerful when I see it in print and I will feel validated when I see the spike in my stats. I actually had forty hits from freaking GERMANY one day. God, what fun.
I guess I have to search a little further and wider for the ego strokes nowadays, a subject I touch on in my book, THE DEVIL'S STEPCHILD which is not yet in print, but hold on guys. Soon.
So Happy Easter, Happy Spring, Happy Happy EVERYTHING. No. I only had one beer and no xanax and that was a couple of hours ago.
I just read a blog and, in the person's remarks about who she was, she said, "I am a hole in the flute that Jesus' breath goes through." Where's that at? I am at the very least the actual flute if not the sheet music or perhaps the music teacher, or maybe, sometimes, the inspiration for someone's song. Who the hell wants to be a hole? God plays music on me everyday. I can hear it. You could too if you listened.
I surf blogs. It makes me feel very good when I see a family where the mom and dad look like they are both good looking enough to deserve each other. And it's a bonus if they have cute kids. But that's because I am incredibly shallow. But you already know that. And if it is a person who is documenting their fight with cancer or the story of how their baby had to have heart surgery, I often go in and say "God Bless You." Or "I hope you are better." Yeah, I need to get a life, but television is like razors in my eyeballs after about fifteen minutes and I am having such a bad agoraphobia attack and so little will power to shrug it off lately, that I cannot get myself to the library. I knew it was getting bad when three different book clubs started sending me boxes of books.
But if the blog is about the person's relationship with Jesus, or God, or The Holy Spirit, I take a pass. I want so bad to go off and say, "This is how God deals with you. This is what God is really thinking." But they won't believe me anyway, and they are just liable to think I am a little nuts. And then if it is about beauty or fashion, OMG. I NEED to read those when I am feeling I lead a shallow useless life. It is incredible.
There is nothing I can do to change the world. I have no influence. I muddle. I err. I live in a fictitious reality. It has no bearing on my life. It has no bearing on anything. It amuses and distracts me. What else is there? That guy (the one we knew, the one you were classmates with his kids?) that spent thousands and thousands of his accidental fortune on those Indians in the jungle in South America? Did he do any GOOD? Did he think he did any good? Will he die feeling like he did his best? I will die thinking "I played the hand I was dealt. I hoed my own row. I made that bed, so I slept in it" . I never won the card game and all my plants died. Well, no. One plant flourished and put all the other plants to shame. So maybe the rest died of shame. But they died. And I have insomnia.
My heart breaks for people who have a problem with alcohol, and believe me, I grew up in a household where the problems with alcohol were exhibited to me in painful detail many, too many, times over. But, ya know? I have tried and tried to get into that. Sick, huh? But I can't, just CAN'T get there. Two beers and a xanax can give a nice buzz, and no hangover, but it doesn't last very long. I guess the secret is to keep imbibing before the buzz wears off. But it is so filling, ya know? And, early into my marriage, and actually in my college years, I was kind of into it big time. But the hangovers and the migraines were not worth it. And these people that walk around with these "guts", yikes; no, thanks. Well, there are pills. Yep. I count them and recount them. Just to make sure there will be enough, so I guess that is just as sick as the alcohol thing. And YET:
I cannot write unless I am wired way out to there. And I love that. But, dealing with real life? I don't know about that. Maybe I like it better that way also. I just hate the ups and the downs. And someone is always there to say, "It's better than the alternative." And I have lived with the diagnosis for 37 years, and truthfully, I prefer it to some of that other stuff. At least I am there for the ride. And, I am at a point where I can say, when I am lower than snail slime, I will be back UP in no time, and I even believe it now.
Every time someone gets their life completely fucked up they call on me. Everyone, sibling, child, spouse, neighbor, friend, cousin, grandchild, parent. I am so sick of that. When I feel like I'm getting a little messed up, I turn to the bottle of xanax. Well, actually, they are only .025's and I AM 67, so I guess it is not so bad. And let me confide in you. I've been WAY worse. And I shouldn't have to explain myself, but I always feel like I have to. Catholic guilt? My husband and his family have this wonderful attribute, that no matter what happens, usually a major fucking disaster of more than epic proportions, (tape at eleven) It is ALWAYS someone else's fault. There are NO bipolar people in that family. NONE.
My husband has a slipped disc and is in terrible pain. Even I, who am unwilling to cut him any slack, ever, will admit that it is obvious. So he is taking codeine. And it wasn't helping so he is talking MORE Bigger codeine? And Five (5) five, days ago I said you better start with the fiber therapy cuz codeine is going to block you up big time. Ya know, being married to a huge asshole and then having that huge asshole be full of shit, and THEN, it turns to concrete within his body? Big problem. Epic problem. "Virginia, will you run to the drugstore and get me..." Can't help but interject a 'told ya so'. And I get the "No. No. That's not the problem." FUCK ME. Here I am again. And, ya know? He has to share, every freaking detail. And, then, "No. It's not the codeine. It's the sciatica." Yeah, Lou. Go in there and take a poll. Which molecule has turned to concrete because of the codeine, which because of UTTER complete immobility, which because of diet, which because of sciatica. No. Just fucking argue about it.
What difference does it make. Get that stuff out of there and shut the hell up about it. Yeah, I know, part of the contract is being there for better or for worse, and yeah, I know, I am an extremely bitter person, but WTF. I am so sick of always being taken lightly, being listened to indulgently, perhaps with a gentle chuckle, perhaps with eyes averted toward the newspaper to indicate I am interrupting the reading thereof, or being out and out right ignored and told I am wrong. I am never wrong. Well, I was once. It was in bio lab when that med student TA was flirting with me. I was in love with Ray. Yeah. Fuck Me.