Three to Five Times a Week

A funny thing happened today. I was told what to do about something that is personal. We’ll discuss that at a future time. Something else weird happens. Oddly enough, it didn’t happen today, but it might as well have. It happens three to five times a week. I could be talking with someone. Working at my desk. Working in my office. Working in a conference room. Working. Working. Working. I could be watching TV. I could be sitting, staring at one of my picture shows in my head. Then, it becomes hazy. Foggy. I squint to regain my focus. the focus never comes. I close my eyes, hoping my personal picture show comes back. A different picture show comes instead. A white, squiggly show. Always off to the corner. He never comes into clear focus, but I imagine searing white gears spinning, usually fast. I don’t panic anymore. Would you, if it became habitual? I go to my closest stock of pain medication. The best combination to date is one excedrin, three ibuprofen. I am hesitant to go much stronger than that. Not for fear that it wouldn’t work, a different fear. Again, that is for a later time. I put one pill in my mouth and swallow with my eyes closed. Next pill. Swallow. Eyes closed. Next Pill. Swallow. Eyes closed. Next pill. Swallow. Eyes Closed. By this time I sit where ever I had the fortune of being at the time. I keep my eyes closed. I take my bottle of water and press it to my eye. By this time, my eyeball has become warm to...

Stabbed by Thousands of Scorching Hot Needles

I have had the great displeasure of sleeping with myself for the past three nights. I normally have no problem sleeping. I am a sleeper. I could be a professional sleeper. Some background for you. Three and a half years ago my wife’s water broke at 10:00 on a Sunday night. We were watching Curb Your Enthusiasm and out came the floods of the semenal smelling solution. She popped up thinking she had pissed, but the fluid fell out of her as an overturned well bucket full of water would have. I digress. I was sound asleep about two hours later on a cold hospital floor (my mom was on the pull out couch) while my wife lay in labor awaiting the arrival of our first child. Fast forward just over 24 hours, there I was again, sound asleep as my precious daughter, Kennedy Skye was only an hour old. Snoring away as Laura struggled to breast feed and grasp parenting for the first time. I sleep. I sleep well. I could fall asleep standing up in the middle of a crowded room and get adequate rest. I have not slept well for the past three nights and my lucidity is taking a toll. Every which way I move my body hurts worse than the previous movement. My skin is bubbling, flaking and scabbing. Last night it hurt the least as I lay in bed awaiting dreams. I drifted off with apathy on the mind. Instantly, it felt instantly, I popped out of bed feeling as though I had been stabbed by thousands of scorching hot needles. My son...

I Remember this Weekend

That was a long weekend. A long weekend in the good sense. Not the bad sense. Aside from the 3rd degree burns I suffered while frolicking in my sister’s pool, I had a lot of fun. I haven’t slept worth a shit the past two nights, due to the burns, but I had a lot of fun. It was fun to watch my two children play together with their cousins. They played in the pool. They played in the yard. They played at grandma’s house. They played at our house. They played. There is something so terrific about looking into a child’s eye and knowing exactly how they feel, how much fun they’re having. Watching the wheels turning as they are learning something for the first time. My son had never played in the pool like he played on Saturday. We could not pry him away. Five straight hours he was in the pool. He floated and kicked and splashed and bounced all day long. He was developing new dimples from the perpetual smile he had. I may have a new dimple or two in one of my chins from smiling at him smiling. My daughter continues to act older than any other three year old that I know. She questions everything now. She has a thirst for knowledge that the nerd in me adores. The questions didn’t stop while her cousins were here. There were more. Questioning why Maya was in trouble. Why did Owen do that? Why does Aidan want to do that? This quintessential weekend is possible because of where we live. Normally, I would say...

Probably Right, I Don’t Explain

I’m cryptic. I’m vague. I’m in my head so much that people think I’m rude. I get accused of thinking a lot. I don’t. I rarely actively think. I more or less watch, if that makes sense. There isn’t a lot of inner monologueing happening in my fat head. More or less a private picture show starring anyone or everyone that I have met or seen. It’s not that I am ignoring you, it’s just that I’m so enthralled with the plot unfolding in my subconscious. Sometimes there’s a quip I see, sometimes (often) there’s jugs and nips, sometimes a maiming, lots of times two women I know making out, sometimes a scream, sometimes there’s a love story, sometimes a drama, more times than not a dramedy. I can’t actively listen. It takes all of my energy and concentration to focus and listen to the string of words that comes out of your mouth. It may be considered rude. Not sure, I may have a social disorder. Social distortion. That explains why self medication leads to an out-going and, might I add, humorous “individual.” I take pride in that. Why wouldn’t I. I am, after all, my own biggest fan. Phil Tanner taught me that. I take pride in the fact that my own self is so entertaining to my own self that I become entertained by my own thoughts. Did you know that Phil’s dad is an action star? Van Tanner – Action Star To wrap up this senseless meandering, I’m not purposely ignoring you. And, if you have my attention for even the smallest amount of time, do yourself a favor and...

Another Day…Another Dollar…

I was just listening to Live Fat, Die Young for nostalgic’s sake the other day. if you have a chance, check it out. If you don’t like punk, I get that. It would be dumb for me to pretend that I didn’t. It’s not for everybody. It’s no cuntree, I can definitely tell you that. Any whosel, it begins with Zero Down’s “Down this Road” (http://www.songlyrics.com/zero-down/down-this-road-lyrics/). Catchy little riff and then, “Another day, another dollar, another bill collecting caller.” Shit gets stuck in your head. The problem was, I was too young when this disc came out to fully understand what is going on here. I didn’t have much money then, no. Maybe a little more now, but no where near the 1%. Nowhere near the 40% of the 99%, even. Sure, on the surface it’s about some ne’er do well, bitching about the economy and no matter how he see’s his life’s choices, he can’t get to the black. Now that I’m a man of a certain age of 31, I get it. Took awhile, but I get it. The economy wasn’t even bad then. Jr. and his midget barely out layed the design for the crashing of the economy by then. They didn’t have their excuse they needed to start two wars, while simultaneously cutting taxes of corporations and the 1%ers. Great recipe, by the by. Point is, no matter what, no matter when, no matter why, we will always feel down. We will always feel sorry for ourselves. We will always sing the blues. We will always thrash to punk. We will always hit the bottle....