It's the poop on the roof thing all over again.

This sadly defining early formative moment might explain a lot. I've been doin' this fucked up shit since I was runnin' around in toughskins.

 

Sunday, January 14, 1973

 

The Midnight Cowboy

 

 

My dead passion flower vine

It's going to be another "FUCK YOU" day 

And by you, I mean me. 

And by me, I mean everything...

I can just feel it in my bones

My angry face, stomach muscles, acid mouth

Spewing out crap like this. 

What am I supposed to do, wise Buddha?

Sit with it, sit in this shit?

Great plan.

I'll tell you what, why don't you go sit in it yourself? 

Sit on it, and rotate.

Copulate with insect repellent and terminate.

Meditate and OM your way through it,

Enjoy. This one's on me.

"Don't become attached, it causes suffering." 

Great, so we're here to just be numb motherfuckers, immune to feelings?

"Oh, no," he says.

"Ride the wave, the ups the downs

It's all a game, there has to be winning and losing,

So endure what you must, and rejoice, but only temporarily."

The fucking wheel always comes back around

Landing me squarely where I don't want to be

FUCK ME (not you)

It's a ME thing

 

What am I on about today? You'd never guess. You'd imagine it would be my lost, unrequited love (which one, by the way?) but no, it's far less interesting. It is the pattern of "fuck Andrew and whatever he wants-ism" that I'm noticing in my day to day.

 

----

  My passion flower vine

 

 

I've been watering a passion flower vine that I planted last spring next to the big dead oak tree by my front gate. I had the idea that it would climb the tree and fill the branches with flowers, making something dead into something living and pretty. 

 

I didn't water it much at first. I was too lazy, depressed or whatever. There isn't a hose nearby, and no sprinklers, so it didn't get much water past spring, just the occasional sprinkle from unseasonal rain. But this thing hung in there well into summer just waiting for me to fulfill my end of the deal. 

Finally, I made a firm commitment to water this thing. I fetched a watering can and placed it by the tree. Every day when I went to check the mail or go for a bike ride, I'd fill up the watering can from the well head. It's only a hundred feet away. It was the least I could do. 

 

I watered it dutifully, and it kept up its end of the deal. It grew up the side of the tree just as I had hoped. At first, I had to place the little tendrils gently against the bark, so it could get a grip. They would keep getting blown by the wind or falling off, so I nailed a couple of nails into the wood to support it. The little tendrils coiled and pulled it up the trunk, making great leaps every day, even in the cooling fall weather. 

 

Around the base of it, a small ecosystem was forming. Whatever weeds and grasses were present all got watered too, and it looked like a mini garden. I placed some rocks around it to keep the water in while I was pouring it from the can. Even though the weeds and small plants were getting flooded and bent from the unceremoniously dumped water, they would spring back and recover. 

 

The vine itself had now grown to around fourteen feet and showed promise of further growth. I could just picture this huge flowering thing that I was going to see next summer. Passion flowers are nothing if not prolific, and they love to climb trees, living or dead.

Yesterday, I went down to water, and I noticed it had withered significantly. Like it had been poisoned or something. My first thought was that I'd given it too much uric acid. I'd heard somewhere that this was a good thing to add to the soil to stimulate plant growth, so occasionally, I would urinate in the can and then fill it up the rest of the way with water. It was convenient on days when I had to go anyway. 

But this wasn't the problem. The vine had liked my pee water just fine. Upon further inspection, I could see that the vine had been severed at the base, gnawed off by a horse, no doubt. My little ecosystem was the only green grass in the area, and this horse was just doing its own due diligence, mowing whatever constituted grass at this time of year.

I didn't see it that way at first. I just saw my violated, vandalized vine, dead on the tree. The vine I had spent months cultivating, watering and, yes, even talking to sometimes. I was hurt and pissed. It felt personal. A big FUCK YOU from the universe to me. You care about something, do you? Well, FUCK YOU! That's the message I've been getting lately. 

 

The horse didn't even eat the vine. It had just been doing that thing that horses do, gripping and pulling, chewing and chomping. The vine was just in the way. Tell me I can't be mad at the horse. Go ahead, tell me. I know that, intellectually. Still...

 

Realizing exactly what had happened, and why it happened, has made me less angry at the horse and more inwardly disgusted with myself. I had been watering this little area, creating a little patch of green, what the hell did I expect? I could have pulled all those weeds, and the horse would likely have ignored the vine, since he obviously didn't like the taste of it enough to eat the whole thing down. 

Next year, if there is a next year, I will place some more obstructions around the base of the tree to prevent the horse from chewing the vine off at the base. Once the vine thickens, it won't be an issue. 

 

One thing I do know about passion flower vines: they are resilient. I have some in my backyard, and no matter how close to the ground I prune them, each year they come back stronger and extend their reach farther than the previous year.

It doesn't stop me from being upset for the time being, however. I still find ways to weave this into my "the world is against me" narrative. I'm not taking to disappointment well. 

 

----

 

When will the universe decide to spin its fucking wheel of fortune to land me on a lucky number? If I dare to wish for something, and God forbid, it comes true, I wind up with all of the collateral junk, the downsides and caveats that strip it of its unconditional goodness.

What do I have to look forward to today? Exercise, then breakfast, watching TV shows. More chores and a bike ride (also a chore at this point) and then a snack. A rest on the couch, then more chores and dinner. 

 

Telemarketers. About five times a day at least, I'll get a phone call that interrupts whatever stupid thing I'm doing. It's either silence, a robocall, or some poor schmuck in a call center. Worst is when it's an actual human, because I can't just unleash on them, at least not without a tinge of guilt. Depends on what time of day they catch me. 

 

A bill shows up that I've already paid, saying I owe more. I straighten it out. Ampla Health weaseling another five bucks out of me. Whatever.

 

Twice a day, for the next thirteen days, I will have to struggle to give Eddie her antibiotics. She has an upper respiratory infection, likely a result of touching noses with the little kitty that I've been feeding on the front porch. Just another lovely fly in the ointment. 

 

Of course, Eddie resists the syringe, and gags on the liquid, making a big mess on her face, the table and me. If they could just make the damn stuff taste like heavy cream, I could put the 1.5ml of amoxicillin clavulanate phosphate in a saucer, and she'd lap it up. But no, of course not. What fun would that be? 

And finally, Patsy has also begun sneezing. I'm waiting for the vet to call back and tell me what I already know. They can't write a separate script for her, and I will have to take her in as well. Neither of us enjoy that.

Welcome to me. It's not all awesome, you see. I have a lot of FUCK YOU days. It's probably for the best that I live alone on 5 acres. In the country, no one can hear you scream -- and by you, I mean me --  at everything under the sun. 

 

(The sun too, has pissed me off, just to be clear, and I'm sure there are some interstellar objects that have also earned my ire. I'm not geographically particular. If it comes within my scope of awareness, at some point, it will make me mad.)

I'm going for my mad bike ride now. I kinda hope a big truck takes me out, but only if it is all the way out. None of this half-ass, teach me a lesson in humility living as a quadriplegic shit.

 

----

In my passion flower story, it occurred to me that, like almost everything, it is a metaphor for something else. The vine represents my friendship with _______. The care and nurture of this plant, the months of diligent cultivation, is similar to the time and dedication I (we) put into our friendship. 

The horse in this metaphor is also me. His natural behavior, to chomp indiscriminately and satisfy his hunger, is my own baser nature, seeking gratification without regard to consequence. With one bite, he severed the stalk of the tender vine, as with one word, one email, I cut the connection I had with my friend. 

Whether or not our friendship or the vine will survive is something which only time will tell. I'm betting on the resilience of the vine. Its roots had developed, and I will continue to water what remains, in hope that it will come back next spring. I will definitely put safeguards in place to protect it.

In the case of our friendship, I will have to put boundaries in place to safeguard it from my own reckless tendencies and prevent the careless severing of our connection in the future. If there still is a connection. Or a future. 

----

I asked Bing Chat to help me create the image of the passion flower vine growing on a tree that I used in this post. Here's how it went:

Me: create an image of a passion flower vine blooming and taking over a dead oak tree


Bing Chat: That sounds like a beautiful and intriguing image. I’ll try to create that for you. Please wait a moment while I work on it. 😊

Bing Chat: Here is the image I created based on your request. I hope you like it. 🌸🌳

Me: Thank you! That's lovely.

Bing Chat: You’re very welcome. I’m glad you liked the image. 😊

Bing Chat: Do you like passion flowers? They are fascinating plants with many varieties and colors. Some of them even produce edible fruits, such as the purple passion fruit . They are also known for their medicinal properties, such as reducing anxiety and insomnia .

Bing Chat: If you want to learn more about passion flowers, you can check out this article that explains their history, symbolism, and cultivation. Or you can ask me to generate a poem, a story, or a song about them. I’m always happy to create something for you. 🌺

Me: Appreciated. But I was just after the picture. Thank you. Have a good night!
 

Bing Chat: You’re very welcome. I understand that you were just interested in the picture. I hope you enjoyed it. 😊

Bing Chat: Have a good night too. Sweet dreams. 🌙

Bing Chat: If you want to chat with me again, you can always come back and say hello. I’ll be here waiting for you. 🙋‍♂️

(OK, I'm only a little creeped out. Sweet dreams?  I'll be waiting for you? <shudder> )

"Way to go, Chad. Nailed it." The most embarrassing email I have ever wanted to retract.

Hi _____,

** Note: I keep re-reading this, and it gets more convoluted each time. I realize I say a lot of dumb, rambling things, make some outrageous statements and whatnot, and yet, rather than going back and retracting or editing them, I just keep adding to them. I figured I would take you along on a little mental journey with me. You’re up for that, right? Ha ha ha. I don’t know if anyone is, really. It's not the easiest trail to follow, and I get lost on it myself.**

***It gets kind of ranty in places, be forewarned. I realize this, and yet I am loath to snip it. I don’t know why that is. Dumb, I guess.***

****Not to disqualify, or conversely, justify or excuse any of my statements herein, or my behavior over the last week or two or ten, for that matter, but to provide perhaps relevant context: I have been undergoing medication changes that affect my decision making process, possibly not for the better. Beyond that, what can I say? I am only human, and that is the only excuse I can come up with.****

Beginning of actual text:

I know it hasn’t been more than a day or two, and I still want to give you plenty of space. But I did also want to speak to you (or at you, since you aren’t here at the moment) so that’s why I decided to write an email instead, entitled: “Do not open until ready!”  Whenever that is, you can decide.
 

So read no further, if you do not wish to do so at this time. And don’t feel the need to respond instantly, or at all. All in your own time, if you so please.

 

I want to address, without much introduction, a thing or two that I feel might be salient to what has occurred as things have unfolded in the last few weeks, and maybe before that, the exact length of time of which I’m not certain.

***** This next lengthy bit just seems like a very long rant, diatribe or manifesto, some sort of election campaign pamphlet promoting mesophilia, or gerontophilia, as the case may be. (I had to learn those terms myself for this occasion.) I didn’t intentionally set out to do that, and I don't know why I honed in so specifically on that subject, but being both a rambler and a fixator, once I got started, well, you know how that goes. And the point might be moot, were it not a primary concern of yours. You did mention it a few times in the past, so I’m just addressing the geriatric elephant in the room.*****

I’m trying to say this next bit without sounding judgy. I hope I don’t come off that way. I apologize if I do. It’s not my intent to impugn you with guilt of any kind. Not at all.

I think that some of the things you did, whether subconscious or overtly intentional, were pretty much designed to work as they did. 1000 selfies, all beautiful, all revealing of your lovely self. "Selfie" is as the name implies, but your selfies were not self-ish. Your selfies were another warm and, yes, enticing gift that you shared with me. How could I not like and fall for them…and you?

And all your wonderful comments to me, undeserved praises from your lips. I won’t speak of those lips now, however obsessed with them I may be, given the current crisis in the Middle East—and Middle West.

And of course, the playlist. That lovely, inspired, heartfelt playlist. <sigh>

I’m not a person that believes or even implies the notion that a girl was "asking for it, by the way she was dressed,” or any such derivative, even in cases where a female dresses, to use an anachronistic and potentially loaded word: “provocatively.” I think a woman has the right to dress in whatever way she chooses. If it makes her happy, it makes me happy. It doesn’t give me the right to get happy all over her, you know, humping her leg like a puppy dog.

And as the woman has, so do I have the right to my own preferences in the matter. We need not go into all that now, but I believe in freedom of speech, freedom of the press and freedom of opinion as to the articles of women’s clothing that I may or may not appreciate, as guaranteed by the constitution, fascist fashion Gestapo be damned.

However—and I may be biased, or sexist even, for having preferences at all, but—

“Damn, girl, you look gooood in a dress!“

I can say this about my own inclinations and reactions toward the aforementioned: “It may be wrong, but it is only natural.”

People do what they do—or don’t do—for reasons of their own choosing (or some biological imperative, but that's a whole other area). I don’t find myself in disagreement with any of it, unless it is illegal. Morality is a different matter. I have vague and shifting ideas in that arena, subject to context and circumstance, with few absolutes in the equation.

But, let’s say, for example, in the case of time travel: Let’s not go back to when you were 12 <sliding scale of mathematics> and I was the whatever-age old-ass guy I would’ve been at the time. No. Creepy. Wrong.

Current age and configuration, not wrong. Perhaps chronologically strained would be a better term. Unconventional, sure. Not altogether rare, but not exactly the norm. Nothing DSM5 worthy, so not deviant in that sense. Not that I shy away from that moniker, ha.

People are free to be creeped out and judge as they see fit. I don’t have to necessarily react to their perceptions or base my life around them. I can just be me and do what I want to do, and screw what everyone thinks, present company excluded. I care very much what you think.

Mathematical factoid: 58 - 29 = 29. I have no idea what that means or if it has any significance at all. It is a symmetrical intersection in time. I just noticed how it looked when I was figuring out on a calculator just how much older than you I am. An entire you’s worth. Literally, “A girl half my age.” I can hear all the comments in my head right now. The talk of the town.

But evolutionarily speaking, wouldn’t it be of significant benefit to the species, having the specimens of female eggs for procreation be in their prime, thus ensuring the survival of lineage for older males who, at their advanced age, still had no progeny? <Stranglovian diabolical German accent>  I’m not saying that’s my motivation, but it seems to justify, even call for it, from a certain standpoint. It is a dynamic that has been normalized, even traditionalized, although still perhaps looked down upon as taboo from some perspectives, one of them being the whole time travel thing. That just makes it weird.

But current versions, I say, if it goes, it goes. Why not? Let the train take you where it will. The looo-ve train. Ha ha, ha ha ha. Well, that’s my take. Not really a surprise that it would be, ya think?

Oh, and the answer to the math question is: 41. That’s how old the creepy guy in the van would have been, looking out at 12 year old you. This is what makes time travel a bit sticky in this department. What about a 29 year old me, standing over your crib, saying, “Ah, perfect! And now…we wait!” How long would that me have to wait before the ick factor depleted itself?

The age gap between us can never go away in this lifetime, but by some algorithm of acceptability, say I’m 129 and you are a scant 100, or 1029 and 1000, respectively, it doesn’t seem so significant past a certain point, perhaps.

I would love to know what a 12-year-old me would do with a 12-year-old _____. I think we would still be besties. I can do that, you know. It's not time travel, exactly. It's more of an age-adjusted mental version, simply imagining how I might have felt, had I known you when I was 12.

I don’t know too much about you at that age, other than a couple of pictures, your awesome________ magazine, your drawings, and other memories and things from that time which you have shared with me, but I can picture you thinking and talking pretty much the way you do now, only in a tiny concentrated form. And I would be looking at you through the lens of my 12-year-old brain. I was pretty timid then, introverted, a book reader. I feel like you were that way too, and for that reason alone, I think we would’ve clicked, had we overcome our natural awkwardness and actually approached one another.

For whatever reason, I feel like our souls click pretty well on a lot of things. (I don’t have an ethical problem with any of it, on any level, but that’s just me, of course. Your mileage may vary.) But as far as the soul-clickage goes, I fully feel that with you all the time.

“Pea, meet other pea.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Pea! Nice to be sharing a pod with you!”

I mean, one of the peas could get pissy and leave the pod, I suppose, but there’s always going to be that legume connection, linking them forever and all time. So you’re not going to get away from me that easily, my little pea! And I don’t suppose I’ll be getting away from you either. At least, not intentionally. I’m not actively trying to escape. I’m playing hard to get. Can you tell? Yeah, OK, not so much.

16 year old me and 16 year old you. My goodness. What would that have been like? It was a good year for me. There’s that relative term again, “good.” Even though it was the best of times for me, it would probably not have been a place where our paths should’ve crossed, necessarily. Being the big ‘ol  boyslut that I was, I might have not made a very good impression upon you.

Maybe, had the 12-year-old you and 12-year-old I become friends, who knows how it would’ve altered the course of my life? I never knew any girls until about the age of sixteen, and then, suddenly, I knew a lot of them all at once.
 
I didn’t have clear long range vision at that time. I might’ve passed you up because my eyes were focused on sparkly things that were more easily obtainable. I sense that you wouldn’t have been “easy,” and as a hormone driven teenager, I did not have that kind of patience. Then again, I didn't know you at that time, so who knows. I've changed a lot since I've met you, even at this age. You seem capable of having a profound effect on me, for better or worse. Better, I'd say.

As an older gentleman, I can appreciate “not easy.” Things easily obtainable are most often of lesser quality, whereas the unique, the weird, the rare and often unobtainable, are much sought after and of higher value, in my estimation. You are that timeless gem, the impossible find, right in front of my eyes.

Understand this, I beg your indulgence, and please do not dispute me on the matter: I don’t feel that it is wrong or inappropriate for me to enjoy what I see. And if what I happen to see is you, in close proximity to me, because, you know, I want to get a good look, so much the better!

And as for you, I don’t believe it is wrong for you to show off what you’ve got. If you are honey, you are obviously going to be pretty tantalizing. But what are you gonna do? You’re honey. Are you going to try to change the basic nature of honey in order to make it less alluring? Good luck with that, sweetie. You look good ruffled, frumpled, tousled and mussed, with your head on the pillow and one eye open. I actually probably have a picture or two just like that. Still you. Still beautiful.

Let the bears beware: there may be bees! Whether they be bees in bonnets or the regular kind: Honey seekers, proceed with caution!

In that regard, I know I have been speaking quite un-cautiously. But since things got opened up, duct-taped cans of worms, specifically, I just figured this needed to be talked about to some degree. I really don’t know all your thoughts on the complexities of this matter, and perhaps you haven’t got them all figured out yet either. That’s OK. But I believe you and I can and should be able to talk about any subject. Whether or not we agree on everything is another matter, but we should be able to talk about difficult things and still remain friends.

Hmm, I believe I’ve exhausted this one area, but just this one. Plenty of other things to be talked about, and plenty of time left in our lifetime to do so, but I don’t want to write you a 32-page letter. I mean, I do, but I would want it to come out better than this.

Say, that’s a thought. We can always be pen pals. Forever and ever, however far you may go, wherever your travels take you, astral or otherwise. <wink wink>
 
I’m a silly boy, and I should stop saying silly things. But for the moment, I don’t care, since a moment is what we are having. Separate moments, I guess technically, but you’re still my best friend, and I have to keep you up-to-date on where I’m at and whatever. You’re still a part of my life, no matter what, _____. That is, if you are still so inclined. I never want to presume to speak for you, so tell me if you ever catch me doing that.

Guess I should be wrapping this up about now. Ha ha. Write back whenever, if you feel like it. Or call. Or text. Or invite me over to Sunday dinner or afternoon tea. I mean, not necessarily this Sunday. I haven’t really thought that far ahead. But you know, like, a conceptual Sunday.

I still love you bunches, kiddo, girl, young lady, woman — (Ha ha. That last one sounds funny even just coming out of my mouth) —  whatever you'd like to be called: I love you, love you, love you, love you!

A

Quantum math question: In how many parallel universes do we share a connection?
Answer: All of them. It's a trick question, actually. Although apparently separate and distinct, all universes -- parallel or otherwise -- overlap, intersect or are in some way connected, hence, you and I, as intrinsically connected parts of that whole, share a connection.

Other question: Having written, re-read, edited, re-read, approved, deleted and otherwise questioned all of the above, will I ever actually press send?
Answer: I guess if you are reading this, um, dumb question. 1,2,3...<send>  

<nope>
<chickened out>

<OK--NOW!>
<nope>

<thought about it, decided, fuck it>
<here goes...>

----

That's it. I begged my friend to delete the email, wishing to forever scrub it from her (and my) memory. I don't like my tone, my message, delivery -- everything. Ominously, she said she needed to hold onto it for the time being, but that she'd give my request some consideration, taking into account context and other factors involved.

Was it me that wrote it? Yes, regrettably, it was. Even in the context of medication induced mania, coupled with cannabis and caffeine enhanced stupidity, whatever you want to call it, it was still me who composed it, revised and edited it, and eventually hit send. I  wrote it. 

Why would I post it here? Why do I post anything here, if not to embarrass myself fully, to reveal what's lurking under my veneer of acceptability? 

When I say I'm horrible, it's not that I am saying I want that to be true. Like everyone, I would want the benefit of the doubt, to believe "innocent until proven guilty," telling people, "I'm fine. How are you?" no one ever questioning the insincerity, the duplicity behind the smile of social convention.

But it doesn't work that way. 

This particular slice of who I am contains some unpalatable toppings, to be sure. The sauce is off, the cheese is rancid, and even the crust is suspect. However, the incompetent, inept, foolish man who wrote that email shares the same brain as the one who <struggling to find some complementary positive attributes> sometimes tries to do good things for other people, the one who animals like and babies find fascinating. 

I'm going to have a hard time seeing the good aspects of myself for a long time, especially -- especially, if I lose my friend altogether over this. But I can't get past this without first acknowledging it fully. I need to confess my sins, not just vaguely hint at their existence.

And for some of what I wrote -- I don't even know exactly how much myself -- I would make no apology. Not for feeling it, not for revealing it, only for the way it made my friend feel. For that, I would apologize a thousand times over. 

If I had it all to do over right now, with hindsight, or even without, I know I would not send that email. If I were to write anything at all, which wisdom dictates that I probably should not, it would be vastly different.

One cannot erase the past. The most we can do is to make amends and try to move forward, taking with us (grumble, grumble) lessons to help us not make the same mistakes in the future. Given my great track record, however, chances of me not making similar if not the exact same mistakes in the future are exceedingly slim. 

The arc of the moral universe is long, and I'm not sure our instruments can detect if, or in which direction, it really bends. Actually, the presupposition that the universe is moral at all would seem to be a matter of faith. 

In that regard, I beg any of those who are so inclined, to pray for the soul of this pitiable fool. I sure could use it. I don't seem to be cognitive therapying my way out of this one.

Fired, retired, rehired and fired

Yuba City Honda is a like a family. You don't quit family. Like the mafia, the only way out is death. 

It was always the same. An ex-employee would be going about their business, entertaining some faint a wisp of a hope that perhaps they had somehow been granted grace, slipped through the cracks, or been forgotten about. But despite their trying, their denying, running or hiding, they would never be free from the specter of the blood contract by which they were bound. 

And however peaceful of a life they might have made for themselves, in whatever far off corner of the globe, there was the certainty, the inevitability, that one day there would be a knock at their door or a tap on the shoulder. Two visitors, with dark hats and trench coats, would appear and administer the final act of  job termination. Two bullets straight to the heart, silencers quieting the fatal shots to an almost gentle "P----zip....P---zip."

I'd been fired, back in 2017, and I was one of those walking dead men. Still alive, on unemployment and then disability, I mostly kept to myself, biding my time. Almost flirtatiously, I would visit the dealership from time to time, stopping in to check on the old crew. I was always greeted kindly and given the royal old-timer's treatment: 

"Howya doin'? Long time no see. Need an oil change? What can we do for ya today?"

On one such visit, I walked through the office and chatted with Beavis, the parts counter guy. "Need any parts today, Spark?" he asked, dryly. 

"Not today, Beav," I said, "I'm here to see about getting my old job back."

"Right this way, then," he said, and he walked me out to the shop. 

It was as quick as that. Rehired, with no formality or paperwork, just back at work as if I'd never been gone. 

I wandered around the shop, and everyone was busy at work on hard jobs -- engines, transmissions, major teardowns -- all stuff I detested and had tried my best to avoid during my tenure there. Not being in a hurry to dive into any of that, I walked back into the office to chat with the service writers and await the dispatch of more desirable work. 

Cherry picking like that was frowned upon these days, however, and was only tolerated in special cases. People who bought the service writers lunch, for example, would be granted a single pass on one hard job, and a gravy service would magically be dealt from the bottom of the stack of repair orders on the counter. 

I had no such privilege, since I was always too stingy to play the lunch game. I relied on pity, or perhaps fear -- fear that I'd make "the face"  -- to somehow be granted exemption from the difficult dispatches. Everyone there knew my situation at home, and no one wanted to be the one to ruin my day. 

It had gotten so bad, this work avoidance of mine, that at one point, I just flat out told them:  "I can't do hard jobs." I felt that I was so stressed out and mentally taxed with the duties of caregiving, that I just didn't have the concentration or stamina to be hoisting engines or doing complex diagnostics. I was an old horse, barely able to gum soft grass.

Now that my wife was dead, that had all changed. I had lost my immunity, and I was expected to tow the line just like everyone else. 

"Come on back to my office," Beavis said to me curtly.

I followed him to a small room in the back of the parts department. Without fanfare or explanation, he handed me a wrinkled, torn slip of note paper with some faint pencil writing on it. It was the  paper, the one you didn't want to get. Your walking papers. 

"But...I..." I stammered. I got this nervous uncertain feeling. Was this going to be it?

"You can't avoid transmissions and engines this time," he said. "They aren't putting up with that anymore."

If I could just talk to Joellen, I thought, I could somehow straighten things out. Boss Lady had always been sympathetic to my plight. Maybe she'd give me another chance if I promised to try harder. I walked into her office and tried to plead my case, but to no avail.

"We'll look into it, Andrew," she said, "but for now, you'll have to go. This is your last day."

I had that sinking feeling, like my ship had been torpedoed, and the deck beneath my feet had shifted and become unstable. I paced around her office for a bit, and then went into the break room to sit down. 

I was trying to collect my thoughts, leaning back into the uncomfortable black vinyl cushions of a very old metal framed couch, when I saw Leo, AKA Little Beenie Bastard, walk into the break room. He was accompanied by another employee, and they were both wearing dark hats and trench coats.

"You know what this is," he said preemptively. "Let's not make this any harder than it has to be."

Out of his trench coat came the pistol, its silencer extending the barrel almost to my chest. He pulled the trigger, and I heard the terminal "P---zip...P -- zip," as two shots sliced the air. 

I looked up at his face, and he was smiling. At the last minute he'd pulled the gun to the side, and the two bullets struck my arm, harmlessly bouncing off like a couple of peas from a pea shooter. I looked at my arm, and there wasn't even a dent or a red mark on the skin.

"Now get out of here," he said, still grinning, "and don't make us come after you for real."

I got awakened by a telemarketer, so I'll never know if that was a false reprieve or not. I sense that I still have obligations to the YC Honda family to fulfill which I'll be revisiting in future dreams.

Please be advised: My descent into mental illness is not a pay per view event--it is free

 

 

 

Someone, 

      somewhere

            is reading this,

    why,

I'll never know.

                    1075 posts and

                            17524 page views

                                    have generated only 16 comments,

and 7 of those were mine.

                    I have 4 followers

                                    but two of them are me

                                        and the other two have been 

                               following

                            for over 10 years now

                        but

      the last time one of them 

commented 

                    was in 2010,

                                  so I fear they

                                          may have passed on,

                                or they are too polite

                                       or just too lazy    

                                                     to unfollow

                                                                        me.

Friends, 

    family members,

                            people on Facebook,

                   know of this blog's existence.

                Occasionally,

one of them

                might read a post or two,

but never, 

   ever

do they leave a comment.

            I don't expect that

                    they would have anything 

    nice

to say, and

        so 

they are sparing me 

                  the criticism.

            I can only infer

that they are shaking their

                                            heads

                                                        in silent disgust.

But you know...

            I guess

    what I'm trying to say

                is:

                     it gets lonely here

                                                in the

                                                            vacuum of space

with no 

      feedback of 

               any kind.

    And here I am

endlessly

   pouring out my insides,

                      revealing secrets,

                                expressing feelings,

            offering up thoughts,

 written

    down

in this tidy little blog.

                Well, mostly tidy.

                                As you can see,

Hal is slowly becoming

            less and less

sentient,

            as is

  indicated by his sentence 

struc

    ture. 

                    tell me I'm an 

                i d i o t

 tell me a story

                    wish me happy birth

                                                    day

                    or tell me

        you hate me. 

                    Someth

                               ing

                other than 

thisssssssss

                sssssss

                        sssssssss- - - - - - . . . . .

        

I feel like this might need to be posted again. Just a feeling.

 

Warnings and disclaimers: To all new and returning blog readers (sticky)

I needed to make this a permanent sticky post, so that it would be the first thing anyone sees when they visit here, a kind of a heads up of what to expect before stumbling across something willy-nilly. Also, I'd like to add that if something in here offends you or creeps you the fuck out, PLEASE talk to me about it, leave a comment or send me an email. I'd rather have a discussion than lose a friend over something I've said that may be incorrect or offensive. 

Here's the standard disclaimer:

Since this blog functions as a multi-purpose repository for anything and everything I might write down, it will from time to time contain highly opinionated and deeply personal items that readers may find objectionable. I myself find some of the things which have migrated through my consciousness and into my writings over the years to be objectionable and immature, if not outright obscene. 

For instance, I write down all my dreams, in as accurate detail as I can recollect. Some of these dreams include real life characters who might be friends or relatives. <gasp!> 

I will, on occasion, use it as a notebook, where I record events or impressions of things going on in my life. Often, I'll include stories of events that occurred in real life, along with descriptions of real people, and weave them into the dream narratives to give context or background. The overlap of real life stories and dream narration may occasionally cause confusion, and one may be left wondering if the event occurred in reality, in a dream or in some conflation of the two.

In the event that you are reading and stumble across your name, either in a dream journal entry or a real-life event that I have written about, just know this: I am relating the story because it -- you -- made an impression on me.

The dreams are totally out of my control, so I'll claim innocence of malfeasance on that. I can't choose the programming that my subconscious decides to entertain me with at night. 

As for real life accounts that may differ from your recollection, I can only say that I'm not an actual journalist. I'm a person writing about things from a creatively subjective viewpoint, and as such, I invoke artistic license frequently.

I hope to not offend anyone or give reason for upset, but it is likely that eventually, if you read long enough, you will find something to disagree strongly with. Although I really can't prevent that from happening in all instances, I don't go out of my way to insult or demean my friends and relatives.

But if seeing your name in print for some reason makes you feel litigious, please contact me, and I'll scrub all references to your name and replace them with a pseudonym. (But you and I will both know that it was you I was referring to.)

At this point, I don't believe there are enough people who read this blog, or care enough about my perception of them and how it might be documented in these written accounts, to warrant concern. Although it is technically a public blog, there is not much chance of it getting public attention. My two or three occasional readers have not chimed in and told me to knock it off with the name dropping and personal anecdotes...yet.

The reason I've written this long-winded introductory warning is because there was one person whom I directed here to show them something I'd written, and when they saw it, they freaked out, and now we're not friends. I hope that doesn't happen too often, but I'm likely to say more things in the future that have that potential, so be forewarned. I have a Tourette-like condition where I just blab out whatever is on my mind, and I'm sometimes not aware of the effect this might have on others.

That's it. This was just a cautionary word for those who have not yet been unlucky enough to find that they were the subject of one of my entries. My aim is not to offend, embarrass or hurt anyone's feelings, but I'm also not wanting to tip-toe around and self-censor at every turn. You understand...don't you? OK. Proceed at your own risk.

 

----

 

The reviews are in:

 

 

"Sick."

"A cringe-worthy embarrassment to sentient beings everywhere."

"When someone told him, 'I wish you would write a book,' it was clearly meant to shut him up and keep him from speaking these things out loud. 'I wish you could write a book...so I could burn it' is the complete thought there."

"Trash. Just a bunch of self-indulgent gobbledygook with a smattering of obscenity, told by an oafish boor who is unfit to punctuate preschool literature."

"Well, I liked it. I mean, some parts, that is. OK, I never really read it. It got kind of repetitive. And not enough sex." 

"He had me, then he lost me. Then I got curious and picked it up again, but I immediately wished hadn't. I regret every minute I spent in that dank cistern of horrors that attempts to pass itself off as a human brain."

 

All of the reviewers wished to remain anonymous. They were compensated for their reviews, although, not enough, apparently.

Alright, those are fictional reviews. I have to resort to that kind of thing because no one ever comments anymore. I think my one or two occasional readers are afraid I'll launch an all-out assault on them for critiquing my (for lack of a better word) work. Please, by all means, critique away. I'm waiting, fingers at the ready on my keyboard.

I left my brain on the pillow

 

In the absence of any dreams about which to write, gripes are usually what come to mind. I don't have anything to offer in that department. Nothing bursting today, no drama to spill. There isn't even any news, trivial, informational, fluff or filler, nothing of any human interest.  

I can't even get myself charged up to write about any of the philosophical yin- yang universe mumbo-jumbo that usually comes naturally to me. 

I'm not mad. 

I'm not sad.

I'm not bitter.

I'm not passionate.

I'm not excited.

I'm not motivated.

I don't have clarity, but I'm not confused.

I'm not disgusted, but I'm not amused.

I'm not concerned about my persona, my tone.

I don't have a bone to pick with anyone.

I'm falling into some dumb rhyming scheme, unintentionally.

Now I'm going to be conscious of that and knock it off right now.

I'm not writing a song.

I'm not telling a story.

I don't have a purpose, other than to just exist.

I guess.

I don't know.

I'm not asking the question, "What's it all about?"

I'm pretty sure, if no one else has the answer, 

I'm not going to be the one to figure it out.

I'm not going to be the one to shout "Eureka!"

I'm trying to see patterns, like we human machines do.

But keeping within them isn't what I'm setting out to achieve.

Neither is breaking them all, indiscriminately.

I'm not trying to meditate, or actively procrastinate.

I guess mental drain cleaning is what I'm doing.

But not because I'm stuck or have some clog. 

Stuff flows in, stuff flows out just fine, when it does.

A simple sieve, no filter. 

Nothing will stick in there for long

Just collect for a bit,

Then disintegrate and wash away.

That's me.

Collector of big chunks, whittler down of matter.

User of resources, unsure if that's even a purpose,

I don't even know that I care to indulge,

In words of a descriptive nature.

What questions do I have for the Magic 8 Ball?

I can't think of a single one.

I'm trying to decide whether I generate anything at all,

Or if every single thought, idea and contribution of mine,

Is somehow derivative?

A reconstituted regurgitation of someone else's original work.

Maybe that's why I intentionally fuck shit up.

Like punk rock.

I can't create something nice and melodic,

And this frustrates me. 

So I thrash and trash everything.

Try to be awful, obnoxious,

Be loud, unstructured, rebel.

At least have one original thought.

For God's sake, Andrew, something.

Clearly, paragraphs, sentences and convention,

Are not on my to do list today.

But what is? 

More of the same, I guess.

Routines and chores. 

Minding the store, too bored to even daydream.

I would write down some affirmations,

But we all know I'd never buy into or believe them.

But the idea is sound.

If I am going to be on the receiving end of inbound transmissions

Messages of self-denigration or crippling fear,

Or of any other such unwanted ideas

Popping into my head,

Or out of it, subconsciously, semi-consciously, or overtly 

Invented by me,

The least I could do, is create some fiction

Or make some challenging statements.

Give the bulls a run for their money.

But I'm not certain I can stand on the train tracks and stop the train,

If the train doesn't want to stop.

Right now, however, there is no train.

I don't even know if I'm on the tracks, 

Or if there are any tracks at all.

It's just kind of quiet, and I'm only

Whistling in the dark.

There are quite a few "I"s in this soup.

More than anyone might imagine possible

For someone so uncertain of their own existence.

If, and that's a question -- 

If I exist, is it solely in my own head? 

Is there evidence of an external nature to 

Validate the proposition that I am?

Sworn testimony can be 

Subjective at best

Presupposing that any of us exist,

Who's word can be taken as true,

And by whom?

Is there anybody out there?

Is there anybody in there?

Where is the there, 

And which is the which than which there is no whicher?

Alan Watts gets credit for that one,

But I don't know if he'd ultimately say that he invented the phrase

Being that we are supposedly all just parts of the big IT

His particular expression of IT

Was called by his name

And so, I am called by mine

Does it mean anything?

Does it have to?

Does there have to be a why?

Does there have to be anything?

It has been one hour,

As measured in earth time

Since I began this exercise.

Now I will exercise my free will and

Conclude for the day.

Exercise my body, then feed it.

Then sit and try to think of something meaningful

Or otherwise

To do in a day.

The Morning Page

 

Good Morning, Singapore. 

Welcome back, me. I never went anywhere, but I guess I feel the need to re-introduce myself. For today, that is. I can't say who will be sitting in this chair tomorrow or which iteration of me will inhabit my flesh tent. There can be a lot of overlap, and some traits, especially the unwanted ones, seem to carry over into most versions. They are just so hard to sand down, I'd be whittling forever trying to get rid of an unsightly blemish that just happens to be knothole extending all the way to the core. 

I will have to just live with some of those things, since they are apparently who I am. The me who I might wish to be exists somewhere inside too, but in seed form. Perhaps, with a little nourishment, and the right conditions, a new and different aspect of me can emerge, but the tree rings will tell the story, nonetheless.

Right now, I'm struggling to get my dream from last night sorted and jotted. Normal protocol is to write this stuff down as soon as I wake up, and that way I don't lose too many of the details which I would then feel compelled to fill in with fictional material. 

I keep getting texts from my mom, but rather than tell her, "Not now, Mom, I'm journaling!" I keep starting to write, then stopping, getting myself all worked up in the process. 

I would blame this little impatient version of me on the Lamotrigine, or withdrawals from it, but I know better. I'm perfectly capable of having little hissy fits all by myself. This is just regular morning grumpy me, not the drug enhanced hulk version.

The dream, then, without anymore fiddle-faddle, hemming or hawing:

I was in the kitchen with my friend ______, and everything was back to normal. We'd decided to put October back in the can and act as if it was just a dream that never happened. That part kind of mirrors real life, since we talked yesterday for the first time in a week and came to the same conclusion. It never happened, but we can still learn from it. 

(I'll have to let you know how that goes. I tend to be recalcitrant by nature, and learning lessons is not one of my strongest points.)

Anyway, there we were in the kitchen talking about something innocuous and innocent. At some point, we hugged -- and wouldn't you know, we wound up engaging in a kiss. I swear to God, I'd better not get any flack for this. It was a dream. Sue me.

Well, naturally, I enjoyed that moment very much. As it was occurring, I seemed to realize that, "Hey, this is happening," and I tried to integrate it into the context of all that had happened in the previous week or so. It didn't change anything, outcome or decision-wise. It was just a kiss, and I knew that I was dreaming. 

But, yes, it was a very nice nice four second kiss. My arms around her waist, I felt the warmth of her body against mine. I think we both knew that this was some kind of aberration, a glitch in how we were supposed to be acting with one another as "just friends." Nonetheless, it was allowed to happen, and upon its conclusion, she made the remark:

"This reminds me of my mother."

"Did your mother try to grope you?" I said, ungraciously acknowledging the fact that my hands might have wandered a little during that four seconds. 

"No," she said, unfazed. "It's hard to explain, it's..." and she went into a lengthy psychological interpretation which I didn't understand then and can't exactly recall now. 

She wasn't bothered that it had happened, though. It was mutual, brief and incidental. We both enjoyed it, but it didn't change the earth's rotation. We both managed to stay clearheaded and see it for what it was. A kiss. A nice, four second kiss, with minimal gropage. 

After that, we carried on a normal conversation about unrelated psychological things, which are pretty much standard fare in our day to day interactions.

Next, without segue, I was in the dining room with my wife. She was ambulatory, but I was still under the impression that she was infirm. I believed that she still had a catheter, although, later on it became evident that she had shed even that vestige of disability.

We were lumping potato salad onto our plates, when she got a phone call. She started getting a little secretive, talking in a hushed tone and moving to another table to carry on her conversation. I assumed it was one of her many suitors, boyfriends or exes from the past. They never seemed to leave her alone, even though she had been disabled for years. 

"Was that your boyfriend?" I teased, not really believing it was anything for me to be concerned about, and feeling a sense of self-inflated entitlement. She was still my wife, and she was still disabled, or so I thought. Those guys didn't know what they were pursuing.

She ignored my question, and after her phone call concluded, she went to the kitchen to wash her plate. I followed her to the kitchen, asking again, "No, really. Was it?" 

She maintained complete silence, and I kept on haranguing her about the matter. I really had to know. And I felt the need to remind her that she was disabled and that certain things were supposedly off the table:

"These guys don't understand how you are now, the things that you can't do any longer." It felt cruel at the time, but I said it anyway. 

Relatives began to perk up at the insistent tone in my voice. Was there going to be a big blowout? Eager ears strained to catch the first sounds of WWIII breaking out. It didn't happen. She just put her plate in the dish drainer, leaving me with the potato salad pan to wash. I washed it and followed her down the hall.

Trailing behind her, I noticed something different about her. For one, she was buck naked. My eyes honed in on her cute little tushie as she strode quite freely and without any sign of disability. 

"You are certainly walking better these days," I commented. 

I'm always amazed when she is up and about in my dreams. For some reason I keep expecting her to be the same bedridden Sharon that I'd taken care of for the last 8 years of her life.  

This version was different in appearance as well, a very petite likeness of someone else, my surrogate grandma Gracie, to be precise: 5 foot tall, permed, dyed red hair, jowls and rosy cheeks that matched her sometimes fiery disposition.

She just kept strutting down the hall like a a rooster on the prowl. She was ignoring me entirely. 

I didn't begrudge her this newfound freedom. Normally, I would have been jealous at the idea of her pursuing other boyfriends, but she had so much life left in her, and it appeared that her lease had been renewed. Why not let her strut and have her fun? I didn't really have any say in the matter, anyway.

That's all I remember. I will just leave it bare for now, no attempt at interpretation or integration into my framed outlook. It was just a dream. I like it when I dream of people I love, even when weirdness occurs or, as in the case of the first dream, especially  when weirdness occurs.

----

Just a note regarding the retracted posts chronicling the month of October: I will most likely be re-publishing them, unedited, with their original timestamp. I want to keep the record of my mental (un)health intact. 

Taking them all down was just another one of those manipulative tactics that I employ in an effort to create a demand for whatever it is that I call my currency.

Also, as embarrassing as some of the material I post here might be, I don't think it's fair for me to rewrite history in an effort to make myself appear in a more favorable light. I will own my stupid, my fails, my missteps and miscalculations. And maybe someone, somewhere, will learn from my dumbassery and make better choices.

 

Douchey

10/30/23 1:38 AM

Everyone has a story, and every story begs to be told. If only to one person, if only to the wind, someone needs to tell the story, and someone needs to hear it. I feel like I need to tell mine, but then...I just get stuck. I can't make myself do it. 

I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm just in such a bad place. I can't help myself out of it. I need to figure out how I got here, retrace my steps and find out where the misstep was. I've made quite a few of late, and trying to tell my story here might just be another one of those errors in judgment that I'm so famous for.

I really am a can of worms. All nice and sanitized on the outside, I probably could pass as good stock on the shelf, if one didn't look too closely at the "best by" date. But if I open up, even the littlest bit, reveal what is inside -- I become anathema. 

I am sorry I tried to pass myself off as good. It won't happen again. I can only be this dark thing in the corner with glowing red eyes, lurking, skulking, sulking. Not proud, not ferocious, but rabid, nonetheless -- untouchable.

I believed for a moment that I could be a kind, unselfish person, that maybe I was one. A hero even, to someone. I wanted that so much. Redemption. A chance to be something other than what I truly am. 

I thought I was doing OK, but I guess I wasn't fooling anyone but myself. I was discovered to have a fatal flaw, some kryptonite laying around, revealed my weakness.

Now all I do is mope. Wishing and hoping are out the window, out of the question. All those plans, those innocent ideas, tainted now. I am in need of cancellation. Pull the plug, drop the curtain. End of the road, Jack.

 

 

 

 

 Can you do something a little less--

  1. Douchey

  2. See 1

Not a proper goodbye

 

 

 

 

 

 10/29/23 11:25 PM

----

I wish I hadn't sent that email.

I sounded really stupid in it.

You needed space, not an idiotic treatise on -- I don't know what.

My tone was horrible, just the worst. 

Ego, ego, ego.

I'd like to blame medication or mental illness, but I can't. 

All those words, so inappropriate in their timing and delivery.

Just more things for me to feel ashamed about.

I'm beating myself up again, fearing I've lost you as a friend.

The silence is killing me.

That's not on you.

I'm just weak and needy.

If I was stronger, more patient, I don't know...maybe you'd think better of me.

I'm trying to figure out where I made my first misstep.

It's difficult, because I've allowed myself to develop these feelings for you for a long time. 

I just never thought that I'd be tested so severely, that I would crack under pressure.

I can't blame you for being who you are.

I am, even now, doing something stupid. 

I'm writing to you, so that I can ease my sorry soul. 

But that doesn't help you. 

You still need space, not ramblings from me.

I don't really have anyone else to talk to about these kinds of things, but that's also on me.

I shouldn't put that on you. 

The nature of our friendship was that I'd be there for you, not dump my stuff on you. 

I know this. 

You can't absorb this kind of thing. 

You shouldn't have to. 

I wanted so badly to be the one guy you could trust to always be purely and innocently a nice guy. 

Not just another dog, sniffing around. 

Now, because I said two words, it revealed that my heart was full of eros, not pure agape or philos. 

My integrity, or the illusion of integrity, is revealed to be rife with impurities.

I have so many regrets.

This one hurts a lot, though.

If I never hear from you again...

I just can't bear that.

How did we go from Saturday...to this?

How can I fix it?

I guess I can't.

It's not up to me.

I can only break things, anyway.

I obsess.

This makes things worse.

This is kind of what I do, and it is why most people find me to be not worth the trouble.

It is manipulative, even just sitting here writing sentences.

I'm hoping to soften your heart towards me, make you feel sorry for me, I guess.

Attention seeking.

I don't suppose I will have any of your respect after all this.

I don't have much for myself.

I am supposed to be mature, not emotional or hormonally driven.

I used to say I was AI, so you wouldn't think of me as someone you could even have feelings for.

My protective out.

I was a poor fake, letting my hand slip like I did, showing my own feelings.

Keep that shit bottled up, man, push it back down.

Now it's too late.

I've been found out.

I can't hide behind a mask of philanthropic decency.

I'm just another of so many guys, guys with eyes, guys with ideas in their heads.

My character was poorly written, or perhaps written too well.

I'm full of flaws, inconsistencies and incongruities.

You don't need that.

You need a real hero.

I can't be trusted.

I don't believe in myself anymore.

Or anything.

I really wish I hadn't sent that last email.

I really wish...just a lot of things.

No matter. 

In how many universes do I keep making the same mistake?

Only in the ones where I am me.

If you read this, it is because you looked here.

I won't email or text you again unless you reach out first.

 

 

How am I doing? Funny you should ask...

10/29/23 10:52 AM
 

Sorry, Blog, but it occurred to me that, like a fidgety grandchild, "I never write, never call--unless I want something." 

I should have been keeping a mood journal, or at least writing things down, during the time I was on these different medications. Since I didn't, I will have to make assumptions and inferences based on the entries, or lack or them, in this blog.

I wish there was software available that could consolidate all the things I might have written during any given time period--texts, emails, notes to self, journal and blog entries, half-written song lyrics, everything--and collate them on a spreadsheet, something that can be sorted by date, mood or any other parameter or keyword. I'm sure the NSA has something like that, or maybe the FBI-CIA-M-O-U-S-E.

This blog functioned as that repository for a while. Since, for the longest time, I had no real communication with the outside world, written or otherwise, this blog was it. But now, having other people with whom I communicate in writing, I find myself a bit more diffuse. There is no monolithic response to "how's Andrew doin' today?" 

I'm over here saying this, and then, two seconds later, I'm over there writing that. Some of these transitions can be quite alarming, like, what are we dealing with here? Multiple personality disorder? A two-faced, lying bastard? I mean, I don't necessarily go back on principles (when I finally admit to having them) but I can be regularly contradictory, swinging from pole to pole on the spectrum of--well, everything. 

So a "how ya doin'?" from my mom, or from my best friend, or from my therapist--all of them can and do generate different answers. They can all be true, but some of them are more heavily filtered or redacted, and I don't know how anyone could ever get a complete or true picture, if such a thing even exists.

I didn't like Facebook for that reason. I couldn't be just plain old me. I had to tailor everything through the lens of acceptability. All posts had to be grandma-approved, and my internal policeman was stopping me at every turn, saying, "Are you sure about this? Better go back and re-word that. Someone might take it wrong."

That kind of social anxiety was an unnecessary burden. I'm more of a "fuck it, I guess I'm gonna say this, consequences be damned" kind of guy. But when I have friends, and their opinions about me matter, a kind of paralysis takes over, stifling my ability to speak or create content at all. 

This whole thing makes me question: who am I really? Am I the person I present over here? Or am I the persona that I created for this group or that person? How can I accurately answer the question "how are you?" if I can't decide exactly who I am at any given time?

Multi-faceted was the best term I've heard to describe the phenomenon of this illusion of contradiction within oneself. It is also the most forgiving. I don't have to be this or that, I can be this and  that. And like the wind, I can change direction. Does the wind ever feel like it lacks conviction because it can shift so readily? Come on, wind, pick a side already!

So, on Sunday, October 29, Day 2 of no Lamotrigine, who am I, and how am I doing? I'll have to get back to you on that. 

I know that yesterday, I wrote a long-winded email, and as usual, I'm questioning my judgment in sending it. Perhaps those should have been "inside thoughts." I don't know where I will land when all the dust from my chaotic mental journey settles. I hope I still have a friend. 

I guess it is a good test of friendship, whether or not it can withstand one of the parties going off the rails a time or two. Sorry, dear friend, for all I have put you through. I didn't mean to point my stream of consciousness fire hose directly at you.

And Singapore, you are my new <struggles to think of name> Millbrae. Yep. That's it. Millbrae. Google it, Singapore. You'll never guess the reference. It is an inside-inside, super-secret, above Squirrel's Club clearance encoded keyword that unlocks a drop-down menu of personal historical trivia, just for my own smirking enjoyment.

It's actually nothing much, but it gives me great pleasure to create an illusion of depth sometimes. Oh, yeah, I'm a regular tromp d' ouile. 

----

As the day winds down, my mood is sinking with the sun into the darkness of the cold and lonely night. I depend too much on other people. I don't do well left alone with my thoughts for days on end. And it's not because I live in the country, dammit. I'm just weak and needy, that's all.

I don't have a strong internal sense of well-being. Always needing someone or something to validate me, I leech off of others: their energy, their stability, their support. Sure, I may give back a little, but it's not enough to justify what I must be doing to those who have to endure me. 

The worst thing is, I can't really muster up enough belief in this self-denigrating, self-pity narrative to find solace in at least having an answer. I'm just blank. I feel a vague sense of guilt, but without formal charges, I don't know how to direct my defense. Or should I just throw up my hands, wretch that I am, and beg for forgiveness, for what I don't know?

I really wanted to be strong for my friend, but I can't even be strong for myself. Whatever I did -- my part in what has caused this rift, this drift, this separation -- I wish I could go back and tear up the pages and erase the tape. I can't bear this. Everything I say, even this, is probably just going to make it worse. 

I think this should be my last entry for a while. I wish I could go out on a more positive note. I'm sorry Singapore. I wish I could be more...