Category: health

day off

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I’m taking the day tomorrow. Mostly, because we’ve been asked to take care of our granddaughter for the day/weekend (yes, sir! No problem, sir!), but because I am spiralling. I’m really not in a good place for work.

I feel like I’m behind, overworked, disorganized, putting way too much personal pressure on myself to meet standards and targets, and that’s not just work.

It’s me, fucking myself up.

Self-destructing, as always, and wanting to scrap it all and start again.

But I’ve done that too often.

I’ve come too far and I’m out of time.

After all, Donald Trump’s fascist state may invade or bomb us at any time. The psycho’s capable of anything, if it feeds his sad, little ego.

So, yeah.

Taking the day tomorrow.

Fuck Donald Trump.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1106 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card
Comics: Fathom v6 8, Aspen Universe: Decimation 1-3
Music: The Essential (1955-1983), Johnny Fuckin' Cash

brian wilson

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And now, Brian Wilson?

Goddamnit.

Sly Stone I could take because I don’t have a lot of connection there, but I’ve been listening to Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys as long as I can remember (fuck Mike Love). We even saw them in concert when they (meaning Mike Love and a bunch of randoms) came to play at the bandstand in Tecumseh Park.

It was nice.

The innocence of it all hiding the troubled mind in behind… wouldn’t it be better if Brian had sang what he wanted? If he’d sang about his pain.

Wouldn’t it be nice?

For Brian Wilson to be still alive.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 798 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card
Comics: Aspen Universe: Decimation 0, Fathom v6 5-7
Music: The Essential, Bruce Springsteen (fuck you, you probably don't know what Born In The USA is even about, you nationalistic prick)

happy birthday, sis

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Sly Stone dies and my sister lives another year. Good for her.

Not that she shouldn’t live another year. Like all the people I love, I hope she lives until I die, at least. After that, well, I hope for her sake she lives a long time, but hell, I’ll be dead. What would it matter to me?

Then again, there’s always reincarnation. Maybe I’ll come back as a vibrator.

Assuming I’m bought by a Hollywood starlet, that’d be cool, I guess.

Or a carrier of the Republican virus, in that it only targets individuals who voted Republican, and rewires their brains to be permanently set on Mr. Rogers.

Now, wouldn’t that be a nice cleanse?

Sometimes, I think the stars aligned and decided: there is something truly, profoundly wrong with this guy.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1715 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Ender's Game, Orson Scott Card
Comics: Fathom v6 1-4
Music: Equal Strain On All Parts, Jimmy Buffett (fuck you, it's better than you think)

crashed out and cleaned out

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I’m exhausted, poor and in physical and mental anguish.

I just want connection.

Love.

Time alone.

Time to relax, recharge, catch up.

The most love a person could show me would be to allow that to become true.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 727 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: The Pilgrim's Regress, C.S. Lewis
Comics: Fathom v5 2-5
Music: End Of The Century, The Ramones

doctor

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I’m not sure the doctor was right. I’m still getting cramps in the morning, even with the doubling of the medication.

They are slightly less, but maybe it’s just covering up a larger problem?

Like pretending Trump isn’t the second biggest threat to the planet (tops being Putin, because he controls Trump and is actually trying to bring about the collapse of freedom worldwide. Trump’s just a narcissistic idiot surrounded and influenced by Nazis, grifters and monsters – which is a very dangerous thing in his position, but still, he’s not the puppetmaster. He’s too dumb for that).

Anyway.

Covering up problems.

Sweeping them under the rugs, stuffing them in closets and under beds. Ignoring the trash can out back.

I guess it’s the same in both politics and medicine.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 3257 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Casino Royale, Ian Fleming
Comics: Fathom: Kiani v2 2-4, Fathom v4 7
Music: End Of A Century, Blur

every day something new

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That used to be my motto for writing, or learning, exposure to different things, methods of storytelling, experiences, etc., but sometimes, it’s nice to fall into an old comfort.

Especially now, when you’re convinced you have bowel cancer or an impending appendix explosion, and the idiot doctor that just provided you with substandard care blew it off as gas.

Old comfort. New discomfort.

Familiar discomfort.

Crippling depression.

What’s old is new again. What’s new is ultimately old.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1248 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Pawn's Dream, Eric Nylund
Comics: Fathom v4 2-4, Fathom: Blue Descent 4
Music: Empty Glass, Pete Townshend

collapse

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This doctor thing has me spiralling. I don’t really want to get into it, but for some reason, I’m out of control depressed.

Fuck.

I hate this point.

It always makes me want to give up, begin again, or maybe not even bother with the second half.

Fuck.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1250 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Pawn's Dream, Eric Nylund
Comics: Fathom v4 0-1, Fathom: Blue Descent 2-3
Music: The Empire Strikes First, Bad Religion (angry music sometimes helps)

emergency room?

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Yeah, right. I’ve been having pretty severe cramps every morning (and every once in a while we’re walking the dogs) for a couple of weeks now, so I figured it was time to see a doctor.

This “doctor”, who seemed far more interested in chatting up nurses than helping, does the laziest ultrasound ever, not even actually going over the sections that hurt the most, and then says, it’s gas. Take an extra acid reflux pill each day.

Fuck my life.

Why is it that someone like me, who spends so much time trying to be independent and so much time trying to make sure he’s there and doing the right things for others (and often failing), when he needs help, when he actually, finally, asks for help, the response is always from someone who couldn’t care less?

I’m so tired of being in the minority.

I’m so tired of being one of the few who actually wants to do right by others, even as I do wrong by myself.

And if you didn’t think I was an egotistical narcissist before and are thinking, well, duh, it’s your attitude bro, well, here’s your fucking moment.

My moment is doubled over with cramps.

If I die, I’m going total poltergeist on that doctor.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1200 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Pawn's Dream, Eric Nylund
Comics: Fathom v3 9-10, Fathom: Blue Descent 0-1
Music: Emotional Rescue, The Rolling Stones

stolen away

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How do entire days get stolen from one? I went to the clinic yesterday morning regarding stomach cramps I’ve had for a couple of weeks, but naturally, they had no power, so they were closed.

Fuck me, I guess.

That should have gained me a few hours of my life back, but somehow, even with the girls working until four o’clock, that meant I was forced into a number of chores I’d been hoping to avoid for a while.

So, here we are, having lost a whole weekend of good writing and reading and generally, time alone, to fucking crap that doesn’t really matter.

I like a nice lawn as well, but who really gives a shit?

Let the bees and the birds have it, and let them reclaim this world.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1097 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Thieves' World, Asprin/Abby/Anderson/Haldeman/Offutt/Bradley/Brunner/DeWees (what an accomplishment this is, an anthology in a shared world where, for the most part, things actually flow together fairly well, though Cappen Varra and Jamie the Red are a bit off, and Marion Zimmer Bradley's offering is disturbing given her personal life.)
Comics: Fathom v3 6-8, Aspen Seasons 4
Music: The Eminem Show, Eminem

end me, week

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I don’t think I’ve felt this down in a while. I feel like everything is collapsing, and my usual techniques are not up to par.

I am working on it.

Part of me wants to burn it all down and start over (a-fucking-gain), but I’ve come too far and have too little time left to begin again.

At this point, it’s finish the chore of living or give the whole thing up.

I’m not sure what’s worse – trying constantly to make it and failing, or not bothering with it at all.

At least I’d have more free time if I gave up, more time for my family.

But this is the driver; I feel like walking death when I don’t let it out.

Let it fucking out, or let them fucking in. I don’t know which one is worse.

Target: 1200 words
Written: 1084 words, novel: Bad Neighbours

Read: Thieves' World, Assorted Authors
Comics: Fathom: Kiani 4, Fathom v3 0-1, Aspen Showcase: Aspen Matthews 1
Music: Emigre, Anti-Flag