Last night, I moved us. I moved most of us. My brother's girlfriend came and helped which was incredibly awesome of her to do. By no means do I want to sound as if I am not grateful (she may read this so I want her to know) as this post is not even about her, or moving. Well its kind of about moving. She will laugh as I will. Hopefully you will. If you were there when it happened you certainly would have laughed. Being it was her and I and some douche bag, well, just read on.
I am moving 60 yards. Now, that sounds pretty easy. If I could fit all my shit into a hamster ball, I would have simply pushed it upstairs. I can't so I got a cargo van from Uhaul. This isn't even the final move. The house may close soon. If it does we will be moving permanently. We moved to another apartment in the complex. We were in the G building. Now we are in the 'I' building. Yes, alphabetical, so yes, not a long move. It is around the corner, literally, from our old apartment.
Those of you that know me, well, this is my luck. It has been my luck for a long time now. My penance is....this activity of touching everything we own at least 2 times a year. I have to move stuff, our stuff, in a cargo van, taking many trips, all day, exhausting myself, and cussing up a storm in my mind because we still have a tea set in a box marked "please take me" from 4 garage sales ago. We have too much stuff. We probably all do, but you don't realize it until you have to tax your body to move it. I am taxed. I am fully taxed, both physically and emotionally.
So last night, as I was taking a load over, someone had parked their Nissan Maxima in my driveway and left it running. I am about 9 hours into a move, a lot of it done, still a lot to go and my brother's girlfriend riding shotgun. We stop behind this running car in our driveway. We wait. We play rock paper scissors. We counted sheep. LOTS of sheep. We read Moby Dick, alternating every other chapter....twice. Still no driver. Car running....no driver. Sounds like entertainment for me any other night. But not now. I accidentally honk like a murderer accidentally stabs its victim 31 times. Nothing. So I put it in park and started unloading.
A few trips back and forth from the van to the garage, an older gentleman walks from around the corner about the time I am vacating my garage. We made eye contact. He says, and I quote, "oh geez...am I in your way?" W.........T.........FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!!!! No, asshole, you aren't in my way. You made it easier for me to lose weight off my ginormous ass because I have to sidestep your chariot. No, you aren't in my way. In fact, I had to park here so I could shake your damn hand. You are far too special to me at this very moment to be in my way. When I left my old apartment, I was praying to God, not for our loan to close or for a fire to burn all the extra shit we have....I was praying for some old asshole to be parking where he shouldn't be. Sure enough....BAM! There you were. So thank you. Thank you for taking the space I needed to get close enough to unload this 90 pound cardboard box of books. Honestly, my lumbar region thanks you. My sweat glands thank you. But most importantly, I thank you for saving me that 1/100th of a mile I will not have to pay for when I return this bitch tomorrow to Uhaul.
Some people ask the dumbest, most rhetorical questions. I am learning that they are usually asked while moving.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Stop Yelling...I am Right HERE!
Yesterday was a bad day. I have a lot of stress going on in my life. Normally I would say that these types of emotions make it impossible to form a rational thought, therefore ignoring my blog. Yesterday was normal. I ignored. I wasn't sure if blogging was something that would help me sort out my thoughts causing me to write run-on sentences with little to no punctuation which would make people confused having to read random pointless rants and raves about God knows what wondering if it would ever end and looking for the first sharp object so that they could cut their eyes out for having read such mindless crap. Wait...
I love bashing Walmart. Back when Walmart first started, it resembled a Kmart. I wasn't around much to blog about Kmart, and it is rude to kick a dead horse. So, that leaves me with Walmart. I hate you Walmart. I hate you mostly because you hire people that ask rhetorical questions. It's like servers that ask if everything was OK. Even when you reply it wasn't and the food tasted like a pile of horse shit they simply apologize and do nothing. I hear over and over and over and over again, "did you find everything OK today" when I am checking out at Walmart. I always say yes. I say yes because I have a brain, can read English (as everything, EVERYTHING is pretty well marked) and I am male; a hunter/gatherer. I didn't come to shop. I came to conquer a gallon of milk and some maxi pads. I won. Check them, bag them and move on so I can mount them on my wall.
The other day, however, I was in a mood. The checker was....well, hired by Walmart. I won't say special or slow...just not employable by anybody BUT Walmart. He had a hard time fluctuating his voice, or making adjustments to volume based on my own proximity. I was a mere 25 inches away, yet he bellowed "DID YOU FIND EVERYTHING OK" as if I was across the room. I am not sure why I answered the way I did. It could have been that my inner ear was angry and ringing. It could have been that the vibrations of his yell were reminding me that my body fat percentage was too high. I don't know. But I told him no. I told him I didn't find everything OK. I told him I struggled. I was in pain because the leprechaun had stolen my pot of gold. I told him I followed the rainbow and the little bastard had my gold and was headed toward produce. The checker stared back at me as if I was Pamela Anderson and I had just asked him to make a sequel to her sex tape and the yacht was parked out front. "WHAT!?!?!?!" Not knowing what to do, I told him I did not find the pot of gold, trying to simplify my response to something he might understand. "WE DON'T HAVE THAT HERE!" No shit. The gal up front, Kathryn Hepburn, told me that the gold was on aisle 9. Weird.
He scanned the maxi pads and gave me a stupid grin; the look I used to give people when they were buying condoms. He knows what they are for, as do I. I was positive they were not for me. His look indicated the mind was trying to process who they were for. "ARE THESE FOR YOUR WIFE or GIRLFRIEND?" No, they are for my Appaloosa. I am raising lemmings and these are their beds, dumbshit. Just put them in the bag. I am surprised there wasn't another stupid question yelled at me after the milk. "SKIM MILK IS GOOD FOR YOU!" Yes, it is. Unlike your mother's breast milk that was tainted with crack as you sucked away, right? Sir, did you know that skim milk has more calcium than any other milk? "I LIKE WATERMELON JOLLY RAN..." Forget it.
I drive out of my way to go to Walmart. It is more entertaining and I am able to then write a few paragraphs describing how normal people can't get a job, but Walmart hires just about anyone. No, I am not applying.
I love bashing Walmart. Back when Walmart first started, it resembled a Kmart. I wasn't around much to blog about Kmart, and it is rude to kick a dead horse. So, that leaves me with Walmart. I hate you Walmart. I hate you mostly because you hire people that ask rhetorical questions. It's like servers that ask if everything was OK. Even when you reply it wasn't and the food tasted like a pile of horse shit they simply apologize and do nothing. I hear over and over and over and over again, "did you find everything OK today" when I am checking out at Walmart. I always say yes. I say yes because I have a brain, can read English (as everything, EVERYTHING is pretty well marked) and I am male; a hunter/gatherer. I didn't come to shop. I came to conquer a gallon of milk and some maxi pads. I won. Check them, bag them and move on so I can mount them on my wall.
The other day, however, I was in a mood. The checker was....well, hired by Walmart. I won't say special or slow...just not employable by anybody BUT Walmart. He had a hard time fluctuating his voice, or making adjustments to volume based on my own proximity. I was a mere 25 inches away, yet he bellowed "DID YOU FIND EVERYTHING OK" as if I was across the room. I am not sure why I answered the way I did. It could have been that my inner ear was angry and ringing. It could have been that the vibrations of his yell were reminding me that my body fat percentage was too high. I don't know. But I told him no. I told him I didn't find everything OK. I told him I struggled. I was in pain because the leprechaun had stolen my pot of gold. I told him I followed the rainbow and the little bastard had my gold and was headed toward produce. The checker stared back at me as if I was Pamela Anderson and I had just asked him to make a sequel to her sex tape and the yacht was parked out front. "WHAT!?!?!?!" Not knowing what to do, I told him I did not find the pot of gold, trying to simplify my response to something he might understand. "WE DON'T HAVE THAT HERE!" No shit. The gal up front, Kathryn Hepburn, told me that the gold was on aisle 9. Weird.
He scanned the maxi pads and gave me a stupid grin; the look I used to give people when they were buying condoms. He knows what they are for, as do I. I was positive they were not for me. His look indicated the mind was trying to process who they were for. "ARE THESE FOR YOUR WIFE or GIRLFRIEND?" No, they are for my Appaloosa. I am raising lemmings and these are their beds, dumbshit. Just put them in the bag. I am surprised there wasn't another stupid question yelled at me after the milk. "SKIM MILK IS GOOD FOR YOU!" Yes, it is. Unlike your mother's breast milk that was tainted with crack as you sucked away, right? Sir, did you know that skim milk has more calcium than any other milk? "I LIKE WATERMELON JOLLY RAN..." Forget it.
I drive out of my way to go to Walmart. It is more entertaining and I am able to then write a few paragraphs describing how normal people can't get a job, but Walmart hires just about anyone. No, I am not applying.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I See a Pattern....
Dear Guy in the Gym Bathroom,
You're hot. You are, by far, the hottest guy I have seen come through here. You workout shirt is nice. It's dry, but nice. It matches your shoes and shorts, since we all know working out is a fashion show. You have some imperfections on your face. I see you popping them, shooting Lord knows what onto me. But you're young. Complexion issues are normal at your age. Yes sir. You are one big, hot, flaming bag of hormones.
You still here? I mean, don't get me wrong. I like looking at you, but only for so long. Absence makes the hear grow fonder, if you know what I mean. You probably don't being your nuts dropped just last week. Don't worry about your hair. It's perfect. Almost too perfect for the gym. I don't even know why you are here, really. You look like your metabolism runs overtime in your sleep. You don't need cardio or weight training. You just have to show up. I should know. I see just about everyone that comes in here. You BY FAR are the best. God's gift. Go get 'em tiger!
What? Did you need something else from me? Go workout for Christ's sake. I am getting my workout just by telling you to go workout. Stop admiring yourself and get sweaty. I know you are young but you won't be forever. Pretty soon, the ever-so-touchy balance of gravity will tilt in the favor of Sir Newton. Then, our relationship will sour. Again, nothing you would know about since the closest relationship to a vagina is probably your mother's when she spat you out. You look great, blah, blah...now go on!
OK, look, I was nice before. Now I am just aggravated. You're not nearly as pretty as you think. In fact, you reek of insecurity. The shirt and shorts, albeit coordinated, don't belong in the gym. They belong at Macy's, or at the very least, in your closet. Who works out with a button up shirt? Your pecs need work. Maybe not now, but soon, when your man boobs appear. It is easier to build muscle at a young age. Your hairstyle is not hip, its old. Everyone does the messy look. Stop wearing cologne in the gym. No one cares, drama. It is better to smell musty and look the part then go through the motions. Enjoy your abs, fag, because pretty soon your six pack will be replaced by a half-rack, and I don't mean extra muscles. Keystone Light ring any bells? Of course not. You just got off of Similac. Go away already before I bring you 7 years of bad luck and fuck your emotional shit up by breaking.....homo.
Sincerely,
The Mirror
You're hot. You are, by far, the hottest guy I have seen come through here. You workout shirt is nice. It's dry, but nice. It matches your shoes and shorts, since we all know working out is a fashion show. You have some imperfections on your face. I see you popping them, shooting Lord knows what onto me. But you're young. Complexion issues are normal at your age. Yes sir. You are one big, hot, flaming bag of hormones.
You still here? I mean, don't get me wrong. I like looking at you, but only for so long. Absence makes the hear grow fonder, if you know what I mean. You probably don't being your nuts dropped just last week. Don't worry about your hair. It's perfect. Almost too perfect for the gym. I don't even know why you are here, really. You look like your metabolism runs overtime in your sleep. You don't need cardio or weight training. You just have to show up. I should know. I see just about everyone that comes in here. You BY FAR are the best. God's gift. Go get 'em tiger!
What? Did you need something else from me? Go workout for Christ's sake. I am getting my workout just by telling you to go workout. Stop admiring yourself and get sweaty. I know you are young but you won't be forever. Pretty soon, the ever-so-touchy balance of gravity will tilt in the favor of Sir Newton. Then, our relationship will sour. Again, nothing you would know about since the closest relationship to a vagina is probably your mother's when she spat you out. You look great, blah, blah...now go on!
OK, look, I was nice before. Now I am just aggravated. You're not nearly as pretty as you think. In fact, you reek of insecurity. The shirt and shorts, albeit coordinated, don't belong in the gym. They belong at Macy's, or at the very least, in your closet. Who works out with a button up shirt? Your pecs need work. Maybe not now, but soon, when your man boobs appear. It is easier to build muscle at a young age. Your hairstyle is not hip, its old. Everyone does the messy look. Stop wearing cologne in the gym. No one cares, drama. It is better to smell musty and look the part then go through the motions. Enjoy your abs, fag, because pretty soon your six pack will be replaced by a half-rack, and I don't mean extra muscles. Keystone Light ring any bells? Of course not. You just got off of Similac. Go away already before I bring you 7 years of bad luck and fuck your emotional shit up by breaking.....homo.
Sincerely,
The Mirror
Please Just Let Me Shop
I am not interested in saving the Nepalese from leprosy. I don't care to sign your petition in support of little people rights. I don't want any cookies, leather chaps, or my face painted. I certainly don't want to sign a get well card for the Dalai Lama. Can I just get by you so I can get my prescriptions filled at Walmart?
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD....if I see one more table filled with unemployed Greenpeace workers trying to recruit for the next Save the Earth movement.....let's just say, I will do the EXACT opposite they are asking support for. If they want to stop seal clubbing, I will go get a seal...somewhere, and club the living shit out of it on the spot. If the want to stop all you can eat buffets, I will binge and purge on their petitions. If they want to Save Tibet, I will donate to the Chinese consulate. I will paint their shit GREEN for spite. I am not interested and you won't sway me.
Oh, and leave me alone on the way out. I can assure you, my mind did not change while I shopped. I still think you are as retarded now as I did when I sprinted past you. It's almost as bad as the airports used to be. Take your fliers and wipe. It was hard enough to come to Walmart. My kids hate Walmart because of you. You scare them. You keep them up at night, which keeps me up at night, which ....es me off because I have to, then, tolerate YOU. I don't have enough patience for you because I spent it all on the commute over here behind a blue hair that had no business being on the road in the first place. I was tailgated. I was cut off. I was yelled at...and this was all in a school zone. So leave me alone. I don't like Girl Scout cookies. Neither do my kids. Stop trying to hand them one. Address me, not them, when offering cookies. For all I know they have crack in them you nut job. Wait until my daughter is a Girl Scout, I know. I can assure you, she will be selling something much better than cookies, but illegal.
The money is better.
Move aside, you quack. I have roll downs to take advantage of.
FOR THE LOVE OF GOD....if I see one more table filled with unemployed Greenpeace workers trying to recruit for the next Save the Earth movement.....let's just say, I will do the EXACT opposite they are asking support for. If they want to stop seal clubbing, I will go get a seal...somewhere, and club the living shit out of it on the spot. If the want to stop all you can eat buffets, I will binge and purge on their petitions. If they want to Save Tibet, I will donate to the Chinese consulate. I will paint their shit GREEN for spite. I am not interested and you won't sway me.
Oh, and leave me alone on the way out. I can assure you, my mind did not change while I shopped. I still think you are as retarded now as I did when I sprinted past you. It's almost as bad as the airports used to be. Take your fliers and wipe. It was hard enough to come to Walmart. My kids hate Walmart because of you. You scare them. You keep them up at night, which keeps me up at night, which ....es me off because I have to, then, tolerate YOU. I don't have enough patience for you because I spent it all on the commute over here behind a blue hair that had no business being on the road in the first place. I was tailgated. I was cut off. I was yelled at...and this was all in a school zone. So leave me alone. I don't like Girl Scout cookies. Neither do my kids. Stop trying to hand them one. Address me, not them, when offering cookies. For all I know they have crack in them you nut job. Wait until my daughter is a Girl Scout, I know. I can assure you, she will be selling something much better than cookies, but illegal.
The money is better.
Move aside, you quack. I have roll downs to take advantage of.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Dear Fellow Student
Dear Girl Sitting in Front of Me,
Please refrain from standing, turning around and flashing your camel toe at me. Frankly, please refrain not from just flashing it at me, but flashing it at anyone. I cannot imagine what made you think that painted on clothes was cool. Playboy Playmates pull it off. You can't. Please refrain from trying. Your axe wound should be kept to yourself, as well as your feminine itch that you hide oh so well by fidgeting. You either have crabs, A.D.D. or maybe both. I am glad I am not your chair.
Remember that school is for learning, not for expanding your ever-growing vocabulary (IE- LOL, TTYL, ROFL, etc.). So, please refrain from actually verbalizing your sentiments that would normally go into a text. If someone says something funny, laugh. Don't respond "ELL OH ELL" and expect anything other than the look I gave you today. It was dumb and I am sure it is not necessarily a generational thing as so much as it is a you are a phuck tard thing. I thank you for paying your tuition, but your parents will want you out of the house eventually. Trust me.
I am not sure what you carry in your backpack, but I have not seen you pull out a writing utensil in two days and your books still have the packaging wrap on them. At some point you will need the tools that your parents bought for you at Walmart this year. If it is because they got it at Walmart that causes you to twitch like a meth freak, don't. When you get older, and you (please think before you do) have kids of your own, you pray for a "one stop shopping experience." Dragging snot around a store, and then to the car, and then to a different store is not fun for grown ups. Nut up and wear the damn backpack. Watching you struggle hauling around 20 pounds of useless, unused material is painful for me to watch. Not because it looks heavy and you are straining, but mostly because you are more concerned with the proper position of your QWERTY keyboard than you are with the poor ergonomic way in which you are carrying it. Take notes. Drop the class. I don't care which, but your hair is blocking my view of the PowerPoint presentation.
College is not high school. I hate to tell you that. Cliques left after you threw your cap in the air at graduation, or got your GED in the mail. I know, you may know someone on campus and therefore will try to start your own campus clique. It won't work. It's like trying to bring back MC Hammer....or his pants. If you focused a small percentage on your studies, rather than trying to raise the "social Titanic," you may graduate, or at the very least, pass this pre-requisite to get into the next class. It's called a timeline, Van Wilder. Unless you plan on studying law, the goal is 2 years. At this pace, you will be lucky if you finish by the time The Backstreet Boys reunite.
Last but certainly not least, when I honk at you as you text while crossing the road, flipping me the bird is not original. The fact you dropped your LG phone doesn't really phase me, albeit your reaction was priceless. Asking me to watch where I am going is kind of dumb being I was watching, hence the honk. Please do not try texting anywhere near traffic. The next person may just plow into you as they are texting while driving, and they are probably your roommate, which will leave someone paying full share instead of half, or possibly 1/3, depending on your injuries.
Good luck in class dumbass.
Signed,
The guy behind you
Please refrain from standing, turning around and flashing your camel toe at me. Frankly, please refrain not from just flashing it at me, but flashing it at anyone. I cannot imagine what made you think that painted on clothes was cool. Playboy Playmates pull it off. You can't. Please refrain from trying. Your axe wound should be kept to yourself, as well as your feminine itch that you hide oh so well by fidgeting. You either have crabs, A.D.D. or maybe both. I am glad I am not your chair.
Remember that school is for learning, not for expanding your ever-growing vocabulary (IE- LOL, TTYL, ROFL, etc.). So, please refrain from actually verbalizing your sentiments that would normally go into a text. If someone says something funny, laugh. Don't respond "ELL OH ELL" and expect anything other than the look I gave you today. It was dumb and I am sure it is not necessarily a generational thing as so much as it is a you are a phuck tard thing. I thank you for paying your tuition, but your parents will want you out of the house eventually. Trust me.
I am not sure what you carry in your backpack, but I have not seen you pull out a writing utensil in two days and your books still have the packaging wrap on them. At some point you will need the tools that your parents bought for you at Walmart this year. If it is because they got it at Walmart that causes you to twitch like a meth freak, don't. When you get older, and you (please think before you do) have kids of your own, you pray for a "one stop shopping experience." Dragging snot around a store, and then to the car, and then to a different store is not fun for grown ups. Nut up and wear the damn backpack. Watching you struggle hauling around 20 pounds of useless, unused material is painful for me to watch. Not because it looks heavy and you are straining, but mostly because you are more concerned with the proper position of your QWERTY keyboard than you are with the poor ergonomic way in which you are carrying it. Take notes. Drop the class. I don't care which, but your hair is blocking my view of the PowerPoint presentation.
College is not high school. I hate to tell you that. Cliques left after you threw your cap in the air at graduation, or got your GED in the mail. I know, you may know someone on campus and therefore will try to start your own campus clique. It won't work. It's like trying to bring back MC Hammer....or his pants. If you focused a small percentage on your studies, rather than trying to raise the "social Titanic," you may graduate, or at the very least, pass this pre-requisite to get into the next class. It's called a timeline, Van Wilder. Unless you plan on studying law, the goal is 2 years. At this pace, you will be lucky if you finish by the time The Backstreet Boys reunite.
Last but certainly not least, when I honk at you as you text while crossing the road, flipping me the bird is not original. The fact you dropped your LG phone doesn't really phase me, albeit your reaction was priceless. Asking me to watch where I am going is kind of dumb being I was watching, hence the honk. Please do not try texting anywhere near traffic. The next person may just plow into you as they are texting while driving, and they are probably your roommate, which will leave someone paying full share instead of half, or possibly 1/3, depending on your injuries.
Good luck in class dumbass.
Signed,
The guy behind you
Time to Live
I have often wondered why people wait so long to live their lives? I am guilty. I am very guilty. The old saying "get busy living or get busy dying" rings very true with me. Yet, I sit passively by as I watch other people living their lives. I suppose that is why, at 36 years old, I have decided to better my life by becoming a Registered Nurse. I can no longer be idle. I can no longer accept the excuse "everyone else, but me." Why not me? Why can't I have the very best? Have I given every effort to better myself, my family, my future? I can honestly say I haven't. I have coasted. I have let the current take me where I am going rather than paddle the direction I want to go. I have weathered many storms, many waves and I am sure there will be many more of these storms in my life.
"Pain lasts an hour, a day, or maybe a year. Giving up...that lasts forever." - Lance Armstrong
Don't give up on yourself. You are all you've got.
"Pain lasts an hour, a day, or maybe a year. Giving up...that lasts forever." - Lance Armstrong
Don't give up on yourself. You are all you've got.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Kanye West is Infuriating
First of all, I am not a Kanye West fan. Last thing I heard, he rapped a little. Actually, I take that back. He announced he was better than God. I didn't watch the MTV Video Awards. I guess it was a big deal because all throughout The Real World finale last week it was all they could talk about. I am not into award shows. I like music, all kinds of music unless it's Kanye. Then, I would rather get donkey punched by a gay porn star.
I don't know what it is about him, really. I just don't like him. He is too vocal without really saying anything important. I remember on SNL, he said George Bush hated black people after hurricane Katrina. Notwithstanding his comment, SHUT UP! SNL is not a podium for you to spout at the mouth about shit that you feel is newsworthy. This is not a pulpit for you to preach about.....FUCK! Nothing! Tonight, however, he behaved as predictably as Brett Favre NOT retiring. Beyonce lost an award to Taylor Swift. During her speech, he bum rushed the stage, entourageless, grabbed the microphone and said, essentially, Beyonce got screwed.
HEY....USHER-WANNABE....DARIUS RUCKER SINGS COUNTRY. THE SHIT IS IN! GOOOOO AWAY!
Now Beyonce, being the classy gal she is allowed Taylor Swift her due moment later in the show. I just cannot grasp why on EARTH Kanye feels that anyone gives a shit when his lips part. Again, maybe its because I am not a fan of smelling feces, or watching people gloat about being at the right place at the right time. Frankly, Kanye should take a Gulfstream and fly it into the ocean. OMG, you might say, how terrible! Its how I feel about him in general. If there was a headline that read "KANYE WEST GUNNED DOWN AT CHUCK E CHEESE IN THE 9TH WARD IN NEW ORLEANS, I would skip over it to watch porn.
Don't care, Kanye. You suck!
Late night rants rule!
I don't know what it is about him, really. I just don't like him. He is too vocal without really saying anything important. I remember on SNL, he said George Bush hated black people after hurricane Katrina. Notwithstanding his comment, SHUT UP! SNL is not a podium for you to spout at the mouth about shit that you feel is newsworthy. This is not a pulpit for you to preach about.....FUCK! Nothing! Tonight, however, he behaved as predictably as Brett Favre NOT retiring. Beyonce lost an award to Taylor Swift. During her speech, he bum rushed the stage, entourageless, grabbed the microphone and said, essentially, Beyonce got screwed.
HEY....USHER-WANNABE....DARIUS RUCKER SINGS COUNTRY. THE SHIT IS IN! GOOOOO AWAY!
Now Beyonce, being the classy gal she is allowed Taylor Swift her due moment later in the show. I just cannot grasp why on EARTH Kanye feels that anyone gives a shit when his lips part. Again, maybe its because I am not a fan of smelling feces, or watching people gloat about being at the right place at the right time. Frankly, Kanye should take a Gulfstream and fly it into the ocean. OMG, you might say, how terrible! Its how I feel about him in general. If there was a headline that read "KANYE WEST GUNNED DOWN AT CHUCK E CHEESE IN THE 9TH WARD IN NEW ORLEANS, I would skip over it to watch porn.
Don't care, Kanye. You suck!
Late night rants rule!
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Open Letter to the Octomom
Dear Octomom,
You are crazy.
You are beyond crazy actually. There is something medically wrong with you; some sort of chemical imbalance. I am not sure there are any drugs out there that can actually touch the depth of your nuttiness. You are fruitier than Rupaul. You make Amy Winehouse appear as an upstanding citizen. I did waht I swore would never do. I supported you by watching your "Untold Video" show last night on Fox. I contributed to the delinquency of an assbag. I feel dirty, like I just watched 'The Crying Game,' sucking my thumb in the corner of the shower. That is a thumb , right?
First of all, let's just cover the plastic surgery denial. NO ONE, without some allergy to histamine, has lips like yours. No one. Jimmy Walker is saying DYNOMITE to your lips. Shaquille O'Neal uses them for shade. You are banned from the ocean because you might cause a Tsunami. Your speech creates a Category 1 windstorm, OK? Do you understand where this is going? Just admit, like most of the world, you think Angelina Jolie is sexy. It's OK to admit it. I find it ironic there are before pictures where you looked all....well, pathetically homely. Bums would give you money in your before pictures. The Taliban actually threw down there weapons when someone said YOU WERE AMERICAN. They felt bad. Don't say you haven't had work done because it is painfully obvious you have. Sort of like Cher. She has a reason. She wanted to be the first performer to have actually performed in 3 different eras. The Paleolithic, the Mesoteric and some other one that starts qith the letter Q. Give it a rest already.
Another thing that bothered me was your perception that your life was simply thrust upon you and you did not want all of this attention. Why on EARTH, then, would you shove 8 ....ing babies inside your vagina? Was it to NOT have attention? Are you seriously that ....ing narrow minded to think that the only set of surviving octuplets would NOT gather some sort of dramatic effect??? You called Kate Gosselin an attention whore. That statement is more or less true. I don't think she upset her marriage is over as so much that the cameras will officially add 10 pounds to only her with Jon out of the picture. She pails n comparison to what you seek. You are now using your kids as your own personal ATM card. It's sad really. It's sad that your Mom was right about you. You are stupid and nuts. Welcome to Mother's Day that will have nothing to do with you.
Finally, I just needed to remind you that you have 6 other kids. For someone working towards a Master's Degree, you sure are stupid. What is the degree in, single motherhood? When will you go to school, actually? Will you show up on the Today Show in the year 2050 as an 88-year old getting her Master's Degree because "you always knew that no one could take that away from you?" I want so badly to take away your viable uterus and give it to someone that cannot have kids of their own so that they can witness the joy of ONE baby. Your excuse to having a hockey team is you love babies. Babies grow up to be virile, reactive teenagers. Then what? I can't wait when one of them overreacts and bitch-slaps you, calling you a bitch as he walks away. Oh wait, your 2-year old did that already. What are you going to teach these kid's other than they need to rely on other's to help exist? You are a volume of Encyclopedia Britannica's on Mediocrity. There is nothing about you that is appealing. Good luck getting 8 kids in time out all at once.
Please do me a favor. Don't home school these kids. This is the one time that public schools might help them. It HAS to be better than what you can teach them. Also, throw food away that is freezer burnt. I get the impression you are a pack rat that keeps frozen food wayyyyy too long. Kind of like embryos. Let them go already. Its toolate now that they are born, so do your best and let other people teach them about life. Your lessons suck. No kissing Cacti, lest facial deflation will occur.
Signed,
America
You are crazy.
You are beyond crazy actually. There is something medically wrong with you; some sort of chemical imbalance. I am not sure there are any drugs out there that can actually touch the depth of your nuttiness. You are fruitier than Rupaul. You make Amy Winehouse appear as an upstanding citizen. I did waht I swore would never do. I supported you by watching your "Untold Video" show last night on Fox. I contributed to the delinquency of an assbag. I feel dirty, like I just watched 'The Crying Game,' sucking my thumb in the corner of the shower. That is a thumb , right?
First of all, let's just cover the plastic surgery denial. NO ONE, without some allergy to histamine, has lips like yours. No one. Jimmy Walker is saying DYNOMITE to your lips. Shaquille O'Neal uses them for shade. You are banned from the ocean because you might cause a Tsunami. Your speech creates a Category 1 windstorm, OK? Do you understand where this is going? Just admit, like most of the world, you think Angelina Jolie is sexy. It's OK to admit it. I find it ironic there are before pictures where you looked all....well, pathetically homely. Bums would give you money in your before pictures. The Taliban actually threw down there weapons when someone said YOU WERE AMERICAN. They felt bad. Don't say you haven't had work done because it is painfully obvious you have. Sort of like Cher. She has a reason. She wanted to be the first performer to have actually performed in 3 different eras. The Paleolithic, the Mesoteric and some other one that starts qith the letter Q. Give it a rest already.
Another thing that bothered me was your perception that your life was simply thrust upon you and you did not want all of this attention. Why on EARTH, then, would you shove 8 ....ing babies inside your vagina? Was it to NOT have attention? Are you seriously that ....ing narrow minded to think that the only set of surviving octuplets would NOT gather some sort of dramatic effect??? You called Kate Gosselin an attention whore. That statement is more or less true. I don't think she upset her marriage is over as so much that the cameras will officially add 10 pounds to only her with Jon out of the picture. She pails n comparison to what you seek. You are now using your kids as your own personal ATM card. It's sad really. It's sad that your Mom was right about you. You are stupid and nuts. Welcome to Mother's Day that will have nothing to do with you.
Finally, I just needed to remind you that you have 6 other kids. For someone working towards a Master's Degree, you sure are stupid. What is the degree in, single motherhood? When will you go to school, actually? Will you show up on the Today Show in the year 2050 as an 88-year old getting her Master's Degree because "you always knew that no one could take that away from you?" I want so badly to take away your viable uterus and give it to someone that cannot have kids of their own so that they can witness the joy of ONE baby. Your excuse to having a hockey team is you love babies. Babies grow up to be virile, reactive teenagers. Then what? I can't wait when one of them overreacts and bitch-slaps you, calling you a bitch as he walks away. Oh wait, your 2-year old did that already. What are you going to teach these kid's other than they need to rely on other's to help exist? You are a volume of Encyclopedia Britannica's on Mediocrity. There is nothing about you that is appealing. Good luck getting 8 kids in time out all at once.
Please do me a favor. Don't home school these kids. This is the one time that public schools might help them. It HAS to be better than what you can teach them. Also, throw food away that is freezer burnt. I get the impression you are a pack rat that keeps frozen food wayyyyy too long. Kind of like embryos. Let them go already. Its toolate now that they are born, so do your best and let other people teach them about life. Your lessons suck. No kissing Cacti, lest facial deflation will occur.
Signed,
America
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Strike One, Strike Two...
The DMV sucks. I don't even need to tell anyone that. It is a given. Sort of like Starr Jones DID have gastric bypass, the Grand Canyon IS a big hole in the ground and Courtney Love DOES need to fall into it. It makes sense. I have been in Washington State for 2 years now, almost to the day, moving from Idaho. I still had my Idaho license. It expires in 2011 so I didn't see the need to get a WA license right away. Unless I got pulled over, which I did not long ago for going 65 in a 55 miles per hour construction zone with an Idaho license, Washington plates, and Washington registration, which I couldn't find, nor could I find the proof of insurance. But that is another story. The DMV sucks.
I went down there at 6:45AM this morning, Saturday. My wife had told me that when she got there at 7:15 the previous Saturday, she was 6th in line. I figured at 6:45, I would be first. I was wrong. I turned out to be 9th, which I think I should have gotten a participant ribbon for, similar to placing 9th out of 10 in a race. Yay...here is your ribbon, thanks for playing. The DMV opens at 8:30AM. I had time to kill. The guy next to me was a cool guy so we passed the time talking about how life sucks standing in line at the DMV, SPEAKING ENGLISH, while others are carrying on a conversation in a dialect I am not familiar with, but if I were I could be employed in just about any place in this stupid town. Sidetracked...sorry. Doors open. I had a utility bill, my social security card, my old license, me, keys, phone, a dead pheasant, a goose decoy (headless), some moccasins, and a rabbit's foot key chain. I figured with all this shit I should have no problem getting my license. I was number 001. SWEET! Guy at the counter, extremely happy his heart is beating, asks for three forms of identification. I gave him my old license, my social security card and the utility bill. He needs one more.
Strike one....
I asked him what I needed. Birth certificate, he says. I help up the dead pheasant. He shook his head. He said no to the decoy, the moccasins (that had my initials on them) and the decoy that said BRACK on it. Shit. He said go get something from list B (which none of the shit I trucked in there was on the list....my bad) and come to the window. I left, drove home and got a copy of the birth certificate. I returned to his window, handed him the CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH (copy) and he said great, but it isn't certified. Shit. I told him it was. He said it could be forged. Right, because I give two shits about having this license. I don't even really want to be me. Why would I make ME up?
Strike two...
I asked him what else would suffice. He said a rabbit's foo....OK, he didn't say that. He said anything from list B which he then handed me a copy of what is acceptable from that list. A yearbook photo. I have one of those. He said if I can look at your photo and then recognize you, it will work. Jesus, that was 18 years ago. If I did look the same, I would need to see a doctor, or sell the secret to eternal youth. In which case, I would buy this building and tear it down with you in it. I ran home, found the ONE copy of a certified birth certificate, obtained in 1985 for Little League to prove I was, in fact, a 12-year old Caucasian and not a 31-year old defector from Guatemala. I returned, hoping to God it would work as it was now 9:30AM. It did. I had my photo taken. I now know why people take shitty DMV photos. Smile? re you kidding? The hoop jumping did me in Steven Welch, License Representative.
I hate you, Steven Welch, and hope you get ass-raped by a big, phucking grizzly. let me know if you smile after that......dick.
I went down there at 6:45AM this morning, Saturday. My wife had told me that when she got there at 7:15 the previous Saturday, she was 6th in line. I figured at 6:45, I would be first. I was wrong. I turned out to be 9th, which I think I should have gotten a participant ribbon for, similar to placing 9th out of 10 in a race. Yay...here is your ribbon, thanks for playing. The DMV opens at 8:30AM. I had time to kill. The guy next to me was a cool guy so we passed the time talking about how life sucks standing in line at the DMV, SPEAKING ENGLISH, while others are carrying on a conversation in a dialect I am not familiar with, but if I were I could be employed in just about any place in this stupid town. Sidetracked...sorry. Doors open. I had a utility bill, my social security card, my old license, me, keys, phone, a dead pheasant, a goose decoy (headless), some moccasins, and a rabbit's foot key chain. I figured with all this shit I should have no problem getting my license. I was number 001. SWEET! Guy at the counter, extremely happy his heart is beating, asks for three forms of identification. I gave him my old license, my social security card and the utility bill. He needs one more.
Strike one....
I asked him what I needed. Birth certificate, he says. I help up the dead pheasant. He shook his head. He said no to the decoy, the moccasins (that had my initials on them) and the decoy that said BRACK on it. Shit. He said go get something from list B (which none of the shit I trucked in there was on the list....my bad) and come to the window. I left, drove home and got a copy of the birth certificate. I returned to his window, handed him the CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH (copy) and he said great, but it isn't certified. Shit. I told him it was. He said it could be forged. Right, because I give two shits about having this license. I don't even really want to be me. Why would I make ME up?
Strike two...
I asked him what else would suffice. He said a rabbit's foo....OK, he didn't say that. He said anything from list B which he then handed me a copy of what is acceptable from that list. A yearbook photo. I have one of those. He said if I can look at your photo and then recognize you, it will work. Jesus, that was 18 years ago. If I did look the same, I would need to see a doctor, or sell the secret to eternal youth. In which case, I would buy this building and tear it down with you in it. I ran home, found the ONE copy of a certified birth certificate, obtained in 1985 for Little League to prove I was, in fact, a 12-year old Caucasian and not a 31-year old defector from Guatemala. I returned, hoping to God it would work as it was now 9:30AM. It did. I had my photo taken. I now know why people take shitty DMV photos. Smile? re you kidding? The hoop jumping did me in Steven Welch, License Representative.
I hate you, Steven Welch, and hope you get ass-raped by a big, phucking grizzly. let me know if you smile after that......dick.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The 'S' is Silent
Arkansas.
I have never been to Arkansas, but I can assure you that the 'S' at the end is silent. There is no Ark in Kansas, at least not to my knowledge. I actually heard a high school graduate state that the state with the highest level of poverty in the United States was ArkansaS, accentuating the "S" at the end. I looked at the person sitting to my left to validate if what I heard actually occurred. Sure enough, we both saw the same unicorn bound across the classroom. She had a hard time pronouncing Louisiana, saying "louis-iana," as if it was some Italian restaurant owned by someone named Lou. I was petrified. Maybe she was just nervous presenting her group's poster. Maybe she was confused, flashing back to reading the newest edition of people magazine. Maybe she is just an idiot. If it were me I would go with the latter.
I must go search for the Holy Grail in Kentucky. More later...
I have never been to Arkansas, but I can assure you that the 'S' at the end is silent. There is no Ark in Kansas, at least not to my knowledge. I actually heard a high school graduate state that the state with the highest level of poverty in the United States was ArkansaS, accentuating the "S" at the end. I looked at the person sitting to my left to validate if what I heard actually occurred. Sure enough, we both saw the same unicorn bound across the classroom. She had a hard time pronouncing Louisiana, saying "louis-iana," as if it was some Italian restaurant owned by someone named Lou. I was petrified. Maybe she was just nervous presenting her group's poster. Maybe she was confused, flashing back to reading the newest edition of people magazine. Maybe she is just an idiot. If it were me I would go with the latter.
I must go search for the Holy Grail in Kentucky. More later...
Friday, August 07, 2009
Bullshit Studies
Every now and again I see our tax dollars being spent on studies to determine the obvious. Low flying planes increae chances of air fatalities, or not buckling up might cause your body to go through the windshield. Overeating causes you to get fat...get the idea?
Here is a doozy. Exercising makes you hungrier. No shit. Really? The study shows, or was done to show how exercising might actually INCREASE the obesity problem in America because as people exercise they might over eat. Are you serious? Is that study really necessary? People are now concerned that they might get fatter by exercising. When did being in shape require so much thought. It is really simple math. Calories in - calories out = weight loss or gain. Period. End of story. It isn't a trick. There is no magic here. So why on God's green Earth are we spending money to over think the simple? Jesus, cure the common cold. Find a way for cancer to be controlled. Figure out why chronic diseases control over 40% of the American population. STOP SPENDING MY MONEY ON MATH EQUATIONS MY KIDS CAN DO!
Dear U.S. Government People that dish out money for studying shit,
I have an idea. I believe that if I get a control group of about 50 of my frien...err....random people off the street, I can determine the correlation between pot smoking, beer consumption and intelligence. Screw rats. I think people are the better option. I plan on disproving what "doctor types of people" think is "bad" for you. In order form me to do this I will need approximately $13.75 million dollars, about 500 bails of marijuana and 145 cases of Miller Genuine draft. Ice and a biggggg cooler. Oh, and I need some legal pads....and pens, and maybe one of those digital recorders to record information in. Beer in one hand, blunt in another....hard to write. Recorder is good.
Sincerely,
me.
P.S. - do you need an address?
Here is a doozy. Exercising makes you hungrier. No shit. Really? The study shows, or was done to show how exercising might actually INCREASE the obesity problem in America because as people exercise they might over eat. Are you serious? Is that study really necessary? People are now concerned that they might get fatter by exercising. When did being in shape require so much thought. It is really simple math. Calories in - calories out = weight loss or gain. Period. End of story. It isn't a trick. There is no magic here. So why on God's green Earth are we spending money to over think the simple? Jesus, cure the common cold. Find a way for cancer to be controlled. Figure out why chronic diseases control over 40% of the American population. STOP SPENDING MY MONEY ON MATH EQUATIONS MY KIDS CAN DO!
Dear U.S. Government People that dish out money for studying shit,
I have an idea. I believe that if I get a control group of about 50 of my frien...err....random people off the street, I can determine the correlation between pot smoking, beer consumption and intelligence. Screw rats. I think people are the better option. I plan on disproving what "doctor types of people" think is "bad" for you. In order form me to do this I will need approximately $13.75 million dollars, about 500 bails of marijuana and 145 cases of Miller Genuine draft. Ice and a biggggg cooler. Oh, and I need some legal pads....and pens, and maybe one of those digital recorders to record information in. Beer in one hand, blunt in another....hard to write. Recorder is good.
Sincerely,
me.
P.S. - do you need an address?
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
I'm Tired
I am tired. I am tired of a lot of things. Being sick. I got tired of that awhile ago although I am closer to being better than ever. I am tired of being a broke student again. This time its different because I have a family to support. I am tired of struggling to find things to make for dinner that everyone in my house will eat. That gets old. Although I know I need to do it. The last thing my wife needs to worry about after working a full day is trying to appease everyone. Role reversal. I guess I am tired of that too.
I am very tired of Jon and Kate. I don't care about what they and the 8 did anyway. Why would I care to see them try to entertain 8 kids on someone else's dime? All their shit got paid for. Trips, clothes, shoes, etc. It was all gifted to them. I don't care anymore. What else is there to learn? We all have opinions on how things went down with them, all of which doesn't matter in the grand scheme of the universe. I cannot believe that this show still carries an audience. I am tired of seeing Kate's spiked up buzz cut, if that is even possible. Just be a lesbian already.
I am tired of noticing that the most expensive cars obey the least amount of rules. For $50,000 you can purchase a vehicle that has dysfunctional turn signals, whose brakes do not work, whose gas pedal is constantly stuck at "on my ass," or who is immune to construction zone speed requirements. I always want to follow these people and see where they live so I can pour brake fluid on the hood of their car in the shape of a smiley face and watch the paint bubble up just before I leave.
I am tired of hearing Michael Jackson songs on the radio. I liked Michael Jackson back when he resembled a human being. His music was in, kind of like mullets. But now it is played mostly because the guy died. Sort of like Elvis I guess. One way to get out of debt is to die. Way to go Mike. I don't care if he was possibly murdered or whatever the new theory is on his cause of death. Just get it over with already. This is getting more play than Pamela Anderson's hepatitis. But that is a whole other story.
I am tired of my son's water wings. Sink or swim. You choose. But its time to lose the wings. Now he is only 4, and some might think that is too young to drown. Drowning has no age barrier. He has every right to drown like any other toddler. I fear he may be 13 before he has the confidence to take them off. By then, he would have already committed social suicide by coupling his water wings with a size medium swim diaper. Enough is enough.
I am tired of the tomato plant I have getting pecked at by birds more often than Lindsay Lohan's vagina. I didn't grow this bastard for the culinary enjoyment of every bird in the Tri-Cities area. I have no problem feeding the birds cracked corn. I don't eat the shit, so have at it. But I do eat tomatoes. So leave it alone before I release the cracken.
Last but not least, I am tired of the censoring of my own blog by the blog program. I can say shit, but I can't say .... That doesn't make any sense. .... that! If I want to say ...., shit, ...., pussy, ass, ....face, ....chop, or any other expletives, I should be able to do without being censored by my own damn blogger site. Its bullshit and its aggravating. ....ing stupid Internet. You can google porn all day but the minute you want to call someone a ....ing asshole, you can't do it. ....!
THat's all I have at the moment but that was just what hit me over the last 10 minutes. Maybe something will come to me this afternoon. Like the big clumps of hair that float around in our apartment pool. That is ....ing gross....especially when you don't see it until you pop up for air and feeling it like a ....ing cob web across your face. Tired of that too.
I am very tired of Jon and Kate. I don't care about what they and the 8 did anyway. Why would I care to see them try to entertain 8 kids on someone else's dime? All their shit got paid for. Trips, clothes, shoes, etc. It was all gifted to them. I don't care anymore. What else is there to learn? We all have opinions on how things went down with them, all of which doesn't matter in the grand scheme of the universe. I cannot believe that this show still carries an audience. I am tired of seeing Kate's spiked up buzz cut, if that is even possible. Just be a lesbian already.
I am tired of noticing that the most expensive cars obey the least amount of rules. For $50,000 you can purchase a vehicle that has dysfunctional turn signals, whose brakes do not work, whose gas pedal is constantly stuck at "on my ass," or who is immune to construction zone speed requirements. I always want to follow these people and see where they live so I can pour brake fluid on the hood of their car in the shape of a smiley face and watch the paint bubble up just before I leave.
I am tired of hearing Michael Jackson songs on the radio. I liked Michael Jackson back when he resembled a human being. His music was in, kind of like mullets. But now it is played mostly because the guy died. Sort of like Elvis I guess. One way to get out of debt is to die. Way to go Mike. I don't care if he was possibly murdered or whatever the new theory is on his cause of death. Just get it over with already. This is getting more play than Pamela Anderson's hepatitis. But that is a whole other story.
I am tired of my son's water wings. Sink or swim. You choose. But its time to lose the wings. Now he is only 4, and some might think that is too young to drown. Drowning has no age barrier. He has every right to drown like any other toddler. I fear he may be 13 before he has the confidence to take them off. By then, he would have already committed social suicide by coupling his water wings with a size medium swim diaper. Enough is enough.
I am tired of the tomato plant I have getting pecked at by birds more often than Lindsay Lohan's vagina. I didn't grow this bastard for the culinary enjoyment of every bird in the Tri-Cities area. I have no problem feeding the birds cracked corn. I don't eat the shit, so have at it. But I do eat tomatoes. So leave it alone before I release the cracken.
Last but not least, I am tired of the censoring of my own blog by the blog program. I can say shit, but I can't say .... That doesn't make any sense. .... that! If I want to say ...., shit, ...., pussy, ass, ....face, ....chop, or any other expletives, I should be able to do without being censored by my own damn blogger site. Its bullshit and its aggravating. ....ing stupid Internet. You can google porn all day but the minute you want to call someone a ....ing asshole, you can't do it. ....!
THat's all I have at the moment but that was just what hit me over the last 10 minutes. Maybe something will come to me this afternoon. Like the big clumps of hair that float around in our apartment pool. That is ....ing gross....especially when you don't see it until you pop up for air and feeling it like a ....ing cob web across your face. Tired of that too.
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Holy Shiznit!
I need to write in this more. With everything that has been going on with my health it has made it nearly impossible. Hear, I beg and plead for people to follow the blog, they come, and nothing happens. it is like the reverse Field of Dreams....
BUILD IT AND NOTHING WILL HAPPEN
BAH! So here is my quick promise. I will post at least twice a week. My hope is they are twisted, bizarre, wry posts that will make you either fall out of your chair laughing, or cause you to ponder a stage in your life, past, present or future and rethink maybe something that you thought was once terrible but maybe wasnt as bad as what my mind goes through daily. Either way, I promise your life will be better in some form or fashion.
I must go for now, however. I need to go to a birthday party, the birthday person I do not know, the guest will be as foreign as money is to me at the moment, the alcohold flowing freely, knowing full well I cannot partake in....yes, so why am I going again.
Because I am married.
Happy wife, happy life.
BUILD IT AND NOTHING WILL HAPPEN
BAH! So here is my quick promise. I will post at least twice a week. My hope is they are twisted, bizarre, wry posts that will make you either fall out of your chair laughing, or cause you to ponder a stage in your life, past, present or future and rethink maybe something that you thought was once terrible but maybe wasnt as bad as what my mind goes through daily. Either way, I promise your life will be better in some form or fashion.
I must go for now, however. I need to go to a birthday party, the birthday person I do not know, the guest will be as foreign as money is to me at the moment, the alcohold flowing freely, knowing full well I cannot partake in....yes, so why am I going again.
Because I am married.
Happy wife, happy life.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Deep Rambles
I often feel like I have strayed in the way I have lived my life and that soon, hopefully very soon, I shall return from my banishment a better man. Unlike the story of The Prodigal Son, no one sent me on this perilous quest but myself. Yet, the rewards attained from the experiences shall be reaped by many. Again, this is a hope, not necessarily a fact. Usually, at least lately, hope is all I have had.
This entry was not motivated by anything. These words are being thought of on the fly with little thought put towards them prior to being spewn onto the web, but yet, somehow, in my heart of hearts, they are prolific in nature. Their meaning might only be familiar to me. Some may be able to relate to having been cast away by a loved one or loved ones, struggling to find the meaning of why, rather than simply being grateful for having the opportunity to realize the err in their ways. Yet, there may be some who have no idea why they are wandering aimlessly through life, wondering where the past two decades have gone. Kung Fu Panda is a silly kids movie, yet thee is a quote in there that states something about today being a gift, that is why they call it "a present." Today is truly a gift. Tomorrow is not even remotely on my mind. Often, however, I think back to yesterday wondering what I did to earn those todays of my past.
I am not sure what I have done to earn today. I got up this morning. I went about my life. Did I touch someone else's life? Did I make it memorable for anyone other than me? If I died today, what would people say about me? Would my journey away be remarkable in teaching me tangible things I can use to benefit OTHERS? I am not sure I have done that very well, at least not lately. Giving is truly a gift that has endless returns.
Time for class....
This entry was not motivated by anything. These words are being thought of on the fly with little thought put towards them prior to being spewn onto the web, but yet, somehow, in my heart of hearts, they are prolific in nature. Their meaning might only be familiar to me. Some may be able to relate to having been cast away by a loved one or loved ones, struggling to find the meaning of why, rather than simply being grateful for having the opportunity to realize the err in their ways. Yet, there may be some who have no idea why they are wandering aimlessly through life, wondering where the past two decades have gone. Kung Fu Panda is a silly kids movie, yet thee is a quote in there that states something about today being a gift, that is why they call it "a present." Today is truly a gift. Tomorrow is not even remotely on my mind. Often, however, I think back to yesterday wondering what I did to earn those todays of my past.
I am not sure what I have done to earn today. I got up this morning. I went about my life. Did I touch someone else's life? Did I make it memorable for anyone other than me? If I died today, what would people say about me? Would my journey away be remarkable in teaching me tangible things I can use to benefit OTHERS? I am not sure I have done that very well, at least not lately. Giving is truly a gift that has endless returns.
Time for class....
Friday, June 12, 2009
First Draft
Everything I write is a first draft. When I was in school, English teachers would tell the class to just start writing and not think about anything. The mind interferes with the transfer of the message. I could not agree more. I had to write this now. So many times I think of something, laying in bed, and think, "I will write that tomorrow," and then life happens. I can't do that with this one.
"The Pursuit of Happyness" is like my cinematic Ben and Jerry's. It is a love-hate thing. Now, I cannot recall the last time I had Ben and Jerry's, but I can remember the last time a movie passed along so many different messages. I recorded it so my 12-year old daughter can learn about perseverance. I write this so that maybe I can make sense of the tears that flow each and every time I watch that movie.
We all have hills to climb. Tall mountains and sometimes low valleys. Even though the year is about half over, I have climbed a lifetime of mountains. As much as I would like to retire my climbing shoes, I won't. I can't. There are too many lessons to be learned by the trials these escapades bring. Many times I felt like letting go of my grip and free falling, hoping that somewhere in the bottomless chasm we call life there would be a DO OVER; a children's climbing wall. The climbs get hard, and most times, you feel alone.
Through my trek up these mountains I have seen the power of support from all different angles. I have seen miracles, more than most can anticipate in many lifetimes. I wasn't sure I deserved any of it. It isn't a matter of what we deserve. It is human nature to think that we cannot move forward at the pace the mountain may beckon. It is the outside world whispering for us to take a break and relax knowing full well the momentum that has been built will fade away into the wind. I say no, as I have said for the last few months and whisper back, "fuck off and die."
Momentum. It is key to every adversity we face, often daily. Even a tumbleweed can climb a fence if it knows how to use momentum. Support creates momentum, from friends and family who know the capabilities of those in a struggle with the elements of life. We cannot give up on those we love or they will give up on the climb and surely perish. I have seen what support can do; those we love not whispering for us to give up and that the top is just a top. Nothing special, just an end destination. Whatever the end is, I will determine its importance in my life. I will reap its rewards because it is mine.
Our lives are a first draft. The words penned through action. Mistakes and victories all melded together into a never ending novel; a proverbial "Choose Your Own Adventure." The decisions we make will change the outcome of the story, long before it is published. Without the support of others, the story is short. It is like life. One moment, you live forever. The next moment, adversity cuts your rope, leaving you dangling on a toe hold.
What would you do?
"The Pursuit of Happyness" is like my cinematic Ben and Jerry's. It is a love-hate thing. Now, I cannot recall the last time I had Ben and Jerry's, but I can remember the last time a movie passed along so many different messages. I recorded it so my 12-year old daughter can learn about perseverance. I write this so that maybe I can make sense of the tears that flow each and every time I watch that movie.
We all have hills to climb. Tall mountains and sometimes low valleys. Even though the year is about half over, I have climbed a lifetime of mountains. As much as I would like to retire my climbing shoes, I won't. I can't. There are too many lessons to be learned by the trials these escapades bring. Many times I felt like letting go of my grip and free falling, hoping that somewhere in the bottomless chasm we call life there would be a DO OVER; a children's climbing wall. The climbs get hard, and most times, you feel alone.
Through my trek up these mountains I have seen the power of support from all different angles. I have seen miracles, more than most can anticipate in many lifetimes. I wasn't sure I deserved any of it. It isn't a matter of what we deserve. It is human nature to think that we cannot move forward at the pace the mountain may beckon. It is the outside world whispering for us to take a break and relax knowing full well the momentum that has been built will fade away into the wind. I say no, as I have said for the last few months and whisper back, "fuck off and die."
Momentum. It is key to every adversity we face, often daily. Even a tumbleweed can climb a fence if it knows how to use momentum. Support creates momentum, from friends and family who know the capabilities of those in a struggle with the elements of life. We cannot give up on those we love or they will give up on the climb and surely perish. I have seen what support can do; those we love not whispering for us to give up and that the top is just a top. Nothing special, just an end destination. Whatever the end is, I will determine its importance in my life. I will reap its rewards because it is mine.
Our lives are a first draft. The words penned through action. Mistakes and victories all melded together into a never ending novel; a proverbial "Choose Your Own Adventure." The decisions we make will change the outcome of the story, long before it is published. Without the support of others, the story is short. It is like life. One moment, you live forever. The next moment, adversity cuts your rope, leaving you dangling on a toe hold.
What would you do?
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Dear Lindsay Lohan
Eat.
For the love of God, please...eat. Eat something other than your cig butts or used match sticks. Stop washing them down with Red Bull. I am getting tired of watching you deteriorate faster than Clay Aiken's career. I don't even really want to discuss your seemingly bizarre sexuality. You are as lost as Mike Vick at the humane society. If nothing else...grab a Jr. Bacon cheeseburger at any fast food joint for a buck. Hell, get two tacos for 99 cents. I fear that a wind could possibly take you far, far away.
Wait...no, this is bad. Have some lipids and wash it down with some Crisco. Put something back on your bones other than freckled skin. FYI....some freckles are OK. I now know where all of the sun spots have gone. Thin is in I guess but you are more than thin. You are the richest P.O.W. I have ever seen. People who starve themselves just aren't smart. Of course, seeing your movie script choices explains a lot about how manhole covers are NOT something you need to be walking close to.
People that look like you suffer from one of three things. First, they have an eating disorder. I am not sure if you are getting back at your parents by only eating bearded clam and drinking Red Bulls for all of the times they drug you to camp as a kid. Maybe that isn't the problem. Maybe you are #2...a drug addict? The difference between you and Amy Winehouse is at least you wipe your nose before saying hello to the paparazzi. Maybe you just suffer from dysentery, the third reason you currently rival a Sudanese mother of 14. Whatever the reason, all of the above require some sort of medical intervention. You have bucks. Hell, you can get this taken care of real fast. Ever seen the movie "Super Size Me?" Best movie ever. Better than "Parent Trap," or "Georgia Rule," or any of the other shallow, meaningless drivel that you have made throughout your movie "career."
Please, take a break from making my eyes bleed and eat. Do us all a favor so we can actually start considering you a 3D human. That would really make my day.
For the love of God, please...eat. Eat something other than your cig butts or used match sticks. Stop washing them down with Red Bull. I am getting tired of watching you deteriorate faster than Clay Aiken's career. I don't even really want to discuss your seemingly bizarre sexuality. You are as lost as Mike Vick at the humane society. If nothing else...grab a Jr. Bacon cheeseburger at any fast food joint for a buck. Hell, get two tacos for 99 cents. I fear that a wind could possibly take you far, far away.
Wait...no, this is bad. Have some lipids and wash it down with some Crisco. Put something back on your bones other than freckled skin. FYI....some freckles are OK. I now know where all of the sun spots have gone. Thin is in I guess but you are more than thin. You are the richest P.O.W. I have ever seen. People who starve themselves just aren't smart. Of course, seeing your movie script choices explains a lot about how manhole covers are NOT something you need to be walking close to.
People that look like you suffer from one of three things. First, they have an eating disorder. I am not sure if you are getting back at your parents by only eating bearded clam and drinking Red Bulls for all of the times they drug you to camp as a kid. Maybe that isn't the problem. Maybe you are #2...a drug addict? The difference between you and Amy Winehouse is at least you wipe your nose before saying hello to the paparazzi. Maybe you just suffer from dysentery, the third reason you currently rival a Sudanese mother of 14. Whatever the reason, all of the above require some sort of medical intervention. You have bucks. Hell, you can get this taken care of real fast. Ever seen the movie "Super Size Me?" Best movie ever. Better than "Parent Trap," or "Georgia Rule," or any of the other shallow, meaningless drivel that you have made throughout your movie "career."
Please, take a break from making my eyes bleed and eat. Do us all a favor so we can actually start considering you a 3D human. That would really make my day.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
It Could Be Worse
Things could be worse. They could be a WHOLE LOT worse. Every morning, I go to Kadlec at 9:30AM for IV antibiotics. I go into the Outpatient Procedure office in the hospital, check in and am brought back into this horseshoe of about 9 rooms. Some are filled with recovering outpatient surgery folks. Others are there, I imagine, for treatments like mine. But in all reality, I have it pretty easy. I listen to people moaning in pain. I listen to rapid heart rates and nurses who are trying to empathize with patients telling them that having a catheter is just going to predispose the patient to possible infection. i remember that feeling. I remember the first day in the hospital needing assistance to pee in one of those plastic milk jugs because I couldn't do it alone. I PRAYED for a catheter, more or less so I could salvage some dignity. Wearing that gown is enough. I would have loved to simply pee on my own.
I have it pretty easy. I sit there. I sit there in silence sipping on my 7 ounce cup of water that I am graced with. The treatment is 45 minutes and I get to leave afterwards. I don't have to do anything but show up. I have a central line, inserted in the side of my bicep and the line is fed through a vein down towards my aorta. It is about 3 or 4 feet of fibrous tubing with 3 snake-like ports that dangle out of moy arm. Along with the luxury of ease of use for the antibiotics, it makes drawing blood easy. A phlebotomist is not allowed to touch me, which is great news being the last phlebotomist that did busted a vein in my hand because she was retarded. Maybe not legally, however, in my mind, I was glad she never came back.
What has all of this taught me? That is the $60,000 question. I suppose I always figured I would live forever. Like my Dad, I was going to be this young, virile male forever. With everything that happens in your life that cannot be controlled, it is imperative to control the things you can. The human body is a fascinating machine, really. It rights itself with sickness, only after doing everything it can to fix itself on its own. I was one point away from Kidney failure. I was close to dialysis. I was close to the kidneys simply shutting down. I gained 25 pounds in 2 weeks on a liquid diet. How does that happen? My body was retaining everything I was putting in, even if it was jello and broth. Low calories, low sodium, no excretion. That poses a problem. Brief explanation of GFR. Renal function is a number on a blood test. Anything lower than 15 is kidney failure. They like the number to be 60 and above. May 8, the day I was discharged, my number was 16. May 11, it was 22. Yesterday, it was 49. My kidneys work again. I lost the 25 pounds within a few days of coming home. Of course, it was at about 800 cc at a time. My bladder hates me.
Yes it could be worse. It could me much worse. Today is a new day. Just like tomorrow will be. I take care of what I can with each passing day. My hope is that the people I love do the same.
I have it pretty easy. I sit there. I sit there in silence sipping on my 7 ounce cup of water that I am graced with. The treatment is 45 minutes and I get to leave afterwards. I don't have to do anything but show up. I have a central line, inserted in the side of my bicep and the line is fed through a vein down towards my aorta. It is about 3 or 4 feet of fibrous tubing with 3 snake-like ports that dangle out of moy arm. Along with the luxury of ease of use for the antibiotics, it makes drawing blood easy. A phlebotomist is not allowed to touch me, which is great news being the last phlebotomist that did busted a vein in my hand because she was retarded. Maybe not legally, however, in my mind, I was glad she never came back.
What has all of this taught me? That is the $60,000 question. I suppose I always figured I would live forever. Like my Dad, I was going to be this young, virile male forever. With everything that happens in your life that cannot be controlled, it is imperative to control the things you can. The human body is a fascinating machine, really. It rights itself with sickness, only after doing everything it can to fix itself on its own. I was one point away from Kidney failure. I was close to dialysis. I was close to the kidneys simply shutting down. I gained 25 pounds in 2 weeks on a liquid diet. How does that happen? My body was retaining everything I was putting in, even if it was jello and broth. Low calories, low sodium, no excretion. That poses a problem. Brief explanation of GFR. Renal function is a number on a blood test. Anything lower than 15 is kidney failure. They like the number to be 60 and above. May 8, the day I was discharged, my number was 16. May 11, it was 22. Yesterday, it was 49. My kidneys work again. I lost the 25 pounds within a few days of coming home. Of course, it was at about 800 cc at a time. My bladder hates me.
Yes it could be worse. It could me much worse. Today is a new day. Just like tomorrow will be. I take care of what I can with each passing day. My hope is that the people I love do the same.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Stuff
'Tis the season of allergens! At least, that is what I hear. Having had several incisions in my abdomen over the last several weeks that are constantly on the mend, I must say that sneezes are not a welcome addition to my life right now. Sneezes hurt. There is nothing comfortable about them. Normally, I can sense a sneeze from a mile away. Over the last couple of days, however, I have had that "parent sneeze." You know the sneeze I am talking about. One moment you are inhaling and exhaling as usual and then **BAM**, here comes the sneeze on the exhale. Two of them, back to back, like TNT. I am having those. I hate those.
A while ago, I was worried about bowel movements. Not so much anymore, but now I have to be careful of sharting myself with these rogue sneezes. They come at the most inopportune times. Its like farting in church. You don't want to because there seems to be an unholy glow about those that pass gas close to an altar that all can see. People know that when there is an audible fart at the same time as a sneeze, the "shart waddle" is soon to follow. I guess that is what nurses are for....changing dirty bed linens. Not that I did that. I saw that on Grey's Anatomy recently I think.
It is good to be home. The kids make the hospital seem like a Sandal's Resort on occasion. The puppy (a Shitzu/Chihuahua mix) needs a good grave. Gus, the bullie seems to be glad I am home and loves the smell of scar tissue. I am back to doing the dishes and cooking the occasional meal as my body will allow. We bought a gas grill that needs some assembly. The wind is making that go further and further back on the priority trail. I can only sleep on my back at the moment as a drain on one side and a power PICC line on the other make rotating difficult. My blood levels are stabilizing......thank God. Prayer does work.
A while ago, I was worried about bowel movements. Not so much anymore, but now I have to be careful of sharting myself with these rogue sneezes. They come at the most inopportune times. Its like farting in church. You don't want to because there seems to be an unholy glow about those that pass gas close to an altar that all can see. People know that when there is an audible fart at the same time as a sneeze, the "shart waddle" is soon to follow. I guess that is what nurses are for....changing dirty bed linens. Not that I did that. I saw that on Grey's Anatomy recently I think.
It is good to be home. The kids make the hospital seem like a Sandal's Resort on occasion. The puppy (a Shitzu/Chihuahua mix) needs a good grave. Gus, the bullie seems to be glad I am home and loves the smell of scar tissue. I am back to doing the dishes and cooking the occasional meal as my body will allow. We bought a gas grill that needs some assembly. The wind is making that go further and further back on the priority trail. I can only sleep on my back at the moment as a drain on one side and a power PICC line on the other make rotating difficult. My blood levels are stabilizing......thank God. Prayer does work.
Saturday, May 02, 2009
My Hospital Stay
On Friday, 4/24, I went in to my general surgeon's office to have my staples removed from my gall bladder incisions. I had been in a lot of pain, walking hunched over, having a hard time breathing and discussed thi with y doc at the appointment. My stomach was firm; too firm to be good news. Kind of like Baywatch without the hotness. I had some blood work done and had a CT scan scheduled for the following Monday. When the blood work came back, my white blood cell count was at 28,000, and I was having the CT immediately.
They found an absess and an air pocket in my abdomen. I went in for surgery Saturday to get cleaned out. A lot of my organs had stuck together and peeling them apart caused a lot of inflamation...A LOT of inflamation. So, I have been fighting this bacteria in my gut for a week, the antibiotics messing with my kidney function (creatnine levels are rising). I found out today that my white blood cell count went from 13,700 yesterday to 16,000. Not sure why. No one knows why. I am just a medical mystery at the moment.
I will try to keep you all posted as things happen.
They found an absess and an air pocket in my abdomen. I went in for surgery Saturday to get cleaned out. A lot of my organs had stuck together and peeling them apart caused a lot of inflamation...A LOT of inflamation. So, I have been fighting this bacteria in my gut for a week, the antibiotics messing with my kidney function (creatnine levels are rising). I found out today that my white blood cell count went from 13,700 yesterday to 16,000. Not sure why. No one knows why. I am just a medical mystery at the moment.
I will try to keep you all posted as things happen.
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Things We Take for Granted
I believe we all take certain things for granted, always assuming that these "things" in our lives will always be there to sustain us. Remember, life is finite. It will end, whether we are ready for it to end or not. I have taken a lot of things for granted. One in particular I felt the need to mention in a post today.
Bowel movements.
Growing up, every time I farted, my Dad would ask me if I needed to move my bowels. I always said no based on the fact they way he asked me sound too medieval to be an actual question. I dump, you dump. NO ONE moves there bowels. Of course, as I got older, I ask my 4-year old son the same thing after every time flatulence attacks his innards. He answers the same way I did, having no clue what I had just asked him.
Gall bladder surgery is a non-invasive procedure, or at least it is labeled as such. However, regardless of the 4 tiny incisions, the ports that were put and and the tissue that was interrupted leaves a lot left to be desired. There is a considerable amount of pain there, and it radiates to m back directly behind my gall-bladderless mid-section. Of course, they also removed a lymph node the size of a quarter too so I cannot imagine that was too comfortable on the ol' body. My doctor and discharge nurse both told me that when I got home, I would be moving my bowels. That was as anticipatory as expecting a yard full of Yaks camped outside of my apartment. Yes, I said, I know. The nurse kind of rolled her eyes and said that it would not be as easy as I thought. Whatever...I am as regular as black coffee. How hard can it be. I had no idea.
I was prescribed a stool softener, as well as took some Metamucil9 both loaded with insoluble, BULK PRODUCING, GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY MUDSLIDE makers. Regardless of the food intake, I was sure the fiber wanted out. I came home Thursday. Remember, my body had not digested food properly for 15 years. The surgeon also pumped some gas into my belly to separate the organs forgetting that aspirating the gas may help down the road. Thursday night, I took some Metamucil and stool softeners just to get the process started. I also ate a cup and a half of beef barley soup figuring the barley would love to join the fiber party in my colon. Percocet causes constipation. DOH. Something had to give, and it wasn't my sphincter. Friday came and went. The only progress was the apparent fermentation going on in my large intestine. I was burping and farting like a frat boy. I took more Metamucil. I ate more soup (1/2 cup), still nothing really wanted to move. I brought magazines, zebras (to count the stripes), sloths (because they can't escape the smell) and anything else I thought may help expedite this problem. Friday came and went, all without dropping a deuce. The pressure was building. My blue eyes were turning brown.
Saturday. This had to be the day, right? 48 hours after surgery made sense. For breakfast, I had some Metamucil, thinking that maybe as my body woke up, so would the bowel train. Nothing. I had some oatmeal....more fiber. Still nothing. I would have eaten raisins had the sugar content not sent me into a diabetic coma. I couldn't figure out if it was the lymphoma or the backed up internal septic system that was producing the "sweat for no reason" phenomena. I stayed somewhat on my feet to keep blood from settling but also to let gravity pull on the snake lodged in my digestive tract. Still nothing. Bye bye shitless weekend.
Sunday. I prayed. This time I didn't pray for a speedy recovery, or a tame cancer, I prayed that just this once God would let me have a Dumb and Dumber shit. A violent, spewing cascade of feces. Please God let it happen. I am beginning to hurt here. Even if it doesn't make the pain go away, PLEASE LET ME BE REGULAR AGAIN!!!!!!! Amen. Sure enough, within about 15 minutes the Percocet-ridden cork was released followed by the longest piece of fibrous fecal matter I have ever seen. I felt these gas pains just fall away. Urine came from nowhere as if feeling left out. The pressure was leaving, one rope at a time. I am exclaiming victory, my kids staring at me like they should be excited, but cannot understand why me on the toilet requires celebration. My wife did not understand my sense of joy either. But I was happy as a clam. All I had left to do was wipe...which requires twisting in the mid-section, which causes me to lose my breath.
And this was a totally uncalculated difficulty I forgot to pray about...and possibly a different blog post!
Bowel movements.
Growing up, every time I farted, my Dad would ask me if I needed to move my bowels. I always said no based on the fact they way he asked me sound too medieval to be an actual question. I dump, you dump. NO ONE moves there bowels. Of course, as I got older, I ask my 4-year old son the same thing after every time flatulence attacks his innards. He answers the same way I did, having no clue what I had just asked him.
Gall bladder surgery is a non-invasive procedure, or at least it is labeled as such. However, regardless of the 4 tiny incisions, the ports that were put and and the tissue that was interrupted leaves a lot left to be desired. There is a considerable amount of pain there, and it radiates to m back directly behind my gall-bladderless mid-section. Of course, they also removed a lymph node the size of a quarter too so I cannot imagine that was too comfortable on the ol' body. My doctor and discharge nurse both told me that when I got home, I would be moving my bowels. That was as anticipatory as expecting a yard full of Yaks camped outside of my apartment. Yes, I said, I know. The nurse kind of rolled her eyes and said that it would not be as easy as I thought. Whatever...I am as regular as black coffee. How hard can it be. I had no idea.
I was prescribed a stool softener, as well as took some Metamucil9 both loaded with insoluble, BULK PRODUCING, GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY MUDSLIDE makers. Regardless of the food intake, I was sure the fiber wanted out. I came home Thursday. Remember, my body had not digested food properly for 15 years. The surgeon also pumped some gas into my belly to separate the organs forgetting that aspirating the gas may help down the road. Thursday night, I took some Metamucil and stool softeners just to get the process started. I also ate a cup and a half of beef barley soup figuring the barley would love to join the fiber party in my colon. Percocet causes constipation. DOH. Something had to give, and it wasn't my sphincter. Friday came and went. The only progress was the apparent fermentation going on in my large intestine. I was burping and farting like a frat boy. I took more Metamucil. I ate more soup (1/2 cup), still nothing really wanted to move. I brought magazines, zebras (to count the stripes), sloths (because they can't escape the smell) and anything else I thought may help expedite this problem. Friday came and went, all without dropping a deuce. The pressure was building. My blue eyes were turning brown.
Saturday. This had to be the day, right? 48 hours after surgery made sense. For breakfast, I had some Metamucil, thinking that maybe as my body woke up, so would the bowel train. Nothing. I had some oatmeal....more fiber. Still nothing. I would have eaten raisins had the sugar content not sent me into a diabetic coma. I couldn't figure out if it was the lymphoma or the backed up internal septic system that was producing the "sweat for no reason" phenomena. I stayed somewhat on my feet to keep blood from settling but also to let gravity pull on the snake lodged in my digestive tract. Still nothing. Bye bye shitless weekend.
Sunday. I prayed. This time I didn't pray for a speedy recovery, or a tame cancer, I prayed that just this once God would let me have a Dumb and Dumber shit. A violent, spewing cascade of feces. Please God let it happen. I am beginning to hurt here. Even if it doesn't make the pain go away, PLEASE LET ME BE REGULAR AGAIN!!!!!!! Amen. Sure enough, within about 15 minutes the Percocet-ridden cork was released followed by the longest piece of fibrous fecal matter I have ever seen. I felt these gas pains just fall away. Urine came from nowhere as if feeling left out. The pressure was leaving, one rope at a time. I am exclaiming victory, my kids staring at me like they should be excited, but cannot understand why me on the toilet requires celebration. My wife did not understand my sense of joy either. But I was happy as a clam. All I had left to do was wipe...which requires twisting in the mid-section, which causes me to lose my breath.
And this was a totally uncalculated difficulty I forgot to pray about...and possibly a different blog post!
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