i try to reserve the concept of hate for instances which are most deserving of it, since i personally disapprove of hatred, in spite of my own regrettable inability to  divorce my self from the actual practice of hating. hate is wrong, & yet i hate. i hate stuff all the time. such is this hypocrisy, mine.

i fancy my self an idealist, in iconoclast, a rebel with or without any particular real reason to exist in a state of rebellion. & yet i am the sort of person who will endure seven & maybe even eighteen years of ridiculously suppressive influence & make only the most abortive & pathetic attempts to prevail & escape.

<note: i was quite hammered when i wrote this. click more at own risk>

& yes, i am still here. & so what of this idealism, this idolatry of the progressive, this lip service to strength  which i fail entirely to demonstrate in my own (not pathetic, but only barely) life? well what of it. i can have my beliefs & live in something entirely less than them & still believe, right?

well that’s the whole question right there, isn’t it? where are my gonzo values where it comes to this life, mine? how do i reconcile the vast chasm between my self & these beliefs, mine?

in a word (or two)? i don’t. wait, that’s three words, technically. fuck them, they’re just words. what of these actions &/or the lack thereof, mine?

there is no excuse. there are reasons, but they are contemptible & weak. i believe there was once strength in me, but i cannot swear to that as truth. there is no reality but the one i have surrendered my self into now, here. & it is absolutely true that this here/now is not what i idealized, not what i felt i was meant to be. but it is what i worked for, & what i (apparently) deserve.

hear the uncertainty there? the wishful bullshit inherent in me saying maybe this is somehow undeserved, that the resignation with which i approach the rest of my lease on physical consciousness might somehow turn out to be misguided? that i might only be indulging in some sort of  inappropriate self-flagellation when i claim i’ve relinquished hope of any transcendent connection ever in favor of … whatever … & that was actually supposed to be a sentence & make sense, as if!

i had a thing to say but it was contemptible & weak. for the record, i did have good intentions at some point. where they are now, i cannot tell you, because, well, whenever this happens, my dog crawls up into my lap & uses her nose to dislodge my arms from reaching the keyboard, & i forget.

anyway. here i am writing this & the chance of it being read being remote, i feel freed to go ahead & admit it, i am a hypocrite. i talk a big game but in the end i surrender, & not in that good way. it’s just contemptible & weak.

oh well, at least it’s easy.

under the bridges, over the phone,
wind on the water, carry me home …

turning the thermostat up higher does not make it get warmer faster. it just makes the heater stay on longer. is this such a difficult concept? i mean fuck.

breakfast = string cheese, cookies, yogurt, naproxen, erythromycin, beer. *urp* may be able to keep computer hooked up here till (tomorrow) morning, maybe not. really tired of this constant highpitched ringing in the ear near the tooth.

not exactly sure where i’m going.

aside from that everything’s peachy.

a while back this stopped being a choice i made and turned into, as my son put it yesterday, “me and daddy are moving to a new house, and you’re moving somewhere else. do you know why?” and i said why and he said “because of this mess!” (pointing at my computer table) “look what you’ve done to this house”.

so yeah, it’s alllllll worth it isn’t it? leaving a situation that *felt* grim, for one that actually, materially, physically *is* grim. dunno, if i did still have a choice, i’d have to go with the life of quiet desperation in a house having luxuries like a phone than the one i’m headed out into right now.

on the plus side, it does make the bit about ‘i’d sooner chew my leg off’ hardly an exaggeration at all.

fuzzy math: in the course of the bitching out this morning he accused me of “spending at least five hundred dollars” on clothes in the past couple months. let’s see – an average $7 at the 99� rack, times maybe 6 times i shopped — hey! that’s why i’m broke! it’s not because he took all my income last month! oh yeah, and this is on “things i don’t wear” (except that they are all i have to wear, my old clothes didn’t fit).

still. what’s worse? living with an idiot in a house, or … not?

you need to be in front of your son’s school at two twenty pm on the dot. you need to leave work at one thirty to allow for shit to happen because shit happens, but since you were over an hour late this morning because the person who informed you you would be changing your schedule from now on, purposely did not wake you up on his way out because he’s all about tearing you down with told you so when you fail, and your lack of failure lately has got to be wearing on him. so your boss is not happy and your coworker wants these details seen to and since you were late you do not insist upon leaving when you need to. you are in the car 14 minutes after you should have been. you are dead flat on empty. it is hot, you are thirsty. you do the digging for change on the bottom of your purse on the way to the gas station, collecting some $4.25, out of which you splurge $0.75 on a diet coke. you pay with a handful of sticky hairy quarters, pump your gallon and a half and go. it is hot, you get shitty gas mileage, you wonder which is worse, bad aerodynamics or the air conditioner, you pick the aerodynamics and you sweat. you make the best time you can considering the fact neither your tires nor your brakes are actually safety features anymore. you do 80, 85 as long as you can, thinking rather ruefully about that four star safety rating, knowing the chances are a horrendous wreck would fail to kill you and just leave you maimed. the drive gives you time to reflect on your life. for the longest time you have been allowing your ex to tell you “well you just have to pay it” when there was no money, and you played the cashflow like a maestro until this month when he brought that crashing down. perhaps ‘i’ll hold you down and fuck you in the ass till you give me the money’ was an idle threat, perhaps not; it’s not like it hasn’t happened before, and whether or not it’s still in him to do that the words just the words took you threw you back a half decade and if you remeber correctly it really pisses him off when you scream and cry in pain, and these are the excuses the bottom line is you gave him the money you gave him more or less all of it and the checking account the whole cashflow juggling thing came crashing down and is most likely beyond rescue at this point and you allowed this, you did. and in two weeks you’ll be free of this but this is small comfort in the face of total financial ruin, and it is two fourteen, and you have six minutes, and the traffic in front of you comes to a dead stop. you begin to freak just a little, your cell phone has been turned off, you are going to be late, and incidentally let’s not forget the bit about life being in the toilet, not even for a moment. the coming to a stop you manage with practiced skill, many’s the car you’ve nursed through needing work. the stupid bitch behind you whose car is not even old enough to need replacement tires or brakes has to swerve onto the shoulder to avoid hitting you and you think well at least i’m not stupid, it could be worse. the traffic the traffic the fucking traffic and your cell phone is off and it is two nineteen you are at least ten minutes out and the traffic and you think of your son standing outside the school waiting worrying and you start seriously crying like freakout crying. the traffic is constant until almost the exit, no particular reason for it except that people are fucking stupid and can’t merge. off at the exit two twenty six still several traffic lights to get through, you pull up in front of the school at two twenty nine and where is your son? you creep slowly along, looking, an idiot motherfucking excursion driving bitch damn near backs into you fucking look before you back the truck up you stupid yuppie cunt and there he is, poor kid’s been out there waiting, he gets in the car mommy why are you crying i said i was in terrible traffic and i was worried you would be scared.

i didn’t mention any of the rest of it.

so. the duplex i live in went on the market, what was that a week ago? and it sold, sight unseen, for five hundred fifty thousand dollars. the new owners are coming for a walk through in an hour.

direct quote from whatsisname “well at least i cleaned the refrigerator”. um, huh? i guess that’s like, really important on his planet.

By Thursday, May 1, growing weak and having passed through stages of depression, hope, and prayer, Ralston decided he would have to break his arm near the wrist to extricate himself. “I was able to first snap the radius,” he calmly recalled, “and then, within a few minutes, snap the ulna at the wrist, and from there I had the knife out and applied the tourniquet and went to task. It was a process that took about an hour.”

i, um … life is wonderful. no problem. none whatsoever.

… because severely phobic people are just so entertaining.

yesterday, napping on the couch, he comes home. he says, hold out your hand. and i do. and he puts the thing in it. my eyes are blurry can’t make out what it is, so i ask …

it’s a bug.

scream. fling bug. scream again. cry. sit there feeling the afterimage of the feeling of the bug in my hand, for a good twenty mintues afterward. fixing up those pictures, had me at least half as freaked as the incident itself — it was in my hand. in my hand. that thing. my hand.

this is my opinion, & my opinion only. it’s also very whiny. i’m not very comfortable with this side of myself.

so let’s say you’re in a position to be a little bit philanthropic towards some family members. & let’s say these family members have been struggling, & struggling for a long, long time. so, you decide you want to do something nice for these struggling folks. and you’re very specific about the nice: you want to give them something they couldn’t have otherwise, say a trip to disneyland to stay at the hotel while you send a maid service to clean their house, which hasn’t been cleaned because one of them had two jobs & the other is an asshole who decided to stop cleaning at all because the other person was always working.

*breathe* sorry, must vent. clarity not a priority here. pissed.

in any case, if it ever happens that you’re in that philanthropic position, & something like this comes to mind? don’t do it. because it is an entirely fucked up thing to do. it’s a very arrogant thing to do. but it’s par for the course isn’t it. the asshole didn’t get that way by accident now did he? he was raised that way.

look, i don’t give a fuck how urgent you think it is that their child get to disneyland. that child is being driven around in a car with shitty brakes right now. (let the record show that this isn’t a problem for the one who drives a company car, & doesn’t have to drive down a bigass hill three or four times a week with no brakes, the same person who takes the unopened bills & dumps them on the other person’s computer chair & just expects they’ll be paid).

i wish i was making my point. i wish this could make sense without a novel-length introduction to explain exactly why it is i’m here, ostensibly putting up with this, & how overwhelmingly i wish i could afford to just pack up & leave now.

i’m sure the place would be much cleaner.

did you know, that if you delete an entry from MT, that it leaves the file on the server? so what i do, when i want to really delete something, is clear the text boxes, & save it empty before i delete it.

as to this one? i can do better.

which stands as evidence of the week that was. & then there were a few hours of work & then a few minutes of yelling & being yelled at & being told not to use the word fuck in the house & well just don’t be a fucking asshole, & i won’t have to will i? what else is there to say with that heat traveling up the back of the scalp? it burns. which happens when the yelling is pent-up days-weeks-months-years, there’s no discussing these things, for that some validity would have to be assigned where no amount of discussion has ever resulted in its assignment. there are hopeless cases, this is one.

& there are things i need to throw. & can’t. & things that could do with some breaking. can’t. if comfort exists anywhere in this helpless rage it’s that this won’t last forever. things will break, & not the dishes. as satisfying as that would be.

there will be demolition soon enough. something like it anyway. more like i’ll chew my leg off. whatever. so, decision: for the amount of times i said i don’t care (& meant it) do i obey anyway? there will be venomous remarks if i don’t, i don’t care. but do i want to hear it? i hate it. how can i not care and hate? well, i can.

[this is where a listing of the bitterest sort of grievances was before i selected it with the mouse & typed this instead.]

because it truly does not matter. nothing does, right? however there is scant comfort in nihilistic rhetoric when there are forty five mintues maybe left, & things go straight back to shit.

fourteen hours of sleep & i’m still exhausted.