Well, here I am again, sitting at this here computer and typing away, trying to come up with the first 500 words of my daily justification for my existence.

It might not be much but it’s still damned nice to actually have one.

I remember what life was like before 2011, when I first started blogging, and it was so very much worse. Just endless hours to fill and nothing remote productive an/or meaningful to fill them wit.

So thank you, oh blog of mine. You keep the yawning maw of the void monster away from the tender semi-inert flesh of my sadly sleeping self.

And some day I will something more. Something big. Something grand. Something amazing. Something so powerful and fresh and new that it changes everything.

No pressure or nothin’ though.

I just know that I have true greatness inside me, eager to get out and show the world what it can do. I have such power within me, straining at its chains, desperate to escape the clutches of the internalized fascist regime that is my depression.

But I also fear my own power, and perhaps that’s the root of the problem. I am scared that if I lose control, I will run amok and hurt people and become something dark and terrible and brutal.

Might be worth it to be happy, though.

I’m just sayin’.

If becoming a malevolently mocking monster is the price I have to pay in order to find some peace, happiness, and love of self, I might just go for it one of these days.

Obviously, my conscience dictates that I do everything I can to explore every possible alternative before turning to the Dark Side.

I mean, for one thing, it would be so obvious. Oh, another raging impotent fat dude on the internet, how very fresh and new.

Plus there’s like, morality and stuff.

I don’t want to become the Ogre in my head. Think of him being a Doctor Jekyll in intellect with a Mister Hyde’s sense of ethics. A monster who uses all my powers – my intelligence, my devious and subtle mind, my charisma, my insight, even my empathy – to their full extent without mercy or restraint and purely for my own amusement.

Just bending and twisting and pushing and trapping and tricking those around me in order to get what I want and have my wicked fun doing it.

That is my dark side in a nutshell. A smug bastard deeply and passionately in love with his own cleverness who takes joy in wreaking havoc then skating away with speed and elegance leaving other people to deal with the consequences.

And that includes seducing people with my powerful presence and charisma and ability to tell people what they want to hear only to use them dumping grounds for my negative emotions then once more skating away.

Hey, why choke on your own bile when you can inject it into others and make them deal with it instead?

Empathy goes both ways, after all.

More after the break.

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Who are you and what are you doing here?

Man, if i had a nickel for every time a neighbor has said that to me….

Or put another way :

Startled Housewife : Who are you an what are you doing here?
Thoughtful Burglar (sits and takes a long sip from a latte): Well, isn’t what we all want to know? Deep down?

In other (other) words, I am just trying to figure out what my motherfucking deal is.

All the usual shit. What is my purpose? Why am I even here? What am I supposed to e doing with my life and my gifts? Where do I fit into the tapestry of life?

Hopefully someone with like, deer and horses, not dead kings still fighting each other.

I realized today that, quel shoq, that being smart enough to understand the origin of these questions and thus know that one does not need to answer them does not, in fact, obviate me of the need to answer them at all.

Once more, I find I have tried to substitute cleverness for humanity. As if knowing what i is “really going on” somehow exempts me from the very drives I so precisely “understand” but which apply to every human being but me, apparently.

Enough talking about the question in order to avoid having to answer it.

What is my purpose? That’s the problem : I don’t believe in them. I don’t think anyone is here for a reason or has a purpose because I don’t believe in an entity that has any sort of purpose or plan for us.

Why was I put here? By who?

What is my purpose? According to who?

What is the meaning of life? By whose definition?

The question chases its own tail infinitely if taken that way and that serves no purpose.

The only exit from that loop that I know of is to center it on the self. We, as thinking feeling beings, are not handed an assignment at birth, and as long as we do that thing and do it well, we will be okay.

This is extremely depressing to some very deep and profound social instincts. Ones that tell us that we grow up, find our place in the tribe, and serve society that way, and in return, society supports and protects us.

Well, no. Society has not been that simple since we built our first huts.

The only real answer to the question is that we find and develop our own purpose. One that expresses and feeds our own emotional and developmental needs and thus defines the lifelong process of self-actualization.

Dragging us back to the point, if I am to answer the question of what my purpose is, the first accurate but unhelpful answer is “whatever I want it to be.”

Yeah I am going to need more to go on than that. Freedom answers no questions.

Luckily, the question is not as arbitrary and open-ended as it seems. Rephrase it as “whatever will make me happy” and you have the beginning of an answer.

One I still don’t know, sadly.

But it’s a place to start.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Honestly, like half the entries here could have that title.

Or the whole blog, for that matter.

This morning, I finally managed to make myself do my two injections (Basaglar, my insulin, and Ozempic, an insulin…. enhancer?) for the first time in over a month.

And I feel better as a result. A lot better. A lot of my feeling of malaise has evaporate and I feel sharper and more focused and overall happier.

And I knew this would happen. Obviously. My diabetic symptoms were getting worse and worse, starting with that demonic hunger that warns me things are very fucked up indeed^[1] and eventually adding constant dizziness, dark depression, and that superstar of diabetic symptoms, constant thirst.^[2]

So I knew I was suffering and that the injections would fix that right up. Relief was close at hand for weeks and yet I could not bring myself to access it.

And for fuck’s sake, WHY? What the hell is wrong with me that makes it so that obvious, easy things like doing my injections that I know will make me feel a lot better become as hard as deciding to cut off a limb with a rusty hacksaw?

I form these bizarre aversions at lightning speed and end up hemmed in by them to the point of paralysis in no time at all and I am getting really fucking sick of it.

I keep asking myself what, exactly, was I afraid would happen when I injected. The obvious and wrong answer is that I am worried I will trigger a blood sugar crash. but that’s akin to dying of heat sickness out of fear of freezing to death.

I mean, ya got to have priorities.

The only other answer as to why I do these things is fear of change in general, even when that change is likely to be very good.

That doesn’t seem like the entire answer either, but we’re getting closer.

I fall back on that feeling that I am barely holding my guts in and that I have to do as little as possible or everything will fall out of me and I will die.

Not literally true, obviously. But it describes what depression can feel like.

It’s what happens when the “hide” mode of the “fight, flee, or hide” takes over and dominate the individual completely. On the deepest possible level, I am convinced that if I move or change too much, something out there is going to GET me, and so I have to life the life of a halfassed statue instead.

Well fuck that. Somehow, somewhere, I am going to find the energies I nee to smash all the stupid aversions and start really living.

Everything I need is out there somewhere.

I just need to reach out and grab it.

More after the break.

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Better but still…

Feeling somewhat better since my injections but I still kind of want to bludgeon the world to death with a club made of pure black hate.

So, ya know, mixed emotions.

Did not quite make it to the phone call to Doctor Ebtia’s office today. She’s my cardiologist and I want her to find out what the fuck the deal is with my heart operation because I am getting weaker by the day and I am scared one of these days just getting out of bed will be too much for my tuckered ticker and it will pop.

And maybe I will just plain die. Or maybe I will live but be in such a horrible state of pain, humiliation, and debility that I will wish I had died. Or maybe I will get super lucky and somehow survive despite nobody knowing I keeled over because I spend most of my time all alone in my room.

Mental note : try to have seemingly inevitable heart attack while with friends.

Oh, and ponders getting one of those medic alert things.

Well if I have a heart attack while waiting for my surgery, they better hope it kills me, because if not I am going to scorched-earth sue the entire St. Paul’s cardiac surgery for dropping the ball on this one.

I am pondering how to handle the call, though, because Doctor Ebtia seems somewhat high strung as does her staff, so I don’t want to come on all thunder and death and scare them into ducking my calls.

I can be quite scary when I am angry, especially to petite, nervous women.

They don’t know I’m just a big goofy puppy dog with a rather large bark.

So my approach will be the two pathetics : sympathetic, and just plain pathetic.

Emphasize how worried and scared I am and how patient I have been and how I have heard nothing at all from these people.

And not so much the rage and feeling neglected and thinking the cardiac surgeons won’t do anything until a heart attack makes my case interesting enough for them to be bothered with and so forth and so on.

That’s the scary stuff. Might be cathartic but a poor choice in terms of strategy.

If I can’t get her to take me seriously, I will try Doctor Caswell again. Last visit, I spilled the basics out to her, but I don’t think she got the urgency of it all.

So I think another try when I see her on the 30th would work.

One way or another, I am going to make it RAIN on this motherfuckers.

I might be sick.

I might be crazy.

I might be poor.

But I am still a force to be reckoned with.

And I have precious little to lose.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.