Yesterday was sadness. Today it’s bitterness.

A lot of people have failed me in my life. So much so that it’s more or less what I expect of people as a default.

Trusting that people will be there for me is very hard as a result.

Here’s some examples of why.

My family failed me. Profoundly. And deeply.

They were supposed to be the people who cared about me the most. Who were willing to protect me, comfort me, talk to me, make me feel wanted and valued and appreciated. To give me a sense of belonging. To make me feel loved.

Instead, they made me feel like an unwanted and vexing burden whose sole job was to minimize evidence of my existence so they could get as close as possible to completely forgetting they had ever been cursed with my existence.

Nobody ever actually said that, of course. Then they would have to recognize their own shittiness and take responsibility for it.

They just treated me that way.

More specifically, my siblings failed me. They never made room for me at the metaphorical table. Never gave me an equal share of the resources. Never treated me like an equal. Never wanted to spend time with me.

Never let me in.

My father failed me in so many ways. By failing to hold his temper or be patient, leaving me terrified of him for most of my early years. By therefore completely failing to be a mentor, a role model, a protector, or a teacher to me.

In other words, by failing to be a father at all.

He failed me most profoundly by leaving me alone in a shower stall at his gym to get raped by a stranger. Who the fuck leave a naked four year old alone in a public place?

And like…why?

And my mother failed me worst of all because she did it while still seeming like the same warm, caring person I had known as a child.

But when she went back to work, she abandoned me to be raised by a babysitter. She had been such a wonderful mother for me before then. Kind, affectionate, loving, caring, full of sunshine and hugs and idiomatic French.

Then all that ended. I guess I wasn’t cute enough any more. She went back to work and the warm and loving center of my personal universe went cold.

And as time went by, she withdrew even further from me. Still acting like the same lovely person as before, but profoundly absent where it counted, Emotionally.

And I think that’s what hurt me the most. It’s like the sun stayed in the sky but stopped providing any warmth at all.

She left me with effective no parents at all. She was always at work, or too tired after work to be there for me, or too busy with housework, or too depressed in general to be there for me at all.

So I was deeply and cruelly alone from a very young age and that really hurt me.

It was so much easier when I could just blame everything on the rape.

More after the break,

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The bitterness continues

That takes care of my family. Let’s move on to the rest.

Quite obviously, my schools failed me. ESPECIALLY Parkside Elementary School on 100 Summer Street in Summerside, Prince Edward Island.

They failed me in two major ways.

The obvious one is that they completely failed to shield me from bullying. They all knew how I was treated on the playground. They knew why I kept trying to hide in the school instead of playing with the other kids at recess. They knew why I spent lunch time in the library, the one room in the school that ALWAYS had a teacher in it and where there were so many books to read.

They either knew and accepted it, or knew and ignored it. Forgot all about it because I was a low status kid who therefore didn’t matter.

But the other way they failed me was by not having any idea how to handle a super smart kid like me. And because they didn’t know what to do with me, they ignored me, and that made me feel like it was all my fault. That there was something wrong with me and I was being punished for it by being ignored by the teachers to be beaten up by my fellow students and be bored out of my mind during class.

Sure, they could have asked around, maybe invited a specialist or two in, consulted with their colleagues in other schools, maybe even brought it up with the school board.

But there was no way to them that I was worth even one percent of that effort. Work harder in other to benefit from that smartass little fat slob who thinks it’s so much smarter than us? Get real.

I was, and am, way smarter than you, all my previous teachers. Traditionally, this leads to the child being singled out and praised for their academic brilliance and put on a fast track to success because people wanted to see me thrive.

You chose a different path You threw me to the wolves of the playground then did your best to forget I existed, just like my family. You passively punished me for being an extremely good student and absolutely nothing to help my abilities grow.

Instead, I got the same education as everyone else. Which is like making a giant wear normal sized clothes. It didn’t fit!

You owed me an education that fit ME. But you preferred to neglect and ignore me.

It’s not my fault that I was smarter than all of you and that made you feel bad.

It’s not my fault that I was socially awkward. That I did not fit in with them. That’s the sort of problem you’re there to solve. Not use as an excuse to abandon me.

Like everyone else who was supposed to protect me from literally anything, you could not be bothered because to you, I was worth less than nothing.

And for that, you deserve an everlasting and permanent FUCK YOU.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I made the fucking phone call.

The one to Dexcom to get the new sensors. They should be here soon. Early next week, between Monday and Wednesday.

And it only took me like three weeks to work up the nerve!

Of course, it was no big deal. Eventually.

See, I called the tech support number yesterday, and talked to a tech support lady with an unplacable Midwestern accent (Tennessee?) and started setting up an account when she suddenly said, “Wait… are you CANADIAN?”.

And there was more than a hint of accusation in her voice.

Like I was being Canadian on purpose. Just to bug her.

She then transferred me to the Canadian help line. I think. Because what actually happened was that there was a brief dial tone ^[1], the sound of like a dozen touch tone buttons being dialed at warp speed, some silence, then a click and Muzak. ^[2]

Hold music hasn’t changed, I guess. It was your usual gently strummed guitar and slow soft strings. Not exactly exciting, but pleasant and soothing.

After about ten minutes of soft jazz sedation. a click and then a too-fast busy signal.

OK, you win this round. I looked up the number for the CANADIAN line and save it in my notes and called it a day.

Oh, one last thing about call #1….they had this phone system where to select an option from the phone menu you repeat the word for it when you hear it.

Man did that make me feel like a goober.

Can you say sensors? Good!

Called back today. Everything went fine. There was, of course, no reason for me to have dreaded it. More of the exact same Muzak (weird), talk to a lady with an unplaceable Ontario accent (Barrie?), set up an account, she’s sending me the news sensors (that better fucking work!), it is done.

She asked if I wanted them sent Fed Ex or Canada Post and I said Fed Ex out of some very unclear sense that Fed Ex would be quicker.

But now I wish I said Canada Post. Because I am way less likely to get the whole “oh gee, we knocked (liar!) and you weren’t home so now you have to come to us ha ha” bullshit if you stick with the people who actually have keys to your building.

Oh well. If we end up having to drive to like Anacis Island to get the package they “delivered” out of some dingy “depot” attached to a brick warehouse, I will learn from it.

Next time it’s CanPo all the way!

More after the break.

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The baby left to cry

Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Does it take a lot of damage? Does it ever wonder why?
Why it screamed and cried until it wept its tear ducts dry?
Till it gave up, small, defeated, salt encrusted in its eyes?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?

Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Does it know help isn’t coming? Does it learn, too young, of lies?
Does it know it’s been left helpless by those who will not heed its cries?
Does it know it’s been abandoned? Does that come as a surprise?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?

Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
What about that selfish family? Would they notice if it died?
Or would they only feel relief when that awful noise subsides?
And grin in selfish triumph over the bladder of a child?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?

Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
Does it give up on survival? Does it withdraw deep inside?
Does it learn that this world hates it? Does it give up all its pride?
Does it fall forever silent? Does its life ebb like the tide?
Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?

Whatever happens to the baby left to cry?
I guess it dies.

Sorry folks. Sometimes I just have to write the super depressing sad stuff.

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The baby in the poem is me, obviously.

I can’t know for sure, but I think this literally happened to me. I remember calling my mother to my crib because I had discovered a resonance between the feel of my finger rubbing the tag on my blanket and the feel of rubbing my tongue against my palate.

I obviously could not explain this. So she just sighed heavily and left.

And then, I think that bitch gave up on me.

Decided that my cries were all bullshit like that and stopped responding to them.

And if she didn’t, nobody else was going to do it. After all, I wasn’t THEIR responsibility and they had their own stuff to do.

Beside, my mother had no choice. I was in danger of developing hope, and hope in children can be really irritating.

And she was tired. So tired. So worn down and defeated. So mentally drained. Made it so very easy to just forget about me.

What a relief that must have been! No more worrying about that stupid kid she never even wanted who was the last thing she needed when she was already near collapses working a full time job, being a full time housewife, and raising the three kids she WANTED to have.

And the best part is that she never had to consciously decide to abandon me.

She just had to forget all about me.

And boy, did she ever. So did everyone else. Till I was old enough to go to school, the only one who really paid attention to me was my babysitter Betty.

Well, people often pay others to do jobs they find too odious and tedious to do themselves. Like caring for me.

Then school came and a cheer went up because now they could pay even less attention to me and didn’t even have to pay a babysitter any more!

So I did everything by myself except make my own lunch.

She gave up on doing that too. So I just stopped eating lunch.

Everyone was super OK with just assuming I was fine or whatever.

And that’s how I learned that I did not even deserve to live.

That’s what I deserved for choosing to be an accident.

My problems go back much further than the rape.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

[[1]] Holy crap! Kids today will have never heard a dial tone. Or a busy signal. Or a touch tone phone tone. Holy fuck I’m old. Hand me my walker or I’ll whup ya![1]]

Got the webcam working, kinda.

Needed some test footage, so I sang. Kinda.

---

Thoreau said, “mistrust” all enterprises that require new clothes  “.

These days, it’s more like like “mistrust all enterprises that require pants.”

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Mentally and physically sick

I’m sick because I’m crazy.
I’m crazy because I’m sick.

I’m sick because I’m crazy.
I’m crazy because I’m sick.

I’m sick because I’m crazy because I’m sick because I’m crazy because…

What I am saying is that it’s all mixed up.

It’s easy to see how I am sick because of my mental illness. My depression and avoidant personality syndrome are the main things keeping me from taking care of myself even close to as well as I should.

I take my pills and watch my diet and that’s about it. Right now I am not even monitoring my blood glucose levels because of my difficulty in making phone calls. I don’t exercise. I don’t elevate my legs to help the circulation. And so forth and so on.

And all because my mental illness makes it so that my butt might as well be magnetized to this shitty old computer chair of mine.

But it goes the other way too. My insanity may have roots in my physical illness as well. When your body is all fucked up, it messes with your mind as well.

Feeling weak leads to feeling scared. Being tired all the time leads to feeling depressed. Bad sleep leads to mental confusion and poor working memory. Chronic pain taxes mental coping resources.

And so on.

It’s all intertwined in a clusterfudge of fuckery and it’s very hard to pick apart. I’m to crazy to do what needs to be done to be less sick. And I am too sick to have the internal coping resources to pull myself together and tackle my mental health.

But there has to be a way. Some tiny loose thread in the system that I can use as a starting point to make the whole thing unravel.

And when I find it, I am going to work at it till I can make it out of this maze of mine. There is so much of me that is desperate to get out and see the world and finally express itself so I can grow as a person.

But there’s this big fat logjam in the way. A lump in my throat that is choking me to death. A seized engine that can only work against itself.

And at the center of it all, my flayed and frozen heart.

And at the center of THAT lies the terrible wound from being raped as a child. The wound that has dominated my entire life and left me weak and helpless and inert.

That fucker really did a number on me.

Bet he doesn’t even remember it.

I feel too helpless to do anything.

I feel guilty as hell for not doing anything.

And I am on a slow boat to Hell without a paddle.

More after the break,

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A modern moment

1. You order food
2. The doorbell rings
3. You go to the door to get it
4. At the last moment, you think, “Oh right…. pants. ”
5. You do NOT get arrested

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Caring enough to be strict with myself

This is bound to get tricky. But here goes.

The phrase in the title of this section popped into my head earlier and I jotted it down because I knew it could lead somewhere.

Essentially, it’s about being a lovingly strict parent to myself. Were I a child in my own care, I would be very firm about caring for myself and doing what needs to be done in order to stay healthy and active.

Mostly I would be a “fun” parent. Making silly jokes, letting the kids do what they want to do as long as it’s safe and won’t get me arrested, playing games with them, and in general keeping the kid(s) happy.

But when health and/or safety are on the line, Fun Time Fru disappears and you risk getting Scowling Minotaur Fru involved.

Asides aside, the problem with being my own strict parent is that I have no lived experience of strictness.

I lack self-discipline because I’ve never been disciplined. Nobody ever cared enough to make me do anything. My whole life, from my very first day of school, I have been left to make it on my own.

Or not. Whatever. Just as long as we don’t have to remember he exists.

So what self-discipline I have, I developed on my own by getting myself up in the morning, making my own breakfast, getting myself dressed, getting myself to school, getting myself through the school day, and getting myself home again.

All starting at the age of 6.

That’s a lot more self-discipline than most kids have at that age. But it was all anchored by the structure of school.

I didn’t have to create my own structure. So I never learned how.

And critically, I never learned to make myself work harder than absolutely necessary.

Then adult life comes along, and there’s no classes and no grades and still nobody looking to see how you’re doing or give you crap for neglecting yourself, and so the definition of how much effort is “absolutely necessary” becomes very slippery.

So you end up wasting your entire adult life fucking around online and playing video games because nobody is “making” you do anything else.

So why don’t I take better care of myself? Because nobody is making me do it. Because left to my own devices, I have very little self-discipline or self-respect.

Because deep down, I don’t consider myself worth the effort.

Not when it is so much easier to just keep drowning very slowly in the warm wet womb of my zero effort zero strain lifestyle.

I know there is ambition in me somewhere. Deep within the icy walls of my tomb is a ferocious spark of ambition, vision, and just plain old greed waiting to goad me into action and pull me forward.

But first, I need to take my foot off the brake.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Seriously. Someone out there, please tell me I’m enough.

Because despite all my magic power, despite all the talent and intellect and sweet personality and so on, despite all that I can do, I have always felt like somehow, I still was a radically inadequate and incomplete and insufficient being who came nowhere near to qualifying as a real person.

Instead, I have been plagued by massive shame just for being alive and hounded by feelings that I am a burden and a liability to everyone unfortunate enough to know me.

I’ve felt like a toxic nightmare of a person who everyone wishes would just go away.

This is clearly madness. People love me and love having me around. I’m a unique and amazing person, objectively speaking. People would be very sad and hurt if I wasn’t here any more.

I find my way into people’s hearts, ya know?

And yet this feeling of vast inadequacy remains.

I imagine this is a problem for a lot of disabled people. Not being able to work for a living leaves a massive hole in the soul that no amount of back patting and being told to just concentrate on getting better can fill.

And it’s far beyond the financial. If it was only about money, my disability cheque would fix it. Nor is it only about not being able to earn said money.

It goes right to the heart of all our social instincts. They say that when you become an adult, you take or find your role in the tribe and contribute to the collective.

Modern capitalism complicates this enormously. Having a job only feels like you are contributing to the collective in a very faint way.

I mean, we all know that having a job means paying taxes and taxes pay for roads. schools, and so on, but that still doesn’t feel like you are contributing.

Nevertheless, it’s what we have. And not being able to work leaves that social instinct unfulfilled, and that makes us feel like we must be bad people.

We’re failing the tribe! We’re not doing our job! Holding up our end! Surely that means that we are very bad people indeed!

Our social instincts don’t have a disability loophole.

And that is a big reason why I feel so inadequate. My social instincts are screaming for me to go get a job and support myself and pay taxes, and I just…. can’t.

And not because of an easily demonstrable debility either. If someone in a wheelchair or an iron lung can’t work, tht’s easy to understand.

Still hurts though, I bet.

This is also why places with high unemployment have serious social ills like alcoholism, domestic violence, and child abuse.

So many people unable to transition into adulthood, wracked by a pain they can’t even name let alone cope with.

That’s why I think gainful, meaningful employment should be considered a human right.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

More after the break.

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Let’s talk about Sasha

Gotta talk about this because it’s freaking hilarious.

I was making my usual perverted rounds on various Rule 34 sites looking for gay furry porn of all my favorite cartoons when I came across the tale of Sasha.

Sasha is a character in the latest version of Animal Crossing.

Here’s a picture of Sasha chatting with friends.

Now if you had to guess Sasha’s gender, would you say male or female?

Male, right? I mean, if you know literally anything about Eastern European culture, you know that Sasha is a boy’s name.

Yes, it ends in an A. And yes, it’s sort of soft sounding to an English speaker’s ears.

But it’s still a boy’s name, dag nabbit!

Even if you don’t know that, though, just look at him. That’s a boy’s jacket. That haircut is definitely male. Even his body language is male.

And this is where the hilarity begins, because until recently there was a rather large an vociferous cadre of male Animal Crossing fans who insisted that Sasha was female.

Why? Because Sasha is hotter than Texas fuck, that’s why.

Therefore, these straight make fans were attracted to our fluffy soft bunny friend, and therefore, being definitely totally straight males, the object of their erections MUST be female. QED with a boner.

Now I find that freaking hilarious. Oh, but it gets better.

Because the debate over Sasha’s gender got so intense and heated that the game company had to put out an official statement clarifying that Sasha is, indeed, a boy.

Of course, being a “family friendly”^[1] game, they couldn’t provide definitive proof of Sasha’s gender, despite the fact that the character is sans pants.

The internet was, of course, happy to step in to fill the gap.

Or maybe you’d prefer him doing the “ya-ta!” :

But my favorite view is this one :

So basically, you now have a bunch of straight male nerds feeling very weird about their boners because they had no idea boys came with bodies like that.

Really makes you wonder about this whole gender barrier thing, doesn’t it? I mean, if you have sex with a boy whose body is that feminine and don’t do anything you wouldn’t do with a chick, is it even really gay?

This stuff really brings out my wicked trickster side.

Come join the dick side of the force, men! You could be ignoring one penis away from the hot, built, sexy, horny, super feminine girlfriend of your dreams.

And would you really miss vaginas all that much? Be honest.

Yup. I just might be evil.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Another solid porn endorsement (enpornment? Nah. )!

It’s called The Big Freshman and it’s another glorious fantasy where our shy and submissive hero gets the big hunky jock of his dreams.

The dialogue is not as good as Alpha, but it’s still both touching and hot AF.

Makes me revisit previous thoughts about whether I could have a boyfriend who is a lot less intelligent than I am.

Which is probable. That describes most people. So it’s kind of important.

Previously, I have doubted that it could work. I could not imagine viewing someone like that as anything but a sort of pet.

Which might be just what they’re looking for. Ya never know.

But big ol’ Aaron there makes me realize that someone doesn’t have to match my intellect in order to be compatible.

He seems like a genuinely good person, with a big heart, and with that massive powerful body and aura of strength and courage, he could go a long way towards making me feel safe and grounded and protected.

So what if we can’t talk Nietzsche? We could still cuddle. Talk about each other’s days. Watch movies and TV. Fuck like bonobos on Viagra. Share our lives together.

So yeah. I could see it working, Intellectual communion isn’t everything.

I’d still sort of think of him as a pet, though.

But one I love more than life itself.

---

It was him again!

That hot male nurse who looked like a butcher and went about his job like a master carpenter! He was my nurse for wound care today!

Turns out his name is Dwayne^[1], and he was still wearing a white plastic apron instead of a nurse’s uniform.

Sadly, because I am down to just the callous on my foot that needs tending, and because the wound care specialist nurse was there, our interactions were nowhere near as close and intimate and lengthy as the previous time.

Actually, that’s probably for the best. I probably would have sprouted more wood than the forest primeval.

Dwayne : Sir. I can’t help but notice your erection.
Me : Thanks! It’s really quite impressive, isn’t it?
Dwayne : Would you care to explain yourself?
Me : Clearly, it likes you.

Might have been the start of something beautiful.

Or the start of a lawsuit, sigh.

The session with the specialist was fruitful. She debrided a bunch more of the callous off. I found the whole experience rather soothing, despite the fact that she was scraping away at my foot with a little metal scraper.

Well that’s the thing about callouses. They’re dead.

She (Nurse Vivian) said that she called one place to see about getting a special insert for my shoes to rebalance things away from the callous.

But they wanted 500 bucks. Oy.

So she is going to try making one for me herself. Apparently she has the training, she just hasn’t used it much.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I walk so little that it barely matters.

More after the break.

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The Second Chapter

Turns out there’s a second chapter to the tale of Aaron the big buff zebra and Jesse the oh so pretty stag.

It’s call False Spring. Unsurprisingly, it’s when things get heavy.

I won’t go into the deep complexities of their relationship or why and how they should get together other than to say that I identify a lot with Jesse’s willingness to sacrifice his own needs in order to make other people happy.

It’s more complicated than that makes it sound because sacrificing to help others also makes me happy, but that’s the gist of it.

It’s a tendency I have noticed in myself and truth be told, it goes a lot way towards explaining why I have treated like my needs don’t matter in my life, so I have been trying to make sure I don’t go too far and end up resenting people for treating me the exact way I was practically begging to be treated.

You teach people how to treat you, knowingly or not.

But what I really wanted to get into is another question : could I be in a relationship with a deeply closeted man?

The answer is : probably not. But maybe.

I say “maybe” because I can imagine being more or less okay with being someone’s “best friend” and “roommate” that most people figure is something more but it is neither confirmed or denied.

I can live without public displays of affection. Or erection.

But emotionally, that would be dancing on a knife’s edge because if at any point my man had to distance himself from me, disavow me, publicly reject me, or otherwise sever the tie between us, I would be crushed.

Even if I know he doesn’t mean it.

Of course, the point is moot because there’s no way I am ever going to go back into the closet. There is way too much evidence to the contrary out there, even if I was inclined to closet myself, which I am NOT.

I don’t lie about myself. I am out, loud n’ proud, and I ain’t ever going back. I might be willing to be somewhat evasive about it for the right guy, but I doubt I would fool anyone.

I’m not obviously fey, though I aspire to be. But I don’t currently immediately set of people’s gaydar. I am still somewhat stealthed.

But people can figure it out from how I express myself if they care to look.

And given that one way or another people would know I was a big hairy homo, they would not have trouble figuring out that if my man’s “constant companion” is gay, odds are so is he.

And I refuse to be someone’s “dirty little secret”. Their “side piece”.I have too much pride to put up with that bullshit, even if they are amazing in bed.

I am just not closet compatible.

I guess I can live with that.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

[[1[[ And I had forgotten his name so when I heard it I was like, duh, of course it’s Dwayne! This dude is such a Dwayne! [[1]]

Well, the (probably) good news is that I haven’t gone to the ER.

My symptoms have improved enough that I no longer feel the trip is justified. I am going to continue watching the situation like the proverbial hawk because I still have that heavy scratchy feeling in my chest and my breathing is still a little impaired, but the deep malaise has lifted and I don’t feel like room temperature death any more.

As before, if things get worse, I am going to head for the ER pronto.

But for now, I will just wait and see and get plenty of Vitamin C.

I wish I could know my blood oxygen saturation percentage right now, though. That would be a clear indicator of whether my pulmonary systems are working or not.

Unfortunately, the blood ox monitor (the kind that goes on your finger) that I bought off eBay turned out to have nothing on the inside. No electronics, just the case.

And after I paid almost five dollars for it!

Oh well. I guess I will just keep watching myself for signs of wheezing.

I don’t remember what exactly convinced me to go to the ER that one time that it really WAS pneumonia. All I remember was that it was around time to start getting ready for dinner on a Friday night and I had a sudden moment of razor’s edge clarity where I went over all my symptom in my mind and came to the conclusion that this was NOT normal and it was time to go to the ER.

So I guess I should be on the lookout for sudden moments of illumination too.

---

The (definitely) bad news is that I have been feeling pretty depressed today.

Nothing major or new, just the usual blahs at a higher level than usual. Feelings of despair and isolation. Conscious thoughts of hopelessness, asking myself why I do anything, accompanied by a strong urge to stay in bed.

No suicidal anything, though. I know this shit will pass. It’s just the usual neurochemical bullshit. Idiot fluctuations in my brain, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

I will pretty much just ignore it till it goes away. Maybe use it as a gateway to my deeper damage and write something therapeutic later on today.

I definitely feel like something is moving and changing inside me. I have had a few extraordinary moments when it really felt like something was waking up with a yawn and a stretch in my mind.

And I even had a period this morning when I felt kinda good. Perky, even. Like life was fun and I couldn’t get enough of it.

If my current case of the blues is the price I pay for that happy time. I am good with that.

I’m quite used to these doldrums. I can wade through their thick and heavy waters all day if I need to. Seems like a small price to pay for being something like happy for a few hours in a day.

Being manic depressive seems a lot better than being just depressive right now.

At least you’re happy some of the time!

More after the break.

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Just got back from my mechanic. Went in there for a rim job and figured I might as well get him to look at the car while I’m there.

---

A quick porn recommendation : Alpha by James Howard. 

The awkward interactions as they ease into gay sex are adorable, realistic, and pretty hot. And I am very jealous of our kitty for getting a hunky jock who is not stupid, insensitive, or a raving right winger as a boyfriend.

I want one, dammit!

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Logic isn’t everything

Neither is being “right”.

And life is so much more than what makes sense.

And objective reality ain’t what it used to be.

---

Let’s have another go at escaping the logic trap.

I’ve been wondering what is behind my burning desire for the truth.

I think it’s a matter of mastering my world. If I can figure it out, I can use it, or at least anticipate it, and that makes me feel like I have power and control over my life.

And I have gotten pretty damned good at it. I have focused my megawatt mind into a precision laser that passes through all the bullshit and delusions and intellectual traps to penetrate straight to the heart of things as they really are.

Fat fucking good it’s done me.

Instead of making me some kind of master of the universe. all it’s done is alienate me. Being a visionary is a rough gig. The truth of Plato’s Cave is that when the philosopher comes back into the cave after “seeing things as they really are”, nobody hails them as a great thinker.

They get shunned for saying things that upset people. For being “weird”.

And the thing is, when you are as “bright” as I am, you shine so bright that it is hard to see anything outside your own high-beams.

So you think you know everything.

But all you know is facts.

And facts can only ever represent information and humanity cannot live by information alone. Real knowledge helps one live. It makes it easier to cope with reality. It contains the code required to generate happiness.

And internalizing the rules and restrictions of logical reality smothers that code. A healthy human mind is firmly connected with but not necessarily bound by that oh so important code. That way, it can correct its own imbalances without having to justify it or give it a name or anything.

Skip the goddamned committee and just get it the fuck DONE.

And yet, knowing all this, I still find myself driving in circles on the Logic Highway looking for an off-ramp.

And that’s still wrong. I’m still looking for a logical way out. Something that makes sense, something connected to where I am.

And I’m not going to find it. Logic is the problem, not the solution.

The bitter but liberating truth is that escape will require a leap of faith.

And faith is an alien concept to me. I have no known experience of it.

After all, who needs faith when you have X-ray eyes, right? What others take on faith you actually figure out instead. You pity their feeblemindedness.

Yeah but they’re happy and healthy and you’re fucked in the head.

So who’s the stupid one here?

The problem bites its own tail because to learn faith takes a leap of faith. It takes going beyond the logical and sensible and learning to cope with reality in a broader, richer, and above all more human way than mere logic will allow.

I know what needs to be done. I’ve got to take a flying leap off that high board without even knowing if there’s a pool down below. I have to learn to fly without wings. I have to develop the senses other than that bright bright laser beam of my mind.

The prospect scares the crap out of me.

But it’s the only way out.

So… 1 2 3…LEAP!

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

So I’m sick. Something viral, I think.

My energy level is through the floor. Been sleeping all day, which is proper for a sickie.

My breathing is somewhat labored. Not enough to be too worried about yet but you can be damned sure I am keeping an eye on it.

Don’t want to end up in the hospital on oxygen for ten days with pneumonia again because I ignored the warning signs until it was almost too late.

Chest also has that familiar heavy, scratchy, sore feeling. Very not good, especially with the trouble breathing.

Plus my nose keeps running. That’s always a tricky one to diagnose because it could just be my usual annoying sinus and/or hayfever type issues.

But if it keeps going well past taking my combination antihistamine and sinus pill, that usually means that something is very much up.

God damn it, I haven’t even made it to 200 words yet and I am already exhausted and in need of another nap.

Well I am at least going to make it to 250 words before I fade away again.

God damn this sucks.

Oh, and of course I am also dizzy and disoriented. Par for the course for damned near anything with me sadly. I feel very much at sea right now.

Only without the fresh sea air and the soothing rocking of the waves.

Damn I miss the ocean.

Time for me to slip back beneath the waves, I guess. Pull the blanket of ocean over this shipwreck of a body and sleep like a Deep One for another eon or two,.

Wake me at the breaking of the dawn.

---

Time for another shift at the word mine.

Slept some. Woke up feeling even more dizzy and disoriented than before.

And now nausea and headache have joined our fun little fucking party.

And I know that once I manage to get to 500 words, I’m going to have to sleep again.

And that’s a big problem because it’s already 7 pm and at some point in the next 5 hours I have to both eat supper and write the other 500 freaking words.

Plus negotiate with the aliens who are stealing my brain.

I’m not too worried about the writing. I can probably push myself into finishing the other 500 words after yet another nap.

Things might get a tad freeform steam of consciousness but I can make the words come out if I absolutely must. \

But the eating should happen at around 8 pm and I am pretty sure that I will be out like a light by then, and God know when I will wake up after that.

So I might have to skip supper entirely. Not a smart move but I have no choice.

i wish I could just shake this lethargy with a cold drink and a cold splash of water on my fevered brow, but this kind of thing is as inevitable as the tides.

There I go the water imagery again.

Guess that means it’s time for me to go under again.

More after the break.

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Made it to shore

Feeling like I finally washed ashore after all that water imagery.

In other words I am feeling somewhat better. I don’t feel quite as tired and drained, and I can think a lot more clearly.

Unfortunately that means I can feel my other symptoms more clearly too. And this heavy weight in my lungs that is making it hard to breathe is really worrying me.

So much so that I think a trip to the ever-loving ER might be in my future. Sigh.

I keep turning it over and over again in my mind to try to find a way out of it, but but there isn’t one. This feeling in my chest and the trouble breathing accompanying it are just not normal and not good and so I am probably going to have to go get checked out.

And I don’t wanna go! Waaaaaah!

The ER sucks. It’s slow and boring and depressing and a strain on my resistance to my social anxiety and I would really rather avoid it entirely.

But this could be pneumonia.

Or worse, it could be Covid. Not a nice thought but one I can’t dismiss out of hand merely because it’s too scary to think about.

Admittedly, I am sort of curious as to what exactly happens if you test positive for Covid in the ER. Are you Med-Evac’d to some modern day leper colony where you are fed via airdrop and treated via remotely controlled robot arm? Does an alarm sound and walls slam down and a spooky filtered creepy-calm voice tell me to remain where I am and that there is nothing to be afraid of?

Does it set of a musical number? Singing doctors and nurses? I wanna know!

Of course, let it be said unto the universe, I don’t want to know anywhere near bad enough to want to get the Covid.

Besides, it would be totally unfair for a recluse like me to get it. One who is both fully vaccinated and who wears his mask in public.

Joking aside, there is still pneumonia to worry about. I am going to talk with Joe and Julian about it when we get together to watch Colbert et al soon and probably end up arranging for Julian to drop me off at the ER some time tomorrow.

That will get me there soon but also give me time to mentally prepare for it.

Obviously, if my symptoms get a lot worse all of a sudden, I will just call a cab and get my poor sickly self there ASAP.

But for now, my plan is to go whenever is good for Julian tomorrow.

Oh, and let it be said that my social anxiety is putting up its usual fuss about “What if we go and it turns out nothing is wrong? We’ll be so EMBARRASSED!!!!!”

Better embarrassed than dead. Or full of tubes and barely clinging to life and screaming in my head because my fear of smothering is going full tilt berserk,

l shall return with a report after the fact. Hopefully this means that…

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I’ve been reading a lot of high quality gay furry pornography lately.

It comes to me via a site with the ungainly name Yiffer.xyz, which has a pretty big collection of furry porn (or doujinshi manga, if you insist.)

And as I comb through their archives of fuzzy gay smut, I have come to realize that the better comics do more than enhance my masturbation.

Though that is appreciated, of course. One handed applause all round.

But moreover it is good for my soul. I realize now that there is a very large shard of internalized homophobia in me that, despite all my vamping and sex-positive proselytizing and being a flamboyant fox and all, still freaks out at the idea of two men having sex and sets off a big WRONG signal in this confabulating cranium of mine.

This will not do.

No need to guess at why, seeing as I was introduced to the world of male on male sexuality by being raped when I was four or five years old.

So I think what the porn does is present examples of a world that includes gay sex in a positive, accepting, and enthusiastic light, preferably in the context of a positive and healthy interpersonal relationship of some kind.

That soothes that deep pain and quite honestly makes me feel better about the world and life and my possible sexual and romantic future.

All that and masturbation too? Hell yeah!

Here’s a few of my faves off Yiffer.

Hit the Road 1 and Hit the Road 2. (Warning, things get super serious at the end of 2.)

There’s just something about how these two bunnies ^[1] interact that makes me super happy. It’s just so playful and fun and loving. It makes the whole world they live in seem like it’s chock full of sunshine and curiosity and sex.

And that’s the world I want to live in, dammit!

Then there’s Cheer!

Not a lot of plot but it still has that positive, cute, loving sexuality that eases my pain.

Plus our happy little cheerleader is so darn cute!

And then there’s Cross Busted and its sequel Boss and Mio.

Cross Busted is very hot. I feel like the two of them represent two sides of my own personality. The big brash brawny bull, and the delicate soft femme.

But it’s Boss and Mio I want to talk about, first because of these lines :

Mio : Hmph! I see, so you choose to think of me as a girl? You sure made a comfy closet for yourself!

(skip ahead a bit)

Boss (smiling) : Bottom line Mio… I don’t care. I fuck pretty. You’re pretty. I wanna fuck ya. Its that simple.

What a refreshingly straightforward perspective. I wish everyone thought like that.

And finally, there’s the ending, and how badly I want to murder Mio’s mother.

How dare you hurt the cute soft femme-y fuzzy boy with the deep sensitive eyes and delectable butt, you horrid evil BITCH.

I am so glad Boss found a way to free Mio from her clutches.

If this was happening in the real world. she would get a piece of my mind so big she’ start to orbit it.

More after the break, ;

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I heart this so hard it hurts.

a pumpkin man sits inside a pumpkin house.

is the house made of flesh? or is he made of house?

he screams, for he does not know pic.twitter.com/kxIiYvBEY6

— Sarah McGonagall (@gothspiderbitch) October 30, 2021

This is so exactly my sense of humour, known in layman’s terms as “sick”.

Pumpkin Man : WHAT AM I? *throws something into a mirror, shattering it*

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Every once in a while, I come across something that proves the Japanese are just plain better than us.

Usually it’s some aspect of their culture and technology that is vastly more civilized than what us grubby savages are enduring.

But then there are things like Mundane Halloween.

#mundaneHalloween was started in Japan by people who instead of the flashy costumes, dress up in mundane, everyday costumes. The costumes that you have to explain to people and then they say, ooooh I get it.#halloweenCostume
Banksy, remote-controlling his shredder at the auction pic.twitter.com/FCduU4YsGH

— Ali Kamran (@alikamran) October 28, 2021

Basically, instead of the usual monsters and celebrities and sexy animals, these Japanese people dress up as everyday, recognizable things.

Here’s some of my faves from the tweet.

I would love that gig if I could pull it off.

And finally, these guys, who totally win the internet for this one :

Dear Japan : We’re not worthy!

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About Nana Remo

AKA NaNoWriMo, or as its mom calls it, National Novel Writing Month.

The month in question is November and as always, the idea is to write a novel of 50,000 words in 30 days.

That’s 1,667 words a day. And I am like, Pffft. I write 1,000 words a day for fun. 1,667 is nothing to me.

That’s why in years gone past when I participated, I bumped it up to 60,000 words just to make the math easier.

2K a day? No sweat.

Now I haven’t participated in three or four years because I kept forgetting all about it until we were too late into November for it to be worth starting.

Well clearly I don’t have that excuse this year. It’s Halloween Night. November 1st is a little over an hour and three quarters from now. I am fully aware that if I am going to do it this year, tomorrow is the day to start.

But am I going to do it? That’s the million word question.

I feel like I should. It’s a great way to stretch my talents and knowing that thousands of others are facing the same challenge at the same time definitely helps.

But I also don’t feel like it.

And yet, I also kind of do.

I have a concept. Can’t go into it too much but it involves someone determined to destroy the world and the band of heroes trying to stop them.

So ya know. Innovation galore.

So maybe I will do it. If so, I have to then decide if it will take over this blog for the month or if I will do both.

Doing both might seem crazy. 3K/day? Seriously?

But no matter how deep into the novel I get, there will still be things I feel the need to express and discuss in my usual way that won’t fit into the novel.

So I dunno,

Guess I will sleep on it and decide on the 1st.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.