I just checked and god damn it, this is gonna be another five week month.

And there’s only been one “normal” month since the last one!

I sm so fucking sick of this shit. Now I am kicking myself for spending that last $100 on Amazon orders when it could have (at least partially) covered the extra week.

But no, now I have to re-budget and figure out exactly what I will have to do without in order to make it through the month.

And just when I was finally starting to relax and enjoy life after the previous financial rape via calendar.

Wouldn’t that just frost ya.

I am sure I will figure something out. I am a highly intelligent, resourceful, and adaptable, so I am sure I will make do just fine.

But I should not have to put up with this bullshit. The only sensible thing would be if the province increased the non-shelter portion of our payments by 25 percent when the time between payments increases by 25 percent.

I mean, this ain’t rocket science, folks. More time should mean more money.

But I guess nobody gives a crap about us disabled people if there’s no media around. They can screw us over however they like and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it because we’re just a bunch of cripples.

So of course they don’t care that the people under their purview randomly have to live for five weeks on what usually only covers four.

It makes the accounting easier for them, and they’re the only ones who count. We should be grateful that we get anything at all.

But you have heard all this from me before. And honestly, you will probably hear it all again the next time this shit happens.

It stresses me out and all that stress has to go somewhere.

Me, I use my words.

Otherwise, today’s been OK. Started off bad when both Julian and I completely spaced on the fact that we had Wound Care this morning at 8:45 am and overslept.

I woke up at like 9:20 am, he woke up not long after.

I got him to call to apologize on our behalf, and surprise, they had an opening at 4 pm.

Bitchin’. It’s a plan, man.

We had to arrive a bit early because apparently at that Vancouver Coastal Health facility they lock the doors at 4 pm on weekends.

I’m sure that makes sense to someone.

Anyhoo, we showed up, my nurse (Nicole) let us in, and the usual stuff happened, But in addition to that, we talked about my applying for Assisted Living, which Julian had been kind enough to initiate.

And this was a conversation he wanted to be part of, so he ended up joining us.

So now Julian knows the secrets… of WOUND CARE! Mua ha etc.

Anyhow, my takeaway from that conversation was that I actually do pretty good on my own. I don’t need help with anything but showering, and that is something I was totally going to take care of back when I still thought I had spare money.

I can get a shower chair for like $60-$100. Not this month, though. Sigh.

The only other major life area I can’t do myself is laundry. I need Julian for that. In an emergency, I might be able to find a way to somehow haul my laundry to and from the machines despite needing to use a walker.

I picture a laundry basked perched on the classic Little Red Wagon.

But I do my own cooking (sorta) and I get dressed and undressed on my own just fine and I manage to make it through the month without setting myself on fire more often than not, so I guess I do OK as long as Julian is around.

Which brings up a very awkward point : a lot of what Assisted Living would do for me is currently being done by Julian, so their role would mostly be to replace him.

And that feels all kinds of wrong.

For one thing, I don’t think he hates doing what he does for me. For another thing, it would absolutely kill me if he thought he’d been replaced because he was not good enough or didn’t do the job well enough.

You do a fantastic job helping me out, dear. I could not ask for better help, because not only do you do a wonderful job, you do so in a patient, attentive, conscientious way that never fails to make me feel comfortable and secure.

So yeah. I don’t think we really need Assisted Living for much.

We will see how it all pans out.

More after the break.

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Am I a romantic?

Yes and no.

I’m very sentimental. And if I am in love with someone, they are going to know it because I am quite effusive. I will shower them with affection and romantic words and cuddles and hugs and so on.

God, could I use a good so on.

And I would be almost as affectionate in public, if they don’t mind. I really do want the world to know how much I love this wonderful, amazing, incredible person.

But no matter how affectionate I get, I will never be able to forget the practical details. I am, for better and for worse, fundamentally pragmatic, and I will not be able to relax and be a lovey dovey hug machine until I am sure all the practical details have been taken care of and everything is going to be OK.

The best I could do in terms of…. let’s call it romantic abandon is to fake it by making pragmatic adjustments to my plans on the fly without telling my lover.

Like, “Oh OK, now we’re in a pedicab going God knows where, that means I will have to dip into my supply of local currency to pay the guy, and probably when we get to wherever we’re going as well, and this means the trip to the museum is on hold for now, and that means…. ”

And this could be going on in my head while I am being all passionate and “wild”.

If I could not do that, I might have to bring the whole thing to a screeching halt because if I don’t have things nailed down in my head, however flexibly, I am going to be overwhelmed by cosmic anxiety as my worry-wort nature screams at me that if I don’ know what will happen DOOM MUST ENSUE.

So am I romantic? Sure.

But only once we’ve nailed down our itinerary.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

It’s occurred to me today that I’ve always had this tendency to sort of “fade away” when I am doing anything involving difficulty or effort.

It’s like I can’t even commit to doing things and so before I even actually try to do it, I am halfway out the door already.

This negatively impacts performance.

In other words, it’s why I often do terribly at even the simplest of things. If it’s something even slightly outside my areas of confidence (intellectual, creative, wacky, etc) then when I try to do it, the anxiety immediately kicks in and makes me want to give up and flee and that means I am too scared to really try doing the thing and so I fail.

And when I fail, the sick part of me says, “Phew, thank God that’s over! I feel so much better now! What a relief!”.

So on a primitive level, this goes down in the books not as a failure but as narrowly escaping mortal danger, and I actually feel kind of good about it.

But then reality sets in and I realize that my inability to do even basic things has once more left me embarrassed and humiliated and now I hate myself.

I hate myself SO DAMNED MUCH.

This is why it is far better to stay in the game and get hurt. Life will treat you far more kindly if you are genuinely trying your hardest, even if you fail.

Besides, pain is transitory. It happens then it’s over. It’s not fun but it’s nothing worth fucking up your whole life to avoid.

Adulthood begins when you can choose to do something you know is going to suck because you think the rewards are worth it.

That is more or less how having a job works. Or so I have heard.

So how do I stop this fading away effect? Through getting hurt, I imagine. The more hits you take, the more your deeper mind gets the message that pain is not the worst thing in the world and you will get to know the triumph of knowing what it will cost you and doing the damned thing anyway.

This will be extremely liberating. The tougher and stronger you get, the less scary and dangerous your world becomes. Things that were unthinkable nightmares before will become laughably trivial because you finally have the (real and metaphorical) callouses to endure them with almost no pain at all.

But that means resisting the urge to flee reality when you think something painful is coming. And that is not going to be easy, especially at first.

I know that my instincts are all wrong. Escape is my greatest addiction, the one that underwrites all the others, and fighting that urge is going to be tough.

Kind of makes me want to run and hide, ha ha.

But somewhere in the vast expanse of my wimpiness and cowardice there must be a flaw. A subtle fault in the fabric of it all that I can exploit to create a teeny tiny breach for my latent strength and courage to surge through.

I think the secret is to get mad and stay mad, which is not something I am used to either. But I think that if I can conceive of my struggle for manliness as a way to defy and/or spite something or someone, that would help me stay determined.

I need to tap into all that latent anger more often period. I suppose that means I will have to be willing to become an angrier person, at least for a while, as I do my best ot learn the integrate this new power into my personality.

World domination through bitterness!

More after the break.

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Don’t Google Mommy

This is quite witty and fun.

I can relate, although compared to Millennials and beyond, my little trove of perverted things stupidly attached to my real name is quite small.

That’s the benefit of being an Internet pioneer, not a native.

Like, who gives a fuck what anyone posted to UseNet?

---

A busy day

By my standards, anyhow.

It started at 11 am. That was the time Julian was originally going to drive me to the bank to do my monthly banking.

It still pisses me off that I can’t find a way to spend my money online and have it come directly out of my bank account.

I think in order to get that, I would have to switch banks. VanCity is way behind the times when it comes to this kind of thing.

So, consider my gumption trapped because changing banks is a HUGE hassle.

Anyhow, 11 am comes around, and Julian and I realize that we forgot to wash any clothes for me, so we had to wait on the washing machien et al. and I had therapy between 1 pm and 2 pm, so the trip to the bank had to wait until after that.

Oh well, whatever. I don’t mind change, it’s uncertainty I can’t stand. A switch from 11 am to 2 pm means going from certainty to certainty.

But going from 11 am to “whenever” would be completely unacceptable.

Anyhows, we did the bank run a little after 2. It went quite well. VanCity might he behind the times but I must say they are always super nice and accommodating to me.

People really are extra nice to you if you have a disability. At some point that will stop surprising me, but until then, it’s really quite nice.

I don’t know why I always expect the world to be cruel and callous to me. I guess it’s because that’s what my childhood was like.

Not even my teacher could stand me for very long.

Anyhoo, after the bank we came home and I ordered my groceries. It came to the usual ~$65, and I re-upped on all my little pleasures.

By the time I did that. it was time to eat n’ blog, and after THAT I had to wait for my groceries to arrive between 6 pm and 7 pm, and then it was time to teledine with Joe. Julian, and Felicity at 8 pm, and then it was time to finish blogging.

So really, it’s been a madcap merry-go-round of activity today.

And I feel fine.

I am happiest when I am busy.

So I need to learn to keep myself busy.

And I have a whole lot of anti-action bias to overcome before that.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Not only is this a great song from an amazing musical (Little Shop Of Horrors, the Ric Moranis version), but it opened my mind in a truly enlightening way.

It taught me that the boring standard middle class life I had always taken for granted growing up was somebody’s dream life.

And I did not have to look far for those somebodies. We were surrounded on all sides by working class families where if they were lucky, one member of the household actually had a job.

Being part of a primary resource economy really sucks, folks. It’s like being a writer : the people primarily responsible for bringing the thing into existence get treated the worst.

Anyhow, my family was not even slightly interested in the usual middle class “keeping up with the Joneses” social snobbery and competition bullshit. We’re all natural egalitarians. It’s how we were raised.

But we still had nicer stuff than our neighbors. And intentions and attitudes aside, I Am sure there were ways my siblings and I unconsciously expressed our economic status simply in the things we took for granted.

There have to have been times when we were looked upon with envy, if nor jealousy. Maybe even a little resentment,

And I was totally oblivious to this whole scene until that song, Somewhere That’s Green showed me that I was, in fact, rich, and always had been.

And yet. compared to the rich people in the one rich neighborhood in town, I was poor. And you could tell I was poor because all the other kids from the advanced classes I took in High School dressed way better than I ever could and showed up to school in nicer cars than my family could ever afford.

Added to the first observation, you can see how I came to realize that we are all rich and we are all poor. No matter how bad you think your life here in the golden paradise that is life in a WEIRD^[1] nation, there are around two billion people in the world to whom your life seems like living in Heaven.

And no matter how good you think you’re doing, the One Percent sees you as being absolutely no different than the dirtiest drunk on Skid Row.

We’re all lowly scum in their eyes.

And to me, this leads naturally to a egalitarian humanist view of the world. I can’t deny compassion to someone simply because they are richer than me because I certainly wouldn’t want to be denied compassion by those who are poorer than me.

And I can’t look down on people poorer me unless I am perfectly fine with those richer than me looking down on me.

Pain is pain. Suffering is suffering. We all bleed the same color. All the things that truly matter – family, friends, relationships, community – are the same no matter what your circumstances are, and once you learn and accept this, your heart can open up to everybody because now you truly understand that we are all in this together and none of the silly ways in which we divide ourselves from one another really matter when compared to the challenges we face just trying to get through life together.

Like I always say, we’re all just drunken monkeys stumbling through the dark trying to find the door into happiness. Nobody really knows what they are doing or what the hell is going on, and the people who seem like they have it all figured out are people who have only thing figured out and that’s how to fake it really convincingly.

One of the ironies of the modern age is that the people who seem to be living the best possible lives on Instagram are actually the ones with no life at all because everything they do is calculated to impress people on Instagram.

The people who put on the best show are always the one with the most to hide.

More after the break.

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Everything is stupid and nothing matters

Gonna stick that on a T-shirt one of these days. Who knows, it might catch on with today’s angsty, neurotic, freaking out all the time Gen Z kids.

I found out why they are like that. One fact made it all make sense to me : they came of age AFTER 9/11. So of course they don’t see the world as a safe or happy place.

Plus, you know, the planet’s on fire, we’re losing democracies, and all over the world, the lunatics are taking over.

But it’s probably just the 9/11 thing.

One bit of sort of good news : some of them seem to be at least dimly aware that they were raised by us, Gen X, and not the Boomers or the Millennials.

I’ve given up on the Millennials. As far as they’re concerned, they were somehow raised by the Boomers just like we were.

Not sure how that is possible. Pretty sure you can’t have two generations in a row raised by the same generation. That’s demographically impossible.

Still, it’s probably at least partly our fault, or rather, the fault of our collective “fuck off and leave me alone” attitude.

I mean, we never had our Boomer parents’ full attention anyhow, and when they did suddenly remember they’d had kids at some point they often only made things worse by trying to then speed-run parenting with “quality time” so we learned to just tell them whatever they wanted to hear so we could go back to being sullen.

It took up a lot of our time. That, and Nintendo.

So no wonder history forgets us so easily. We’re reclusive and passively hostile. We actively encouraged the world to forget about us when we were younger.

And it’s not like our parents were going to remember us.

Damn it, I meant to talk about Gen Z and got sidetracked bitching about the Boomers.

Even when they’re not in the room, they somehow make it all about them!

Well what I really wanted to say is that I feel like we, as a generation, fail the Gen Z’s in some deep and terrible way.

One theory is that we unconsciously assumed that they would be as stoic about their cynicism as we are and thus we passed that cynicism on down to them.

But they’re not like us. Their cynicism is far more panicky and desperate and eager for any fucking shred of hope and meaning they can find, which is why they tend to fall prey to ingroup identities in a way we never would.

Just imagine you’re a Gen Z kid who desperately needs someone to give them a pep talk and reassure them that everything is going to be all right and they go to their Gen X parent for it and instead of that get, “Yup. Everything and everyone sucks. Might as well get used to it.”

Oh well. At least they know we’ll always be there for them.

I just wish we had a little more sunshine to share with them,

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Well, it’s deposit day, even though we’re in the middle of July, and so it’s time for me to spend what’s left on my Joker card.

And this month, I have about $100 left, so it’s going to take some thought.

I know I’m going to order in tonight, so that’s $30-$40 already earmarked. The rest I will probably spend on Amazon.ca on this n’ that.

I will, of course, get some of my beloved Village Mix from YuPik. That’s a very tummy trail mix that has those little sesame sticks in it, and for some reason, those tasty little things help me sleep.

Got no theory on that. Must be supplying me with some kind of trace nutrient I am lacking and thus easing my biological stress.

Whoa, actually, I have a better idea. To heck with the trail mix for now, I am going to get myxself a nice new clean cool blanket for my bed.

Amazon has a fine assortment of these new “cooling” blankets and I’m a-gonna get me one. My old comforter is a hazmat zone due to many years of it absorbing sweat – and worse, especially lately – so to heck with getting it cleaned, I’m buying new.

I might have to run it through the washer first, though, ironically, as for whatever reason brand new textile products have a tendency to activate the latent eczema in my hands and make the skin on my hands all red and itchy and tight.

Done! I have now ordered myself a new cooling blanket AND new cooling sheets!

The sheets boast that they have “deep pockets” and for the life of me I can’t figure out what that possibly means.

Pretty sure it doesn’t mean they have great personal wealth.

Or that they literally have big deep pockets sewn into them. I mean, what would the point of those be? Extra storage for people who hate bedside tables?

Guess I will find out.

Now the items in question are very reasonably priced, so it’s possible that they are not of the highest quality.

That’s fine. They don’t have to be. They just have to be nice enough for me to be able to sleep betwixt them.

I am quite curious about this supposedly “sweat free” property of their. I have been a “hot sleeper” ever since roughly the middle of puberty and it would be very nice if modern technology has come up with some way to help with that.

Just wicking the sweat away would help a lot, although presumably that would also mean they need to be laundered more often.

I will see how things end up working out, but ideally I would like to have my bedding washed once a week, on Sunday perhaps.

That would go a long way towards a cleaner, happier, healthier Fru.

The sheets will arrive tomorrow. The blanket will arrive Sunday.

So it goes. When you order from Amazon, you never know where your product will actually be coming from, so you have to be ready for odd delays.

Still, it’s pretty amazing that I am going to be getting a new blanket AND sheets for around $60. The sheets are not exactly King sized, so they won’t fit my entire bed, but I don’t give a shit.

They just have to be big enough to stay between me and the mattress cover.

The blanket, on the other hand, kind of has to cover me. But I have no idea what square footage of blanket that requires and the blankets on Amazon are sold entirely by their measurements so I had to take my best guess.

Oh well, Worst case scenario, I end up having to return them.

More after the break.

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Proud of myself

I’m proud of myself for actually remembering that I had something important, practical, and long term to spend my extra money on.

And not just remembering, but actually doing it! Amazing.

And as a result, I will be able to slip into lovely clean and cool sheets and a blanket to sleep in, and that’s a good thing.

I just wish I could be just as clean and cool myself.

All I can do is use my bed bath wipes to give myself a thorough wipe-down. But man do I miss being able to take a shower. I really, really need a nice hot shower to open up and clean out my poor pores and really get my body ready to handle the summer.

Clogged pores do not a happy Fruvous make.

Mood-wise, I keep having those moments of feeling utterly alone and isolated. Usually they pass almost right away, but I am starting to wonder if they should.

Maybe I would be better off if I just slowed one of those moments down and spent some time with it instead of immediately diving back into my distractions with a vengeance in order to escape them.

Maybe escape ain’t all its cracked up to be.

Maybe there’s a lot to be said for staying in the game and getting hurt. Maybe that is the only way to actually get tougher and stronger and thus make your world a much less scary and difficult and painful place because now you have a healthy resistance to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

This is the sort of lesson that the gym teacher types have been trying to teach us pasty white nerds all these years but they were too inarticulate to explain it.

And we nerds need explanations.

Without them, things make no sense to us, and we need things to make sense. We do not trust “gut feelings” and the like.

Which is a shame, because it means we do not have direct access to a whole powerful suite of built in instinctual software that less “smart” types use all the time.

They haven’t any choice. Our kind of thinking and understanding the world is not accessible to them. They just don’t have the hardware for it.

And that means it is up to us to teach them what they need to know in ways that they can understand and handle.

And nothing less than that will do.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow/

Still feeling lonely and isolated, although having gotten out into the sunshine and fresh air to go to Wound Care today has helped me to feel a bit more human.

Gee, imagine how much good it would do me to actually spend an hour or two in the fresh air and sunshine instead of just getting little whiffs of it as I get out of or get into the car. I might actually feel good for a change.

I will think about it. There is a forest of phobias in between me and that seemingly simple idea, and I will have to find my way through said forest before I can summon up the will and the courage to actually try to do it.

And I know that’s insane. So am I. It fits.

And of course, it’s not really about the fear. It’s about the pain that underlies the fear. It’s the pain that the fear is trying to protect me from in its heavy-handed way.

It’s that pain from being raped as a toddler that lies at the center of all of my problems and it’s that pain that I don’t know what to do about.

Or rather, I don’t know how to rationally “solve” it. There’s no series of steps guaranteed to cure it. No medicines that can take that pain away for good. No form of therapy that can speed up the healing process and leave me fresh and clean and strong at last.

All I can do is keep on living the only way I know how, as sad as that is, and keep digging through the scar tissue and dead flesh in the hopes of finally excavating and liberating my sad and lonely soul.

Until that pain is dealt with, nothing else I do is going to do me much good. At best, it eases the pressure and the pain a little. At worst, it is just so much mental masturbation designed by my depression to keep me from making any real progress on helping myself get out of that hole by giving me the feeling of progress without the substance.

If you want to keep people in chains, first convince them that they are free.

So I struggle with my almighty Wound. The really big Wound that no amount of going to Wound Care could ever help. The very Wound that has dominated almost my entire life without me consciously realizing it was there.

I suppose I had to make enough psychological progress to be able to see that Wound as something separate from myself and not just a part of how the Universe works, and thus be able to imagine a world in which it is gone.

But I feel like I have a whole lot of suffering to go through first. I feel like this Wound of mine contains a large amount of very potent pain and that only when this pain is fully felt and dealt with will I be able to heal said Wound for good.

And obviously, I am not eager to do that. Suffering hurts. That’s like its primary characteristic. It is so much easier to just quietly rot away in my tomb.

Not better. Just easier.

Still, I am willing to suffer quite a bit to set myself free. Right now I feel like I am squashed flat under a massive burden of pain and fear and anger and aversion.

And not all of me thinks that’s a bad thing. There is a sad, sick part of me that likes the security and comfort of utter helplessness and which therefore passively resists any kind of personal progress that will disturb its sorry little scene.

In general, the struggle between my sick self and healthy me is one that never stops, even when I am asleep.

My soul is a battleground, and I am its sole refugee.

More after the break,

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Contract and expand

For a very long time, I have felt that I go through an expansion and contraction cycle like a living creature’s lungs.

Unfortunately, so far I have been too linear in temperament to adjust to this truth and learn to accept this cyclical truth and even learn to ride the waves instead of constantly fighting with them to stay afloat.

It’s ridiculous. I can’t stop the waves from happening. So I might as well get used to them by learning to surf them.

There’s no point trying to fight the tide, for fuck’s sake.

Contained within this struggle to adapt to the wavelike properties of my soul is a much more intimate yet inarticulate struggle to stop trying to force myself to be a certain way instead of just letting myself be however I am.

On the deepest level, it really is a struggle for humanity. The fascist AI in my brain thinks it can make me into whatever ghastly horror it thinks I “should” be via sheer force of will.

But no amount of pressure or force can turn a butterfly into a wolf.

This means that a big part of my journey to heal myself has to be figuring out who I really am, and accepting that person, warts and all.

I can’t alter my basic nature, whatever it is. I can only work with it. Anything else is doomed to a very nasty kind of failure.

I think the real, true, deep problem is that I have so many “voices” and forces and emotional current in my mind that figuring out the “real me” will inevitably need me to do something which is normally anathema to me, and that is choose between them.

I hate picking favorites. I loathe being forced to choose between my friends. My love is very expansive and does not submit to such dichotomous judgement easily.

I want to love everybody. Exclusion hurts my soul.

But this is not about friends, it’s about figuring out who I am and that means the various forces within me have to “fight” and reach some kind of resolved equilibrium. I can’t go around being “everybody” forever.

I am legion, for I contain many. Too many.

Some of you motherfuckers have got to go.

And it’s up to me to figure out which ones.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

It might be a bad idea for me to indulge myself like this, but what the hell.

I admit it : the noise from the construction goinon directly above me is starting to get to me. My ability to simply tune it out is beginning to break down and I am starting to feel it seeping through my defenses.

And that’s bad.

But perfectly understandable. There is heavy sawing and drilling going on up there and all that is separating me from it is a single thin ceiling and that’s just not enough.

Hopefully I will be able to rally and put my mental blinders (deafers?) back on and clamp them down tight, because it’s not like they are going to finish any time soon.

And I know how sensitive I can be to loud, irregular noises. So I am going to need to proceed with extreme caution lest I end up in some Aspie-like state of sensory hell, rocking back and forth with my hands clamped over my ears in whatever corner of this apartment I determine to be marginally quieter than the rest.

I mean, it’s not like I can just jump in the car and leave. Even if my legs still worked I would still be an agoraphobic shut-in who almost never leaves the apartment.

Basically, I leave this apartment three times a week and two thirds of those times it’s for medical reasons, meaning not exactly optional.

If my feet suddenly regained the ability to heal from injuries meaning I no longer has to trouble the (mostly) gals at Wound Care with my bandage changes, I would only leave this apartment once a week, and that would be for Denny’s on Sunday.

Ain’t that a sobering thought.

But I have to admit, because of the racket above, my idea of going to Gary Point Park and lying on the beach for an hour or two is sounded better and better.

This might be what prompts me to actually go through with it instead of just moping quietly in its generation direction like I do every summer.

I do miss going outside. I miss being outside. Going some place where I can lay on a towel or sit on a park bench to soak up the fresh air and sunshine sounds amazing.

Provided I wear sunscreen (SPF value akin to a coat of white enamel paint) and bring a ton of water and/or other beverages along, of course.

Because the sad truth is that I can’t just be a sunshine boy like I used to be when I was a kid any more. I would have to go out there with only slightly less protection than if I was going on an NASA spacewalk during a solar storm.

But still, the fresh air and sunshine would do me a lot of good.

Most importantly, it would make me feel a lot less trapped. I do not feel free in this cardboard coffin of a life and that’s a bad thing for my mental health.

Ergo anything that makes me feel more like I can go where I want and do what I like would go a long way towards brightening my days.

I mean for fuck’s sake, I only leave this bedroom three times a day. And of those three occasions, only the time I go out to hang with Julian and watch stuff while eating my midnight snack lasts more than a few minutes.

And you know what? Often, when it’s time to go to bed, a big part of me doesn’t want to go. It doesn’t want to go back in the box. It wants to stay out of this tomb of a room and be around people and maybe even live a little.

But habit and timidity drag it back in here over and over again. and each time I swear a tiny bit of me dies a little more.

I wish I could be alive again.

More after the break.

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I’m in heat

But then again, aren’t we all?

Woke up feeling oddly warm all over my face. It’s like I went to sleep with my face on something warm like, say, a surface warm from the day’s sunshine, except that I didn’t and the heat’s not going away and so I am worried that I have a fever.

But I might just be dehydrated. I get that way at the drop of a (presumably moist) hat lately so dehydration is always a good candidate for whatever is currently ailing me.

Even if it isn’t the direct cause, it sure ain’t making things any better.

Datum : turning my head into the airflow from my desk fan does not produce the ecstatic relief I associate with having a bad fever.

In fact, I can barely feel it at all, which is worrying.

Admittedly, there’s not a lot of cool air for it to move around, but I suspect the real problem is that the airflow is no match for my fever’d brow.

When I lay back down, I will aim my bed fan directly at my forehead and turn it all the way up and see if that does the trick.

Hopefully that will quickly turn too cold and I will turn it down again. But what I fear will be the case is that I still will barely feel it.

We shall see. Science will give us the answers!

It would be ironic if I got sick because then I would have to miss Wound Care tomorrow morning and that would make two Tuesdays in a row I missed it due to illness.

People may start to talk about me.

Who am I kidding? Nobody gives a crap, including me.

You teach people how to treat you, after all.

Moodwise, I still have that isolated and alienated feeling like I am a lonely exile adrift in the Midnight Tundra of my mind.

Except no. It’s too directionless for that. It’s more like being stranded in some interdimensional doldrums where even time itself has stopped and I am utterly helpless to do anything at all.

Pleasant thought, n’est-ce pas?

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

It’s summer, and with that comes lovely sunshine, horrible heat, and the tendency for my mind to resist settling down to make the words come out.

My mind wants to wander and play in the sunshine, and that is more or less the exact opposite of sitting still and writing stuff. It really feels like having to settle down and get dressed for church when it’s having so much fun romping about outside.

Well, how I assume that feels, anyhow. Never been “to church” in my life. I’ve been IN churches a few times, for funerals and holiday concerts and such, but I have never been TO church in the sense of actually being there to worship.

From what I have seen in the media, it looks pretty boring. No wonder people fall asleep. At least the Catholics are smart enough to keep you awake by making you do the stand, sit, and kneel routine.

Oh, and sing. Can’t fall asleep when you have to sing a very boring hymn now and then.

This is what happens when your religion is run by and for old people. To them, the quiet solemn dry ceremonies are soothing and peaceful.

And good practice for being dead.

But for those further from the grave it’s boring as hell and that is a terrible way to run your religion. Your religious services should not feel like penance for the crime of actually observing your faith.

I figure I would be a very good and effective preacher. I have the charisma, the oratory skills, the passionate beliefs, the deep desire to give people solace and hope, and more than enough showmanship to keep things interesting.

I just lack any actual religious faith, and I am far too honest to fake it.

Still, I suppose I could create a small church around my own version of Christian faith, which is centered not around Christ’s divinity but his message.

I vehemently believe in Jesus’ core message of compassion, understanding, and forgiveness. As far as I can tell, humanism began with the words attributed to Jesus, and I am a humanist through and through.

I even have a name for this theoretical church of mine : the Students of Christ. Catchy, isn’t it? And kind of hard for the other sects to find fault in even if my church does not require faith in God or Jesus or anything else.

This way, Christianity could be cut clean from the Old Testament for good, and unified around a single Gospel and no stupid Epistles.

And this is just my opinion, but I am pretty sure my type of church would be what Jesus actually wanted. True spiritual leaders don’t want to be worshipped, they want to be listened to and heeded.

And they want us all to be nice to one another. But that’s hard, and no fun, so that’s the first thing people get rid of once the leader’s back is turned.

It is far, far easier to worship a Messiah than to actually listen to what they say and, God forbid, actually modify your actions or restrict your behaviours.

I mean, we worship Jesus because he was such a great guy for saying all those nice things about like, the poor or whatever. Wow, what a champ.

And even when people do change their behaviours, they find it way easier to simply follow a particular set of rules rather than actually try to live by the principles those rules are meant to express.

And those rules are always childishly simplistic. Don’t eat that. Don’t touch yourself there. Go to this place and sit still and pretend to listen once a week.

OK, this we can do. But don’t tell us not to be hateful, divisive, and judgmental, because that would require changing who we are, and that’s no fun.

And hate is fun! You get to feel all righteous and vent all of your latent anger at a convenient outgroup and even pretend that it makes you holy to feel that way when it’s pretty much the exact opposite of everything Jesus taught.

Yes, I could start my own Christian reform movement.

And it would be all about bringing Christians back to Jesus.

More after the break.

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We’ll talk about this ingroup

So what is the case for your ingroup to stop hating an outgroup?

Because from the ingroup’s point of view, there’s no downside. They get to shift all the blame for all their troubles onto people who conveniently not in the room with them and therefore can be construed to be whatever makes hating them more satisfying and you never actually see any of them get hurt by it so it’s all good, right?

I mean, sure, this is technically unfair and Jesus probably would not approve, but He is not here either so who cares?

He’s a wimpy liberal faggot with anti-Christian views anyhow. Screw him.

The problem is that the case against hate is inherently transpersonal. It requires an appeal to transpersonal values that say it is wrong to hate another based on whatever group we assign them even if that group is of vastly inferior status to our own and therefore kicking them around seems, at least to part of us, perfectly harmless fun and a sign that all is right in the world.

After all, everything is harmless if you don’t think of its victims as people.

Hence the arc of justice being a long and difficult struggle to remind people over and over again that all humans are people. That’s why they’re called “human rights”.

No matter what group we assign them too, people are still people, as valid and deserving of good treatment as you are, and absolutely nothing can change that.

Including the actions of the individuals of said group. Nothing anyone in said group does can do anything at all to alter the rights of the individuals in that group.

Group punishment for individual actions is always wrong.

Groups can’t commit crimes because groups aren’t even real. They are imaginary categories we sort people into in order to make dealing with the masses of humanity around us easier. They have no other reality.

All in all, at the end of the day, there’s just people. People just like you, with hopes and dreams and personalities and preferences and life stories just as real and valid and important and worthy of moral consideration as your own.

Remember that when approached by people claiming they have found a loophole in human rights that makes it okay to hate any group, no matter how easy it is to get away with hating that group because nobody will defend them.

There are no loophole.

Everybody is people.

And you are just going to have to learn to live with that.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

We don’t get along.

That’s why I still haven’t looked for a job on FlexJobs after that first day. And that’s despite the fact that I signed up for a paid account and everything.

But after the enthusiasm of that first day wore off, and despite my swearing to myself that I was not going to let that happen this time, a thick scab of aversion immediately formed in my mind and it became yet another thing I “should” do and therefore don’t.

Wishing for opportunities is easy. Acting on them is hard. Because acting on them requires actually facing and dealing with reality and I…. can’t.

Well, I have a lot of trouble doing it, anyhow.

And then there’s this place. It’s a platform where I could publish this blog and charge people whatever I saw fit for them to subscribe to it and the platform, Notd (sic), would only take 10 percent of that cash for themselves and I would keep the rest.

Wow, what a great opportunity. I could use a platform like that to develop a fanbase and get them “hooked” on my writing enough for it to be worth a couple bucks a week for them to keep getting the fresh stuff daily.

And if I managed to get even just a few paid subscribers, that would go a long way towards encouraging me to pour myself into making it the best it could be, instead of just my usual random ramblings.

You know, like the ones you’re reading right now.

Thanks, by the way. I love you.

Yup, this Notd (sic) thing could be my golden ticket to a much better life. One where I have money, and nice things, and an audience, and something meaningful to do with my time for once, and so forth and so on.

But it ain’t gonna happen.

Why? Because as exciting as all that sounds, it also scares the crap out of me. I am currently feeling that special terror I get when the prospect of something that would greatly increase my stimulation levels and/or social exposure rears its ugly head, and my deep and terrible anxieties rise up and make it impossible for me to feel the joy of the opportunity because it’s lost behind a wall of stark raving terror.

The terror that I will be plucked out of my safe, warm, filthy nest and cast out into the cold cruel world where I will forever lose access to my escape route.

For the aversive, that’s basically death.

Do all us “failure to launch” types feel that way? Like being cast out into the world would not just kill but destroy us?

It would explain a lot.

Anyhow, what I am saying is that opportunities don’t mean jack shit if I am too chickenshit to take advantage of them, and that is something I am going to have to face and wrestle with if I am going to get out of this fucking cesspit of a life.

Because I deserve better than this. I’m quite frankly amazing. The fact that a truly extraordinary person like me is stuck living like this is quite frankly a travesty.

But I am the only person who can fix that. Who can restore justice. Make things right.

Even if I had a billion dollars in the bank, it would still be up to me to spend it. Even if I had godlike magic powers it would be up to me to use them.

There is only so far the sick sick oral-retentive dream of everything just coming to you without you having to do anything can ever go.

At some point, you will have to take an active part in life. It’s the only way out.

The only alternative is to lapse into a catatonic coma.

And the thought has crossed my mind….

More after the break.

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Gay furry smut recommendation

I really liked this comic.

Not only is the art gorgeous as well as featuring two very sexy anthro feline males, but I find the way their “falling into gay” with each other is written is really, really hot.

Like I always say, lust is an emotion. Make me feel it!

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Sort of furry animation recommendation

I mean, Cleaveland is 100 percent an anthro dragon, and Maulie is technically a manticore (or is that a womanticore?), so it’s furry enough.

I think I actually have kind of a crush on Cleaveland now, in fact.

But like I said in the comments, it’s warm, it’s funny, it’s well made, and it’s just a little bit fucked up in the head. And that makes it perfect for me.

Of course, if I had made it, it would be way more NSFW, but this is why they don’t let me make things like that!

But if AI keeps getting better…. 😛

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Lost in the Terrorzone

Feeling kind of lost and scared at the moment.

It’s a hard emotion to put into words. It’s this feeling of bone-chilling total alienation that hits me from time to time. It always leaves me feel cold and lonely and the image of myself being pushed out into the void, with nothing but darkness all around me and nothing holding me up but whatever it is my back is up against.

There’s no vertigo to it. I don’t feel like I am going to fall. The void around me is completely without substance or directionality. And I feel completely abandoned and alone. And, for some reason, ashamed.

I guess that implies that on some level, I feel like I deserve to be out there. Like I have been exiled from all that is warm and good and wholesome because I am so very toxic and horrifying and disgusting.

And I am. But I’m not, too.

I certainly feel that way, and will continue to do so until I find another, healthier outlet for whatever emotions that feeling expresses.

Self-loathing, for sure. But a lot of other stuff too.

I watched an interesting video about various forms of esotericism, like the Order of the Golden Dawn, Rosicrucianism, Kabbalah, and so on.

And it got me thinking about the question of what is it that people get from these esoteric systems of belief that they can’t get from science and “reason”.

A twit like me can easily answer any question about the universe or mysterious happening or whatnot with a perfectly reasonable, logical, probable answer.

And for most people, that answer will be completely insufficient because what the person is looking for is meaning.

And meaning, like belief, is an emotion, and cannot be summoned by reason alone.

The best that science and logic can do is explain things. And explanations are sad and puny compared to the massive questions that plague the human soul.

Science can never tell someone what it all means. And knowledge without meaning is nothing but information.

No matter how “true” it is.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Yup. More poop talk. You’ve been warned.

After a couple of weeks of fairly normal poops, I am back to nothing solid coming out of me at all.

What makes it worse is that it all kicked off with another bout of sleep incontinence. On Wednesday night, I ordered from Poke Okey for the first time in a while, and ate my custom bowl of good stuff way too fast, and that led to my first spending a bad time in the bathroom and then, when that left me totally pooped (sic), I (possibly unwisely) went to sleep, and woke up with the usual fecal mess exactly where my butt was pointed.

If it had been a crime, it would be a very easy solve.

Clearly, my butt did it.

So I had to go through a whole bunch of Kleenex cleaning it up. At least I am still capable of cleaning it up on my own.

If, like when I was in the hospital, I had to let someone else see the mess I made, I would die on the inside of acute impacted embarrassment.

The emotions tied to our toilet training are always extremely strong. Where to poop and how to go about it is arguably the first thing we ever learn, and the social programming encoded therein is foundational to everything we learn about manners afterwards.

Freud got that right, at least.

And don’t stop me if you’ve heard this before, but I know that these little outbreaks of sleep pooping are supposed to trigger my going to the frigging ER, or Urgent Care.

But the sad and brutal truth is that I know it will go away if I ignore it, and therefore that’s what I do.

That’s all kinds of wrong, and yet, here we are.

I guess there would have to be some kind of terrifying escalation for me to take it to the ER or the UC now. Like it happening while I am awake.

Speaking of which, I had a fun period yesterday where I had to go poop every half hour or so for three or four hours.

That’s how long it took me to remember that I actually know how to stop that kind of thing. It involves carefully resisting the urge to go poop once I am empty enough to make that safe-ish and thus interrupting the self-triggering cycle of it all.

And luckily, that worked. Got things under control. Had a few tense moments but ultimately my system calmed down enough to behave itself.

And today was okay until the pooping time came and then it was diarrhea all over again, and that is never fun.

Like I have mentioned before, those attacks can really take it out of you. Anything involving your bowels spasming drains you of a lot more than feces because your bowels are very large muscles so when they are in an uproar you have some of the biggest muscles in your body doing acrobatics and that is very tiring.

Not to mention it also depletes you nutritionally, both from the rapid loss of fluids fucking up your electrolytes and from the localized burning of a LOT of calories.

It always comes back to science with me, doesn’t it?

Anyhow, that is the latest in the Chronicles of Fru’s Butthole for now. I will, of course, be monitoring the situation in case things get worse.

Hopefully things will calm down for a while so I can forget this whole messy incident.

My life is so weird. And gross.

More after the break.

Oh yeah, the microwave

Microwave is working again. Luckily, last night, I had the clever idea that maybe the problem was a tripped circuit breaker, and sure enough, when Julian flipped the breaker for that circuit on and off, it came back to life.

And that makes me feel gosh darn clever. There I was thinking we would have to buy a whole new microwave and instead the solve was as easy as turning on a light.

It did expose me to the fact that the microwave ovens of today are amazingly cool, and can function as microwaves AND air fryers AND convection ovens AND steamers AND a bunch of other things!

I must admit, my consumer lust for those things is intense.

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The ice falls apart as it melts

Just a random image expressing… something in my mind.

Not going to try to turn it into a poem this time. I’ve learned my lesson. My poetic impulses can stay in prose now.

I mean, it didn’t take long for that last poem thing to turn from self-expression into work. I stopped trying to write it when I realized I was just coming up with cheaper and cheaper rhymes solely because I didn’t know how to end the damned thing.

So no more of that. When I run out of inspiration, it’s over, and I don’t care if that means it stops right in the middle of a.

I suppose that if I continue to try to express my deeper images, they will become more detailed and complete over time.

That’s how it worked with my writing in general. I would start just typing whatever popped into my head and before long I went from disconnected words and images to full sentences to entire concepts to a whole detailed essay that just… flowed out of me.

But I was too locked into my logic cage to be able to handle and harness something like that so I just…. stopped.

We never truly stop being stupid.

We just get better at it,

Well, now that I am far more willing to delve into that deep and mysterious and incredibly powerful part of me of that lurks in the shadows of my subconscious mind, perhaps I will learn to tap into these dark forces and use their power.

All it takes is the courage to pick up my magic wand, and use it.

I’ve been scared of my own power long enough.

Time to get some shit done.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Got to talking about that big ol Wound at the center of my mind during Therapy Thursday with Doctor Costin today.

You know, the one from when I was raped as a toddler.

I was telling him about how it’s pretty much my main problem and that everything else that I struggle with is just set dressing compared to it.

He, intelligently, asked me what I can do about it.

At first I said I don’t know. But then the penny dropped, so to speak, and I said, “I think the only thing I can do about it is bring my mind back to it over and over again in order to slowly drain the pain away by feeling a little of it at a time.

Like taking little sips of a nasty tasty medicine.

I wish I had the option to just down the whole thing and get it over with, and maybe I will get there when I reach some kind of tipping point where I have drained enough of the pain that the rest can come free as a single mass.

Or maybe not. I might have to just keep sipping away because the trauma is still too big and too intense and too horrible for my mind to handle all at once.

Either way, I am determined to get it done.

Because it really is my major injury. It’s the part of me that hurts so bad and causes so much primal fear when I try to get moving to get things done.

It’s like a host of clawing, shrieking, lunatic spirits rise up to fill my mind.

And I feel like I have finally excavated enough of the surface debris all that pain has been buried under to finally get a good look at it and feel its weight.

It’s still a massive tumour of trauma at the core of my being but the more I look at it, spend time with it, and do my best to experience it, the smaller it gets.

We also discussed the idea that I need to go way, way back to the person I was before the rape in order to (in a sense) start over.

And seeing as I was only 4 years old at the time, that’s a long strange trip indeed.

But I can remember what a bright, charismatic, precocious little charmer I was back then. And that gives me some kind of starting point for the new me.

I have a pretty clear idea of what a healthy me would be like.

But getting there is going to be so hard.

If I am to make it there, I’ll have to give myself permission to fail – but not to give up.

Failing in this case means to collapse under the sheer weight of the undertaking. It’s to get too tired to continue. It’s to flare out and crash.

But giving up would mean not getting right back on my feet and returning to the fight the moment I have recovered. And further, it would mean not pouring my all into recovering because it’s easier to just lay there all “helpless”.

Yeah, bullshit. You’re not helpless. You’re just not willing to do what it takes.

I know that I can be strong, and brave, and tough. But it’s going to hurt, at least at first, and I accept that.

Being afraid of pain is normal. Letting that fear keep you from growing up is not. Healthy people are lucky enough not to realize they have a choice and so they instinctively self-actualize and what do you know, they turn out fine.

But us “clever” types fight it all the way.

And that’s how we end up 51 year old losers who never grew up at all.

More after the break

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The final wave

Well fuck. I think our microwave just died.

I was nuking myself a baked potato (or well…. a nuked potato, technically) when all of a sudden the whole unit went dark.

And now it will not come on. I fear the worst.

i was not able to unplug it and plug it back in because I honestly don’t know where the dang thing is plugged in. I can only surmise that it’s plugged in the same socket as the fridge, and that’s (obviously) behind the fridge somewhere and there is no chance that I will be able to get at it with my physical limitations.

So for all I know, it might be the socket that blew out, not the microwave, and that would be better provided there’s someplace else to plug it in.

It was so sudden! And I hate surprises. So I am kind of shaken up at the moment.

It could also be something as simple as a fuse being blown or a circuit breaker tripped, in which case it could be quite easy to fix.

It does seem like a power issue.

Part of why I’m all shook up is because that microwave is the only thing I ever use to cook. WIthout it. I can’t cook a thing.

Not even my beloved microwave popcorn!

That’s going to really throw off my routine and my diet. Which means that if the dang thing really IS broken forever, we’ll need to replace it ASAP.

I suppose it’s possible that it is still under warranty. My memory is fairly fuzzy about how long ego we bought this one.

But I think it was like three years ago, in which case, um, nope, it’s our problem.

If the only solution is to buy a new one, then Julian and I will have to come up with the money to do so. According to a quick Amazon.ca search, we should be able to get a basic model for around $80-$120, and we certainly don’t need any fancy features.

Hell, we could probably get a beat up old used one from Value Village, but um, that’s one appliance I have to insists upon getting new.

Seeing as we just had one keel over dead for no good reason. And ya know…. I would hate to get an old one that….. leaks. Yikes.

I can come up with $60 without too much of a problem. Expenses suddenly decloaking really sucks, but that’s life for ya.

I wonder if we could afford one of those convection ones that you can also use like a normal oven to bake things.

That would be awesome. I could bake again!

Oh, and of course, this happened right after my tablet died, too.

Makes me afraid to play with myself.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.