Dancing with the Black Dog and Learning to Live for the Future

Part One, Knowing When to Say When 

There is no mystery that December has the uncanny way of pulling me into depression until the first days of January. By then Im usually filled with the desperate anxiety of a caged animal released from its holding, as I run through the days with forced optimism and perceived notions of time being limited. This takes many forms. Returning to the gym after a stressful hiatus of gatherings and the end of the world in the form of closed businesses and empty streets. A drop in stress as sleep is regained to their desired amount and even the streets where I roam become a normalized silence, not in guilt, but of exhausted relief of another seasons end. January is where I get to hit the year as hard as I can to ensure I get away from the lingering death of a dying year.

And yet, January also haunts me as I feel the relaxing tendrils of its predecessor release me to harsh epidermal markings. In my late Thirties, I began to reclaim my efforts with runs as I usually either hit the street in the coldest of cold, the dampest of wet, or if even possible in LA, the hottest of hot, although we have been getting muggy weather that has made our Summers unbearable and some worried about a future Floridian nightmare of humidity and stupidity. 

And yet, it was some 5 years ago I began to see it. Perhaps it was due to the celebrations and smoking shisha a bit too aggressively, as if that is a thing, or that my workouts were finally pushing me past a point that my body can heal from. Either way, I began to cough up blood.  Not as in films where the protagonist gets struck with the force of a falling elephant and yet must continue on in pain. This was more of a cough up of something in the back of my throat. Just clearing what is left after sleep in order to speak and not drive others into disgust. Nothing dramatically deep or effort taking, but just a simple cough as the sink turn that color of crimson that you do not see in everyday life. That color that tells you exactly what it is and where it came from. That color that is almost filled with life and it reminds you of what true blood can do even if you think you are desensitized to it all. 

The feeling of dread and horror takes you. Not words I misuse here considering that awesome can describe a sandwich with no irony these days. Despite word erosion, I mean dread and horror that has been mastered throughout evolutionary times simply reminding you that you were the descendants of mammals that were just a bit too weirded out and started to bolt as those who didn't aid the evolutionary progress of another. That primitive fear of something not right and you are running out of time. 

Having been infected with tuberculosis at the young age of 16, I've learned to not renege of going for an XRay. Immediately without eating or preparing for the day, I returned to my university for one. Even graduating in the Fall allowed me to carry on my underutilized promise of healthcare that my fees usually went towards. In the matter of a day, I received my XRay and while in a room of masked individuals I was told that I was fine. That there are no culture growths and my lungs look healthy and strong. And yet, I questioned why would I spit up blood and to the calming response of those trained in offering the worst of information they simply told me that nothing is wrong. All my tests are fine and perhaps I should keep vigilant as I have been before. I was even complimented on my health and diligence of it. 

This would happen twice more only to realize that I suffered from a nasal infection that wasn't prominent, but is what cause me to understand that my butterfly was the origin of humor instead of my lungs. I've since received meds and now make it a yearly habit of taking the flu shot, something I recommend greatly, yet Im not here to promote proactive health. I'm here to plead my case to something lingering my thoughts, even before Turkey was cooked and bells were jingled. 

I've explained to my nausea what life was in my youth with TB. How it made me resemble those unfortunate souls who survived genocide in Europe after the last fascist regime was finally halted. Im not fond of my image back then and I can say I even avoided looking in mirrors until now. I can even understand why I hit the Pile as hard as I can, amassing as much muscle as a Forty Three-year-old can and why I always run at my highest heart rate even if it is as close to physical death as I can put myself through. Im from the school of proactive preparation rather than reactionary. I am not allotted such a luxury as a reaction. To explain once more the issue of TB, TB is an opportunistic infection. It is never killed off, but slumbers in one's DNA until the host's health begins to falter just a bit. Then it begins to replicate and reform aiding the demise of the host and releasing itself usually in an aerosol cough of the host as they suffocate on their own fluids. No, you read it right, the host....I can drown to death. I can suffocate in gasping breath where my O2 lung capacity is decimated and not able to continue to keep me alive and I will drown in my own fluids. I will one day, if not lucky, drown to death and infect others. This means the moment my health deteriorates not only will I be condemned to this horrid death, but I may even pass it along with someone else. 

Ask me again why Im so antisocial.

Im not joking......

Part Two, Why Are You Doing This To Yourself

So....
Yea.....
I just wanted to know....
*sigh* Go ahead.
Are you gay?
No.
Um.....are you sure?
Yes.
Its ok to be gay.
I know that.
Not even shunned that much anymore.
Right.
But are you?
No.
......not even Bi?
No. 
You're attracted to women?
Yes.
I mean, sexually?
Yes.
As in you want to have sex with them? You are attracted....

[At this point, I can tell you're a bit unnerved at this. This is a close friend having that important talk with me either because they have some attraction towards me, someone asked if I was available and they didn't want to steer them wrong, or somehow my celibacy is just a bit too unnerving for them and they just want me to kick down the door of whatever closet Im in so that they can sleep well at night, I know Im a fucking monster. I know YOU care, but I thought that last time I explained myself, usually in drunked state where I can let my sorror out you would have gotten it. Im in therapy for a fucking reason, but hey, here we go again.

.....also, fucking side note...if Whater her face is fucking interested tell her.... HER....HER...I like pussy, alright....Im a CIS male and I love the vag....shit.....*sigh* just have her have a conversation with me. Give her my text and tell her to just have coffee. As in talk. Shit this high school shit is still in my life in my Forties......fuck me....]

.....Ok, should we just cut to the bone. Im getting tired and I don't want my buzz to go to sadness.....AGAIN.
It's just, me and *name redacted* were talking and we are kind of worried for you.
That Im going to die alone and that no one will take care of me?
Well, not exactly that way.......but yea.
I've been taking care of others since I was 15. I married early for whatever stupid reason you can come up, I married early. I was divorced at 21. I raised my children as best as I could until 2007. Since then I take care of myself. Sometimes miserably. Other times quite nicely. Either way, I'm used to living alone, even while staying with others.
Do you miss it....living with someone?
.....yes...yes I do, but the relationship I was in with my ex-wife was beyond toxic as you already know. The majority of relationships have always been toxic. I never beat a woman or abuse her verbally, but for some reason or another they either cheat or leave. I used to question why or if my behavior is what caused it. Sometimes I question and other times I wonder, especially when to this fucking day there is usually someone looking for me. Someone who still wants to know where the fuck I am so that they can apologize and beg me to return. It's sad. I sickening on my part and I just know that somehow I can understand why it happens. How a great friendship or affectionate potential goes south.
But there was that one woman, the one in the office.
Yea.....well. Every now and then I get hit hard. I see someone I become infatuated with and even have a crush. Im too old to have crushes. Shit, I was too old when I was 12. Either way, it's a nice moment where I actually give in to the pheromones and just enjoy the feeling. But it never goes on from there.
Why.....why would you do that to yourself?
I don't know. *lies*

[But I do. Or at least I do now.]

If I had my way, I would like to be in a relationship. I would like to be monogamous. And yet, I have the strongest notion that Im more than damaged goods. I'm perishable. And I say this with as much therapy as I had, you can't have a future when you have a foot in the grave. Yes, I do see myself this way. Yes, it motivates me to do as much as I can and to correct things that I can. but in truth, it's a heavy load. It's a hard thing to do since I know there is always a day that I have to leave. There will be a day where I have to abandon you. No, not die. Abandon. There will be a day where I will have to excuse myself and go far away and die. I don't know if I will have to take my own life, but it's on the table. I would like to die of old age, but the odds of that are not good. I don't have the luxury to have people at my deathbed. I have the luxury of dying in an isolated ICU where heavily protected individuals have to dispose of the threat and process my remains carefully. I don't have that luxury. If I age until my body can not maintain itself, then I have to die this way.

I don't want that.

So the option is always on the table. If I want to die the way I want to either death has to come beforehand or I have to take the initiative. I have to end my life before the bacterial bomb in my chest goes off. And that means suicide. 

There. I said it.

Im always dancing with the Black Dog]

Part Three, Dancing with the Black Dog and Living for Today

My ex-wife and I had a though back when we were young and stupid. 

Live for Today

This was back when I loved her immensely. Before the abuse. Before the atrocities, she would commit to our children in the name of religion and ghod. Before she would leave scars on us all that would not heal without some painful effort. I loved her. And yet early 90s interracial dating was not the most accepted thing. Half of our effort to remain a couple was fighting against our families and society we never realized that maybe we were not compatible. I learned so many years then that someone may be desirable, even fuckable, but you don't want them in your bed. Some people should remain, friends, even if most think you'd hit it off. Best to keep a legendary friend than to make an enemy in your bed.

That is as best as I can see my ex-wife. If I ignore the fact she is as comforting as a hurricane.

And not just a year into marriage and a daughter born do I realize that I have been infected with TB. I've already explained that ticking time clock and I don't want to give it any more thought. I have to continue today and I rather not fall back into depressions.

Hence my point. 

There are those who live for today and those who live for the future. I'm not the latter, but I'm trying. I don't have much of a future. Those of your closest to me know that I have a lot against me. Its why you're so proud of me and what a few years confiding to someone what I would rather eat broken glass than to tell you. I'll admit I carry a heavyweight, but if you work out with it, it feels like nothing. I'm your heaviest friend. Im the one who you can't be around for too long because I start to make you think of the hard questions and no one likes to think about. The questions I had to answer in my teens. 

Even the way I love you is to protect you. I've always been a Dad, some of my happiest years. I'm used to giving you that support you need and to spoil you when I can and to give unconditional love is not as hard when its all you can give. And yes, some of you want more. I cant. Or at least I cant now or even ever. I know, I suck, but you have me willing to die in your corner. I'm probably a bad fuck at this point considering the decade of celibacy, but we can have tea and laugh and I can tell you I love you and know that I do in every way. Except for that one. 

Sorry.

And yes, in other conditions I'd would have jumped at the opportunity and then some. Come on, you know what I do at an opportunity and only some of those stories are true. Some. What Im saying is, yes I'm totally fucking onto you, but one of us have to think of the future of the other and just....not fuck someone over. Even when you love them. 

Even when you love them. 

I don't have a future. I'm working against that, but its the most core thought I have. I don't have one. I have to cheat and hustle to get what I have now, but I have to look at it as a realist so at least I know what I'm up against. Its what in part makes me wonder why women leave. I can't allow myself to give them a future so they seek it elsewhere. The irony is that I might outlive you all, but the reality is that I will always see myself as something dangerous and broken. Something that should have never been allowed to walk freely or to become a risk. I have to see myself that way because someone who didn't even take the time to think about their actions got me infected and just now I realize that its what has shaped my life and relationships with others. How can you allow yourself to be vulnerable to someone when that can be a health risk. Yes, I isolate myself and I live in a safe quarantined distance and even those of you who have broken me down to the point where Im either too open or trusting or just drunk realize that this has been crushing me as of late. It's nice to feel like people and not as the walking dead from time to time, but it is not my normal. I have to live for today and maybe seed a future I may never reap.

It sucks. 

I have to dance with the Black Dog. I have to wear my pin and remind myself that I'm only a moment away from taking my life if things go wrong. I have to tell myself that I have to give what I can and do as much good as possible all the while keeping my distance from you. I rather leave you with stories than with grief. I don't have much choice in either, but its what I can do. So I joke. I plan of a funeral that will make others envy. I plan of a circus event to show how I felt and now that its over to hope that the survivors who know me will leave me to their memories rather than their grief. Its empowering as much as it is devastatingly depressing.....well, to you. Some of us have to carry the weight. I can either choose not to feel it as I get stronger or get crushed by it. 

Ce la vi, no?

Part 4, Carry On

So what do we do now? Now that I shared what has been chewing on me for so long what do we do now. As for you, nothing. You carry on. You do what you always have done and continue to annoy the fuck out of me by trying to connect and the such. You are not the issue or the problem. I am. I will continue to go to therapy, I will continue to work against time, and I will continue to resolve my fears and concerns so that I can make you and others happy. If I am lucky I can overcome this. If I am able to do so, I will live a long and happy life and do many things I can not believe possible. I've been doing well so far. I just wanted you to understand what I am going through and why Im such a miserable fuck. 

We will not talk about this and I will deny if this ever come to pass. I am holding enough and I do not need to know what I'm doing. I can either do what I can or I can put more thought behind it and that will only make me worse. I have to do what I can to make thing better for you. And maybe for me. Just know, I'm not being difficult to be. That no matter how much I want to be close to you and others that I can not. I have to think about the risk even when I don't want to. That's my life for the past few decades.  You either stagnate and die or you live until you cant. So I chose my death. I choose to push myself until I break. I choose to do what I can and when I cant I wait until I see my opportunity. I keep positive and tell you to fucking shit up when you feel the urge to tell me that you love me and you understand. Im past crying, or at least that is what I tell myself. Crying only take up my time. Yea yea, life sucks, but I can still steal the moment and get what I want, even if I know it may not go well. 

I will do and live the best I can until I can not. Then I will go. Alone and end it. So that I am not dangerous. 

And that is that. Best we had this talk if I fall off the world. Leave me some mystery instead of watching a dying biohazard between glass. You will never see me in tubes, I promise you that. I would not do that to you or me. 

I love you after all. Mystery is sometimes best. Leave me that, no?

I'm saying my goodbye now because I don't have the luxury to say it beforehand. I mean, you have issues if I Irish Goodbye your events, so here we go.

I love you. I have to go. Take care of each other. Be kind to yourself and others. Know what hills you want to die on and when to let go of the petty things. Always floss, say may I and thank you. And make sure the other person gets off twice before you call it. And if you have the chance to make an epic memory for someone else, do that! They'll love you for it. 

.......

Yea......this is good. 

*leaves to walk the dog*

3,496 words.

A Progressive Outlook towards a Historically Dreadful Period of Time or I'm not afraid of December

Today is November 30th.

Tomorrow is December 1st.

I have to say it's been longer than a decade since I've not felt any anxiety towards December. It has been a difficult month for me for many reasons. December is when I discover when people in my life have passed or they do pass on in December. For the past three years, I've gotten horribly sick to the point where I begin to spit up blood and usually rush masked to the doctor for fear of TB kicking up. It's kind of rough being a human bomb, but thankfully each time I do see a doctor, go through X-rays and even spit into the tube, I only discover that it's not my lungs bleeding, but my throat, either because the last cold's cough was extremely rough on it hence the bleeding, or that I actually have some nasty bacteria wrecking havoc there.

Fun.

I've always eyed December with a dread of what could go wrong. I've always looked at January as some sort of safe haven and as horribly superstitious as it sounds, I focus on the new year as some sort of safe place to prevent me from losing more of my heath or even causing me an early demise. This year alone was difficult sitting in a chair trying to recuperate to the fears of many of you considering that most people judge my well being on the frequency I post on social media, as we agreed almost a decade ago.  Most of you had to be told to stay away for fear of transferring my illness and I have plenty of people, watching me to make sure I was doing nothing but sleeping and eating what I could.

So, yea ....December has always been horribly difficult. And yet, I'm here once more in front of Starbucks, before work writing this, sipping on Guatemalan Dark coffee with nothing more but thoughts and plans for December.  I have weekend plans with friends and looking forward to fixing things that I had to forgo due to lack of funds.  I'm on a long-term plan to make my life a bit easier and even calculating how soon I can write off my debt and even plans to make life easier. There was once a time when I would look at people walking their dogs on a Saturday and wish I had that experience. For the past three years, I've remedied a solution that was as close as possible to that dream and yet I look forward to a phantom dream of waking up on a Saturday at my own place to a happy German Shepard, Rachel....I'd name her Rachel, and maybe even a pot belly piglet, Franky/Frannie Bacon.

I'd laugh at that and know it was not possible. Then again, now with October changing everything, and yes, I must write about it soon and I'm already putting that into words, yet it honestly gave me the only thing I ever wanted: The Opportunity. If there's anything I hate the most it's stagnation. The past 10 years has been a testament to stagnation. I struggled at a snail pace to graduate to the jeers of many not understanding that I was last of a stubborn group of people who refused to leave until college has become completely unaffordable. The fact that it took me that long to graduate instead of succumbing to just negligent policies is more of a boon rather than a hindrance. Above all, I learned to be patient, prepared, and ready.

Yet throughout the years those traits become dull and rusty when continuing to grind at a snail pace. Goals seem prolonged to reach then distant then intangible. What used to be a plan to advance become a battle for principle. Motivation becomes an obligation and ends up into a monotonous drone that numbs you. If anyone wanted to know how long someone can endure this kind of spirit-breaking torture I'd say it took me a decade. Nights of closing your eyes to waking staring up into ceilings pondering why you should get up again can be grating on anything close to determination. And yet everything seemed to hit a peak of disappointment when December approached and hard question would have to be ignored if only to retain on to hope. Yet when you begin to grasp on hope and faith (firm belief in something for which there is no proof) is the only thing you have left, you know you lost and you don't have any more moves. All you can do is wait.

It's the waiting that does you in.

Yet this year is different.

This year I'm in therapy and I was able to confront issues that I had no idea existed. This year I was able to understand what that nagging feeling was when I believed I was lacking something to prevent people for projecting their weaknesses and limitations onto me. I learned to build boundaries where I can take a step back and negate the advances of people who see me as a scapegoat, a hindrance, a simply excuse to place all of their woes upon. I learned to drop was never my "crazy" and to acknowledge what IS mine and to have the confidence to take it head on and challenge it as it once dominated me.  That was October in an abstract. That was the month I took the word of someone who had no interest, wager, or stake in my life, for good or bad, and actually put myself in the crucible. It's where I learn to benefit from my own traits of endurance, stubbornness, patience, and a drive that I am now understanding has been held down for far too long.

I've discovered new things about myself that I never had to see, as if I was always in a constant blur and I was now seeing for the first time. I realize that the world is not out to get me, despite how much I've prepared to defend against such an attack. And if it even does it's pitiful and even almost not worth the effort. I've learned that I am in a new emotional renaissance where I tasted food for the first time. I was seeing colors and shapes that I always used to pass by and finally see them for what they are. My time of dormant mind has reawakened me to a new hedonistic hunger that I can now indulge in rather than be the ingredient to someone else's need. I realize that there really isn't anything left to hold me back but the phantom of what I was defending myself from everything that held me back. Almost as if an over reaction towards an immunity, my own defenses has imprisoned me from anyone's reach and trapped me in solitude.

And yet, the past two months I learned I am almost immortal or at least in relation to everything that has held me back. It's almost freeing how you can now pinch off something as a stray insect from your shoulder that once held you down and made you struggle to continue. How my immediate reaction towards anyone attempting to "pull one over" is a braying of laughter and a hardy, "nope". How hugging my most delicious of friends is actually comforting now rather than empty. And when I leave my most favorite of companions I do not feel the hollowness of losing their embrace and kindness or even feeling how I drew as much happiness for my own from them in order to make a few paces away only to feel the lingering phantoms of such affection. Now I leave with a bursting heart, as if my love was a damned river bursting through and flooding the once parched landscape. I want to go further in my vagabond way, now knowing there is no tether of obligation holding me back, but a need from others that I can or can not oblige.

I finally have choices, options and advantages rather than tightening a belt, pinching a penny that never existed, and a daunting duty to grind my life away.  As I finish this post on December 1st, I can honestly say that that is now over. If life does get difficult, and oh it will get difficult #TheMostGloriousofDumpsterFires, I know that I can endure, move forward and make the lives of others better also. I'm not dreading what will come because I had overcame the greatest of enemies and it was me. In protecting myself I almost killed myself. I mean, I can't begin to explain to you how much of a challenge I was. And yet, once I challaenged the right places I come to realize that I was holding on to what was killing me.

So I let go........just let it go.....

.....boom.....

......and that's all it took.

Yea, I'm shocked as you are. And sitting today on Dec. 1st I'm not dreading or fearful or having to be proactive to make certain I'm not alone, out of reach, or lacking in any drive as I sprint towards January, but I am hopeful, safe, and even eager to see what will come my way. I feel nothing can pull me down unless I will it so.

So....yea.....I'm good. I'm ok. I'm more than fine.  For the first time in a long time, I am at peace and ready for what life has in store for me. Even if I hit a set back, I'm not going to lose this. I mean once you face yourself and win, is there nothing you can endure?

......right?

Peace and Love.

Shower Epiphany- The Solitude of a World yet Sleeping

There is a sadness in being up so early. I've been here many times, many moments and many lives. I've awoken to darkness only to stare out into a rising sun and almost questioning its work ethic, demand reason why it took so long to catch up. It's a stark difference to waking late. The world seems to have left you behind in its pace as you attempt to comprehend what had passed in your slumber and what time you have left to interact with the World.

I've existed in both in many places in my timeline. I've walked the streets in the dead of night and the dead of morning. Many can not tell the difference, but I can all too well. The dead of morning has a Xmas day sort of vibe when in the right neighborhood you too can relive your Twilight Zone fantasies of running down vacant streets screaming "WHERE IS EVERYONE?!?!" Or at least until someone opens a window and imagines that you are trying to relive that one scene in any variant of the Scrooge tale, fat goose included. In the dead of night there is a feeling that the world has ended, but more in an apocalyptic sense where the only humans you'd encounter are almost zombie or do not recognize you as kind. It's almost when you're driving through a destination at night and you stop in the middle of nowhere in many places in this nation, and if you're lucky they won't lynch you for your creamy coffee latte skin, where even if you do interact with humanity, or for what passes for it, it usually treats you as alien as much as you treat it.

And yet, I've spent these mornings, even now as I do not have any particular place to go outside of making hard phone calls and attempting to pull myself out of my past once more in hopes for a future, where as different as it all is there are similar factors that I can find comfort in. I'm usually in the darkest room in silence so loud that it seems to suffocate the outside world. If lucky a bird attempts to disrupt such an oppressive quiet in order to pull life back into the world, even if it's to have it ignore it for its song. I'm holding a mug of sorts, they change with time and place, but a mug all the certain. Even now I as I sip bitter black coffee when I could have sweet and delicate. My face is greeted by a cold morning, not midwest cold, but cold just the same before the radiance of sunlight touches and wakes all with heat and promise. I am alone with my thoughts. Some I continue to have, others I fear I may never contemplate and some I only hope never to entertain again. I stare out into the cold day as it shines off into a distance until the heat touches me once more and I mutter my accusations to the gas giant as if demonstrating some arrogant superiority.

And yes, there was a time when I took it seriously.

With as many similarities of each moment, there are different scenes, places, and times. There was a time where a blue-haired vision would walk over to me and wrap a warm arm calling me to bed, just a bit longer. Others I'm having a French breakfast of bitter coffee once again, this time joined by a cig and a croissant. In another life, I wore fatigues and strapped on my medic bag, knowing that I need supplies, but coffee was best now and I can lose myself in it. Another I walk the dead streets with confusion, loss, and bitter brew in hand trying how once again rebuild my existence. One I'm running through paces and maneuvers for the horrors to come and others I'm simply emerging from an empty bed in solitude and savoring a melancholy existence that most would find heartbreaking and I comfort.

I've lived many lives and had been many people. And yet, they are all me. If I did not live the worst moments I could not become the kind, loving, fatherly person you love me as today. The scars on my person and persona made me what I am. There was a time when I could not comprehend this and my death by my hand was my only solution to a mind muddled with attempting to make sense of horror past. It almost killed me, yet it only made me pensive, sweet, kind, and almost sensually and delicately precise. It has given me mastery of pain and the ability to soothe those who needs comfort. The only benefit I can gather from living through hell is that I can now be for others the person I needed most when I cried out into a cold night for someone, anyone who'd come for me. Now I comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.

So I await the rising of the Sun. I await for those of you to pull yourself from slumber, never knowing I stand on the Imaginary wall between you and what ails you. I wait for the world to rub the sleep out its eyes and begin so that I may enter it once more and be part of it. I try to pass enough as human before I leave it once more, usually at an hour most are raging against their sleep and fatigue and I lay myself to be still and silent once more. I leave you nightly to your interactions with each other to wake once more in dark solitude and a cold morning where my early companion is the rising Sun.

Some days I wonder if I can pass on one day without my story being told. Others I think its best for it to join me in the grave. Mystery often times allows you a greater legend. At this point, that's all that I am: Legend. People would not like to know who I am as I seek quiet corners and silent passings of time. I put on a show when able and seek isolation when needed. I do not know my end nor would I ask to. I simply marvel much like today that I could probably rival Bowie with reinventions of self. Funny thing is, I never thought of myself as worth much.

Not saying I'm wrong now, yet.....yet......*sighs and nods, takes sip from bitter coffee*.....I can say I walk with greats and radiate magnificence even if I only reflect it from others much greater than I will ever be, much as the Moon reflect the Sun's light.

I'm not special in any way.

Yet....*smiles and sighs* ,,,,,,I can't believe that I'm here, what I do, and how I helped make things better, even when everything looks dismal and lost.

Peace and Love

Be good to each other.

Between Enthalpy and Entropy there the Struggle for Peace of Mind: Or I like writing, you guys, I do!

I always loved the idea of being a scientist as a child. I think it was Ghostbusters when Bill Murray turns to the Hotel big wig and tells him, to back off because he was a scientist. Then again if you asked me what science was back then I'd probably explain to you how they were the people who took magic and made it every day. The people chasing Big Foot, trying to figure out which aliens were using prods for their butt experiments, and how to talk to ghosts of course. Then again I was what....10? 

Yet there is something that I find solace in science that writing has not given to me. There is a method that is tried and true and if there were any errors to it, it would have been corrected to make sure that you can be as close to 95% correct in your assumptions. I love that there are formulas that calculate the most tiny of factors that can have the greatest effect to what you are attempting to calculate. I love most of all that if you are earnestly pursuing your practice with honesty, you'd want people to correct your mistakes, prove your hypothesis wrong, and to double check your math to make sure you didn't round up too soon or that you have shaved a great amount of precision off of your work for the assumption of simplicity. I even love the fact that people chase down the math for any patterns that may give people an idea to make life a bit better than before. 

What can be explained is and what can not be is hunted down by a world wide community that is hunting down the same clues with different ideas hoping for that one error or observation that will lead to the next breakthrough understanding on why and how. It still makes me laugh that my degree is in Exercise Science and yes, some may call me a glorified coach, I see myself as someone who can take account on a biochemical, genetic and microbial level why you should run, yes it's fucking hard and no one really likes it, but that difficulty does wonders for your cardiovascular health even though you are not good at it and do resemble a drunk llama spitting every fourth step. It makes me laugh because in an odd moment of realization I discovered I don't need to wait for a return of graduate school to pursue more chemistry and micro to call myself a scientist, but that my degree alone does that.

Like, wow......childhood goal realized and attained. Neat.

Still going back one day. 

Yet this is probably why I can not understand writing in any sense. It isn't a tried true method of getting something on the screen that doesn't make me feel a failure of humanity. In fact, I've written so many things that I realize what I want to write can't be reached at times. It's not like I have a map and compass with a decent sense of direction to get me where I wanted to, but more of a guy tied to a kite who might have believe this to be a great idea only to end up hoping he lands somewhere soft. Writing is pure chaos for me and has always been my first love. As much as I see scientists in their lab coats and black rubber gloves engaging in explosions, lightning and the taboo.....oh wait....that's movie scientist...always trying to blaspheme GOD and ending up fucking up the world with a moral of "if you only stayed stupid we'd be ok" always delivered..... 

FOCUS 

Writers have this romantic idea and view of ripping something so close the ether and soul from within in order to proclaim of our humanity and worth the empty heavens. Keats, Shelly, Byron, and sure.....even Wordsworth bring up dusty libraries, roaring fires, and writing to candlelight. Writers such as Poe, Lovecraft, and even King shows us how our human flaws can be used to grow terror and fear in order to remind us that we are only here for a moment. That our time has followed greater moments and will be shadowed afterwards by great ones, trapping us into a blink of a memory that will only catch the attention of those who can not remember and will end up not caring enough to bring themselves to the effort of  following it up. 

So as much as I crave the Enthalpy of science, bringing into order for a few microseconds of time an image that blurs past us daily, I crave the Entropy of ripping one's self apart for the amusement of another. And yet, it's more. It's that space that lives between boredom and the inspiration to attempt some sort of insane amusement that would only lead to a great story one day. Even now I am filled with so much to say once more and that the moments that do me in the worst is not writer's block that nulls me to nothingness, but the explosion of events and life that speeds by without a moment of reflection. Those moments when you mind feels so impacted that it risks to explode and sacrificing on to death every last thought that had will not be birth to the world. I know my dying moments on this world, if not numbed by opiates or blanked by internal madness of illness will be filled with the lamentation of not my time coming to end, but of the ideas I haven't expressed, even if they dwell within the mundane.

I can not control it. I do not choose when it speaks or at times what it says. I only ingest what I am able to take in or at times are forced to ingest moments that lead to nightmares from denial. I then stare at the screen and make my numerous attempts that will either lull me to calm or spur an onslaught of rambling words with no sort of order, often times saying everything but what needs to be said. Proofreading at times cause me question if the previous ME is just insane or just stupid. Other times I realize that as much as I was taken hostage by that point, that it was too overwhelming and I could not erupt what needs to be said. Often time rereading it would cause me to break from reality and understand I can not say what I need to say the most simply because I can not find the words to encompass it all and what I needed the most of someone to hold on to me and tell me it will be all right. When I am able to say something so bluntly it is due to many of these moments reread or a comatose apathy that numbs me whole and allows me to utter horrors without screaming until my throat becomes bloody. These are the times when I willing go into circles or tell others that I can not endure the memory once again since I lose so much reliving it. 

There are other moments where I take on the Sisyphean burden of returning to a piece I've had dove in without checking for depth and wrestled it down to by any means available to me, each time disgusted with my attempts, enraged at my own ineptitude. These moments of hatred cause me to inflict self-hatred through harsh liquor and self-depreciating actions that will only add more fuel to a future fire. I return to the scene of struggle and wonder what is missing and how I can hold on to it once more in order to put my will upon it and not it upon me. I'm learning to walk away from pieces with a much impressive failure rate since they only lead to frustrated angst and sluggish mornings. They usually wane upon their deathbeds without mercy and conscious only to arrive at the disappointing end of being deleted and called my personal ruin. And yet there are those times where I commit the unimaginable and keep such a dead piece hidden and out from public eyes to remind me that I am not able to bare all, even when screaming that I am more than willing and would gladly make it my last effort at anything. I witness this necrosis and in some horrid and blasphemous say make mental notes and leave it once more entombed within intangible walls, never to see light of day.

My writing has always been there when I had no voice. Either memorized in order to keep the prying from finding another assault to their order or smuggled, hidden and protected as some would their secret shames. In everyday life, I do not resemble marble in which my emotions are protected and hidden from those who can find fault with them. With the most spectacular of ability to not be able to speak a lie, I had to learn to either remain silent. select my words with diligent care, or to blatantly spew what is in mind without fear of what may come. It's rough enough fighting a stutter. I've learned quickly to lean towards the strange and odd in order to be able to speak somewhat until social anxiety or once again, apathy (you will see this material again and again) allows me to say what I can and to shrug off when mumbled mess stumbles. Writing surpasses that if and only if I can get this venture enough momentum that I can begin to focus with some sort of idea of direction. If I get 80% of it I call it a victory and I can move on. If I get 50% I know I will continue to beat a dead horse. Less and it becomes a running theme that sneaks into everything untilI attempt to exorcise it which at times only leads to the previously mentioned entombment until I can bury it or use it to scold my stupored id. 

I've improved greatly I'm told in the same breaths that critique. There is something primal about someone tearing into your piece and pulling it apart that causes you to recoil in terror and fury. Check my math? Please, thank you and would you care for creme in your coffee? Tear my limping piece on why I like chocolate bunnies and I hold myself from chewing off your face with some sort of sick interest of why you find fault in order to push me to bite more of your face. I don't understand it. It's either apathy of the sacrifice or a rollercoaster of emotion all ending with a feeling of failure. I never had this skin thickened and I wish I was able to attain it. Here I scream out ramblings can feel I achieved much and others simply struggle to get through misspellings and circular points and nonsense. So I force myself to edit and try not to symbolically flip the table and give up completely only to realize I have nowhere else to go but the mess I left.

That's an image, huh? A filthy anarchist in shambles as it places a comical bomb on a bridge causing to burn as they dance against 'Merica and God and Country only to run off and drive the firetruck into the river from the damaged bridge they destroyed. It's hilarious here, but when you see it .....yea, it's sad. So....yea, don't do that?

FOCUS 

I know what you're saying, "Auggie, you magnificent bastard, you're just stalling! You haven't said anything outside that you like writing and it's incredibly difficult to you, you most charismatic and scoundreled individual, you!" And yes, I would have to answer with yes, I am stalling. This is basically a mic check of sorts. I wanted to get something written in order to continue to. I needed to prevent literary blue balls. I wanted to know I can still write when need to, especially now since I am so full of thought I don't know where to start. I want to write about an achievement and then something that still haunts me today. To rant at the innate simplicity of what is evil and what is not evil which so many are literally bending over backwards to negate and declare that they ALWAYS enjoyed the upright position of being able to inspect one's own jejunum with superiority and self-appointed greatness, oh how great are they people, so much greatness that it's blinding, this greatness is so great folks, believe me. There is so much within that I fear that if I share one idea with will be tainted with the other and not expressed to it's full glory. I know, it's stupid, but I feel this way and I wanted to see if I can write without any of it. 

Yet, I am defensive. At this point of life, I realized that everything can and may be taken from you yet your ability to communicate is only taken by force or willingly given up for whatever reason. I've given it up once. For happiness. For what I called happiness which was pleasing someone who didn't think I should disagree with them. That any discontent would be met with imaginative measures of hell that may endure through the night and longer. Where anything of worth to you, no matter how small can be taken and smashed in front of you. Where you are not worth anything to them and they will beat that into you for your own good without any regards to their own being. They do it out of  love, which is the most horrific self-justification I've ever had heard from upright apes who declare to know the heart of the universe. What is it about people who knows best for you and their idea of how the universe is behind them fully. 

And you're in the way. Why don't you let me love you? Why do you make me do this to you? Why must I go to these measures? Why can't you trust me? I should have never cared about such a shitty excuse for a person.

Each of those  remarks came with a physical injury and scar to boot. Sometimes they're reminders of what was and what never should have been. Other days they are fuel to never shut up and serve as proof that if anyone can not reason with you without force they are not worth your time. Ever. 

.......

FOCUS 

....yea, writing is difficult, but I have my reasons. I have to and it's probably the vice to do me in one day. I also will let it take me. I've had moments where words have failed me and that alone has caused me to realized that only a mind unwilling entertain you can be your limit. I'm learning that a mind that is closed off is not worth your reach. That doubt is more than enough for them and you must reach those willing to entertain your openly. Life is too short. Anyone who either stifles you or negates your effort with ignorance is not worth the effort when the willing are always that. So I write for myself. I edit for you, but I write for myself in hopes of trying to make some sort of sense to what I see and I can not comprehend fully. To bring meaning to what I can not wrap my mind around and to hope that once say it makes sense to someone else. Not lofty goals, but they are mine. I don't see fortune from this, only a clear mind and perhaps a chance to fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. 

That's good enough, no?

Please Stand By

My dearest apologies, loyal and critical readers,

I had so much to share and contribute with so much happening last week. Overall, it was positive, magnificent, and challenging in every way. Those closest to me have a hunch of what I'm enduring at the moment and have all arrived at one statement:

You need a lawyer.

So, I'm trying to find one considering financial limits, gathering proof, and simply attempting to find one who knows if they can help me. So I'm in a bit of a mental hurricane.

Please have some patience with me and I shall give all. My most magnificent change a week ago, putting myself in the worst place for me in spite of what I had to gain, the fact that I actively looked over my shoulder and realized that the abyss was not to be seen and hardly felt.

And sadly, yes what happened Thursday at 9pm and why I need a lawyer.

Why not tell it now?

*sigh*

Ever lived an ordeal that simply telling it drained you of life, happiness, and drive to accomplish anything? Well, that has been the majority of my life without any....ANY....embellishment. In many ways, it's why I see the Crazy Doc and why he told me I needed to fight this. I needed to take this on as much as I have taken anything on and put this to it's grave. I would tell it, but not now. I need to time to process and time to gather my thoughts. I also want to touch on something happy, if only for myself and to give respite that I had worked so hard for.

......I was working hard, I was.

I need a lawyer.

Please, forgive me. I should have something a bit more cheery for you. It was an awesome week.

I'll see you on Wednesday.

On this day, Fifteen years later: A moment of reflection

I was 26

I was waiting out the "summer" for CSULA to begin and I was keeping myself busy hitting the gym at 2am and crashing at 3 am. Couldn't sleep so I stayed up long enough to get Howard on the east coast feed. It would rewind at 6 am to replay the entire show again, but I loved hearing it live.

So right at the point, it was supposed to "rewind" it happened. I listened in shock and realized that this was a shitty bit. After some time I turned on TV and realized that the first building was hit. I got on the internet and tried to understand what was going on.

Second plane hit. Still listening to Howard. Still watching. Everyone was horrified.

No footage of New Jersey  Muslims cheering. Everyone was in shock. We believed in our president despite of what insane election results stated. We wanted retribution. We were angry. The nation invaded Afganistan.

Then we heard how monstrous Sadam was. How he poisoned his people. How he funded terrorism despite of religious divisions. How he amassed weapons of mass destruction and "yellow cake". How he had tubes that could bomb Isreal. And how he was the pure essence of evil. On every channel. By our President, Secretary of State Powell, Vice President, the entire cabinet. Present presidential candidates were for war. It was the first time I have ever heard from the little Jewish socialist. We would not know what horror was done under the guise of patriotism until 2004. We didn't have an exit plan. It wasn't a Clinton Era humanitarian mission where the US came in to put the work in, and left the rest to the UN. America stayed. American business benefited.

We lost the lives of multiple soldiers and support. Many lives were affected that never set foot on the battlefield. Gays were trying to marry and that was a clincher for the election. Budgets swelled for military and then police. Education suffered and scapegoats were chosen. Patriots wave flags, chase out Dixie Chicks, put yellow ribbons on everything and speak of harsh punishment for sedition speak. Later we would discover the perfect storm of the remnants of the Nixion administration finally given free reign. Torture was fine. They hate us for our freedom. And they tried to kill Georgie's daddy. A new definition of "terrorist' is given as despots run with it and attack under genocidal means to protect the homeland.

We become the bane of the world. Then the laughing stock. Lewis's warning become more then premonition as  "...fascism comes to America, ...wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross."

So I always rethink on this day. We lost our fear of Big Brother only to confess to little snitch. We were swayed by our government by this day and moment to commit atrocities under the guise of the greater good. For a moment the majority of us lock-stepped and got into ranks. Even Carlin pulled back before he realized they were up to the same shit.

So I don't get sentimental. I look at the whole picture and realized that when in times of pain and hurt there will moments when the wrong people will work and try to use you against humanity. They will remind you when you come to your senses that they were doing it for you and your hands are also bloody.

So...yea......this day was the turning point.

Morning respite over Coffee and the Sundering of American Life or My take on Clint Eastwood's Pussy Generation

*sitting in kitchen with second cup of coffee listening to a lecture. This is his first time this week having coffee. Since he's running an average of 14 to 17 miles a week now, coffee is a no run day delicacy to be savored and cherished in these silent moments with headphones in ears. Looking out to the yard and street a large truck favored to construction workers wail on it's train like horn at a lowrider speed as it's large bounty of fruit glistens with freshly hoses mist. Blueberries would be lovely later if not for a fridge filled with them. It's difficult finding a decent sushi restaurant or a pho shop, but fresh fruit is never hard to find, often putting to shame the produce often shipped third rate due to geography and likelihood to fall for "organic" labels considering that the majority of people here have raised crops at one point or another in their lives*

...hmmmmm...they want a wall.....*sighs*....they actually want a wall......

*he shakes his head and tries to forget politics and the growing fear among most people here that the nation is actually going to bear down on them like in the 70's, or 30's, or worse. "Illegal" immigration have statistically not only ended in a trickle, but have regressed with families not able to afford their homeland once more and knowing that land is plentiful, they haven't seen their families in decades, and their children and grandchildren have thanked their sacrifice as societies "shit people" and "whipping boys" so that they can be citizens, gain the opportunity of an education, and actually give back to the society that once considered them vermin*

.....Pete Wilson.....Ronald Reagan......Roosevelt *sighs again*

*It's funny how it was the "Mexicans" now as it was the "Italians" then. Or the "Chinese" or the "Japanese" and the "Irish" and even the "Blacks". It's always someone else for the problems that never seem to be solved in centuries. Whipping boys are numerous and easy to find. Any population attempting to exist in a society that does not give them a fair shake out side of letting you live here will always find their place in some newsletter or web site or blog calling for the mongrels to be cast out either by political control or by weapon, all depending who the president is. Patriots become rebels in increments of four or eight years. It's either may way god bless america or it's don't tread on me you other. Nothing changes. Videos are made, people capturing moments of horror that only now the majority of White America is witnessing with a saddening response of either never knowing despite of the amount of history books or simply defending why a twelve year old child playing with a toy gun was deemed worth of immediate execution. People are horrified over a gorilla's death or "assassination" never understanding that young boys are sat down not understanding how sex works but how death may happen with a harsh word, not complying to every opportunity, or simply making the choice of buying something from the 7-11*

......nothing changed. Just more people realize it and are either appalled or even overjoyed......

*life was hard in the 80's. He was always a trusting child. If told police would give you baseball cards then they did that. He had several and the Dodgers were huge to him. In time he would stop believing them heroes as the violence of the streets he lived on increased with the drug war and the romanticized view of the gangbanger. It makes him laugh that word has changed meaning in time considering the horror he's seen and the friends he lost. Drug money, poverty and an easy score lured many to it only to have the majority laying bloodied in the streets, the young in prison, and a legal and political system not realize that opportunity is limited in these areas and the youth needed saving, but were condemned as animals, without family structure, or without morals. Their horrific warlike terror was seen as reasons why you would arm yourselves and that ignorant people are just criminals by nature. Ah, the 80's. Most see it as joyful folly, he sees it as twenty years of justified police killings and a funnel of prison to communities who needed FEMA or someone to realize that poverty kills. It kills, but it also fills coffers. Everyone feared the NWA, but no one realized that segregation and police brutality from Lynwood would fuel Compton's rage. Today what NWA alive are selling beer or overpriced headphones. "Hard niggas" of the 90's now have MBA's and are community leaders who suffered the hell of the day to give a new generation a new day*

.....privileged kids....pussy generation...*sips mug only to realize that it's empty, yet holds it to take in happy scent*.......trigger warnings .......and the fagot generation.....ha......"make my day"....ha ha....

*kids are fucking pussies. It's an easy thing to say. Almost trying to wash it's hands from what is and what responsibility have wroth. Clint Eastwood made his money by shooting niggers and thugs because Merica needed a dirty harry. Charles Bronson murdered rapist, spics, and hippy druggies to make his streets clean with a large manly gun. Arnold stopped smoking weed on camera and stopped chasing pussy to bulk down and say one liners while shooting gangs and Sandinista and commie shit that one day he would be given the chance to ruin California's economy. Bruce Willis stopped trying to play the blues on stage and picked up guns against the russkied and socialists and anyone with a funny accent. Chuck Norris has no testicles, no! Bruce Lee's bitch has only two more fists in his sack and be ejaculates spin kicks. Such a delicate thing, the male ego is and it seems the more "privileged" it is the more women and people of color has to bow to it to make it feel superior. Paula Dean isn't a racist really, all she wanted was niggers to dance in white like in those Shirley Temple movies. And Black people did back then under an age of oppression, lynchings and making any small move lead to death. They tapped danced, sang and smiled on stage. Women swooned at the turn of the century then wanted to vote even if they bleed all over the booths, the uppity bitches. Wet backs wanted a fair pay for picking poison sprayed produced that caused birth defects in their young. Remember Charo? She shook her body to hoochi koochi while Brown children wanted to go to a better school and be prepared for college. The Rat Pack ruled the world even if Sammy could do anything without half of the nation calling him a nigger jew.*

.....I got to be me.....poor Sammy.....

*Mr. Eastwood wants this back. No one complained because they had no voices or they got lynched via mob or police. The faggots were just faggots until Harvey Milk took a stand and was shot. Malcolm called for revolution by any means necessary and was shot. King wanted to follow Gandhi's stance on nonviolence and was killed when he spoke against a war in Vietnam, the commie nigger cheat.....he cheated on his wife you know.....filthy nigger. Black Panthers were killed on spot by police or informants planted information to ensure their imprisonment. Student organization where under surveillance and multiple organizations were torn apart from the inside by those who wore the same color for the bidding of Blue. People to this day believe that crack was devised by the CIA and AIDS was made in labs to decimate the population of those who are unwanted. It's conspiracy at best, but when Ronald Reagan holds a press conference and the question of HIV is brought up laughter is had about the male homosexual disease. Investigations are discovered that police and even higher government used dirty measures to catch "crooks" only to have them overturned, damages paid, and police departments on charges. What's worth when someone is made to live in a wheelchair due to a bust? When they ARE a criminal and the charges were made up and they were placed there with "good meaning" yet a dirty outcome. It's funny even now the ghosts of gangs and militants are used to scare white america. They're going to get you so more guns and in schools and in church and in the bedroom. In my youth, gun violence was a normal thing in school as one guy was shot over gang business and rarely in daylight. Drive by were common and we wore colors that were not "colors". We were called animals and savages in the halls of Congress. Then Columbine happened and more up to Littletown. We never killed our classmates, "only the cost of business" as the lyrics go. Yet this was something we needed to cure, now the epidemic is all over. No I worry that The Jungle and Crenshaw is being gentrified by a generation of white middle class who somehow didn't get the memo of what monsters we are. Children who's nannys played ranchera music and taught them Spanish while cooking and cleaning. The animals raised their children to know what tacos are. To fuel the foodie revolutions of enjoying other culture's food when they were reviled for being different. This new generation of white people are adventurous and friendly to a culture who had warned their children to keep their heads down and "don't cause trouble"*

....Good days.....when are our good days?

*He called his daughter privileged, but not to insult her. To make a point. He told her, if he lined up the generations of their family from her on the end to their great grandparents who rumors fought in the revolution and had that generations "white people" call them a filthy racial something, her great grandparents who had rifles in their hands because of need rather then ego would only look down and be silent. Her grandparents would do the same, but a glint of "uppity" might escape. Me, my generation would take a breath, calculate the threat and choose our words carefully only to be silence by her and her generation pulling out their phone, recording the happening and armed with a flurry of facts and outraged that has made them the "pussy generation". Oh my god, triggers. You should not rape because bad. And you should not shoot people because bad. Your argument should not be won with a bullet because bad. Straight Male privilege is bad because it oppresses blah blah blah....pussy generation, see? Keep your head down, do a little dance, and make that delicate privileged ego safe. Dirty Harry hates your complaining. Chick Norris, a man who afraid of chemtrails think that nonchristians are a threat to all because they exist. Arnold did the most republican thing while fucking California over by fucking the maid! That ugly brown bitch! Not like Shakira...that girl can shake and ass....booty booty everywhere, Bra.....Bruce Willis needs his guns everywhere or else he realizes he has no career without them. Paula Dean is a person of her time and she don't care because someone like the fact that niggers danced in clean white clothes and made Shirley Temple happy. They knew their place. Charles Bronson died in a lucky age where brown people were shot at and not reasoned with. I guess he's the lucky one*

....they want a wall......not better economics.....a wall......

*The time scares him a little. The threat of Alt Right worries him. The people who side with Merica even if some nigger, muslim social commie fagot prostitute who turned tricks for the drugs is in charge and ruining everything. The fact that Skin heads are being met with violence from a generation of leather clad vatos who are not going to let an angry minority end a protest with violence. They will fight back even if they get stabbed and arrested and held while the offending group leaves with bail. The world cheered and said that is what you do to "Nazis". Black people are arming themselves in Black Panther manner and protecting Mosques from Mericans and their guns. Brown people are not to be messed with anymore. The faggots are not, and they realize that Harvey left them with a great example of unification beyond who you take to bed with and to stand against who threatens you, even if it's not a "gay thing'. Unification means protecting those in need rather then each for themselves. So, he's trusted enough for someone to come out to. He's willing to hear someones tale or horror that is filed with rape, racial disharmony and gender trappings even if it looks like he's the "bad guy" in the story. People's voices are expanding and a new generation joins those commie, race traders who sold Merica out into realizing that one's privilege is often the removal of rights to others to masquerade as privilege. Hearing of horrors committed for their benefit only to realize it's not. Poverty is a universal unifying point, yet people are told this group or that group is to blame by those who gain from that lie. Merica has a sad story of it's own, once sung in country music but now often drowned out by patriotism. Everyone is coming together to a new idea of everyone making it, not just few while fewer gain most, but everyone, even the skinhead whose anger may one day wain and cause them to question. We've all been played here. Fear is dying out for some and for others the only means of unity. These are frightening times. That a man who has no allegiance other to himself would be the ALT RIGHT choice, god's choice. The White Race's choice when sadly......it's not. The game is blatant now and with that all the mechanisms are seen for all who dare. Yes, some want a wall and that makes all of us to pull together. Fagots are to blame and it pulls us all together. Religion is used as a weapon and even atheists hold the line for what's right. Women are divided on gender roles, race, and privilege yet in some happy moments unity happens. This is a frightening time and yet it pulls us together.*

.....but will we hold or let go once November arrives.....*sigh*

*He doesn't know and that scares him the most.*

.....they want a wall......

*He takes his mug to the sink and washes it out. Ikea is on today's list and beds must be picked up. He doesn't run today, but the previous nights soreness and ache is still prominent as he shuffles towards the bathroom.*

...I'm getting too old for this.....