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Razor

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About Razor

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    Elite Member

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  • Gender
    Male
  • Sexuality
    Gay
  • Favorite Genres
    Fantasy
    Horror
  • Location
    Alabama
  • Interests
    Oh c'mon, does anybody actually attempt to list all of their interests in these little boxes?!

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  1. Razor

    New Toy

    I've been saying for years I would get around to learning how to play piano. I kinda started trying to pick it up in college, but there wasn't really anybody to explain to me basics and back in the day we didn't have all the wonders of the internet that we do today (omg I'm so old). Anyway, so I broke down and bought one! It's nothing crazy special, but I did make sure it had the full 88 keys and fully weighted hammer action keys and all that jazz so it's as close to a real piano as I can afford. Today was pretty hectic so I only sorta scratched the surface getting together basics of what NOT to do and then started learning scales and how you're supposed to move your fingers over/under to get the basic idea of how your hand sorta... there must be a word for this but you get a tuck and move sorta action going. And I have to say, there is a night and day difference on this keyboard versus the ones I tried to use more than a decade ago, this feels so much more like a real piano that it's almost annoying, my fingers have unequal strength and responsiveness right now, so that tuck and go motion gets me sometimes, the left to right motion of the right hand catches me if I'm not paying particular attention to my thumb for the tuck maneuver. That should get easier in time. I might be super lame, but after an hour I can finally do that mostly correctly, and I was super proud of myself for learning this. I'd like to spend longer, but I think the most I can really budget and stay faithful to is about 1 or 1 and 1/2 hours a day toward this, but I'm pretty happy with that progress. I also have Mary had a Little Lamb stuck so thoroughly in my brain now that I want to eat a shotgun and my fingers keep trying to twitch toward where the keys should be. Found a lady that gives lessons locally and sent her an email to get that sorted, so I'm quite looking forward to this. I like the idea of having a goal to work toward that I can ever improve upon, especially when I get frustrated/anxious/depressed about actual life. Perhaps that way I could escape into something meaningful and worthwhile instead of moping or feeling bad. On another note, I remembered a thing from a very long time ago, because I was standing outside on my front porch and I still keep my Christmas-style white string lights on my porch because when all of us hang out on the porch it provides nice lighting. Don't even know why I remembered this. So have a random memory. Work starts at one pm. Each day, I stay until at least ten pm, and drive home afterward. It is Christmas, so we have decorated our home with Christmas lights to festively welcome Santa. We can't do much, because we don't have the money, but we can afford a few strings of lights for the front, and a string around the indented, shaded-by-trees carport. One day a lady with a child (perhaps about five?) waves to me as I pull into my carport and I see her kid grinning and pointing, and I wave back. I remember when I was his age, and seeing those lights was a wonder. As an adult, it hardly seems special. I am twenty-one years old, and I can barely imagine anymore what it was like to be his age, but I can vaguely recall that amazement crystalline in his eyes when his mouth tilts open and he points, and his mother smiles and waves at me. Christmas passes, and we take the lights down. Except for the carport lights; we like those, it gives ambient light to a dark carport, and we're fine leaving them there indefinitely. We keep talking about taking them down, but I just don't want to. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe I'm just short and can't reach them and we don't have a ladder and I don't feel like climbing. Who knows, but I'm not taking them down. Weeks pass. It is now mid-February, and we still have Christmas lights on our carport. They're visible from the street and, while shaded through some trees, easily identifiable for what they are. I drive to work. I drive home. I rinse, wash, and repeat, and forget about that mother with her child. One day I'm driving home again and this time I see the kid and his mom again. They're both motioning to me, but my car window won't roll down; it has broken and it is too expensive for me to fix. I stop. After all, we're headed toward each other in a deserted side street, and I might as well say hello. I open my door slightly motioning that my window doesn't roll down. As I do, she lets down her window. At first I think they might be having trouble, I don't recognize them for who they were. "We wanted to tell you that we look at your lights every night, and my son wants to tell you to never take them down. He loves Christmas!" I laugh; a deep, genuine, rolling laugh. "I promise they'll stay up as long as I'm here! You guys be safe and have a great night." She smiles, he smiles, they wave in tandem and drive away as I shut my door and pull into my carport. It is no problem to keep these lights on as long as I live here if it makes them happier to see them each night. It makes my concerns seem silly, even. I can't voice why I feel the way I do, but I feel that if I can keep these lights on, if they smile when they see them even though to most adults they're a bit tacky after the holiday, then who cares? Isn't it hopeful, isn't it incredible that something so simple makes them happy? If they feel joy because of something that I do, something that requires almost zero effort from me and hardly any money, who am I to deprive them of it? This is one of those stories that has no ending, though. I moved on. The house moved on. The other person living in it moved on. I'll never know what happened after that. But for the space of several months, I kept those fucking lights up and on, because who wouldn't?
  2. Razor

    The Dead to Me List Grows

    Want me to show up at his house and hit him with a metal cane? I feel like I could get away with it. I mean who would believe that my tiny crippled self would ever assault someone? I charge a flat fee for this service, btw, so if you have 500 dollars and a vendetta, I will Kill Bill on his ass. All jokes aside, ~sincere internet hugs~.
  3. Razor

    The Dead to Me List Grows

    I have found myself in a strange position. I don't have many friends, and that circle has become even smaller lately. Never being overly social, I value my time alone, so it doesn't bother me too much. On the other hand, I find that when I allow myself too much time to think I get carried off on wild tangential paradoxical loops of thought that leave me wanting to peel my own skin off strip by strip in order to cease analyzing. In my mind, there's a list of people. It's not an ever present list, no, that would be far removed from the point the list serves. This list is my You're Dead to Me list. Basically, if I add a name to the list, I make a conscious decision and effort to not think about that person ever again, and will purposefully do everything in my power to avoid them at all cost up to and including deliberately turning away from them and walking in the other direction and pretending I do not hear them or even outright saying "You are dead to me, now go away". It's easy to see why I don't like to add names to this list. It takes a lot of effort to make a conscious decision to never think about someone again. I can't even say that sometimes I don't think about the names on that list and go back over the situation that caused the addition, fiddling with endless permutations of possibilities in my head. What if I had said this, done this, been this, changed this, etc. Not only that, but I feel like a terrible person when I add to that list. It makes me feel unkind, cruel, selfish, obstinate, and narrow minded. There's always endless internal debate before adding to the list. Did I cause this? Have I communicated effectively? Have I apologized for anything they sincerely feel was my fault, whether or not it was truly my fault? Did I demonstrate a willingness to compromise? Did I make it clear that I do not wish to end a relationship? That I have spoken my problem or position and clarified that enough? Eventually, though, sometimes people get added to the list, reserved for the most heinous of infractions. The latest filled me with a white hot rage that would not subside then burned itself out to ashen depression. That lasted all of a day and then I somehow went into self-preservation mode and tacked one more name onto the list, then slid it to the back of my mind where it has stayed for several days. And I know you think well, Jamie, surely if you're thinking about it now, you've really been thinking about it this whole time. The answer to that is oddly no, no I have not, for once. It's quite strange to me how I was able to take this entire situation and think to myself "Hm. Well, if I had any doubt before, this certainly settles it". I honestly don't think I've ever been this truly angry with anyone in my entire life before. This is a situation that is years in the making, but let's try to boil this down to a brief synopsis without losing too many of the important factors involved. Sounds easy, but when you try to explain years upon years in the space of a few paragraphs, it becomes impossible. You either say too little or too much, and neither is productive. Still, I'll try. Years ago when I was but a tiny fetus child of a mere twenty-one summers, I met a boy. In each other, we found pieces of what was missing from our lives. A great majority of those pieces, even. As with all things, time changed us. He became distant, disinterested, unenthusiastic, complacent. I grew restless, unfulfilled, resentful, frustrated. It culminated in a series of progressively worse fights and breakups and general hatred of each other, especially on my part. I will not lie, I have a long memory for grudges when I wholeheartedly believe I have been wronged. Eventually, I was tired of being left over and over (he always did the dumping... I always did the reconciling). In his defense, I turned into a heavy drinker in that relationship. While I was by no means an "angry drunk", drunk Jamie is even more no-holds-barred than sober Jamie could ever imagine. When I was drinking, every one of my emotions was cranked to maximum wattage. If I was happy, I was ridiculously motherfucking jolly. If I was angry, beware the doom that approaches and avoid it at all cost. I never used to be an angry person, though, so angry drunk Jamie was never a thing. Until him. I began storing up all my feelings and resentments and anger and frustration and lashing out when sufficiently provoked. I will not say that my feelings were not valid feelings, but they were amplified to the point of distortion. In my defense, he was reckless, had different values, and I can say now beyond a shadow of a doubt that he never put me at the same level of prioritization as I did him. My feelings/needs/values/dreams/hopes were simply not as important as his. Never were, never will be, and that's a cold, hard truth with which I will never be comfortable because it flies in my face as a failing on my part to recognize the situation for what it was in the moment. Even worse, it makes me think that I acted like some kicked puppy, beaten housewife, starved street urchin. He showed me the smallest bit of affection and instantly I believed he had my best interest always in mind, and gave my unswerving loyalty based on that assumption. What can I say? I was young. I was convinced, no, I knew that everyone was a good person and given the chance would always do right by me if I only made certain that I tried my best. 150%, eleven days a week, 548 days a year. Suffice to say there was a lot of baggage there and we've piled on much more over the years. I have done my best to rip his still-beating heart from his chest with a fierce glare and scathing words, and he has (whether he admits or not) done the same to me with a different technique - indifference. Veracity is hard to ascertain through the lens of my own bias, so I can't say for certain with whom the fault originally began, or who worsened it, or who has caused the most harm. It was difficult for a long time to try to move past our differences and become something other than the embodiment of pure hatred for one another. We were not underachievers. With everything, we went hard. We loved hard, we fought hard, we hated hard, we were always that way. Eventually, though, the time came when I got sick. And he came to see me in the hospital and decorated my room for Mardis Gras (a tiny faux pas on his part given that the nature of the holiday is copious alcohol consumption and I was, ya know, dying of the whole alcoholism induced liver death thing), and I was amazed that he remembered me and even cared enough to do that for me. I was in a haze still, and I felt terrible because I slept through a lot of his visit and couldn't eat anything he brought me because of the feeding tube stuck down my nose and the nausea, but I was in shock that he even tried. Everything then was still strange. Not normal strange. The I-can-tell-I'm-hallucinating-and-death-is-trying-to-take-me-and-the-drugs-are-doing-bad-things-to-me strange that so few people have ever experienced until it's their time to go. Well, fast forward to last... um, late September? I think? Time runs together so easily as you age. I was freshly home from the hospital and adjusting to things. Still am, frankly, it's a lengthy adjustment. I was adulting as hard as I could, but there was no financial cushion, that had been depleted when I was in the hospital. Things were quite difficult, and I was not exactly happy. Even so, I took it upon myself to have an adventure. Partly because I wanted to prove to myself that I was not an invalid, that I was still capable, that I could do things by myself. Partly because I missed him terribly. So for the first time in a year, I was well and truly alone, because I flew to where he lives and got over to his place from the airport to visit. It was grueling. A month earlier I had still been using a cane to walk, and now here I was walking for miles unaided (on an unrelated note, bless that gentleman employee in the airport who I stopped to ask for directions to the car rentals and he took a look at me and out of nowhere asked if I wanted him to take me over in a wheelchair, that was exceedingly kind of him, even if I didn't take him up on the offer). Of course when I got there I was overjoyed to see him, but exhausted, feverish, unable to eat, and generally miserable. I will never forget sitting alone in his apartment while he was at work and googling physician assisted dying and VSED. All hope in the world drained from me at that point. How could he ever love me? How could anyone ever love me? I'm broken. I don't work right. I felt like an iPhone with a cracked screen in a universe where there are no repair techs, only new iPhones. The overwhelming loneliness set in, and even lying right next to him when I could put my hands on him and watch him as he slept it felt like I was so insubstantial, so unnecessary that I might as well cease to be. Of course I never said this, I'd done enough bringing everyone down for the past year before that. So we spent the time talking, watching tv, ordering out for food that I mostly didn't eat, etc. Then I went home a couple days later. The following November he conspired with my famiy. I'd told him I'd buy his car from him because he was trying to sell it, and I could get the money together within a few months at the most (honestly I was gonna make it happen by any means necessary, be they legal or no), but he had sort of let the conversation drop about that. Come to find out, they brought me the car. I was genuinely touched. I cried. He even drove it to where I live and was here to hand me the keys. At that very moment, I knew something was off. I can't explain how I knew, but I knew something wasn't adding up in my mind. I'd been reserved about everything we talked about, I felt that he had his own life to live and if he wanted me in it more he would say so. That time came and went, and he never said so, and I assumed that he was completely done with me romantically but that we had found a happy coexistence wherein we could value one another and help each other as the needs arise. I was happy with that. I felt proud of it, in fact. Seriously, I was so overjoyed that he would want to help me as much as I always wanted to help him, and that we could coexist without harming one another. Then I made a terrible, terrible mistake. Our anniversary was Valentine's. Way to set the fuckin' bar, right? Can't just have a normal anniversary, we had to be extra as fuck and make that V-day. Anyway, I was texting him throughout the normal course of my days as I usually do. As the date came up, I realized he had done so much for me lately that maybe I should give back somehow. I thought of a few things. The romantic in me loved our anniversary, so I considered everything from sending him a ridiculous flower arrangement at his workplace just to draw the attention of his female coworkers so he could smile about being wanted on that day to flying down again briefly to hug him and spend the night and fly back. After all, airfare is not that expensive between our two locations, for a hundred dollars I can get a round trip ticket. In the course of conversation this came up because I've realized a lot of the time I do not say how I actually feel, so I told him as much and that I miss and love him. BOOM MOTHERFUCKING KAPOW LIGHTENING STRIKE FROM THE GODDAMN HEAVENS OCCURS. Apparently this son of a bitch came to see me in the hospital more than once. I don't remember it. He said he tried to get back together with me multiple times. I don't recall. He said it was over the course of multiple months. I have no recollection. I have interrogated people over this. No one seemed to know. I have gone through texts, there is no evidence. Alarm bells rang in my head. The only reason I know he came to see me more than once in the hospital is because I interrogated people who were at the hospital after the ensuing conversation. He never even told me. No one told me. Everyone thinks I remember these things because I acted lucid, but the truth is there are gaps in my knowledge after the surgery. Reflex-Jamie took over. The basest of Jamies, the very core of my being, the tiny voice inside my head took control and portrayed myself in a production in which I was not cast. As for the ensuing conversation, it amounts to basically this, and you can tell by my use of hysterical all caps improper punctuation screaming text which one is me: "I wanted us to get back together." "WHAT. IN. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK." "You told me it wouldn't happen." "HOLD THE MOTHERFUCKING PHONE." "I'm confused by that response." "BITCH I AM CONFUSED BY YOU." "I said it three times." "EXPLAIN TO ME LIKE I AM A SPECIAL NEEDS CHILD." "I said it three times." "Okay so if you said this then I am not sure how I missed it because if you explicitly said this then I do not recall and I would tell you that honestly I do care about you and I would like to pursue this, because I feel like the fact that we even speak to each other after all these years says something about us both, so..." (And no, you, reader, can't know my personal thoughts about that, I am ashamed to admit them to anyone, even him) "Too late." Yeah that's about when the white hot rage set in, but I just said something to the effect of "I understand and I wish you well." Lemme translate that for you. "I understand and I wish you well." Ahem, that means "I hope you die alone, scared, lonely, in pain, crying out for help, and I hope that it's all an illusion in your mind that you're actually moving. I hope that as you cry out your lips don't actually move and that you are in the bottom of a grave and a shovelful of dirt scatters across your face and into your eyes and I hope you can't move your hands to clear it and I hope it burns. I hope you gasp for air in the last moments and aspirate top soil and clay. I hope you will remember the day you met me as you slip into oblivion because I want you to know what you could have had and I want you to know misery intimately." Wow. That got dark even for me. Still, it's self-preservation. My first thought as soon as he said that was damage mitigation. Disengage. Throw it away. Get as far away as possible. In so many words, I told him that I was dedicated to trying to pursue that if he wanted to, and he shot it down. Just. Like. Always. It makes me recall the days when I tried to voice my opinion and my concerns and got shot down. Just. Like. Always. I realized that while I love him, and I may always love him even in the midst of my hating him, that it's simply not worth it to engage with someone who never sees the pattern of their actions. Never sees the lack of their own empathy. Ya know, I don't like the idea of never speaking to him again. I haven't blocked his number and I won't; there is always some path toward reconciliation so long as communication remains open. Will I ever initiate a conversation again? I doubt it. I've been dumped a few times by him, and we're not playing that game anymore. I had always wondered how he was so unaffected by any problems, how he could maintain his concentration and goals and everything else around him and disregard the time bomb in the middle of the room when we fought. Then I realized, he simply shelves it. He doesn't let it get to him, he lets it go, he simply doesn't. It's the lack of action or forethought or insight or motivation to change which is so appealing to me. Also terrifying. I do not like that course of action. It seems tantamount to sociopathy to me. I care, deeply, about everything, always. And it hit me. The only possible solution is to add him to the You're Dead to Me list. The opposite of love is not hate. It is indifference. He has shown that to me in each and every altercation we have had in conflict and I never understood it until now. I can hope that perhaps the situation may change someday, and I am not ruling out that hope. However, I am a realist. The glass is never half empty nor half full, it is simply equidistant between two states of opposing existence. Realizing that I may never speak to him again, I am sad. But I have to keep going. I cannot be the person who cares for others all the time. I cannot be concerned with things that don't further me. The impetus lies with him if he ever wants to speak to me again. He's dead to me now. I mourn him in my own way. I may never be able to be indifferent. But I have learned to shelve a bitch.
  4. Razor

    Dreams

    You have no idea. I had a lot of great people. Another nurse talked me down from leaving the hospital because I was in so much pain and so agitated that I seriously considered leaving with my crippled ass (I was in a wheelchair and I really thought I could get out of there if I just hobbled to the curb and called an uber, I even found an ATM and took out cash in case I had to call a cab or bribe someone to give me a ride, I did not make good decisions when I was in horrible pain, and I just wanted to die), she just took me back to my room and sat me down and told me "There is nothing I can do for you right now. This is going to hurt, and it will be painful, and it will be horrible. I want you to hold on, and I can try my best to make it okay, but it is going to hurt. You can do this." So I mean, there's a culmination of great people.
  5. Razor

    Dreams

    When a major life event occurs you deal with its lasting effects. You're left with the fallout of what transpired and you move on as best you can. Sooner or later, it becomes as if a dream. Even faced with the lasting evidence of this event, your memory colors it in such a manner that it blocks out the most painful moments, the most meaningful moments, just as a coping mechanism to go back to the grind of everyday living. During my hospital stay when I had my liver transplant, I was not the best patient at first. It is incredible what organ failure does to your brain. You become confused, irritable, unmanageable, angry. Once (and this is from multiple third party references because I was not there mentally for the time it happened) a nurse was trying to help me, and she looked at me, and I looked angry. She could tell that I was going to try to swing a punch. From what I am told, she deftly avoided it and just said "Yep, thought he was gonna try that." Anyway, there was one nurse who gave enough of a fuck to write me a letter. Her name is NOTYOGODDAMNBUSINESS, and I'll call her Genericname or GN for short. She wrote this eloquent, two page letter telling me how I'd inspired her to be a nurse (she was a student at the time). There's a lot of detail there, and I'll add that later if you're interested but I just have to translate that into something that does not identify her. It all boils down to when I was in the hospital and swearing constantly because I was in pain and upset and she came in the room and I just told her "DO NOT count to three. Stab me and do it quick." She was amazing. She grabbed my arm and pinched and just stabbed me and was like "DONE!". No cause for anxiety, no way to even retaliate, just she did it so fast I couldn't even come up with a way to complain about it. Skillfully, too, because she got me right in the muscle when I was emaciated, not easy to do. Now we converse on occasion. It's quite nice to see things from her perspective. She's one of the people who told me (and one of the few who knew quite intimately) that I was knocking on heaven's door when I went to the hospital that first time. She was there for good and bad days and kept track of me. I never even realized it, I was too caught up in my own pain to know someone was trying to help me. And because I was all caught up in my pain I never realized what was going through her head. This is her letter, paraphrased, with all identifiable information removed. "We rejoiced when you would ask for chinese food or a subway sandwich. I loved dancing in the halls when I saw you coming walking or in a wheelchair. There was a sign on your door because you were so mean to nurses, which said 'Do NOT enter unless authorized!' which to me said, unless you are *me*, don't come in here because he doesn't like you! Some days I fail a test, or this gets overwhelming and I feel like I can't do it, I just want to throw in the towel. Then I remember you. So far, nobody else has ever told me that I can come hide in their room and nap if I needed a break. You made my experience as amazing as it was. Even if I can't heal you, I hope I made your experience bearable. When I heard you might need a kidney, I wanted to give you mine. You make me want to be a better nurse. I hope you know how incredible you are and how much you impacted my career. You make me want to be better." For the time being, thats the basis of the letter. I just wish it were more appropriate to allow folks to come down to a level where we can understand each other. She did that for me. She could lose her job if I divulge her personal details, because it's not professional. But it's human, it's okay, it's a good thing to voice your feelings and try to help each other. Btw the nurse was a he, so now ya feel dumb, huh? Seriously, the world would be better if we could simply communicate better. It's hard for me to tell someone else I'm suffering and to ask for help. It's hard for other people, too. I just want to help. I don't want to be remembered as a monster who couldn't empathize, I want to be remembered as someone who tried their best to help others. I want my legacy to be there, I want to make sure that someone else has been taught that no matter your personal urges or any mistakes you've made or any other factors, that is okay as long as you keep your fellow man in mind. It is okay to just try your best. I, if no one other, will value you for that. Pain every day does not exclude me from appreciating you.
  6. Razor

    Meh

    "Here is Insanity," he said. "Make sure you don't stay long, the flight in is super cheap but the flight out? Good luck if you can even get a flight, not to mention how much you'll pay for it." I looked around and recognized nothing. It was blissful. I couldn't tell what was bad or good, I had no sense of self or purpose, I lost, well, everything. It was so nice just to be. I thought I'd stay forever. "Yeah man, it's kind of like day two-oh-six of a drinking binge, seven days awake on meth, the feeling of getting served divorce papers in a 'happy' relationship, your newborn having cancer, I mean some folks just call it shock, but it's not a good place to stay. Seems comfortable, but don't do that." I disregarded everything he said. Looking far afield I saw what looked like the kind of grass they grow in stadiums, plush. Sunny, too, and with this cool breeze I just wanted to nap there for a few years. Walking over, my leg started twitching. It twitched again, jerked, spasmed, until I had to fall to my knees. I pressed forward thinking it was a cramp; I don't know why I'd have a cramp here, but after all, it's Insanity, isn't it? My hands shook against gravel. Was there gravel here? Where is the grass? The grass is gone. I'm looking at a burnt out hollow of ground, a crater. It's the remains of what I thought I was moving toward. I didn't pay any mind. I shifted my thoughts. I remembered the boy in high school when he wore that hat with his blond hair peeking through the front. I remembered his eyes, his voice, his everything. He appeared. The world shifted again. This time it was a classroom. He was next to me and a professor was droning on, and he tapped me lightly on the foot. I didn't feel confused although I vaguely thought I should be. I blushed, even. Here is this boy playing footsie with me, and I liked it. The class ends finally and we walk outside and he asks me out. I tell him sure, and time flashes again. We're at a restaurant and the waiter has my order wrong. I politely don't mention it, but then I look up and the boy across from me has a face crawling. Not crawling with anything in particular, just crawling. It roils, it moves, it distorts, and I feel wrong. I want to vomit. I run. Time flashes. We are in a room. We? What room? I have no knowledge of who or where I am, or how, or why. When is not important until I see the sleeping face next to me. When. It is years ago and I see the face of someone I loved dearly in bed beside me. I want to hold them, I immediately feel as if I need to protect this person, I want them to be happy. I no sooner finish draping my arm around him than the arm drops right through him. He is not there. I see him, but he is not there. I flail at the covers, I snatch sheets and pillows and gasp because I can't scream. He is right there, and I cannot touch him. He moves, further and further away, but I can still smell him, I can still feel the heat of him. Clambering for him, I fall off the edge of the bed. Time flashes. I'm back home. I'm in my own bed, in the right time, in the right place. Sweating, heaving, I look and see nothing. There's not even a faint hint that anything has happened until he shows up. He tells me "This is Insanity. Make sure you don't stay long."
  7. Razor

    Drug Wars (maybe other things)

    They gone catch these hands, m'love.
  8. Razor

    Drug Wars (maybe other things)

    It cries to me as someone who woke up at 5:00 am, and she let that slide to 5:30 am, and she kept trying, just trying to make small concessions for sleep and necessities, and then kept trying by only moving that alarm time by 30 minutes, and she didn't fuss, kept going, and when she moved it to 5:30 am her husband found concern for that, like maybe she was giving up, and he needed to do something. This is the point I don't think people are getting, like maybe she woke up at 5:00 and then woke up at 5:30 to care for herself because that was the ultimate need because if she couldn't care for these people who else would? It speaks of a need not being addressed, it speaks of a need hurting her, and they recognized it and moved to change it.
  9. Razor

    Drug Wars (maybe other things)

    Even if you think you understand the definition of that word as it is in the context that I use it, you don't. That I refer to her as such puts her in a select group of people for whom I would kill or die. I get that you don't like the word, but don't foist your judgment of the situation based on taking a word out of its natural context off as derogatory, especially when the people to whom I refer as "bitch" in this manner are the people I love the most and they are fully aware of that. Not trying to be confrontational, but I feel like the situation called for clarification. Obviously, because you feel this way, if I ever were extremely close friends with you I'd take this into account and never refer to you as such. Not everyone feels that way, though. If you do feel that way, then I would take steps to make sure I didn't make you uncomfortable. Furthermore, and I apologize for this tiny essay, but here's my train of thought. Love equals affection. (not necessarily ONLY equals affection...) Affection equals good-natured teasing. Expressing affection requires a definition of the degree to which you express that affection. Best friends usually tease each other. If teasing equals affection, and expressing requires defining the degree of the expression, then one can assume that the more extreme the tease (while remaining within the bounds of trying not to hurt the other individual) means the degree of affection is higher, so long as we don't cross into personal cruelty. Therefore, "you silly" means "you made me smile, good job". Following as an example, "you are not even funny right now" means "that was funny enough that I giggled audibly". Following again, "bitch!" could mean "You made me laugh and think and smile and have emotions I didn't even know I could at that moment, great job, I'll keep you forever, or nearly so". Now, circle back to the beginning of this explanation and also point out that context is paramount. I can never assume that a random person on the street would understand what I meant if they saved my life by pulling me back from a busy street while I was falling into traffic. If I say "Biiiitch!" they might not get it, so I wouldn't say that. If I said "Thank you so much, you saved my life, what could I ever do to repay you?" they'll definitely understand, BUT! My friends in the same circumstance would hear "Biiiitch!" and think "He just said he loves me and is flabbergasted by the fact that I saved him, I can probably milk this for at least two free meals and maybe even him taking a bullet for me later." Does that make sense? I don't believe that a word is good or bad in and of itself. I believe it derives power from the context in which it is used. I think maybe you give this word the wrong kind of power based on your own context of understanding, rather than the intended context.
  10. Skip my bullshit minor problems if you want a good story and scroll to the bottom. On 12.11.18 I went to go get my meds from Walgreens, the ones I have to take or I die (anti-rejection meds), and they only had a partial refill. I thought fine, I have plenty of extra for a few days just in case, and you'll obviously reorder, so that's okay, I assume pharmacies overnight their drugs when needed. Last Sunday I called. No answer after fifteen minutes, the phone just disconnected. I gave up because I was about to have to work. Monday I called, no answer. Monday night I went in physically and asked for my drugs. "Don't have them, outta stock, but we'll have them Wednesday." I freaked out 'cause I'd taken the last of my extra the night before, so I was like don't freak out, it's going to be okay, just handle this. My mom got outraged, she called them the next day, Tuesday, and they then magically had exactly enough for one dose. I went in Tuesday night and picked that up and was assured they would have what I needed the next day. Called Wednesday, took a while but I finally got a person, who said no, they're not in. But I can call tomorrow to check. I don't feel up to arguing most times, I'm tired, and in pain, and I don't want to be a mean person or take out my frustrations on someone who can't do anything about it, so I let that go. I have decided, however, to declare a vendetta against Walgreens. I intend to wake up tomorrow (today?) much earlier than I should, and find these drugs elsewhere. They're not commonly carried, so that'll be an issue, but I am sure that some pharmacy in the area must have them, so I shall check. But I will never shop at Walgreens again. They have officially tried to murder me twice, and I do not appreciate that. Fool me once and all that jazz. I hold extremely long grudges, so I'll just make sure to spread the word that they failed to deliver not once, but twice, and maybe some folks will switch to CVS. I'm not going to get anywhere by just yelling about it, but I like to take quiet revenge, like hurting their bottom line in sales. One dose of my medication is $83.69, so I mean... who's really gonna suffer here, me because you didn't do what you were supposed to, or you because I'm gonna fuck your wallet like a meth-head in heat? Before you say anything 1.) I only use Walgreens because they're the only 24-hour pharmacy where I live and I work nights and the stress and depression and anxiety make it such that I need what little sleep I can get when I can get it, so they're convenient and 2.) Yes they are a corporation and they probably don't care that much about my business but it's still nice to take my business elsewhere and make sure others do the same so that they can't milk me for insurance money for an overpriced prescription which literally costs a few cents to manufacture (and the manufacturer gets government money because it's designated an orphan drug, so don't talk to me about how they have R&D overhead or some such nonsense, they have no reason to price this so far out of reach of the common public, and I know I should be mad at the drug manufacturer for that, but Walgreens buys the drug and sells it and PBMs get kickbacks for charging my insurance far more than it really costs, so maybe they should be the ones to take corporate responsibility and pressure the manufacturer to lower their cost so it IS more widely available and not so terribly expensive). On other notes, I have been told I am beautiful twice in the last 48 hours. My roommate's friend was on Facetime with my roommate, and she asked to see me, then declared "WHY ARE YOU SO CUTE, I WOULD BANG YOU IF YOU WEREN'T GAY!" Another person told me that I am "...a beautiful person with a beautiful personality. I hope you realize this. I want you to be happy because you deserve it. All the selfless things you do, it amazes me. Don't ask me why, I'm just in my feelings and speaking from the heart. Your iPhone may not like it when you smile but I sure do." I have a running joke with this person about how my iPhone won't unlock if I'm smiling when I hold it up, the facial recognition doesn't work if I'm grinnin' like a fool. I do take issue with the quote I just put out. I feel selfish. I feel like he overestimates me, like I'm not that great, I just... I do the bare minimum. But then I rethink that and I think the bare minimum for me is more than what others might do, so maybe he's right (he also has shit parents, he seems very sad about himself on the inside but projects an air of certainty and bravado almost, so maybe he's just asking for me to continue treating him nicely, which makes me doubly sad because he should never feel that way, he's beautiful, inside and out, and I love him even when I hate him, but that's a random psychological aside)? I have to come up with more objective, logical criteria to evaluate his assumption, but I appreciate his sentiment, it made me cry for half a second and made me feel like what I do actually matters sometimes. I'm conflicted, because it's nice to hear this from him, because praise from him is rare, but I also feel like I don't really deserve it, I'm not special, I just try as best I can, and a lot of the time I fall short. I guess I need to stop analyzing and just take it for what it truly is, a heartfelt compliment that he didn't have to say to but felt he should, and those are the best compliments, ones that you're not socially pressured to give but give from the bottom of your heart. My gas station lady that I talk to all the time invited me to her wedding, and the reception. I might go. I mean I'm glad for her, she works hard. Long, thankless hours. I might as well show up and clap for her in her happy moment. Maybe buy her a tiny gift, something she and her fiancee might be able to use, practical but inexpensive and thoughtful. Besides, when else can I rent a tux and show the fuck out? I'm an adult, we don't get to do that often. I've been making a point to be grateful for things in my life. Like yeah man, it might suck being half crippled and in pain and depressed and anxious and can't get your drugs and work gives you hassles BUT!: if you make a list of things for which to be grateful, maybe that cancels out the negative. Maybe it makes life better. There's been a lot of studies about gratefulness, and they all show the same thing, which amounts to a cliched phrase: count your blessings. Negative bias doesn't have to be a thing if you recognize it for what it really is, just your brain concentrating on bad things instead of good things. So I just tell myself, do blessing math. And then myself screams because I'm bad at math but I like the idea. But still gonna try it, because it's logical. Also, my mother wrote a short story today and sent it to me. I am so glad she did, I love the idea of her spreading her ideas and thoughts because they're always so helpful and kind and thoughtful. I'm gonna leave this here for you guys, and I promise to tell her what you think of it, because she needs encouragement and positive thoughts because she's fucking amazing. But remember if she ever becomes an author I swear to Christ I'm gonna need each of you to pay three dollars to read it, because she deserves that money, and if you don't I will come for you. This follows: THIS IS THE MAIN EVENT YOU GUYS I AM SO EXCITED THAT SHE IS WRITING AND MAKING SUCH WONDERFUL STORIES. Thursday is wash day. Every Thursday. Up at 5:00 am, no matter what the weather. It can be cold, hot, raining, snowing, but it doesn't matter because it is wash day. It is Thursday. And I hate it. The clock goes off and it is 5:00 am. It is Thursday. I climb out from under my warm covers and I make coffee. I dress myself and check in on four sleeping children before stepping outside. It is forty-eight degrees and a steady wind is coming out of the north as I light the fire under my pot. The whole world is gray, even my hands look gray. There is no sun to chase away the chill. I filled the pot up with water yesterday to get as much of a jump on things as I could. I go back to the porch and drag the first load off to the pot and wait until the water begins to bubble. Before this day is over, I will have washed bed linens, towels, and clothes for six people. It's what I do every week. I start every wash day the same. I tell myself that I will not cry today. But I do. I cry every Thursday. And I hate it. I drop in the sheets first and go back to the house to start breakfast and wake him up. He has to be at work at 6:30. I make a pan of biscuits and a pan of gravy and five sack lunches. I set the table, pour two cups of coffee - one with cream and sugar, one plain - then I go wake him. We sit until he finishes his coffee and then he leans over, kisses me on the cheek, and then goes to wake the kids as I go outside. I don't see him again until 6:30 that evening when he comes home. The sheets are ready. I dip them out of the boiling pot and put them over into the wash tub and run some water over them to cool them down a bit. Then I dump the next load into the pot. I scrub the sheet on the wash board. I try to be careful not to slop it over onto my shoes, but by the end of the day, it will happen. The front of my dress gets all the way through my slip down to my panties and up to my bra. No matter how carefully I start out, it always happens. And by now the sun is peeking out a bit. I run the sheets through the wringer and drop them into my rinse water. I stir them with a heavy stick and feel the muscles in my back and belly start to pull. I run them through the wringer again, rinse them again, wring them twice and then put them on the clothes line. I have six lines that are a foot and a half apart. They run the entire length of the house perpendicularly. They are about six feet tall and I have several poles with which to prop my lines if they become too heavy and try to drag my laundry on the ground. If it rains, then everything goes into the shed. After I get the sheets up, it's time to start my routine all over again. The next load comes out of the boiling pot, goes to the rinse tub, a new load goes into the boiling pot and I scrub, rinse, wring, rinse, wring, wring, and hang. I do this until all six lines are loaded. After the lines are loaded, I dump the pot, dump the tubs, put all of it up. I go inside and by this time my back is screaming and my hands are bleeding. The kids have long since gone to school. I take off my wet shoes, my wet clothes and I sit at my table in a towel. I eat a leftover biscuit smeared with butter. Then I get dressed, wash the dishes in the sink and go start taking clothes off the line. I start with the first ones I put up. The sheets go back on the beds. Three sets of sheets and pilow cases for three beds. One for the girls, one for the boys, and one for me and him. Then I take the next load down and start ironing the shirts. I check each piece as I go along and patch what needs patching and sew what needs sewing as I go. I starch and iron at least seven men's button-up shirts, fourteen little boys' shirts, twenty-one pairs of pants, fourteen dresses, a couple dozen handkerchiefs, table cloths, and napkins. After everything is starched and ironed, folded and hung, I put it all away. All the sheets, the pillow cases, the towels, the wash rags, the table cloths, the napkins, the underwear, the socks, the slips, the shirts, the pants, the dresses, and I do this every Thursday. And I hate it. Every Thursday I wake up with the same resolve. I tell myself that I will not cry this Thursday. But just about the time he walks in the tears always seem to flow. I try hard not to cry, but I hurt and I am exhausted, and there is still so much left to do before I can lay down to start hating the time until next Thursday. So I cry. I cry with great gusto to be so tired. I sob into my dish rag. I wail and hitch and heave. Snot runs down my face, my eyes puff up like I was stung by yellow-jackets, my face turns red and blotchy. I do this in between cooking supper, feeding the kids, and washing the evening dishes. Sometimes I think that if I just put my head in the tub and laid there until I was too tired to get up, then I could drown and it would all be over. This has been going on for so long that no one ever asks why I cry anymore. It's just a part of Thursday. And I hate it. Then another week passes and it is Thursday. The clock goes off and it is 5:30 am. I get up, make the coffee and I go outside to start my pot. I come back in, but this morning he isn't still in bed. He's already dressed and sitting in the kitchen chair. He looks at me and just says, "Sit." So I sit. He has never raised his hand or voice to me in ten years. But today, there is something different about him. He says for ten years he has listened to me cry every Thursday and he is tired of it. He says he doesn't ever want to hear me cry on wash day. He says it's gone on long enough. No sooner has he said this than a tear gets away from me and trickles down my face. He bangs his fist on the table making me jump. "I mean it!" he yells, waking the kids. I stand there, shaking in utter disbelief. The children slink in, peering through the doorway. They've never heard him talk like this to me and they look confused and scared. He bangs the table again making coffee jump up out of the cup and spatter on the table. "Not one more tear on wash day. Do you hear me? NOT ONE!" The last shout makes me jump again like a frightened rabbit. "Wipe your face," he says and I rub the back of my hands across my face. "Now go out front and get me my boots before I'm late for work." I feel like my breath has left my body and won't come back. But, I pull myself out of my scared fog and onto my feet and go to the front door. I open it and I see his boots. They are sitting on top of a brand new washing machine. I turn and see his face. He is crying and smiling. Tears rolling down his face, kids behind him, still confused, and he says "We all hate Thursdays." WHAT THE SHIT WAS THAT?! I mean maybe I'm biased, but the bitch has talent. What do you think?
  11. Razor

    Just one moment

    I went to the gas station and like an idiot left my wallet, I just wanted to buy cigarettes (before you say it, yes, I know I'll get the cancer, I'm fully realizing that, I'm okay with it, I'm just gonna jump off a building when it happens, but for right now it keeps me sane, I like to borrow against my future, probably not healthy but we cope in our own ways). I went to the counter and he said "6.67". I reached for my wallet and SURPRISE, that shit is not there, because I've been so distracted today I forgot my whole life at home. I ran to my car and came up with 6.62. He just said "I have some pennies, it's cool" and reached for his own pocket. So I went to my house and got a five dollar bill and brought it to him because today I had a compliment call from work, which means a $10 gift card or so, and I figured I should pay that forward for him being so nice to me (it was an army vet, he was so kind, so nice... I mean I kinda wanted to put his gun in my mouth, if ya know what i mean, but hey man, he does him and I do me, and I feel like he's not all about teh gey, so I was just like man, you are an awesome person). Just waltzed in and said "Thanks for not being a dick, my man." He said "No problem, thanks!" and we moved on from that moment, both smiling, because at that moment in time, we were both struggling, my limping ass going in there, him standing there probably considering how he's gonna burn that place to the ground, but we got to a point where we could both be happy. Moral of the story: Don't be a cunt. You never know when someone will give you a %5000 return on your investment. I'm bad at percentages, though, so check my math there. It's either 500 or 5000 percent, fuck me, I'm not good with numbers, %500 percent, right? I mean you just move the decimals... goddamnit, math. I'm more a language guy. And I'm literally too lazy to google. POINT IS HE PAID A NICKEL AND NOW HE MIGHT SMILE FOR A FEW MINUTES. Another side note, all of you here have been so... damnably nice. Jesus. Like for real, it makes me wanna cry, because I cannot believe that even a few people have said something kind. Keep on doing you, you guys. I wish you all the best. I've learned lately that: If you never say anything, nobody can help. You might feel like you're causing drama, or anxiety, but unless you yell as loud as you can no one will pay attention.
  12. Razor

    Panicked apathy

    A lot of the time I don't like to talk about what goes on inside my head very truthfully or directly. I almost feel ashamed or dirty whenever I talk about it. I hate the idea of talking about my thoughts and being rejected, made fun of, laughed off, or the worst possible consequence which would be making another person feel worse by sharing what I'm thinking. The voices in my head shout alarms, and I end up in a strange state of being where I'm at once having a panic attack and also telling myself I don't care and to calm down. I'm sorta beaten down right now. My medical situation is not improving as much as I'd like. My platelets dropped again, nosebleeds are constant, my right knee is screwed up and I've been back to using a cane the past day or so, I have mystery bruises from simply existing, I feel full/sick even when I know I haven't eaten, things like that are adding up. And I'm losing faith in my doctor. I mean he tries, but he's not so useful. I don't trust him, though. His lack of empathy, lack of understanding, lack of direction... they make me nervous. As a for instance, the whole hernia thing. I told him when I saw it that it was getting worse, and he brushed it off. I mean I understand I'm not a doctor at all, but I feel like I'm right in being mildly disconcerted that there is a bulge underneath my skin that is growing each time I look at it, and today for the first time it didn't quite want to easily retreat when I laid down. I also don't think he knows what this really means to me even from a purely narcissistic standpoint. I know I'm fucked up looking in the tummy area. I have a huge scar, things are not cute, it's just a mess. But before, at least I could be happy that I'm thin again. Now there's a weird fucking random ball thing showing up over my navel and I'm just like "PEOPLE CAN SEE THAT, THEY CAN SEE IT UNDER MY SHIRT, THEY THINK I'M GONNA HAVE AN ALIEN HOP OUTTA MY TUMMY AND EAT THEIR FACE, WE GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS, NOW." Because usually speaking, when I'm anxious about something, I can take measures to fix it, but this isn't something I can fix, and I don't know how to proceed. As fucking pathetic as it is to say, sometimes I wish I had someone around me who when I feel ashamed or stupid or incompetent could just tell speak up and say "Hey dude, he told you what he needed to tell you, fucking do something about it." I suppose that's sorta everybody's dream, thought, when life starts wearing on you. It'd be so nice to not have to pick up the burden for a while, just leave it to someone else, but that's just not practical. Guess what I'm trying to say is I'm sorta hella sad lately. Not sure how to break out of it. I keep doing small things, trying to talk myself through my random down moments, trying to focus on progression and responsibility, trying to push myself to do or be more, but I feel like such a failure when I can't even do stupid small things like go buy a case of bottled water because I like bottled water because it tastes better than tap water here but I can't pick it up because I'm too much of a fucking crippled piece of shit to accomplish that one, single, solitary thing. Not to mention things like reorganizing my bedroom, 'cause god forbid I try to move furniture by myself. The loss of your independence makes you bitter, agitated, and spiteful. I don't like to be those things. Please send me cat memes, wholesome photos, snippets of inspirational text, or something to distract me from the mounting discomfort of my reality. I can pay with tiny short stories if you'll give me a theme, I like to trade on what I know.
  13. Razor

    Life be weird sometimes, yo

    Okay so ever since I got really sick and had to take that huge leave of absence and then I got back to work and I was still sick and have been out like four times in the last four months because of various things, I've been terrified of work. My job gives me panic attacks sometimes, I always feel like I'm going to get into trouble. Why do I feel like that? Honestly, I'm a pretty great employee. I mean everything I do is right in line with what they want for the most part, and where I excel oh boy do I EXCEL. I take a serious sense of pride in measurable effects of my work. I like metrics driven judgment, I like seeing the numbers go to where they need to be, I like feeling like I'm making that happen. So again, why do I feel like that? I have severe social anxiety and I work from home. I hide my anxiety extremely well. That's my coping mechanism (that and horribly inappropriate dark humor). I fake it until I make it, so if I'm nervous around you, then I'm going to pretend I'm not until I don't feel that way anymore. The issue is when you work from home and you have no daily interaction with your boss (or even monthly a lot of the time) or any other co-workers. Don't get me wrong, I love not peopling, but it has downsides, like me always thinking they might secretly hate me because I can't look at them and figure out from their body language and tone how they feel. Now that you have context, lemme explain what had happened today. I logged on, bleary-eyed and sipping a Red Bull and checked my schedule and email. Surprise meetings, multiple. I was like "WHYYYYYYY?!?!?!?! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, ISN'T IT ENOUGH THAT YOU WANT ME TO TALK TO IDIOTS ALL DAY? I WILL GO FULL WHITE GIRL RIGHT NOW, I SWEAR TO CHRIST, I CANNOT EVEN." My first thought was they were going to try to write me up for missing a few days because of the whole sick then hernia then doctor visit two states over then possible surgery sometime soon yada yada yada, like maybe they're just tired of dealing with me. Turns out, they just assigned me a new quality person for scoring my contacts who wanted to go over some goals and that meeting was basically "So all your numbers are fine, whatcha wanna talk about? Btw you really don't spend a lot of time on the phone with people, I mean they seem to love you, but feel free not to rush if you don't wanna. OH and did you accept the new... wait, nevermind, forget I said anything." I was like erm... huh? Next meeting was a job offer. Surprise! A mostly lateral move, but with a good bit more opportunity for advancement and incentives. Not to mention far, far less boring. All this just after they decided to start listening to me about quality procedures that were making life hellish. I have to admit, I'm pretty happy with this direction they're going. They're really listening to employees, taking the good ideas, running with them, and getting a lot better. I'm sorta weirdly proud of them. I haven't exactly worked for a company that's made me feel valued to the degree they have. The beaten down corporate slave in me wants to scream "FUCK YOU AND YOUR CORPORATE GREED!" just as a general reaction after years of abuse in the service industry but the person in me is like "...dude, thanks for listening and trying, that's hella nice of you." I'm genuinely surprised, and I have that tiny spark of possibility back. I mean not gonna lie, still crazy depressed and generally filled with ennui, raging against the dying of the light, screaming into the void each day and hoping something dares to answer back, and I know you think I'm exaggerating but I'm really not, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Good old Bob Ross always said you have to have opposites in life, good and bad, light and dark, to make you appreciate the good times later. If these times have been that dark, then one can assume that perhaps it's merely preparation to appreciate more fully the nice times ahead. In other news, I am refusing to admit it anywhere other than here, not even to friends or family, but the fact that Ryan/Chad and I no longer talk does make me sad. The tiny psychologist that lives in my mind, however, keeps telling me "Don't be sad, remember what was wrong with him, remember his faults, remember how hard you tried and never forget that you tried even when you doubted it would work from the start. Do not give him the time or the energy it takes to be sad, celebrate the happy memories you made, take what you learned, build from it. And who knows, in days, weeks, months, or years from now, you may be able to forgive him and be friends again, after the hard feelings pass. It would be doubly sad if you hardened your soul against future possibilites because of something that was truly neither of your faults (though it was entirely his fault)." <--- that last bit, my inner psychologist is a bit of a bitch, oh well. In that same vein, I have another ex, the ex that I still talk to and love dearly. His given name is Taylor, which is what he goes by now, but I call him Primus, which is a whole story. It's not like I-wanna-be-with-him-forever sorta love because he is my one and only and we're destined or whatever, but because he's him. Our sexual chemistry was always amazing, he's so intelligent, so thoughtful. Have you ever met someone who just looked at you, took in the state of you, stared into your eyes, grabbed your hand, and said "You need a massage and a blowjob, I can tell you had a rough day"? He literally did that one day while I worked at a horrible job. Even when you thought you were doing okay for that day, and then that all happens and the last thing your conscious mind registers is "I love you, mister" and careful, attentive hands running through your hair and over your back before you fall into sweet oblivion and wake up just to do that all again? We shared a lot, we have a bond, and I have to say I care about him probably more than anyone else I've ever cared about. I feel like he's making a grave mistake, though. Basically he's really worried about his job, because there's a whole thing that happened with his company and they lost about half their revenue because a contract fell through. He's moving out of his apartment because the rent is so high ($1700 for a one bedroom, albeit a very nice apartment). He also decided to move in with an ex of his, from way back before we were ever together, that he's been fraternizing with for the last couple years, and I see this for what it is because I've done it before. That boy likes you, and you're in a situation where your fiscal responsibility must come first. So you trade on your looks and personality to live with another person who finds you attractive, and at least pays half the bills (or far more if you try hard). You may not find them attractive at all, and you may never even touch them, but for them to feel the possiblity of something they yearn for, they will pay for it. It's a dishonest move, and it makes me feel a bit upset, but I don't blame him for it. In the real world, nobody cares about your morality, only your ability to pay or trade your way. I just sincerely hope he doesn't regret it. This particular person Primus moved in with HATES me. We have never met in person, I've spoken to him over the phone maybe twice. Primus and I were just planning a visit again before all this happened, and now what I think is basically I won't see him for another year, minimum. Sad to say, but I don't feel it's helpful for me to be around him in this sorta situation; his housemate might get bitchy if I'm around, and I have a severe allergy to drama. If he'd have waited another month, I'd have just said let's move in together without these additional dramatic factors. I'm not opposed to moving anywhere. I work remotely, and I'm always open to opportunities. And before you say that would be toxic, I'd make sure that moving in together with him would be extremely clear, like we might bang a little, but you have no power over me, and I will always pay my bills, but we're both mature enough to know that we have separate lives and will make our decisions accordingly. I kinda feel really sorry for him. I love him. He's the only person who came to see me in the hospital during tough times, and he made my day, he tried so hard, and I will always cherish him. I hate to see him in this situation. It's difficult to see my friends go through things I went through ten years ago and be powerless to help.
  14. Razor

    I sneezed

    That line, right there. "Be a superhero, and beat the crap out of it!" Thanks, dude. That's what I need to hear. Keep that shit upbeat, we don't lay down and die, we get up, we fight, we keep on keeping on, we (and I mean this in spirited support of everyone reading this) GET THE FUCK UP AND WE KEEP GOING. Sometimes, we need that little push. Thanks, sir.
  15. Razor

    I sneezed

    A funny thing happened to me while I was at work the other day. I will preface this by saying you have to understand the context to get the punchline the universe delivered. I've been dealing with major problems, like life or death problems, and usually if something goes wrong it's a trip to the ER and then admission and then days before they let me go. I felt a small victory in the midst of dealing with this because it was so comedic in comparison to what I normally deal with. So I was at work, been trudging through my days, grim determination fueling me. It's just how I am, I address everything at work with an idea of "How can I accomplish this task with efficiency and grace?" Anyway, I had to sneeze. So I did. And I sneezed so hard. It tore the walls asunder in my office, it moved me backwards twelve feet from my desk, my heart skipped over a double-dutch rope and back into step, I almost died. That's hyperbole, but you get my drift. After that, I just continued working. If you've done the same thing quite literally 100,000 or more times, you just get in a zone when you do it. Later in the day, I took a shower, and realized I had a strange, um, protrusion? From my navel. Where they'd done a lot of surgeries. Turns out, I sneezed myself a hernia. I have to say, I laughed. I called my nurse from my insurance and she asked me the same questions I asked myself, and it's no big deal, might need surgery, but it's nothing pressing (except for my insides pressing towards my outsides, hey-yooo! ~finger guns~). I thought you guys might get a laugh out of that. We all eventually come to the age where we can sneeze and injure ourselves. Thankfully, mine is minor, and doesn't include urinating on myself in public if I sneeze. It could be much worse. On another note, I've been having trouble. I feel empty most times, I feel like I'm spinning out again. I don't like that feeling. I know what I have to do, I just simply have to be better. I've been depressed, and that's a whole other story. I truly don't know if life can ever be what I wanted. I'd explain how I feel, but I also think that if I give those words semblance, that if I say them, I have given them power and they will define my existence. I prefer to face my depression and anxiety in a more warrior style, fighting it at every step, sometimes murdering it ruthlessly for the gain of happiness for an afternoon. I do wonder sometimes if it will ever get better. And the answer, unequivocally, from the universe is that yes, yes it will, if you keep on fighting. Sometimes that fight is degrading and demoralizing. Sometimes I curl into a ball and just hope, unabashedly. But as long as I hope, there can be a beginning tomorrow. Edited because I misspelled "Protrusion". Thanks!
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