It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

It’s Not About Me…

How can I be of service?

The Straight Line

I am a lone point. A dot that barely exists on the map. Buried between mountains and rocks and dirt. A single point looking for a destination without a straight line. 

I am dust. Dust with no place to land. Nothing to cling to. I stay trapped in the sunlight. Hanging motionless in the air. Looking for a surface to fall on.

I am broken. Broken pieces of glass scattered across the pavement, reflecting that same light that traps the dust. All of my pieces, be it glass or dust will inevitably become the straight line that connects the dots.

Everything has purpose. Everything has meaning. 

I am not trapped in the light.

I am safe from the darkness.

Muscles Are Assholes...

My life is a constant battle.

I live in a paradox of hope and hopelessness.

My mind tells me that I'm young but my bones resist. Its thoughts constantly singing to a deaf choir.

I'm getting old.

The reality is, we are all getting old but eventually it catches up with us.

Tag. You're it.

The body and the mind are made for each other.

The mind pushes and the body adapts.

But there comes a day when the mind wakes up and says, "Hey kiddo! Let's hold hands and skip to the corner store and get some Big League Chew." and the body says, "Dude. I'm not gonna make it. I'll only slow you down. Go on without me."

Then the mind fears losing its best friend and confidant. It starts to get angry and eventually resentment builds.

It is only then that the mind and the body begin to turn on each other. Talking behind each other's backs. Spreading rumors. Telling lies.

Taunting each other...

I'm in a place right now where my mind and my body hate each other.

My body is the gimp friend my mind has to lug around during the zombie apocalypse.

Dead weight.

This morning I meandered into the shower. Exhausted from nothing.

My mind starts to whisper...

"Hey body. Whatever you do, make sure when we get out of the shower we put on our underwear as soon as possible just in case we have a heart attack. We don't want the EMS guys to laugh at us."

Motherfucker.

I stand in front of the mirror to brush my teeth.

My mind feels compelled...

"Why don't we turn off the lights. We look like a fat otter."

Click.

I sit on the toilet.

I poke at my stomach like a kid pokes at a dead animal with a stick.

My mind can't help itself...

"What the hell is that? It looks like the Pillsbury dough boy collided with a truck full of hair."

I hate you.

Sometimes when I walk to my car at night I catch a glimpse of my shadow.

What now you son of a bitch?

"I think a giant potato is following us."

Dickweed.

The kids aren't home. My wife and I are finally alone. We have an opportunity to be intimate.

Don't ruin it for us.

"You should apologize to her now before you put her through this torment."

I abhor you.

Hopefully this will pass. Feelings are not facts.

I try to tell myself that I'm young at heart but I fear my heart might be a cynical douchebag.

Shit And Bleach...

Here I am again.

On the train.

To and fro.

Today I'm sitting next to a woman that smells like rice and burnt hair.

Fro and to.

Two hours a day.

I begin to imagine eating a bowl of rice and burnt hair.

5 days a week.

Under normal circumstances I would change my seat but she is sitting on a piece of my shirt.

Pinned to my seat like a passenger in a car wreck, waiting to be rescued by the jaws of life.

52 weeks a year.

Today I'm on one of the older trains. The perpetual smell of shit and bleach fill the air. The two scents  are paradoxical yet destined for each other like Hannah Horvath and Adam Sackler from Girls. 

25 years.

Which is worse? The smell of shit or the smell of bleach?

I want to believe there are more important things to contemplate. 

I'm a working man.

These are my cash and prizes.

Bleach and shit.

Rice and burnt hair.

I mathimatize.

Give or take I've spent about 11,000 hours of my life on the train.

"Siri, how many days are there in 11,000 hours?"

"I'm sorry. I am not finding any ways to count eleven thousand flowers."

"Fuck you Siri I'll do it the old fashioned way."

That amounts to approximately 450 days.

MATH!

648,000 minutes!

It's that song from Rent.

No it isn't.

My wife and I could have had sex 216,000 times.

I stare out the window of the train, speeding past countless, meaningless things.

Passing by life. Life passing me by on the train.

Dr. Seuss Slipped A Disc...

So I've had really bad back problems for the last 6 months with no relief. Surgery hasn't helped and I feel pretty lost. I can't quite describe how painfully frustrating it has been for me. So I figured I'd let Dr. Seuss take a stab at it.

There once was a Chap who was perfectly fine. He steered clear of all trouble almost all of the time.

But he found himself stuck in a floopidy flam and his back couldn't handle all the plans that he planned. 

He was helping a person bail out of a flood but instead he wound up on the ground with a thud!

The pain that he felt made his eyeballs see white as he squirmed on the floor without much of a fight.

He winced and he moaned and he whined until dawn, still his body resembled the shape of a prawn.

He went to see doctors and surgeons and flipples and a Peabody Poobear who would cut off his nipples.

So he spoke to the Poobear who would cut off his nipples and he begged it to help him in exchange for some pickles.

So the Peabody Poobear who would cut off his nipples said he'd help him as long as he paid him in pickles. "But tell me" he said, "if it isn't your nipples, then why would you part with a gallon of pickles?"

"It's my back!" cried the Chap with a tear in his eye. "I've been looking for someone to give it a try."

The Peabody Poobear raised his paw to his pong and then cawed at the Chap and said, "Hey man, what's wrong?"

Well the Chap started chirping and his brain began mixing and he listed a list of the things that need fixing.

"It's my back its gone fishing! That much you knew but because of my back I can't do things like you."

"I can't tie my shoes. I can't put on my socks. I can't even pick up my bagels and lox. I can't wash my ass or my feet or my back and I can't climb a hill with a Jill or a Jack. I can't drive a car and I can't walk my dog and I certainly can't kiss a two headed frog. My face I can't shave and my clothes I can't wash and I feel like a radish trapped under a squash. If I still were in school then I couldn't play hooky and I shan't even ask Mrs. Chap to make nookie. By the look on your face I can see you can see that this back thing has got me hung up in a tree. So help me Sir Peabody Poobear my friend. Please help me right now or I fear it's the end."

The Poobear just stood there like his feathers were plucked then he opened his snout and said, "you Sir are fucked!"

"You are fucked with your shoes, you are fucked with your socks. You are fucked to the moon like a big bag of cocks. You can forget about shaving and washing and nookie. You can tell Mrs. Chaps I'll take care of her cookie. By the look on your face I can see you can see that this Peabody Poobear thinks you're fucked as can be."

So that's kind of where I'm at right now...

Voicemail...

Maybe it's because my back is killing me.

Maybe it's because I've had this chronic shooting pain in my leg since the summer.

Maybe it's because the surgery that was supposed to fix it all doesn't seem to be working.

It could be that someone less than considerate stole all of the damn tires off my Jeep the other night.

Or perhaps it's that my oldest daughter told me to "fuck off" on Instagram the week before last.

Whatever it was made me sit in my car, alone in the driveway, in silence.

It made me pick up my phone and scroll through my voicemail messages.

I wasn't checking for anything new.

I was looking for something old. 

I knew exactly where it was. 

Third from the bottom, right after the message from the meatball when she was 3, asking me if I'd be home for dinner. Man, she had such a cute voice. 

I save old voicemails like I save old photographs.

I keep them stashed in their digital drawer and forget about them for awhile.

So I press play and you talk to me as if it were a message from this morning. You tell me how your phone is "driving you bananas". You can't seem to remember why you called or if I had called you first and like every other phone call ever, you end it by saying, "love ya brotha". 

This happens every so often. 

I just need to talk to my best friend. I just need to complain a little and then hear you tell me to "stop being such a pussy."

That's all.

Put the photograph back in the drawer until the next time.

I miss you brotha.

Penis Licking Is Cleanliness And Cleanliness Is Next To Godliness...

I have lots of conversations with my kids. Shit, I've built an entire library of short anecdotes based on those conversations.

But...

Meatball - "Hey dad. Why does the dog lick his penis?"

Me - "To clean himself."

Meatball - "But he licks my face."

Me - "But you let him lick your face. So..."

Meatball - "That's rude."

Me - "He's a dog."

Meatball - "So what? Would you lick someone's face after you licked your penis?"

Me - "No."

Check please.