I’ll admit, I’m a bad English major. There are just some things I never bothered to learn. Didn’t want to learn. Because, let’s face it, I only majored in English because I love reading and I can bullshit.
Today, at work, I picked up a copy of Word Snoop. It’s a kid’s book, yeah, but it’s filled with somethings I didn’t know. Like how people slipped in the letter “u” into English words to make them look French. (In other words: Those of Americans who insist on spelling color C O L O U R only do so to appease the French occupancy of Britain during the English language’s infancy.)
I have nothing else to report. There’s something brewing in the horizon, though. My friends, the voices, have returned.
But when you’re weak, it’s the Holy Grail
you’re two for one, it’s a fire sale
and that’s a wall that you cannot scale
so you’re forced to burrow under
I wish there were two of me. Though, there are two me. We wear masks, a different one for every setting. And the more I think about it, the less real I feel.
My blood begins to boil as a coworker tells me a story about an elderly woman working to support her dead beat offspring, their equally dead beat wives, and their children. There is violence within me. We’re all capable of it, but most of us live life in passivity. There have been other moments where the monster has crept into my blood. I never act on it. The consequences are a threat enough. But if I could get away with it? We’d never know.
I let my guard down at work, and the monster slipped out. The facade holds so much back. When the husk of the man goes through the motions, it is not ignored.
Today, I imagined myself beating two junkies to the edges of death. While running, I imagined holding down the piece of shit teenage punk, my thumbs pushing into his larynx. And I’ll take in a deep breath, and I’ll release it. I’ll close my eyes and imagine the garden. I’ll see my body wrapped in the ivy until I’m suffocated. And my center will return.
I watched Iron Man 3. Just finished about thirty minutes ago. My mood heightened, I took a shower. Refreshing as it was, something cracked. And instead of reflecting on all the Iron Man action, a voice – the voice – crept up and whispered doubt in my ear. The next moment, I’m out of the shower and texting (I didn’t send it) a person I don’t have the right to complain about. “Why don’t I function anymore?” But did I ever function?
Depression and anxiety aren’t strangers in my life. They’re old friends. They know my haunts. They know my tricks. And over the years, the ones I mastered to keep them in check are beginning to fail me.
Socially awkward by birth, over the years I’ve perfected the proper responses, vocally and physically. I never speak unless spoken to, or have something of importance to say. I keep my wording to a minimum when sending an e-mail. When I lose control of my emotions, however, the surface cracks and my truer self springs free, spreading the venom throughout my mind.
I don’t believe in a higher power. No god rules my decisions, good or bad. I don’t pray for others that are in need; I help them if I can. I don’t give praise to some imaginary friend for giving me another day on this earth. Don’t believe in astrological signs or psychics or homeopathy or runes or an afterlife or destiny or fate or anything predestined or written in the stars. No one’s ever read my cards, and the Bible is as factual to me as The Iliad or Metamorphosis or the latest John Grisham novel. And yet, somehow, whenever I make the above statement, it’s always responded with sheer shock. As if believing in nothing but the natural world is much more mind blowing than believing in some invisible guy in the sky.
I’m not an Atheist, let’s make that clear. I still wander the realms of agnosticism. And while I’m open to the concept of some alien being that created us, I’m 99.9% positive that god exists because humans exist, not the other way around. Most people see the .1% as a weakness, a crack in my facade. Believers see it as insurance. It’s something to pick at, chisel and hope that I make the leap either way. Just choose a side, like with bisexuals.
Not a day goes by that I’m not bombarded with a pro-religion “meme” on Facebook. Not a day goes by that I read about how god has given us another day, as if some all-loving creator would just pull the plug for shits and giggles. And not a day goes by that I don’t read how they feel persecuted for their beliefs. This stems from something Jesus may have said (or it may have just been fabricated to explain the historical persecution of Christians). Women’s rights are seen as a persecution. Marriage equality is seen as persecution. Hell, gay acceptance has been in the spotlight recently.
When Jason Collins came out of the closet, the people accepted him. Well, for the most part. Because shortly after all the praising of his courage to come out of the closet as a professional athlete (who also happened to be African American), the backlash hit. Suddenly the religious right were up in arms, bitching how the media made a darling out of a sodomite but snubbed such an outstanding Christian like Tim Tebow. Keep it to yourself, Tebow, indeed. Because being a white, Christian male in the United States is so rare. Not as if it’s a dime a dozen or anything. Where as coming out as homosexual in the black community? A community that’s already a minority? It’s minority-ception, something Tebow will never understand, as Christians were never banned from marrying each other or enslaved by the African Homosexuals bigots.
And that’s the problem I’m having here. This thought process I’m having. I have yet opened a newspaper to read an article about some poor kid pressured into suicide for believing in a god. Or the Supreme Court having a hearing on Christian Marriage rights. Or how Catholics are forced into abortion. Or how the first Thursday in May is National Science Experimenting day, where a rally is being held. No. What I read is the science that could’ve been but isn’t because Christians pale at the thought of stem cells being used as research. Or Christians with signs stating that god made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. And Facebook is just wallpapered with pointless, would-be deep memes about how god gives you the things like that boyfriend you always wanted, but no one ever bats an eye when said boyfriend beats you. I suppose, god works in mysterious ways.
These people round here
Wear beaten down eyes sunk
In smoke dried faces
They’re so resigned to what their fate is
But not us (no not ever)
But not us (not ever)
We are far too young and clever
Too-ra-loo-ra, too-ra-loo-rye, aye
And you’ll hum this tune forever
Week Three, Day One of Zombies, 5K nearly killed me. My work out exploded from about 35 minutes to 45. Not a lot, I’ll admit. Just keep in mind that yours truly lived a couch potato existence for a good chunk of my life.
My legs are screaming at me for overexerting myself in running. I’m thirty, for fucksake. Age doesn’t matter, though. I’m rebuilding my body. But for what reasons? To look better naked? To keep up with my growing child? To catch someone’s eye, or the eye of a certain someone? I use Shaun as a reason, let’s be honest. I’m just tired of being fat. My knees pop with each step and my back aches more each day. The way I lived my life only leads down one path: Me rolling around the city in my Rascal.
I’m not morbidly obese, but I can’t say I’m average. I’m overweight, and I’ve chuckled about it in the past. I don’t let things like this bother me, though my performance in doing the simplest of tasks is becoming less and less – shall we say? – dry. I don’t recall a time when I’ve been a light sweater. I come from a family of sweat. Even in my skinny days, I avoided physical labor because of my sweat. But that’s the first thing being fat takes the blame. Oh, you’re sweating profusely. Must be because you’ve let yourself go. I’m not going to lie to myself and say losing weight will make me sweat any less. And I’m not going to lie to you about that, either. It’s just unnerving what gets blamed.
Last Friday, I noticed a new face at the park (though, I’m probably the new face as I don’t like running in a single area for all to see). A young woman jogging by. I don’t know why I feel the need to share that with you. She’s cute, yeah. But talking to her isn’t an option. Today, I saw another new face (and again, I’m probably the new face). A younger woman walking her dog. And here’s where I’ll end this post. I hate dogs. I loathe them. If I could rid the world of their existence, I would. Yet, with excluding the Mexican rats on crack, they seem to like me. Every time I jogged or walked by, that little fucker would turn course and attempt to drag its poor owner after. I’m sure it wanted to bite me. I mean, after all these years of living an unhealthy lifestyle, I’m sure my sweat is bacon grease.
Last night, after everything, I went for a run. I’ve been using Zombies, 5K to build some endurance before I go full on Zombies, Run. I hate feeling exposed while running around the park. With all the low-lives sitting on the benches, drinking their beers and smoking their cigarettes, it’s like I’m running for an audience. Not to mention the other runners and walkers who I encounter (they run/walk counterclockwise, I run clockwise). So I did my ten minute brisk walk around the park and did the walk/run drills around the area. I made it back to the park to finish the last ten minutes of my free run. I realized I have a little more oomph in me to continue running for a longer range of time, so I ran more. I like the idea that I’m doing this small effort to build a healthier lifestyle so I can pass on to Shaun when he’s older.
I need to start working on Ashton’s and Miranda’s CDs. I’ve been congested with music, that piling up more will only make things harder on me. And after I’m done with that…I don’t know. In the meanwhile, who wants a copy of my Zombies, Run playlist? It’s an old playlist I made years ago (it’s actually four playlists molded into one). I’ll burn the first quarter and send it out to you.
To conclude this, I received a belated birthday gift from a friend today. Two skull rings arrived in my mail. One was of my longing and the second was his choice. I love them, and the weight on my fingers is making me itch to write/type. See, every writer has a quirk. A ritual of sorts. Mine was to wear the rings I acquired during my relationship with Jeanna. Now their meaning and what I lost depresses me so I never wear them, anymore. But these rings are filling the gap. I just love them.