The Mind Of An Introvert In Consensual, Non-Consensual, Social Isolation – Day The Wednesday

So, when I am in a position where I am forced to think even more than I normally do, such as being in the same room for forty and fifty hours at a time, I try to think of things I can say to people who are, in this case at least, in a similar situation, to see if I can help their brains as they are all so very good at helping me every single time I ask, which is so very often.

I try to think of ways to tell them how they are appreciated and how I value them in all the ways I do. Except, in my head at least, it all gets to be this repetitive, trite-sounding, mealy-mouthed words that I say over and over again. Which, as you can imagine, does nothing for the airplane taking off in my head demanding to fix the problem that I am having and say the things I need to say to make the feelings feel the way the feelings should feel and all of that.

So then I try to over-explain what I feel to these people and it ends up this gigantic clusterfuck of nothing and everything and whatever message I was originally trying for is so hopelessly lost in the barrage of bullshit being projected from my mouth that I need to just stop and waddle, humiliated, over to my dark corner of the world.

So, instead, I am going to just vomit all of this up and hopefully, you can sift through the detritus, flotsam, and jetsam of it all and see if any of it applies to you.

I know I have been a live nerve for the last few months. I know I have been annoying and moodier than even I normally am and this raging ball of bullshit, but it is who I am. All of y’all taught me not to apologize for being me so I won’t do that. I do want to say that I know that I have said some fucked up things to some of you and I am so very sorry for doing that.

I want to tell you that there is no way I could have survived, at least mentally, this COVID-19 thing without the help of the awesome science humans I know who sat me down and very carefully explained to me why some of my fears were misplaced and, yes, why some of them were in fact very real. It allowed me to get prepared in a good way and not panic and buy 37 cases of toilet paper and no food. These people helped me make sure my babies were safe and taken care of from this thing in the ways that they needed to be.

I want to tell my best friend that I think that she is a goddamn superhero who puts up with my shit way more than any other living thing in the world combined. I do not deserve her in my life in the slightest and the fact that she can somehow make the entirety of the world stop spinning so I can do a simple thing like laugh means more to me than I can easily express without, well, doing things like this.

My friends whom I text at the ungodly times of the morning, the friends with kids who still take the time to make sure I am OK, the friends whose lives are just as chaotic, if not more so, than mine is. The heroes that still go to work outside their home in this, the champions that are working from home still. The mothers and sisters, brothers and nieces that have adopted me just as much as I have adopted them.

People who I have known forever and people I am only now getting to truly know, you have shown compassion to me and mine and while I will never believe I deserve it, I appreciate it more than you can ever possibly fathom.

Thank you for being the net I fall into every time the world gets to be chaos and I can’t accept that.

Loves

The Card – Rickson

The detective bent low over the body. He had gotten the okay from the tech guys that they had all the pics they needed so, after donning a pair of nitrile gloves, he looked down at what was left of a human being at his feet.

The head had been severed and was still actively being searched for. The hands looked like they had been whacked with something over and over until they were just sacks of flesh containing bits of bone, at least what bones hadn’t already come out and were, like the head, being looked for in the flat that the deceased had been found in. There were bruises and cuts everywhere on the torso. Distinctive marks from what looked like a baseball bat crossed upward from the left hip to the right shoulder.

It was just a bad scene all around. The detective shook his head and carefully reached into the victim’s pocket and almost immediately pulled it out because he could swear he had fucking stabbed himself on something. Afraid that it had been a junkie hypodermic, he quickly, but carefully, repeated the procedure and breathed a sigh of relief when he could find nothing resembling a needle or a blade in the pockets. In fact, all that was in there was this black card.

It was shiny, like one of those cards from that game where you come up with horrible answers to things. It was glossy and mirrored the light perfectly. Despite what had happened to the previous owner of it, it was untouched by any wear or tear. Without thinking twice, he slipped the card into his interior suit coat pocket and continued with his investigation, finding it weird he hadn’t found anything in the pocket after he had just felt a sting come it. He was just happy he didn’t have to go through the tests for HIV and Hepatitis.

—–

The detective, Rickson, sat down at his desk with a fresh cup of tea and saw that the autopsy report on John Doe from the other night was on his desk. A little early for gore and horror, but it went with the job. He took a sip from the tea and opened the report. Apparently they had found a wallet on the corpse that identified as a man named Alphonse Jacobi. A work-from-home accountant for the big firms. Massive internal bleeding was the cause of death, apparently, all signs pointed to him being alive when all of the injuries were sustained, the head was removed post-mortum for reasons as of yet unknown. Those things that were missing, the head and miscellaneous bone fragments, had yet to be found and a deep search of the area surrounding the flat was being conducted even as he read this grisly report in front of him.

He stretched, his arms shooting out to both sides and bunching his jacket like always happened. When he put his arms back down he noticed a black card on his desk. A shiny, black card, a playing card? It was completely devoid of detail, at least on the side that he could see. He picked it up and flipped it over and there was an email address printed neatly on it. Eyebrow raised in curiosity Rickson logged into his computer and put the email address through the database with no luck. The domain didn’t have any websites and, without getting the tech guys involved, that was all he would be able to tell.

His questioning getting the better of him, Rickson pulled out his mobile and opened the email app and placed the email address in the To field and simply sent a message saying hello. He hit send without a second thought and put his phone down and took another sip of his tea while he turned the card over in his hand. It felt like it should mean something, it was tickling some part of his brain but he couldn’t quite place it no matter how hard he tried.

He heard his phone buzz on the table and he picked it up and looked at the screen and saw that the email had been answered:

PLEASE STATE YOUR QUERY/REQUEST/DEMAND.

Well, wasn’t this just a big pile of shit all of a sudden.

I Am Definitely No Baz Luhrmann, Not By A Long Shot, Or A Billy Joel For That Matter

I turned forty the other day and, if I talk to you with any frequency, you know I was not a particular fan of this grand event. Don’t get me wrong, I am over it for the most part now and it sure as hell beats the alternative, right?

There is no wisdom I can convey to tell you how to be whatever emotion it is you want to be when you turn whatever age it is you are about to turn. I am here out of a combination of being arrested and going to jail, finding the right woman at last and dumb fucking luck. If you want to know how to do things, as someone who actually knows, or at least someone who would give you better guesses than I.

That is not to say I don’t have a few tips to get you from whatever number you are at to the next number you will be at. I am not going to bust into a rendition of Sunscreen or, for those of you old enough to appreciate it, We Didn’t Start The Fire.

So, in no particular order, here are the Bear’s Keys To Stuff and Things. ()

  • Drink a fuckton of water. If you need to lookup a fuckton, that is good, it means blind obedience isn’t your thing.
  • Don’t ever forget that even if you believe in reincarnation and know you will be back, this life is worth living to the fullest.
  • There is no such thing as a free anything.
  • Movie remakes are never better than the originals.
  • The books are always better if they came first.
  • Pizza is an art piece, use your imagination.
  • Sex feels good, so leave people alone who do it differently than you.
  • Hating people? Passe much bro?
  • Listen to scientists, the Horror movie industry got that right.
  • Lastly, and most importantly, love.

Yeah, it was stupid and cheesy and you know what, that is okay because I haven’t had a whole cup of coffee yet, so there.

The Mind Of An Introvert In Consensual, Non-Consensual, Social Isolation – Day The Tuesday

I had to go out today. Well, I mean, I didn’t but I did. I went to CVS with Terry to get prescriptions and while I was there I might have bought $40 worth of candy, that I then totally wiped down and sterilized as soon as I got home, then repeated the procedure on myself.

After this, if there is an after this, if I ever see a goddamn baby wipe that isn’t being used to wipe a fucking baby I am going to make it scream in pain like the ashen palms of my hands are screaming as we speak.

A weird sentence I know.

You will note the longer I am in the same house with my children I will become more and more prolific in my writing until a point where I cannot promise that food and water will be as important to me as the tactile orgasm of this little wireless keyboard I have sitting on top of the dead keyboard on this busted ass laptop.

I love my children and them being home is not the issue, not at all. Shit, if you know me at all you know I keep[ my Ducks home too much rather than the other way around. No, the issue is that it is all forced like this.

Now I am not saying we should leave the house, because fuck and that, #StayTheFuckHome.

No, I agree with all of the restrictions if it keeps my Ducks even the most minute amount safer during all of this. Yes, it is inconvenient and annoying to everyone. Yes, I know we are in an economic tailspin, but how are we supposed to be not those things if enough of us get this thing where it is 30, 40, 50 percent unemployment for two decades until the age gap closes again?

I am drinking too much coffee, emotionally eating way too much food and going to bed too late and not getting a lick of sleep until way too early in the morning. It makes for long days, trying days, annoying days.

However, I, like many of you, know someone who has to work in all of this chaos. I know nurses who I cannot imagine are anything short of both terrified and fucking superheroes. Mothers who are so scared they are brave, fathers who are trying everything they can to assuage fears they feel just as strongly.

It can always get fucking worse.

Or, if you are of a slightly Jesus tilt, just remember the old adage. “There but for the Grace of God, go I.” Savor the sweet moments, be strong through the roughest waves, be kind and compassionate to those who do not have the ability to sit at home and work and, most importantly.

Remember this was, at least in part, avoidable and get your ass out to the polls in November, even if you do have to be six feet apart still.

Headless

The thing they don’t tell you about arterial blood is that it is just so much darker than what they show on television when people do heinous things to not-so-heinous people. They always make it look like this Campbell’s tomato soup color when it is this rick and dark red that, like I am doing right this very second, you want a roll in it and have it cover you like a blanket, wiping away any other color, any other light that would dare intrude into such an intimate picture. It is warm and wet, like so many things that are sexual and sensual. It is coppery in your mouth as you roll it along the tip of your tongue and it catches, just a bit, in the back of your throat as your brain reminds you just what exactly is it you are doing, almost a way of making sure you truly want to become what you are trying to be.

I am a bit past where you are, however, so allow me to explain.

A little more than an hour ago, in a very uppity part of Manhattan, I took a chef’s knife from the block in my mother-in-law’s kitchen. It was a gorgeous thing that was this beautiful Damascus patterned steel that looked like explosions and supernovas to my unknowing eyes. It had a handle of, I assume, faux ivory and I walked into the study she was sitting in and I proceeded to remove her head from her shoulders. It is a task that I did not expect to be easy, but it took far longer than I anticipated it taking and a few tools I had to go back into the kitchen to retrieve. The Wusthoff cleaver she had finally got through the spine. It took me a few times, but if I may add, it was a half an hour or so into the ordeal and I am not a particularly large human being.

What, what do you mean you want to know why I did such a thing?

Fine. Christ, people just can’t be content with being told a good story anymore. They have to know about the fucking life of the artist and see if it fits his fucking oeuvre. Choosy fucking beggars I swear…

You want to know why I am laying in a pool of blood and drinking it alternatively like Kool-Air and Merlot?

I was walking down the street to see her this afternoon. My wife asked me to come and pick up some papers from her so we could do her taxes, and it just occurred to me that instead of all of that I could just cut the fucking woman’s head off and swim around naked in her blood like Count Bathory of modern times and then clean up and go home, not forgetting the papers, of course, taxes are important.

Did she do anything wrong?

No, why would you ask me that?

Did she deserve to die? I have no fucking idea. I am not an all-knowing seeker of truth. I wanted to cut her head off and, well, I did.

Sorry, were you expecting me to tell you I had a horrid childhood? That my mummy raped me and daddy beat me?

No sugar tits, sometimes you just want to go and cut a fucking head off.