The War Is Waged As It Must Be, At Least I Tell Myself That Every Time I Feel The Knife Slip Deeper In

So I lied, I’ll write another one today.

It’s a little bit before four in the afternoon and it is deceptively warmer than you think it would be outside. Mind you, I would say that and have said that, when the temperature dares to go past 55, but I mean, we all have our likes after all. I am working into what I want to say, so this is the small talk/foreplay section of the writing for those of you unfamiliar with the rambling, half-assed way I make a point I want to make and don’t want to just call someone a cunt or something.

There are things in this world I will never understand because they are not mine to get. There are other things that I will never understand because I think what I am trying to understand is broken somehow and I am never going to get the gist of the thing because it is not presented as it should be.

I love pretty much everyone at first blush. Not quite bromance/sismance/theymance kind of love, but the deep, respectful love I feel that you should have for your fellow human beings kind of love. I love you until you give me a reason not to love you, and even then I will forgive you eleven times out of every three. I hate not having that feeling towards people so, sadly, I have a massively developed White Knight syndrome wherein I feel the need to save people from being in the least bit unhappy in any way. It doesn’t matter most times if they don’t want me to “save” them from the situation, my mind is very task-oriented at a certain point and the only thing left is The Goal. The Answer. The Fix. The Thing.

Yeah, it is that bad.

I know, logically, that there are simple problems, even those that I can, do, and am asked to help with, that simply don’t have answers as easy as the scantron during standardized tests would have you believe. However, logic is often the first thing I cast aside so that I can feel my way to the root of the problem and rip the poison from the source.

This isn’t based on gender, age, or any other kind of descriptor that people like to apply to themselves and others, this is something that I do for anyone and everyone.

Therein, of course, layeth the rub.

You know the old saw about pouring from an empty cup, right? I am more of a fill everyone up with what is my cup first, you know, to tide them until *I* find the tea that goes into their cup. I never think of myself because, well, no. I don’t do that thing, except of course for the glaringly humiliating examples of me doing only that scattered throughout my lifetime. I want everyone to be happy, through this, you betcha, I get my happy.

So, as I sit here desperately trying to find a way to do precisely what I should not be doing for a person I love more than family, I am trying to balance loyalty over sanity, friendship over needs I do not want to acknowledge, and of course, love for myself over love for others.

It is not going to end well, no matter what, but sometimes you have to burn the motherfucker down and see if you can pull some phoenix action out of your ass after the fact to see if there is anything left, or them or I, to salvage for the next day, the next thing, the next battle of the Internal Fear and the External Gifting.

A Piece In Which I Speak On Biblical Things Purely For Clickbait For A Story I May, and Most Likely Will Not, Write Later Today.

In the first book of the Christian bible, other than the “God just went click” moment, there are a few things that confuse me.

Yeah, my turn.

See, there is Enoch, who is the son of Cain and Awan who he met in the Land Of Nod.

There is Enoch, the great-great-grandfather of Noah.

Finally, there is the city of Enoch, which either Cain built and named after his son, or Enoch built and named after himself.

Now if we ignore the massive plot hole about the people of the Land of Nod existing at all when the only people, ever, lived in the Garden, you may wonder why the great-great-great-great grandson of Adam and Even was named the same thing. If you don’t care, welcome to the main point of what I am doing today.

Why is it that they, and they can be anyone, biblical or otherwise, throw shit like this at you and expect you to sheepishly open your brain and accept it like the drivel and pablum it obviously.

I mean, I was almost a priest and I thought it was kind of stupid then. I mean, when you throw in the Apocrypha books like the Apocalypse of Moses, which sounds like the best metal band ever, it kind of explains all sorts of shit, but no, not enough.

I suppose you can use Common Core as a replacement for anything biblical as it is just as obtusely written, but others gripe about that better than I do.

On a lighter, or a darker actually, note, I think I have a story brewing in the brain hole. I am pretty sure you can ascertain what it may entail based on what I am writing here, plus the fact I have been watching an obscene amount of Supernatural lately.

That’s for later though, for now, caffeine.

Oh Yeah, Migraine Day too…

Ode To The Needle; Or How I Need To Stop Kvetching And Just Go And Get More Fucking Ink.

So, what better way to start a Saturday than by discussing the xenophobia and racism of the father of modern horror.


Well, I have this long-standing theory about the pantheon of Northern Europe Heathenism as compared to current societal norms?

No again huh?

Well, I mean, I can talk about tattoos?

Okay, I can do that, way to read the room Bear.

I don’t have enough tattoos, I can tell you that much. I get that people don’t like them, that is fine, those people are wrong and will not be spoken about in this because of this is a happy fucking place for happy fucking people.

Do you know how you leave yourself a note to call Aunt Judy to ask her about the book you wanted to borrow? Tattoos are notes you leave to yourself, forever, to remember a specific way you felt, or a specific place you went to, or a thousand million other things. They are the ultimate in personal expression and they are the delightfully painful reminder that there is nothing permanent on your flesh unless you choose for it to be.


I have ink covering mine, and I have it covering it in a certain way and it means a certain thing to me. Why? Other than Cthulhu being cool? It is because that scar is a reminder of a horror show portion of my life whereas Cthulhu is a literal horror show. See? Well, I mean it doesn’t matter if you do, because I do, and that there is the beauty of it. It can be anything and everything and it is YOURS and no one can take it away from you.

They will try.

They will belittle you and make fun of you and you simply turn your perfectly illustrated skin away from them so you can have them kiss the delight of your ass. Unless it is your ass, and then you can tell them to fuck themselves in a much more direct and honest way, right?

I miss tattoos. I haven’t had one in a while now and I suppose it is time for me to bite the bullet and to find an artist I trust as much as I did my last one. It will suck, but there is a draw to the ink and the pain that I simply have a very hard time ignoring.