Saturday, December 26, 2009

Why Wait Another Week?

The rattlesnake has slithered up the drain from the proverbial toilet of life and bitten me square 'tween the cheeks. This time, I don't want any sucking out of the venom. That's right, bring on the pain. The venom is warm and life-giving. It's the antithesis of the flood of morosity and self-abusive hopelessness and fear that has kept me in it's cold, clenched fist for the past two months. Is morosity even a word? I don't care. I don't care because I'm a rebel, an example of the fuckitall attitude that made this country great before political correctness fuckitupedness and societal expectations of success and happiness based on all things material up and ruined it.

Today, December 26th, 2009, is a gray-letter day. The blandness of the northern Virginia weather dictates the letter color. In actuality, it's a red-letter day for me because I'm foregoing the usual mindset of 'wait 'til New Years' Day to start anew' and throwing caution to the wind. Starting today, this very moment, with these very words, I am reclaiming my life, stepping outside of the box I have recently placed myself squarely in the center of and looking the future right in the face and daring it to try and corner me into a mold that I do not and will not ever fit into. That's right, Mr. Future, bring it on. And while you're bringin' it, don't turn your back on me or I'll take this swollen, gout-riddled left foot and place it squarely between your left and right 'I gotcha beat, Jeff' asscheeks.

I refuse to be beaten. I'm simply too tired to fight anymore and my 'all or nothing' state of being that I have always had has now kicked in and in it's tiredness is rearing it's beautiful, glorious manic head and is ready to go all Master Chief Halo 3 ass-kickin' bad on life. Yeah, so I have survived the most traumatic two years in my lifetime by miraculously dodging Harry, the Grim Reaper, four times, being arrested three times, going through a rather nasty divorce and most recently accepting the idea that my two children have formally disowned me and chosen the 'things' of life that their other parent can provide over the realness of life that this parent wants to provide and share with them. Pain and suffering, I banish thee to the depths of hell. Let me give you her address ....

On October 28th of this year I began a new thing, something I call a 'big boy job' and completely talked myself into believing that by doing this new thing I would be headed in the right direction and feel settled and comfortable. Damn, was I ever wrong. First, I should have known from the start that any job that requires me to wear loafers and pants with a crease down the front AND back of the legs is not going to go well. That's like trying to get a midget to ride one of those really tall old-tyme bicycles or asking an amputee to walk on stilts. It's just not a good idea to begin with. But, health insurance and a regular bi-weekly paycheck is awfully tempting when the 'ol foot starts that familiar gouty tingle and there isn't any medication left in the little brown bottle. Walking is really underrated, ya know?
Anyway, I nailed the series of interviews with reckless bravado and a brand of salesmanship even Zig Ziglar would envy. In my feeble little mind I was certain that THIS is what I was meant to be doing. When all was said and done, I, the poster child for pre-senility, am now a manager, a by-god manager, providing in-home healthcare services to senior citizens. Shit, I should have signed up as my own first sale. Talk about irony. Don't misunderstand ... I believe that what my company does is worthy and admirable and my company is very good at what they do. I'm just the wood screw that was hired to hold together a battleship. I was the wrong choice and I did the wrong thing. Two wrongs usually don't make a right but in this case they did. I was not born for the corporate world any more than Moses was born to orate (he stutt-tt-err-ed, b-b-b-by G-g-g-god). However, like Moses, I was meant for something bigger than myself and for far too many years refused to follow my passions.

No more being submissive and licking the boot of life, not even if life is wearing a leather bustier, has green nails and a penchant for using the word 'plethora'.
Brunk children, are you listening? You aren't winning this battle for my life and soul either. Your choice to dismiss me as if I were simply the sperm donor for your future materialistic being is painful, yes, but I no longer will allow it to control me and my life from a distance. Shun my calls. Delete my texts. Ignore my voicemails. By all means, continue to neglect to contact me on Thanksgiving, Christmas and my birthday. I'm sure your other parent beams with misguided parental pride when you mention that I called but you didn't call back. Sure, that other parent will grimace and utter something to the effect of 'you should call', but inside, just like the antiwife, she's wringing her hands in glee and already planning out her next purchase for you in order to keep your 'love' in check. Just know this... Those choices you make today in an attempt to prove something to me will inevitably become regrets one day in the future. Me, I'm moving forward and taking the rest of my sperm with me.

Saturday, December 26th, 2009. It's my New Years' Day, a day that will live in infamy for better or for worse. I don't know if infamy can be used both ways but if a man can become a woman and some animals can have both male and female sex organs then infamy can be used for better or for worse. Maybe the word should be incorporated into wedding vows somehow ... I digress. My goals of finishing my book, ranting, raving and writing are in the forefront of my mind. My comedy aspirations are bursting from my heart and head like a spider egg sac full of creepy, crawly critters. My resignation letter is poised and ready for distribution and my war decree has been emailed to this oppressive life that has held me back for far too long. I sweat as I write this and that's a helluva positive sign. When mania knocks, I sweat. When depression slithers in, I shiver. I'm sweating like a hairy fat man in a sauna in the Sahara. Not that I remember much about that trip, but yeah, like that. The only thing I'm going to be managing from this point forward is my life and my future. If I can make some people laugh, smile and forget their problems along the way, even for a moment, along the way, I'll consider each moment a success. As I've been told, 'Do what you love and the money will follow'. Masturbation notwithstanding.
Then again, there is always a career in sperm donations ... Look out December 27th, here I come (pun intended).

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