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4 May 2015, 10:34

There is something definitely wrong with me.

I got sick. Thursday. APRIL 16th. THREE WEEKS AGO. Doug brought home some southern fried plague and my body said, BREAK TIME, LET’S BE ILL. Food wouldn’t go in me, and the food that was in me, was really aching to get out. Dizzy, hurting and gross. I was doing gross things, expelling gross material, making gross sounds.

Really. I thought I was going to die.

It took me THREE WEEKS to get well. More accurately, I seem to be all well about Saturday. NOBODY who isn’t riddled with disease and contamination stays sick for three weeks. And I think in that three weeks, I was sick with two different disorders. I still think it was Malaria, but I’m sure Doug was right when he said there is very little Malaria in South Carolina.

And plus I’m tired a lot. Doug says it because I’m really, really old. HA. Funny guy. Good thing I have a wonderful sense of humor, or I’d be grinding up laxative in his food, instead of only fantasizing about it. My sleepies were ALL OVER THE PLACE. Currently instead of staying up all night, I’m waking up at four in the morning and watching reruns of “Mad About You” on the computer.

So I’m better now. In betwixt way back ago and now, my whole routine got screwed up. Tready time got cut, but so did my food intake. Sickness, like crisis, tends to kill my appetite. I dropped a good 10 lbs in about a week and a half. I’ve since gained about four pounds back, but I’m really happy that I’m keeping the rest off. I’m making some real progress in a fairly quick amount of time. And I made a discovery. It’s NOT 80% exercise and 20% diet, is really the other way around. When I cut my calorie intake, the pounds just melted off. So, I am endeavoring to keep it down, without adopting some eating disorder, whilst still exercising pretty moderately to keep in shape.

God, I wish there was something interesting I had to write about.

In the employment arena, I guess I’m taking a stab at freelancing. I had finally gotten a job offer for a hideous little job at a poverty level wage rate. In a kneejerk reaction to the thought of being a failure and destitute for the rest of my natural life, I took the job. After a talky with Doug, I decided to decline it, but the hideous job called back and said that they’d be willing to work out some sort of contract deal so that I wouldn’t have to commit to them or come in on site daily. So, I’m going to see them Monday and see what’s what. I hope this is all on the up and up. I would hate to work, and then not get paid. There is no way I can stop anyone from rogering me but good if they really wanted to. I don’t have a lawyer, and I’m not sure what small claims court can do for me if some asshole doesn’t want to pony up the cabbage for my work. This is why I HATE freelance. Just don’t have the balls for it. I like the whole sitting in the corner, computering away and collecting my little paycheck at the end of two weeks. But if this goes well, I might be inclined to try and shop for more freelance clients.

Also, I am getting SLIGHT biting action on my resume from real employers – employers about an hour and a half away, but still, it helps my self esteem.

Um. What else. I don’t know. I’m getting sick of cleaning. FUCK THIS SHIT. I don’t know why, now it’s bothering me about 5x more than usual, but damn, it is. It’s taking a real effort on my part to keep us from living in a filthy pigsty.

One thing. Goodbye David Letterman. He is retiring and leaving me to grow old alone. I grew up with Dave – literally grew up with him. I was 13 when he started his show. I watched religiously. I had recorded old episodes on VHS and rewatched them at least a dozen times. His sense of humor had a big influence on my own, and he never failed to make me laugh. I emulated his demeanor and attitude. I can’t believe its been 30+ years. Not only does it make me morose that he’ll be gone (along with Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, and Craig Furgenson), it puts into sharp relief the reality of my mortality.

FUCK A DUCK. I’m NOT going to live until I’m 200. I’m NOT going to be young forever. And things DON’T stay the same.

I’m not sure what happens when we die. I like to think that we graduate to another level, taking what we learned and experienced to apply somewhere else. I hate to think that my journey was so short. I just now got to where my shit was fairly together, and I am the person that I wanted to be. Mostly. I use not care if I died, but this was back when life was pretty bleak and I had nothing and nothing to lose. Slowly as I got older, I got things. I got people. I got hope. And then it almost became unbearable to think I was going to die, because the thought of leaving all those I love just crippled me.

These days, I vacillate from sadness to hope to curiosity. I don’t want to leave my little family, or at least I don’t want to leave them unprotected. I have this unbelievably arrogant attitude, that I am the best one to safeguard them and that if I am not here, no one will care as much as I. But lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe death isn’t what I think it is. And this isn’t some new religiousity I’ve come to, I don’t see heaven, I don’t see hell. I’m really questioning whether death is really the end in that maybe we ascend to another plane? Maybe we reincarnate? I’m developing a growing curiosity as to the answers of what comes after death. Religious answers do not make sense to me, nor are particularly appealing to me. The only thing I could really ask for besides enlightenment is that all my loved ones (dogs, people and such) who passed before me ended up without pain, without suffering – maybe I could see them, touch them and give them love once again.

I don’t want all that I am to be worm dirt. But that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Going back to be part of the universe. The absolute minimum I would like is to have made a positive difference, somewhere to someone. Barring that, let me live long enough to do so, and maybe that would entail giving me another, say 50 years. And give me the good kind of time, more of those years you have between 30 and 50 years old. Not the old, drooling decrepit, soiling myself kind of continuation.

Eh, you never know. We may develop the ability to download our consciousness into new robot bodies. That would be alright, too. Then I wouldn’t have to do tready time ever again. Just oil me once in a while and plug me in every night.