I Walked a Long Way to Sit Here Now

I like to do school work at my local University library. It’s a funny thing, but it helps me focus.

Working at my local University library requires me to pay for parking and then walk a significant distance (a mile or so). I understand the need for all this. After all, if parking were free and conveniently located, it would be pretty much impossible with the whole place being overstuffed.

There is a problem, though. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be writing about it. The parking payment is done at a little kiosk and then requires me to put a little stub in my windshield. With school in session, I had to park a fair distance from that little kiosk today. So I left my backpack in my car while going to pay for parking.

And then I forgot to put the damn stub in my windshield. And of course, I didn’t notice this until after I reached my chosen spot on an upper floor of the aforementioned local University library.

Swear words were said. Some out loud but none too loudly. (I’m in a library after all.) So after a long walk (lasting nearly an hour) and paying more money to extend my time in that parking lot, I am finally sitting in my local University library and preparing to do some school work.

But before I do that, I’m going to see if I can get a parking pass and how much the damn thing might cost.

This is how I look right now after all that unexpected walking. Trust me. It’s less scary in black and white.
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I Was Going to Write Something Today, But I Have a Cat on My Hands

I literally have a cat on my hands. Well, truth be told, she’s only on my right hand. Still, do you know how hard it is to type with a full-grown kitty on your hand?

Granted, she’s on the small side, 10ish pounds or so. If she were a Maine Coon or something, forget about it. But this is a pain in the ass.

And she just left. Praise be. So maybe I’ll finish this thing out a little more freely. My apologies for not writing so much lately. Or maybe it was a relief to you. Whatever.

More apologies for not having a picture today. I’m in a bit of a rush, and my right hand is half-numb.

Sunday Confessions #1

Warning: This post is definitely gross and discusses poop.

Recently I had this weird dream that I was pooping in full view of a college class being taught by a famous actor I won’t name*. While wiping my ass, I apologized for being such a distraction as I knew this famous actor (whom I’ve never met) hated that.

And this from a guy who hates pooping in public bathrooms because of the stupid little gaps in the stall walls.

*For #metoo reasons. I don’t want the name distracting from everything else.

Also, I’ll forego a picture today because the temptation is too great to post something horrible. And because of technological reasons.

I’m Not Keeping Track of How Often I Write, Like For Real This Time

As I was getting ready for work yesterday, I started thinking about something I might write for Three Things Thursday so that I could make sure I had something written for yesterday.

Then the work day happened, and I got busy. I didn’t get the thing written during my lunch break.

Then I got home and remembered that I hadn’t written the thing during my lunch break. So I had a little bit of a panic and thought I better get that done after I take care of my pet responsibilities. (I have to give attention to the dog and then feed my cat. Or they’ll kill me.)

Then I got done with my pet responsibilities and sat down on the couch. I thought about writing that thing for about a half second.

Then I remembered how exhausted I was after my work week and decided not to do it. But I felt guilty about it.

Then I remembered this is my year of not giving a shit. So I stopped feeling guilty.

Then I went to bed and slept blissfully. (Not really but pretty good.)

Then I got up and did all my morning stuff which includes some pet responsibilities.

Then I went to the library to get some school work done.

Then I took a break to write this.

Then I decided I would stop and maybe add a picture and publish this thing.

Sadie is the only one who makes no demands in the morning or after I get home from work. She still makes demands. They’re just completely unpredictable.

Oh, Pretty Woman

Note: Today’s and yesterday’s posts were written well in advance.

I like pretty women. I’m funny that way.

My wife is a pretty woman (though she would protest that fact). In fact, if you saw us together, you’d likely think something like, “What is such a good-looking woman doing with a guy like that?”

A lot of my friends are pretty women. This is mostly coincidence and luck. I don’t seek out pretty women to be my friends. I happen to relate well to women, and it just so happens that they tend to be pretty. Sometimes I even let them know that I think they’re pretty. They usually appreciate the compliment, knowing that I am not trying to pursue anything romantic. I’m merely trying to pay a compliment.

I don’t worry about #metoo because I am careful to be respectful. (This is definitely a topic for a future time.) At times I’ve had female friends let me know that my compliments were not welcome, usually because of the context in which they’re given. (A writer friend, for instance, told me she appreciated the compliment but doing so as a comment on something she wrote was not. Lesson learned. Thank you.)

That leads me to a recent dilemma. A friend of a friend wrote something recently that I thoroughly enjoyed. (I need to remember to leave a comment and make sure I compliment her writing.) I also noticed with the accompanying picture how pretty this writer happens to be. I mean, she is strikingly beautiful. Now I’m not wishing to hit on her by any means, but a part of me wishes to tell her that I noticed and appreciate her awe-inspiring face.

The context, though, leaves me hesitant. Also, I don’t know this person. There certainly are some women who never like to have their physical appearance complimented, particularly by some creepy old man. I understand. So maybe I’ll say nothing. Maybe I’ll ask my friend. That seems like a good idea.

The thing about writing without giving a shit is sometimes you work out these weird little dilemmas in your head. Maybe you should try it sometime.

These are ducks somewhere in Michigan circa 2013. This picture was randomly selected.

You Need to Write It Yourself

Note: Today’s and tomorrow’s posts were written well in advance.

I’m reading “In the Gray Area of Being Suicidal” by Tea Jay right now. (And I mean right now. I paused to tap this thing out.) It’s been great, and I’ll try to post a review as soon as I’m done. (I suck at writing reviews, though. Someone might want to remind me.)

In one chapter, she expresses her desire to see super-heroes who are struggling with mental illnesses. This is something I have often heard throughout the years. People advocate for greater diversity, not just in comic books and the related movies but in popular culture at large. It sounds pretty great, but there’s one issue.

At the end of the chapter, Tea Jay writes, “Someday, I know there will be a movie where we’re the hero, even if I have to write the screenplay myself.” I would strongly encourage her to do so and definitely not wait for anyone else.

It reminds me of something I heard one of my old war buddies say. I’ll paraphrase and change some things to fit this purpose: If you want a super-hero movie about people struggling with ADD done right, you should have it done by someone with ADD. If you want it fucked up, you should wait for someone else to do it.

Do you know why war movies suck? Because they’re done by people who have never been to war and made for people who don’t really care. This is kind of a separate discussion, though. The point is there are plenty of people who care about mental illness but not a lot of people in the industry who are going to make this thing happen.

I’ve got a couple of things in the works dealing with war-related topics. In part because of my own mental health struggles, they are a long ways away from being published. However, I know I can’t count on others to get them done.

I’d love to see Tea Jay’s super-hero movie (or comic book or whatever). Her book so far has been great, so I’m sure she’s capable of doing this well. And I also hope she doesn’t wait for someone else to fuck it up.

This is a partially buried, mostly rotted car near a hiking trail in northern Kentucky circa 2012. This picture was selected at random.

What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve 2018?

Note: My apologies to the Orioles. If you don’t know why, you should find out.

Note x 2: I think I used that headline before which is why I made sure to include the year. Now on to the real stuff.

What are you doing New Year’s Eve? I tend not to do anything special. I’m not sure the last time I did. I think it was the late ’90s. I want to say it was 20 years ago exactly, in fact. I was getting drunk with a friend and watching him destroy his life. I quit drinking for about six months after that.

I quit several more times since then. I couldn’t tell you the last time I quit, but it’s been a long time and I have no desire to unquit again. I have no idea where that former friend is now. I have no idea if he ever got sober. I moved on and have no plans to look back.

I do have plans for this New Year’s Eve, though. Earlier today, I went to an Al-Anon meeting. It was great, and I’ll be going back next week. Soon I’m going to work. (Actually, I’m already at work but not on the clock quite yet.) I’m going to work on helping people live better lives and work on helping myself live a better life. I should put more emphasis on that latter part.

Living a better life for myself is the only way I can help others do better. So I’m going to put more emphasis on it. And I’m going to remind myself of this.

Damn. I feel better already.

Happy New Year.