so. we got a brand new baby kitty last night. she's cute. we named her roo. and immediately thereafter, the other adult and i in the house (yeah...that's a whole other blog in itself) both turned into 17 year old boys in a locker room.
what happens when you bring a new kitty home? that's right, the jokes about the younger, cuter pussy start. and i'm still giggling now. 24 hours later. so completely rude and degrading to women and inappropriate, but hella funny. among them were:
looking for pussy
stroking pussy
sweet little pussy
fishing for pussy (toy on a string...you get the idea)
who got more pussy time
who pussy liked better
i'm pretty sure that should be a question on the adoption form: will you be making inappropriate jokes about your new pet? but hey, at least we waited (mostly) until the kids were in bed to really start in.
that is all.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
is it fight LIKE the devil? or fight the devil?
this won’t be funny. i’m sorry, if you were looking for funny, come back in a while. maybe a long while. it may take quite some time to get back to funny.
this year is shit. I’m just going to throw that out there. don’t know too many people who will disagree at this point. it’s been shit for everyone, I’m not some random odd sad exclusive case. it’s been a fucked up shitty munchkin ass sucking year. I’ve yelled at the universe a few times and told it to back the fuck off. it did for a moment. little did I know that moment was just the back swing to a bigger hit. I said before that this year sucked but it hadn’t hit home yet. just around and close by. this one hit home. this one hit the motherfucking core. this one hit dead fucking center in the middle of it all. this one hurt.
on october 23, sometime between 130 and 415 in the afternoon, my little brother ended his life. he was 27. had actually just turned 27 in september. he just…you know…it was too much for him. there was so much going on. and it’s sad to learn, but the demons I’ve been battling forever are the same ones that plagued him. oh how I wish I had known. I don’t know if there’s comfort or more misery in knowing someone shares the same battles you do. you hurt for them because you know the pain, but at the same time you hurt less because you can share the pain. I don’t know what being a survivor of suicide is supposed to be like- i was given a few handouts that I read over, and it sounds like I’m not doing it right. but I don’t know if there is a right in this situation. I’m not angry. I don’t have any unanswered question. I don’t think it was selfish. I don’t think it was stupid. I don’t think it was some fucking mental illness or problem. he was just hurting. a broken spirit. I get it. from beginning to end, I get it. does it make it any easier? fuck no. do I wish he had found another path? hell yes. but do I get it? damn straight I do. I understand. I can see the path he walked. I can think the thoughts I’m sure he thought. because I’ve been there. I’ve been in that dark corner staring down that same fucking demon. I’ll never know for sure, but I think I can see. and it hurts. because I’ve felt the same things. I’ve written the same things he wrote in his goodbye letter. and that scares me. if we’ve had the same thoughts and walked the same path. and he lost the battle…what does that mean for me? I don’t want to lose this battle. but I can see how easily it can be lost. he wrote in his letter that he was broken and didn’t want to be fixed. I know that feeling. holy fucking pain and darkness do I know that feeling. and your soul hurts. and you feel so broken. and you don’t want to bother people trying to fix you because you don’t feel you can be fixed. and you feel like you’re wasting their time and your time. and you feel like such a burden. and you don’t want everyone worrying about you or stressing about you. but they do, mostly because they don’t understand and just want to make it go away. but those feelings can’t just go away. and there’s those people telling you to just get over it- like it’s a choice you’re making to feel that way and if you would just snap out of it- like it’s your own fault and your own decision to be stuck in that dark endless cave. yes, it’s so enjoyable, I chose to be there. fuck off. obviously spoken from someone who has never been there and desperately clawed to fight their way out only to end up deeper than they started. and then you feel like even more of a failure because you’re letting them down…and the spiral continues. it’s evil. it’s dark. and it gets a hold of you in ways that can’t be explained. and I think he was like me…you put on this face and people may know you’re having a bad day but they have no idea how fucking bad it really is. I’m not good at playing my cards close. I have a feeling and you can see it on my face. steve was a better card player than me. he held it close. obviously no one knew how deep this went for him.
but even though I get it, even though I understand the choice, it doesn’t make it any easier. and the strangest things are so hard for me right now. I’m so jealous and angry at his friends. growing up steve and I had basically no relationship. I would go to our dad’s house for two weeks during the summer, the occasional spring break, very few holidays or any other event (if any…can’t actually remember any other times I went there). into our adult lives I wasn’t there…he lived with my oldest brother for a while and I went to see them once. I wasn’t there when he joined the army. I got to welcome him home from the war later though. I wasn’t there when he graduated dive school. I wasn’t there for holidays. for the first time I was able to see where he lived over in seattle, the beach that he loved, his home, but it was only after his death to clean out his things. I see his friends, his family, they have all these memories and steve stories. and I don’t. and I’m jealous. I’m angry for the stolen years when we were kids. I’m angry at myself for not making it over to see him. I’m angry at my older brother for living closer and being able to go to all the football games and baseball games and lunches and events. I’m angry at his friends that got to see him and know him and love him. I’m jealous of all their memories. all their remembrances. all their pictures and stories and things to look back on. I see theses scraps and remnants and I connect to them in a way I can’t explain. but I wasn’t there for any of them. I don’t know what made him laugh in those pictures. I don’t know what was behind the rooster head or hugging the giant gumball machine or the skydiving adventure. and I’ll never know.
but now there’s this gigantic battle in my head. I see how much he loved life when he loved it. I see how happy he was when he was happy. and I want to be that way. he was a drifter, a wandering spirit, and I envy that. I’ve been so locked down with responsibility for so long. I envy being able to change jobs and move and spend days on the beach or out with friends or creating art work. I wish I could be that way. I wish I could leave this job and do something that I love, not just something that pays the bills. I wish I had the courage to just be myself all the time and do what I loved and not try to be what I’m expected to be or what my family is comfortable with me being. was he some kind of saint? no. was he perfect? no. I’m not trying to make him into some glowing being. he was in trouble, he was drifting, he had to be bailed out now and again. he rarely finished what he started. he didn’t always make the best decisions. but isn’t that what life is about? trying things out and finding what fits you? I envy that he was able to do that. I crave being able to do that.
and while I’m calling out demons…you have to call them all out. you have to face them all, or you can’t deal with them. so I’m going there. I’m going to say it, and I know before I say it how fucked up it is. I get it. but I have to say it because it’s rolling around in my head and I have to face it: I’m jealous that he got out. I’m jealous that he doesn’t have to fight any more. I’m jealous that he could go and not feel stuck here for someone or something. and YES…I know how fucked up that thought is. a big part of that is that I know the not being able to be fixed feeling. and that’s a lot to carry around. and he doesn’t have to worry about being fixed any more. he doesn’t have to be the broken one walking around letting his family down.
wow. that was hard to say. it’s hard to express how long that last paragraph took to type…just know this…two hours. yes. that small paragraph took two hours to write. but I said it. once you say it, it isn’t so scary. and it’s not as threatening. you can read it and see how fucked up it is and it makes everything less…whatever…
so. that’s where I’m at right now kids. I’m sorry if it’s sketchy and jumpy and doesn’t make sense. it doesn’t make sense to me either. I just had to get it out.
this year is shit. I’m just going to throw that out there. don’t know too many people who will disagree at this point. it’s been shit for everyone, I’m not some random odd sad exclusive case. it’s been a fucked up shitty munchkin ass sucking year. I’ve yelled at the universe a few times and told it to back the fuck off. it did for a moment. little did I know that moment was just the back swing to a bigger hit. I said before that this year sucked but it hadn’t hit home yet. just around and close by. this one hit home. this one hit the motherfucking core. this one hit dead fucking center in the middle of it all. this one hurt.
on october 23, sometime between 130 and 415 in the afternoon, my little brother ended his life. he was 27. had actually just turned 27 in september. he just…you know…it was too much for him. there was so much going on. and it’s sad to learn, but the demons I’ve been battling forever are the same ones that plagued him. oh how I wish I had known. I don’t know if there’s comfort or more misery in knowing someone shares the same battles you do. you hurt for them because you know the pain, but at the same time you hurt less because you can share the pain. I don’t know what being a survivor of suicide is supposed to be like- i was given a few handouts that I read over, and it sounds like I’m not doing it right. but I don’t know if there is a right in this situation. I’m not angry. I don’t have any unanswered question. I don’t think it was selfish. I don’t think it was stupid. I don’t think it was some fucking mental illness or problem. he was just hurting. a broken spirit. I get it. from beginning to end, I get it. does it make it any easier? fuck no. do I wish he had found another path? hell yes. but do I get it? damn straight I do. I understand. I can see the path he walked. I can think the thoughts I’m sure he thought. because I’ve been there. I’ve been in that dark corner staring down that same fucking demon. I’ll never know for sure, but I think I can see. and it hurts. because I’ve felt the same things. I’ve written the same things he wrote in his goodbye letter. and that scares me. if we’ve had the same thoughts and walked the same path. and he lost the battle…what does that mean for me? I don’t want to lose this battle. but I can see how easily it can be lost. he wrote in his letter that he was broken and didn’t want to be fixed. I know that feeling. holy fucking pain and darkness do I know that feeling. and your soul hurts. and you feel so broken. and you don’t want to bother people trying to fix you because you don’t feel you can be fixed. and you feel like you’re wasting their time and your time. and you feel like such a burden. and you don’t want everyone worrying about you or stressing about you. but they do, mostly because they don’t understand and just want to make it go away. but those feelings can’t just go away. and there’s those people telling you to just get over it- like it’s a choice you’re making to feel that way and if you would just snap out of it- like it’s your own fault and your own decision to be stuck in that dark endless cave. yes, it’s so enjoyable, I chose to be there. fuck off. obviously spoken from someone who has never been there and desperately clawed to fight their way out only to end up deeper than they started. and then you feel like even more of a failure because you’re letting them down…and the spiral continues. it’s evil. it’s dark. and it gets a hold of you in ways that can’t be explained. and I think he was like me…you put on this face and people may know you’re having a bad day but they have no idea how fucking bad it really is. I’m not good at playing my cards close. I have a feeling and you can see it on my face. steve was a better card player than me. he held it close. obviously no one knew how deep this went for him.
but even though I get it, even though I understand the choice, it doesn’t make it any easier. and the strangest things are so hard for me right now. I’m so jealous and angry at his friends. growing up steve and I had basically no relationship. I would go to our dad’s house for two weeks during the summer, the occasional spring break, very few holidays or any other event (if any…can’t actually remember any other times I went there). into our adult lives I wasn’t there…he lived with my oldest brother for a while and I went to see them once. I wasn’t there when he joined the army. I got to welcome him home from the war later though. I wasn’t there when he graduated dive school. I wasn’t there for holidays. for the first time I was able to see where he lived over in seattle, the beach that he loved, his home, but it was only after his death to clean out his things. I see his friends, his family, they have all these memories and steve stories. and I don’t. and I’m jealous. I’m angry for the stolen years when we were kids. I’m angry at myself for not making it over to see him. I’m angry at my older brother for living closer and being able to go to all the football games and baseball games and lunches and events. I’m angry at his friends that got to see him and know him and love him. I’m jealous of all their memories. all their remembrances. all their pictures and stories and things to look back on. I see theses scraps and remnants and I connect to them in a way I can’t explain. but I wasn’t there for any of them. I don’t know what made him laugh in those pictures. I don’t know what was behind the rooster head or hugging the giant gumball machine or the skydiving adventure. and I’ll never know.
but now there’s this gigantic battle in my head. I see how much he loved life when he loved it. I see how happy he was when he was happy. and I want to be that way. he was a drifter, a wandering spirit, and I envy that. I’ve been so locked down with responsibility for so long. I envy being able to change jobs and move and spend days on the beach or out with friends or creating art work. I wish I could be that way. I wish I could leave this job and do something that I love, not just something that pays the bills. I wish I had the courage to just be myself all the time and do what I loved and not try to be what I’m expected to be or what my family is comfortable with me being. was he some kind of saint? no. was he perfect? no. I’m not trying to make him into some glowing being. he was in trouble, he was drifting, he had to be bailed out now and again. he rarely finished what he started. he didn’t always make the best decisions. but isn’t that what life is about? trying things out and finding what fits you? I envy that he was able to do that. I crave being able to do that.
and while I’m calling out demons…you have to call them all out. you have to face them all, or you can’t deal with them. so I’m going there. I’m going to say it, and I know before I say it how fucked up it is. I get it. but I have to say it because it’s rolling around in my head and I have to face it: I’m jealous that he got out. I’m jealous that he doesn’t have to fight any more. I’m jealous that he could go and not feel stuck here for someone or something. and YES…I know how fucked up that thought is. a big part of that is that I know the not being able to be fixed feeling. and that’s a lot to carry around. and he doesn’t have to worry about being fixed any more. he doesn’t have to be the broken one walking around letting his family down.
wow. that was hard to say. it’s hard to express how long that last paragraph took to type…just know this…two hours. yes. that small paragraph took two hours to write. but I said it. once you say it, it isn’t so scary. and it’s not as threatening. you can read it and see how fucked up it is and it makes everything less…whatever…
so. that’s where I’m at right now kids. I’m sorry if it’s sketchy and jumpy and doesn’t make sense. it doesn’t make sense to me either. I just had to get it out.
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