Retention

 

I was brutally awoken from an otherwise restful sleep, this morning at around 4:30am, with a massive migraine.  Not as bad as some I've had, but far worse than most of the headaches I suffer through on a nearly daily basis. I managed to take something for it, a special prescription given to me by my physician, which usually works, but this morning, it failed to relieve me of any discomfort.  I did, however, manage to fall back asleep for another few hours.

When I finally woke up and got out of bed, the headache was still present, but also, for some strange reason, I was reminded of a girl from my youth.  It was grade school and her name was Ruth.

Ruth was a smart girl.  A very smart girl.  Actually, smart doesn't even come close to how brilliantly intelligent this girl was at that age.  She was kind of a frumpy awkward girl, but a lovely and overly friendly girl.  She was friends with everyone.  The reason she was so intelligent, leaps and bounds above everyone else in our grade and probably all the grades above us, was the fact that, for fun, Ruth had read the dictionary. Front-to-back, from aardvark to zyzzyva, this girl read every word, every definition, every... Everything. She read it all and better yet, she retained every last word.  If any student was struggling with how to spell something or what a word meant, they avoided looking the word up in the dictionary and instead consulted with Ruth.  Everyone did it and one would think that Ruth would get annoyed by all the extra attention, but as memory serves, she was always more than happy to oblige.  It was only the teachers who would get after the kids, urging them to stop harassing Ruth.

I don't know why, exactly, that after all these many many decades, that I would be reminded of a girl that had almost completely vanished from my memory, but I suspect it may be because I need to learn some information to further expand my current driver's license.

In order to qualify for more lucrative employment, I believe that I need to get my Air Brakes Endorsement.  I've already jumped through all the hoops to get to my Class 2, which allows me to operate a bus that exceeds 24 passengers, but I need to overcome that last hurdle, which is a difficult one for me, as I am not mechanically inclined and reading difficulty prevents me from retaining much of what I read.  I can count on one hand, how many books I've read where I was able to understand and remember everything I read on their pages.  For those who are counting, it's two and the dictionary is not one of those books.  (Actually, it's two of Mick Foley's books; Have a Nice Day and Tietam Brown ~ both wonderful books. I recommend them.)

Just the thought of picking up a book or anything, really, is an overwhelming daunting endeavour.  Almost scary, sometimes.  For someone who craves knowledge, it's incomprehensible as to why the mere thought of reading something, especially a text book, is scary.  I don't know if it's the frustration of not remembering or understanding the sentence I just read or what the reasons are. 

I remember when I first picked up the manual for learning Air Brakes and sitting in the backyard in the shade and reading the first paragraph.  Like, six times.  Maybe more and not comprehending or remembering a single word that I'd just read... Six times.  Maybe more.  All this before I bounced my head off the pavement, further depriving myself of mental retention.  Six times, maybe more, and it took me close to an hour before I finally gave up and tossed the books aside.  I've only recently found the manual, when I cleaned out my computer room where, incidentally, I'm currently writing this drivel. 

I spoke with some fine gentlemen, yesterday, who suggested that I watch some YouTube videos.  That everything I need to know for the written and visual exams at SGI (Saskatchewan Government Insurance).  That sounds promising.  I can set aside the cat and dog videos or watching Mike Finnegan f*ck with all his cars, long enough to learn something.

That's the only way I can learn things, is visually, not from reading.  Reading is my mortal enemy, which seems ironic, when you consider how much I enjoy writing.  Believe me, the irony is not lost on this guy, but like the song goes, "I'm a walking contradiction."  Can't read for shit, but I can write halfway decent.  Plus, I don't really compose as much as I simply type out the conversation I'm having in my head with an invisible audience.

I wonder what ever happen to Ruth, that girl from grade school.  What did she end up doing with that brilliant beautiful brain of hers.  I hope all that knowledge never went to waste.  That she's holed up somewhere, searching for the cure to cancer or why people love cat videos so much?  I'm just kidding on that last one, but I hope she's sharing her knowledge and intelligence with the world.  It'd be a shame for us all to lose that spark she had.

Downtown Shopping

Big talk in the city has been about building a downtown grocery store that would service the thousands of downtown residents.  Since the mid-to-late eighties, there hasn't been anything, unless you included the little grocer that existed a couple blocks north of the City Hospital.

The morning radio crew, whom I listen to as much as I am able, were discussing this subject this very morning, peppering their report with jokes, as per the usual.  That's when another long lost memory suddenly flashed into my mind. I suffered a TBI a few years ago and lost most of my childhood memories along with...  Well, to be honest, I've lost a lot of memories, so when something, anything pops into my mind, I celebrate it. This is one of those memories.  I hope I can do it justice.

I remember as a small child, getting up on Saturday mornings and if I wasn't allowed to stay home and watch the pathetic collections of cartoons that our local TV station would air, I'd be dragged into the city to go grocery shopping with my mom and my great-aunt, Chrissie.  The grocery store of choice was at the Midtown Plaza.  The Dominion was the grocery store located at the Midtown.  It was great.  My mom would do the shopping and following her purchase, they'd put everything in large tote bins, place it on a cart and sent down to the basement where we could drive up and pick it up later.

I remember, as a tiny kid, climbing on the chromed barrier that separated the front of store from the rest of the mall, filled with bustling crowds.  The mall seemed much more busy back then.  It's busy now, but not to the capacity it was then.

After my mom paid for everything, we'd tour the mall, visiting many of the stores, before finally stopping for lunch at one of three locations.  There was a restaurant at the (then) Simpson-Sears (later it was shortened to just Sears) or an Orange Julius that was located directly across from the Dominion or the Smitty's that was located to the north of the Orange Julius, just around the corner.  It faced the (then) Bank of Nova Scotia (later renamed ScotiaBank).

I remember if we, my sister and I, were especially well behaved, we'd get a chocolate cigar from the Laura Secord chocolatier that was located kitty-corner from the elevators that connected mall shoppers to the underground parking and up to the (then) CN Towers, which at the time, was apparently Saskatoon's highest skyrise, which is kinda sad by today's standards.

When it was finally time to depart, we'd make our way down to the underground parking.  My sister and I would race to see who got down there first.  One took the stairs (me) and the other would take the elevator.  After locating the car, we'd drive around to the pick up area for the Dominion store, hand over the placards that identified our grocery bins and the young lads would pack everything away in the trunk.

Another memory I have of this experience is when we'd arrive at the mall, my mom with us kids in tow, would head up the back entrance into the grocery store, which in retrospect, may have been an Employees Only route, as I don't recall seeing any other traffic moving up and down those steps other than store employees.  Also, it was dark and dingy, not something that a prestigious shopping facility would be proud to present to the general public.  🤔 Hmm. Shortcuts.

As time pressed on, over the years, the trek to go downtown to shop was too congested and we'd find shopping closer to the farm, namely the Safeway at the newly minted Confederation Park mall.  I never liked it as much, though.

As stated above, I heard the Cruz-FM morning crew, Stacie and Clayton, talking about the possibility of building a downtown grocery store, further discussing possible locations, one of which was the Midtown Plaza.  I texted in and commented on the "Safeway" that was located at the Midtown Plaza of my youth.  Clayton replied to my text with a comment that made me feel ancient, "Little before my time! Sorry bud! - Clayton"  I know that he didn't intend the comment to be as snarky as it sounded, but boy.  That one sent me for a loop. 😟

I was mistaken in thinking it was a Safeway grocer at the Midtown.  It was actually the afore mentioned Dominion.  Safeway was located down the street and one block over at the Hudson's Bay Company department store (aka The Bay) and there was an OK Economy located at the old Army & Navy Department store, a couple blocks east of the Midtown Plaza.  All long lost memories now. 😔

Another report came out stating that over half of the people living in Saskatchewan are under the age of 40.  That being said, all these memories from my infancy and youth are going to disappear completely.  I was able to find some stuff online, via Wikipedia, which means someone gave a shit at some point, and the Saskatoon Library, which unless someone is looking for that information specifically, no one will ever discover it's history.  Sad isn't it?

Fabrication

A number of years ago, I suffered an injury to my left arm.  One morning, while tending to some work stuff, a task I'd repeated every morning for countless years.  It was a part of my routine, when suddenly I felt a snap in my left arm and I could feel my bicep unraveling within the arm.  It felt exactly like a window shade when it's accidentally let go and it flies up to the roll, making a flapping sound at the end. Fwap! Fwap! Fwap!  I never heard any sound, obviously, then again, it was November and I was wearing a heavy jacket.

As an avid viewer of professional wrestling, I knew almost immediately what I had done.  It was obvious to me that my left bicep had ruptured and had retracted up into my upper arm.  Then, when I removed the heavy coat, I saw that my bicep had done just that.  I knew that my morning was not going to be my going straight home to sleep after my graveyard shift, but that I would be making a trek to the Emergency Room.

I can't recall how long of a wait I had before getting in to see doctors, but I do recall that every medical practitioner I interacted with claimed, without examination, that I had merely strained the muscle because if I had torn it, I'd be in much more pain.

I've always harboured a theory that fear drives pain.  That fear of the unknown, is what comprises a majority of pain.  Granted, if you stub your toe or have a limb torn off in some kind of violent farming accident or whatever else we human beings get ourselves wrapped up in, you're going to feel pain.  However, in this instance, because I knew first hand what I had done to myself, there was discomfort, but little pain.

Among the tests performed on me that day, was an ultrasound.  I laid back on a gurney as three young medical students moved the probe over my arm.  During this time, my insistence that the injury was a torn bicep, I kept getting rejected.  That my claims were stupid and misinformed.  "No way!" the lead insisted, "You'd be in intense pain if you tore the bicep."

Just as the young doctor-to-be finished that sentence, the surgeon came inside the darkened room that was lit only by the computer screen.  The surgeon asked how everyone was and before I could utter a single word, the young doctor at the helm of the Ultrasound Machine, piped up, laughing while he delivered his response., "He thinks that fear causes pain and because he thinks he knows what the injury is, is why he doesn't feel any pain."  I remember the whole room going silent, waiting for the surgeon to support them and laugh off my claims.  Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Sounds about right to me."

The trio of young doctors, two males and a female, lost all expression from their faces.  They'd just been schooled by the patient, me, and confirmed by the surgeon.  He scooched in between the doctors manning the Ultrasound, the light reflecting off his face.  I saw a middle-aged man with curly salt and pepper hair, wearing a bowtie.  I can't recall what his name was, as he introduced himself, but I do remember that his first name was Jeffrey, so I knew I was in good hands.

He confirmed that the ultrasound was inconclusive and that he'd likely have to do surgery to confirm the extent of the injury, but in examining my left arm from the outside, it was at best not torn all the way through, but in all likelihood, from the description I told about the unravelling feeling, that I had probably tore bicep.

The surgery was on December 4th, my late-father's birthday, so I knew I was going to be okay, and the next day, following the surgery, I had a chance to sit down with the surgeon to discuss what he'd found.  He explained that I had, indeed, tore the bicep, further explaining that it was a perfect tear.

Apparently, the tendon not only tore at the bottom of the bicep, but it had done so almost cleanly.  The doctor explained that he only had to trim a small portion of the end, before looping it through the two bones in my forearm to reattach the tendon on the underside of the bone.  Because such a small portion was necessary for removal, that I would most likely have full range of my arm when it healed.

It's very true.  In the decades since that injury (I can't believe it's been close to twenty years since that had happened), I have had full range of my left arm.  It's not nearly as strong, but I'm right-handed and the left always was a weak duckling, so no big deal.

The contraption I had to wear after surgery, to ensure the repair would heal properly, was insane and overly bulky.  The injury and surgery both occurred in the winter months so putting on and wearing a jacket was near impossible for a one-armed man, but I did manage to get out once in awhile, always being met with questions and queries.  The real reason behind the injury was stupid and uninteresting, so I came up with a much more interesting and entertaining reason behind the injury.

One time in January, a little over a month after my surgery, I was visiting a friend who lived in a small town outside Saskatoon.  We were conversing at a small table in the bar, when the waitress/bar maid came over to our table to ask if we wanted more to drink.  Seeing the contraption that my arm was twisted into, she asked what had happened, thus thrusting me into my tall tale.

I explained that I'd been downtown, doing Christmas shopping, when I heard a woman scream, "Stop him! He has my purse." I told the bar maid, that I snapped my head around toward the scream and saw a young fellow racing toward me, carrying the woman's purse.  Without hesitation, I explained, I immediately threw my arm out to clothesline the fella as he ran past.  I was successful in bringing down the assailant and retrieving the purse for the woman.

Looking up at the astonished look on the barkeep's face, I added a nugget that I never thought meant anything, claiming that there was a write-up about it in the Sunday Sun, which was a local newspaper for the City of Saskatoon, at the time, adding the title, "Local Samaritan Saves Christmas for Out of Town Shopper".

She was flabbergasted.  Speechless, but impressed.  "I'm going to go home and look for that article." she said, turning around to go back to her post behind the bar.  My friend, whispered to me, "She's really going to do that, you know.  People around here keep all that shit, ya know."  I just shrugged it off and never came clean.  Not until this blog, anyway.

What had really happened was: When it was time to take the garbage out to the bins after working the nightshift, my bicep tore off the bone when I attempted to pick up a large container of garbage.  That's it!  Boring as shit!  Lies or not, that story needed embellishment and I think my cover story was brilliant.  What do y'all think?

Best Mates

 

Happened to wake up early to hear my favourite morning radio duo discussing, of all things, favourite condiments.  Clayton confessed that he doesn't like ketchup or mustard, and as much as it shouldn't bother me, I was genuinely concerned.  So much so, I took to Twitter, my preferred mode of communication with the world, and tweeted into the radio station asking "who hurt him"? 😁

Truth be known, I've met quite a few people who hate the popular duo, Ketchup and Mustard.  I have one friend who actually complained to BK when he bought a burger and it automatically came with dabs of ketchup and mustard.  As if this was unexpected.  At best, one can assume that a burger of any sort will likely come with one or both of the condiments.

I like ketchup and mustard, but for reasons other than what most would expect.  I've made the claim for, what can be estimated as, decades, that ketchup is the perfect condiment, because no matter how bad something tastes, if you add enough ketchup, it'll taste better.  Case and point: Burger King's Black Burger.

I've never actually tasted the mysterious burger, not for a lack of trying.  When I requested it from my local BK, they cocked their head to the side, like a confused mutt, and had no clue what the heck I was talking about.  That being said, if the burger did actually taste horrible, ketchup would be the hero, swooping in like Spider-Man in the nick of time, to save the meal.

When it comes to condiments, I'm kinda particular.  In my house, you'll never see a bottle of Heinz ketchup. I don't particularly care for the taste of it. Too salty.  French's is my go-to, as is the mustard, only I lean more towards the Sweet Onion flavoured mustard.  I also like adding mayonnaise to my burgers and dogs.  Any mayo is good, but Heinz's Seriously Good Mayonnaise isn't just a marketing ploy. It actually tastes damn good. 😋

I realize that this statement may strike up another popular debate: What are acceptable condiments to add to a hotdog?  It's been my experience that most people frown on and absolutely reject ketchup being added to a dog.  I march to the beat of a different drum, as I not only add both ketchup and mustard to my hotdogs, but I also like to slather a layer of mayo on my bun, too.  Again, because it's not always known what ingredients are in the wiener.  One time, as a kid, I bit into a hotdog and my bite was interrupted by a knuckle.  No lie.  It was a piece of cartilage and as a result, I avoided eating hotdogs until later in my adult life.  Ketchup can cover the disgusting taste of a lot of things, but even Superman, himself, couldn't have saved that hotdog. 😣

In researching this blog, this morning, I came across a blurb from NBC News about a Florida Bistro who outright refuses it's patrons the option of having ketchup on their food.  "Anyone above the age of ten, won't get any ketchup on their food."  Not even on a side of french fries, the article read.  Patrons of the bistro, put absolute faith in the food preppers and accept the ban.  That says to me that they think kids under the age of ten aren't smart enough to know that ketchup is disgusting, but then again, if you look at the state of education in Florida, the state doesn't even believe in actual science, either, so their credibility has no bearing on anything.

I enjoy listening to the All Fantasy Everything Podcast hosted by Late Late Show writer and comedian, Ian Karmel.  I believe he and his friends/guests did a Fantasy Draft early on in the podcast, on condiments.  Wanting to participate in the fun, I always make my own draft, sharing it with them via Twitter and Facebook.  I know that I did one up, but I can't remember what my list of condiments were.  However, if put on the spot today, I think my choices would be as follows.

1. Ketchup
2. Mustard
3. Baconnaise (bacon-flavoured mayo)
4. Smoked Applewood Bourbon BBQ sauce
5. Bacon (you can never have too much bacon)

This is a debate that will go on for ever, much like the argument about whether or not a hotdog is a sandwich.  FYI, it's not.  It just isn't. Sorry-not-sorry, but that's a subject for another day.  Today I'm going to leave you with this final thought.  I recently saw this on TV.  It may have been spotlighted on Colbert, I can't remember, but the sandwich looks absolutely amazing and I doubt with all my heart that it would require any outside influence by ketchup or superhero.

Ladies and gentleman.  Allow me to introduce you to the Hotdog Burger.  Near as I can tell, it's one pound of seasoned hamburger placed on a double-long hotdog bun, with two slices of cheese (although I think I'd add two more).  It's probably a train wreck to eat, but I'm up to the challenge.  Who's with me?

Blind Faith

 

It's no secret that I've been lost as of late.  It's getting the point where I barely know who I am, let alone what my purpose in life is anymore.  These days, I live in perpetual sorrow.  Distressed about where I am, who I am, and what is to become of me. I am, for lack of a better term, lost.

Last Sunday our family gathered at my mom's to have an Easter weekend feast.  My mom made a delicious spread, complete with a roast, mashed potatoes and veggies.  It was an amazing meal.  Afterward, as the grown ups were seated around the table, my sister began reading from an app on her phone, regarding numbers and their numerological meanings.

Overzealous as always, my youngest nephew was spouting off numbers faster than my sister could read out their meanings.  Finally, I had a chance to inquire about the number sequence that I continually see, to this day.

The number I always see, is 1129.  I'll see it in books.  On the digital clock at my bedside.  Out in the world.  Randomly, at different times, I'll glance over at something and I'll see the number 1129.  I was born on November 29th, 11-29, which makes the number stand out even more.

I've always held the day in the highest regard, celebrating it's existence more so than Christmas, even.  It's rarely a celebration of my birth, but to commemorate the day.  I've never worked on the day, not even attending school as a kid.  It's just something I've never done.  Well.., actually.  I did, in fact, work on my birthday once, but it was SO disastrous and unlucky, that I've never done it again, to this day.

So when asked, my sister began to tell me that 1129 is an Angel Number.  That angels work in mysterious ways and while they won't come right out and show themselves to us, they will hide hidden meanings in numbers.  She began telling me that I needed to be more charitable.  That I should be donating time and money to deserving causes.  She also said that I needed to get in touch with my spirituality.  That it was necessary for me to get right with God and that God would show me the path that I was destined to be on and that then I would feel happy and fulfilled.

My sister is not a religious person.  I don't know what, exactly, her position is on God and church and all that stuff.  I know my stance on the whole religious situation and it's not good.  My sister, though, has always had a foot into the, I don't what to call it, the New Age thing.  She's always had an interest in reading Tarot cards and mystical shit like that.  I remember one time, she had divining rods, which she claimed could answer simple yes and no questions.  One time, when I was visiting her at work, she had me try these divining rods. Relaxing the rods in my closed fists, as she'd instructed, I began to ask general questions and to my surprise, the rods would move.  Crossing each other for 'yes' and further apart for 'no'.  The reason this memory sticks out, is I inquired as to whether or not I'd rekindle a friendship with someone who'd had a falling out with me, through a misunderstanding.  The rods crossed, indicating 'yes' and to my surprise, a short while later, that friend did, in fact, reach out to me and our friendship resumed.  Though in recent years, we've drifted apart, somewhat, but still keep in touch.

Another time, my sister was reading her Tarot cards for a friend and learned that her friend's husband was being unfaithful.  I believed this assumption to be dangerous, as I have some doubts in the legitimacy of this practice, but low and behold, the man was stepping out on his wife, and subsequently, the two divorced.  While still a dangerous assumption, it did pan out.  A result that I, undeniably, had to acknowledge.  That is why when my sister begins explaining to me the meaning behind why I keep seeing that sequence of numbers, I have to believe her to some degree.  Especially considering that I have been curious about religion, recently.

I see on TV and in movies and with people all around me, this blind faith in a higher power.  An invisible force that guides people through the labyrinth of their lives.  I see that and admittedly, I want that.  I can't help but think that if I put my trust in a higher power, that maybe my life will have some purpose.  A reason for my existence.  I recall, during a particularly dark moment, thinking to myself, "I wish I could believe."  I envy those who can dedicate their lives to following the gospel.

I can't believe in an invisible man who lives in the clouds.  Especially, one who simply calls himself "God", as it seems egocentric.  I can't put my faith in something I cannot see with my own eyes.  That being said, I do believe in oxygen.  It is what helps us breath and it's something I cannot see.  I believe in gravity.  I can't see it, but I've fallen down enough times to know that it exists.  I can't see the electricity that runs through my house, but I know that when I flip a switch or plug something into the wall, a light will come on or the device will operate.  So using that logic, I can't help but wonder...?  Just because I can't see something, does it mean it doesn't actually exist?

I've put my faith in people before and have been burned.  So perhaps I'm jaded.  Or perhaps, because human beings are fallible and prone to contamination, that I'm putting my trust in the wrong things or people.

Years ago, I attended a Christian Counselling Group, to combat anger issues.  I chose that space, not because of any faith in a higher power, but because I could pay them whatever I could afford, rather than the inflated prices that similar counselling would cost.  Through reading passages from the bible, I was able to come to certain conclusions and manage my anger more proficiently.  I've long since forgotten what those principles are, but my anger issues have not come back to the violent levels they once were.  So remembering that aspect of the experience, I can't help but wonder if I were to return to such counselling, if my issues with depression and anxiety would be remedied..?

I have not seen my 1129 in awhile.  Not since before this funk settled in on my life, which makes me wonder.  Did the angels give up on me?  Very much in the way I feel everything has given up on me?  These thoughts just reminded me of that passage: Footprints.  Where the person accuses God of deserting him at his most troublesome times, and God responds by saying that He had lifted him up and carried him through those troubled times.  It really gives a sceptic, like me, something to think about. 🤔

Hopeless

Truth be told.  I should have written this last night, amidst one of the most intense feelings of dread and hopelessness.  If we're being totally honest, though, I was in no shape to be doing anything last night.

I can't describe it, but I've been feeling overwhelmed as of late with feelings of dire hopelessness.  I'm lost.  I am truly lost.  A castaway in a sea of possibility, yet I feel like I'm a million miles away.  I feel like I'm on an edge, afraid to look down.  Like I'm being needled forward, inch by inch, to ultimately fall into a pit of obscurity.

My mom recently told me that when she dies, she doesn't want a funeral.  Despite having so many friends, she believes no one would show up for her funeral.  This saddened me.  In part, because my mom feels this way and selfishly, perhaps, I think if she feels this way with all the friends she has, then no one's going to attend my funeral.  It's not that I don't have friends, but these days they seem more like acquaintances than definitive friends.  I mean, my phone's not ringing off it's hook.

Last night, I watched a documentary on Robin Williams.  For years, I found myself unable to forgive Williams for ending his own life by suicide.  There was no booze of drugs in his system, other than his prescription drugs, so his decision, by all accounts, was lucid, which makes the act even more sad.

Selfishly, I never truly understood his life.  What was going on in that brain of his.  Outside of all the crazy antics, I could see the shell of the man inside.  That the zaniness he displayed on the stage, never truly reflected the man he was inside.  In the documentary, Robin Williams: Come Inside My Mind, the late comedian was often described as quiet whenever he was home, away from the glitz and glamour of show biz.  I think that was when Robin was truly himself, but speaking from my own experience, this isn't always a good thing.  If I'm out and about, I rarely think about myself or what's going on in my own shitty life.  It's when I'm home, alone, with my thoughts, that all hope escapes me and I feel truly lost.  No amount of TV, music or movies, what I used to rely on for escape, now leaves me feeling dejected.

Turns out that in addition to anxiety and depression, the late Oscar winner, was diagnosed with early onset Parkinson's Disease, as well as Lewy Body Dementia, which is believed to be a major contributor to his suicide.  Selfishly, given my thought processes as of late, I understand now, why the man felt suicide was his only choice, despite having such a strong base to lean on.  Last night, reliving some of those happy memories of Robin, I found myself forgiving him for exiting stage left.

I should have written this last night, when my mind was swimming in despondency.  With my cat, nestled up tightly against me, I still felt alone.  Feelings of dread and impending doom.  I can't explain why I'm feeling this way and I think my cat is feeling it too.  He knows something is afoot with his daddy, but doesn't know how to bring me out of this funk.

Depression is nothing new for me.  I've suffered Seasonal Depression for years.  It's only recently that I had discovered that cannabis can combat those dark feelings and the Seasonal Depression that threatened my very livelihood for the better part of my life, had gone by the wayside.  For the first time in literally decades, I was smiling and laughing my way through those darkened months sprawling from late-October to mid-April / early-May.  That is, until this year.  As much as I detested working at that RV company, being fired for absolutely no reason, really shook me.  I didn't mind being off of work for the winter, as I have a real phobia about snow and ice, but to be cast away, like vermin for no justifiable reason, simply blew my mind.  Maybe that's what blew the gasket to my sanity.

I'm in constant pain.  My ankles hurt SO much, that it often brings me to tears.  My hands are the same way.  A handful of times (pardon the pun), I've awoken abruptly as my hands, usually the right hand, my dominant hand, is cramping up into a ball.  The pain in unequal to anything I've ever experienced, and considering I've broken my back and squashed my brain, both immensely painful experiences, the pain I feel in my hands and ankles, rival those pain levels, if not more.  As a result, I've been relying on the cannabis for pain relief, as well.  I've gone to my physician on the matter.  She ran a series of blood tests and has informed me that I do not have arthritis.  When asked why everything hurts, she has no solution.  Only that I should stretch before bed.  Sorry doctor, but what the fuck?!?

These days, my ankles hurt 24/7.  Not a moment goes by where my feet don't hurt.  My hands hurt, but usually only when I grab something.  If I grab a jug of milk from the fridge, my right hand immediately cramps up.  My knees hurt.  My hips both hurt now, although the left is still worse, by far.  My back hurts, as does my neck and my fucking migraines have returned, although still not at the frequency they once did.  The only thing relatively good is my blood sugars.  Small victories?

I am without work.  For the past half decade, I haven't been working throughout the winter months.  At first it was because of my TBI, a traumatic brain injury that I'd gotten when I slipped on a patch of ice at work, knocking myself out for close to a half hour, which was the beginning of a life altered.  I've managed fairly well, I believe, to come out the other side of that accident, with only damage to my short-term and long-term memory.  The long-term comes back in spurts.  I'll see or hear or smell something that triggers a memory and no matter how miniscule it may be, I celebrate it.  My short-term memory is an ongoing problem.  It may have been a contributor to loss of employment from the RV job, as the morning of my dismissal, I found myself wandering around the parking lot, struggling to remember how to do the next task of my job.  I recall almost collapsing in tears.  Everyone is quick to dismiss these struggles as "getting old", but those people fail to see the scenario from my side of the proverbial fence.  I've always prided myself on my memory.  I was always able to remember even the most finite bits of information, but these days I can stop abruptly in the middle of a task being performed and not have a single clue as to what I am doing, nor why I'm doing it.  This is not a factor of getting old.  This is a real fucking problem.

I am without work.  I want to have something to do.  To have a purpose.  I want to have a job with the city.  To work in the park system, ideally, but I have my name in with some other departments, too.  The downside to this is, I know the city will likely demand a drug test prior to any employment, so it will be discovered that I have THC in my bloodstream.  I don't smoke in the morning or during the day, despite how painful my ankles get.  I smoke only in the evenings.  To help with pain management, depression, anxiety and to help me sleep.  However, in my research of the plant, I discovered that daily use, means the THC that is in the cannabis, stays in a person's system for a very long time.  I know not what the city's policy is on cannabis, since it's legalization.  The philosophy of many companies and people, even, casts a dark shadow on the misunderstood substance.  It's absurd.  A person could be a fall down drunk and it's acceptable, but if a person lights up a doobie, suddenly they're a liability and a menace.  Part of me thinks I should speak with my physician about it, but I've attempted to broach the subject with her many years ago.

A friend of mine, years ago, alerted me to acquiring a Medicinal Marijuana prescription.  They were using it to combat anxiety and other ailments.  I knew from my own experimentation, that cannabis helped me with my own battles with anxiety and depression.  It even helped my asthma, remarkably enough.  So I broached the idea with my doctor.  I had always seen my doctor as a forward thinking, try-anything kind of physician.  Hell, she's one of the top doctors in the city.  I'm often commended by other physicians for being so lucky as to have her as my personal physician.  So when I brought up the idea of getting a prescription for cannabis, the idea was shot down immediately and with extreme prejudice.  My doctor was not going to have any of that, citing that marijuana is a "gateway drug".  That is horse shit.  It's my own personal belief that if someone is going to try a hard drug like cocaine or worse, then they were going to do it anyway.  They didn't need an introduction to it by Mary Jane.

I wish I had a rock.  Someone to bounce ideas off of.  Not someone to solve my problems, but who'll be there for me.  To listen to me.  To hear me.  To...  I don't know.

My friend's kid found love on the interwebs.  He is or was a closed off individual.  I worked with him, side-by-side, and it was difficult to bring him out of his shell to even say hi, but somehow he found love on the interwebs. Perhaps I should do this?  Nah.  I'm too broken.  Physically.  Another contributor to my sorrow, me thinks.

I should have written this, last night.  My head racing with thoughts and disparity.  These days.  I am truly lost.  I don't know where to go.  What I should do.  I just want to curl up in a ball and disappear.

My cat, Monkey, is twelve years old.  I pray that he lives to be thirty, because the idea of living in this house without his fuzzy little face staring up at me, is unbearable.  I broke down into full on tears, last week, thinking about him, my cat, being in his twilight years.  My mom, who I've been spending a lot of time with, is seventy-five and talking about when she dies.  When they're both gone, I'm going to be truly alone.  No one to care the least about me.  It was the first time in a very long time where I thought suicide was a legitimate choice.  That without these two pivotal components of my life, I couldn't possibly move on.  This coupled with the fact that I'm susceptible to getting dementia or Alzheimer's Disease because of my multiple concussions.  I've had at least fifteen, to the best of my knowledge, if not more.  Three of which were fatal enough to knock me out and cause permanent damage.  My future looks bleak.  Bleak and alone.

There's no danger of my taking my life.  Not anytime soon, but when these loved ones make their exit...  I'm not a religious person, by any means, but I hope that whatever powers that be, can deliver me through what will likely be the darkest patch of my life.

I was thinking the other day.  Counting how many Christmas' I had left in my life.  How many more birthday's.  I don't have that many.  More than what can be counted on both hands, but less than the amount including my toes.

My feet hurt SO much, right now and I feel fucking helpless.

I should have written this last night.  I may have had a way to end this thought process.  To wrap it up with a neatly tied bow.  Maybe even talk myself into a solution.  A glimmer of hope.  End on a positive note, but I can't.  It's not in me.  It's nowhere to be found.  And will it matter?  Will anyone even read this?  Probably not.  Nobody gives a shit.  People just interject enough on social media to pat themselves on the back with the belief that they contributed.  That they cared, but...  My phone isn't ringing off the hook.

I'm surrounded by so many people, but I've never felt more alone. 😔

Penis Butter

 I love Twitter.  I won't lie.  I absolutely love Twitter.  In the beginning, it was described to me as a way for people to share what they're doing with the world.  I thought it was stupid.  Most of my friends and family couldn't care less about what I might have going on in my life, but I would eventually join and my posts rapidly progressed from what I was up to to eventually injecting my thoughts on a variety of subjects.  People still didn't give two shits about what I was doing or saying, but I enjoyed the process, nevertheless.

Eventually, people would clamp onto my words, some positive, but as we all know the interwebs, people seem to grow enlarged testicles and begin quarrelling or trolling me.  I'd fight with some of them, but mostly I'd ignore the ignorance.  One thing about Twitter that I will never change is, I won't say anything to anyone that I'm not prepared to back up.  I do my due diligence on researching, to the best of my ability, the subject that I'm defending.  One of my fondest memories of combating a troll on Twitter, was a tag-team effort between HGTV star, Bryan Baeumler (pronounced "Bomb-ler") and a fella that was adamant about tearing down a Good Samaritan in the Greater-Toronto area.  It was me and Baeumler going back and forth on this individual who was belligerent towards the both of us, despite Baeumler's celebrity.  I'd eventually start calling the man "Arm Chair", referring to the fact that he sat back, dishing out judgement, without ever making an effort to make changes of his own.  I knew Baeumler was on my side, when he, too, began referring to this angry individual as Arm Chair. 😆

I'm currently Twitter friends with a number of celebrities, including some professional wrestlers, but sadly, I've been blocked by a few, too.  I'm not sure as to why, exactly, but I'm sure it had something to do with other people bashing them, then when I attempted to stick up or defend them, they just blocked everyone.  When I discovered that A.J. Styles and Frankie Kazarian were amongst those who have blocked me, I was devastated.  When I learned that Hulk Hogan had blocked me back when I was defending statements that he'd made were taken out of context, he also blocked me.  That one pissed me off and my admiration for him diminished rather quickly after that.

I've also been blocked by a few companies, too.  I've managed to receive some promotional items from recognized companies, like Carl's Jr., who sent me a $40 gift card for promoting their burgers online; from Sunbeam I received a NEW toaster when I complained about the one I'd bought; as well as another company, who sent me a T-shirt and some other knick-knacks when I suggested an improvement to one of their products.  As I'd stated above, I've been blocked by a couple as well.  SGI (Saskatchewan Government Insurance) who blocked me for scolding a fella who argued that people should be able to leave their car's unlocked in their driveway, while warming the vehicle up in winter.  In a perfect world, I'd say "Sure." However, the world is far from perfect and if you leave you're car running, unattended, in your driveway and someone steals your vehicle, then I argued that you deserved to get your shit stolen.  That man got horribly graphic and used all kinds of foul language in attacking me.  Eventually it would stop, as SGI, addressed me, defending his logic, rather than mine, then they blocked me. 🚫

Another company, also the main subject of this blog post, is Walmart-Canada.  I've had a lot (a LOT) of issues with Walmart over the years.  Mostly for their pricing inconsistencies.  To this day, I'm left scratching my head over some...  No!  MOST of what Walmart does.  My issue came one day when I was purchasing some frozen French fries.  One bag was straight cut, while another bag, of equal size, but crinkle cut, was nearly twice the price.  When asked, floor clerks, if they understood my query at all, would return a blank look and a shrug of the shoulders, before turning and walking away.  That's when I went to Twitter and asked Walmart Canada, why the crinkle cut cost more.  They returned an answer that "it was more difficult to produce the crinkle cut fries."  This answer was as stupid as it was illogical and I told them as much, adding "It's not like there's someone who manually cuts each wedge out of the individual fries."  That's when they blocked me.

Many occasions have arisen in the years that have followed and I'm unable to contact Walmart Canada on any of these issues.  Most notably, and the inspiration for this edition of my Brain Matter blog, again refers to the frozen food aisle at the Preston Crossing location of Walmart, which incidentally, is also the worst Walmart in the city.  (Ask anyone and they'll tell ya!)

I bought the 5kg bag of crinkle cut French fries.  $3.97 is the price, while the straight cut fries, also in the 5kg bag is priced at $6.28  Same size, same Walmart brand, yet two completely different prices.  Instead of consulting Twitter, like I habitually do, I asked a clerk who was working in the area.  

I asked her WHY was the two packages of (virtually) the same product, so wildly priced apart.  She just smiled, blank-faced, I knew immediately that English was not her first language, nor did she have any sort of understanding of what I'd just asked her.  I repeated myself, to which she smiled and said, "I like Penis Butter."

"I'm sorry?" I said, asking her to clarify.

"I like Penis Butter.  I buy one jar of Penis Butter.  It cost six dollar twenty-seven cent, and I can get two jar of Penis Butter for ten dollar."

"Oh!" I replied, understanding that she was referring to Peanut Butter, not some sort of sexual aid, although her English was SO broken, that maybe she was referring to dick butter, but I doubt it.  Doesn't seem like something you'd mention to an unwitting customer.

Long story short, no conclusion as to why Walmart charges an extra couple of bucks for identical products.  Then again, if you go to the DVD section, you'll see two box sets of identical shows for two different prices.  I've purchased many videos from Walmart, for the lesser of two prices.  They don't like it, but maybe they ought to concentrate on being less stupid.  Hell, the prices at the Preston Crossing location differ from the other two locations in the city.  Cat treats at the other two are 3 for $6, while at Preston Crossing, they're $2.78 each. 🤔Makes me wonder what they charge for Penis Butter..?