FML

 

What was to begin an amusing anecdote about fatherhood, kids, discipline and chores, but alas, my efforts were thwarted by a computer having a temper tantrum.

I first noticed that it began moving slower over the past few days, but when I powered it up to venture into the World Wide Web, the laptop that once raced like the hare from that old fairytale, now moved as quickly as Eeyore in the Boston Marathon.  Very lethargic, but I managed to seek out the photos I was going to use, but when I attempted to write a new blog, the system never allowed me to follow through with my intentions.

Turns out that I was signed out of my blog.  I don't understand how or when that would have occurred.  I usually stay logged in.  It saves time and much of my sanity.  The very same sanity that sadly has melted away with tonight's escapades.

Apparently, so I've learned from this endeavour, Google owns blogspot.  I did not know that..., or if I did, it's another memory that was lost in my accident.  So I now had to recall the password for that which, for some reason, even though I'd punched in the correct PW, I had to verify that it was me.  A verification code was sent to my email.  Nope!  Can't get into my f*cking email account, despite the password being correct.  What the f*ck, man?!

I phone a friend, like a confused contestant on a game show, hoping for suggestions or a remedy to fix my compiling problems.  He helps the best he can, bless his heart, but his being on the other side of the city and my being completely computer illiterate, the project fell short.  I take the blame for that.  That and my computer is being a complete dick.

Now I have financial worries of "how the f*ck am I going to afford to replace another computer?"  I have a decent job, but the cost of living keeps rising every other day.  I speculate that my property taxes are going to be raised again, because the current city government is comprised of egotistical maniacs bent on what their legacy is going to be over the betterment of the citizens of our fair city.  Not to mention how many prior financial commitments I have.  My life is a f*cking money pit.

I thank my friend for the help he provided.  He's a good dude.  My "brother-from-another-mother".  We exchanged our parting pleasantries and I hung up the phone.  (We say hang up, even though there's no hanging of anything involved. 🤔 Weird.)  [*Sorry.  My mind wandered there for a second.  Now..., where was I?]

So we said our farewell's and I... set my phone aside, then turned my attention back to this slowpoke of a computer.  Closed all the windows that we had opened, all but one.  When I backed out of the failed Google sign-in attempt, suddenly my f*cking blog account was open.  What the f*ck, indeed!!

I changed the direction of what I was originally going to write.  I don't know if I'll ever complete the original idea.  I'll probably forget it.  I still have some issues with short-term memory.  Then again, maybe I will remember.  Each day is a mystery.

All this computer f*ckery is getting tedious.  I don't understand why I never learned how these f*cking things actually work.  I see other people tapping keys and punching in data and it looks fulfilling.  To just instinctually know what the outcome of your efforts will be, whereas in my shitty little life, I press the power button and then say a little prayer under my breath, to whom, I don't have a clue, but my hope is always that shit will work as it should and I can maneuver the interwebs without any hassle, so when stupid shit like what happened today, my prayers change from hoping that the computer will actually work to hoping a meteor will land on my house and kill me right here and now.  Some days I literally feel like I'm too stupid to live.  (Then I see some really stupid people and I feel better about my shitty life.)  

*Thank you stupid people.  You really do make the world go 'round.*

Home Sweet Home

 

It's nice to get out once in awhile.  Doing so, really makes one appreciate home all the more.  I enjoy being out with friends.  Family not so much, but with friends, I'm always guaranteed a few laughs, but when the night comes to a close and I'm homeward bound, I'm full of anticipation.  Excitement about walking through my front door, tossing my shoes aside and just relaxing and being at ease.  Of course, a familiar furry face greeting me at the front door with hugs and kisses, Monkey (my cat) is another reason I enjoy being home so much.

I have to leave the house, though, to truly appreciate being home.  If I wake up and remain indoors all day, I don't enjoy it as much.  It feels more like... Existing.  The house is merely the package that contains me.  I do not have to venture far, however, nor for very long.  Just shooting down to the mall for a second to grab some milk or something is all it takes.  Even just running to the bank to grab some cash.  I'm probably only gone for about fifteen minutes, but the moment I see my garage door opening for me to park, my heart actually warms itself.  The anticipation of entering the innards of my sanctuary is almost overwhelming.  I'm overjoyed, if I gotta be truthful.

As I said, the venture homeward isn't nearly as enjoyable as the moment I exit my vehicle and slowly stride to the front door.  That's when the joy begins.

I love my house.  I've lived here for over fifteen years, now, and don't see myself ever leaving, unless it's feet first, inside of a pine box.  I've dreamt of owning other houses.  I've even dreamed up a home that I plan to build, if the opportunity ever arises.🤑 Alas, 'tis but a pipe dream, but the house would have everything from an indoor pool, to an actual bar and a home theater, just to name a few features.  When I dream, I dream BIG.

For now, I love my house and I think it loves me.  I'm home and I feel safe.  I think that's the ultimate reason I love being home.  I feel safe.  Nothing can happen to me while I am here.  I love it.  It truly is my Home Sweet Home.

Run For Fun?

Waking up before the sun breaks the seal of a brand new day.  Dressing up in the garb of choice to battle the endeavour of the morning.  Filling a bottle with a concoction of protein powder and water, before lacing up your  running shoes and heading out the front door for a pre-dawn five mile jog before heading into the office for eight more hours of torture.  I can picture it, but I cannot fathom the joy or choice to run for fun.  It's an alien concept.

I've always been surprisingly fast for my size and shape.  I've had people challenge me in the past to race to the car or whatever, then be flabbergasted as my fat ass left them in the dust.  Unfortunately, those were in my younger years, while these days, arthritic knees and ankles in addition to prior spinal injuries pretty much prevents me from running at all.  When I am rushed, what results tends to look more like a wounded animal stumbling out of the brush than anything that resembles running.

I understand that it's fitness oriented, which is another practice that I avoid.  When forced to workout, in the past, whenever I had to rehabilitate an injury, I enjoyed it to a point, but after a couple hours of repeating the same actions, it became more of an annoyance than rehabilitating.  I've often had those "if I win the lottery" moments where I speculated that I would put a gym in my house, but in reality, would it be used or would that just end up being a space left ignored?  If I'm to be honest, I probably would use the facility if it were in the house, but even then, you'd never see my fat ass bouncing left and right as I ran on a treadmill.  Low impact or not, my knees would not hold up.

An early morning jog on the beach looks kind of refreshing, but again, unless you live there, it seems contrived.  Not only does one need to repeat the steps mentioned in the first paragraph, but now you have to add driving to a destination to execute your morning running ritual.  That's like the last walk of a prisoner headed to his own execution.  There has to be an air of resistance to the concept.  A detour into an early morning drive-thru to pick up all the things that your diet prevents you from having, like for instance, joy.  At this point, though, I can only imagine that your brain is operating on the default setting and there isn't much thinking going on.  You're just running on autopilot.

It is of my belief or creed, if you will, that one should reserve the practice of running for only emergencies, like being chased by a dog or wild animal.  Granted, they're more likely able to chase you down, but at least you have the chance to get away, plus the elevated heartrate will aid in emptying your body of blood, while the wild beast devours you.  So there's that advantage to running, I suppose. 🤔

Anytime I've witness people running, I've never once noticed a smile of anyone's face.  They chose, after all, to wake up at that ungodly hour.  They chose to run out in the brisk morning air.  They chose all the torture they inflict on themselves, so yes.  Why smile at that?  If you do cross paths with anyone who is smiling while they're running, chances are they are a deranged lunatic and I hope all this running you've been doing, has prepared you to sprint for your life before Smiley-pants knocks you over the head and drags you into a nearby bush. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is that overjoyed while running.

If you're an athlete, then of course, running is necessary, but only in short bursts.  Running for hours and hours in say, a marathon, is completely mental.  Both in execution of the task and borderline insanity.  I don't know if I've ever been that overjoyed to do anything of the like.  Like I've previously stated, it's an alien concept.  I can't wrap my head around it.  I can't understand the why, even after listening to countless people about the "benefits".  

I'm at a stage in my life where people around me are beginning to enter the twilight of their lives.  Aunts and uncles, friends and colleagues, are being diagnosed with conditions or inflictions or even dying, despite having lead healthy lives filled with exercise and good dietary habits.  Nowadays, when I hear that someone has passed away, the first thought that enters my mind, isn't that of sorrow or despair, but rather I think to myself, "They exercised and ate right and they still died.  I guess that means I don't have to do any of that, because I have the same odds of survival, regardless."  Kind of psychotic, when you think about it, but nevertheless factual.  I haven't ventured into a gym for a couple of years and that little endeavour ended with re-aggravating an old shoulder injury.

The only running I see in my future is the one I make on my deathbed. When I see that bright light open in the sky, that's when I'll make a break for it.  I'm deceivingly fast for a fat guy and I want to sprint through those Pearly Gates before they realize they fucked and I was supposed to head "south".  No take-backsies. 

The only truly accurate depiction of an early morning jogger.