No More Mister Nice Guy

On the first day of January, twenty-twenty-four, I made a New Year's Resolution, much like most people pledge for the start of a new year and much like those people, that personal change has fallen by the wayside and is no more than a fleeting goal that just seemed too insurmountable to maintain.  My resolution seemed to be simple.  It was all internal and never depended on anyone's input.  Or so I thought.  On January 1st, of this year, I promised myself to be more positive.  To have a better attitude.  To not stress over the small shit.  I stated that I would be nicer to people and to be much kinder to myself, meaning I would end the self-deprecation that I often find myself doing.  It's a defense mechanism used by bullied kids for, what I would assume, ions.  The strategy of making fun of myself before the bullies had anything to say.  On the surface, one would believe that by stating (obviously false) shortcomings about oneself, that the bullies would be discouraged from making fun of you themselves and that it would hurt less.  I can say from experience, that this works for the moment, but over time it becomes a terrible habit and I wouldn't recommend it.

After much deliberation over my current state of affairs and I've come to realize that, while I have, for the most part, ceased to make self-deprecating comments about myself, that on the whole, I am not a nice guy.  In stating this observation, I can hear in my head the voices of a handful of friends and colleagues who may disagree and input their belief, "Nah.  Don't be so hard on yourself.  You're a good guy."  I get it.  I'm not claiming to be an asshole 24/7, but I'm not the nicest fella to a lot of people, which stems, in my opinion from a personality trait that I've been meaning to write a blog about, but haven't up to this point.  Who knows?  Maybe this tirade will inspire me to write that literary piece next.

I am fairly certain that I did manage to maintain a level of positivity for more than a month and I never really felt anything negative until late February, probably following the head-on collision, when I began to falter and meander off the track of having a good attitude and I believe it was work that forced me to spiral into the abyss of negativity and anger.

As a transit operator, we get to re-sign different routes to work over a two or three month stint.  It's nice, because you're not necessarily forced to repeat the same mundane work year-in and year-out, like so many jobs I've endured in the past.  A new driver will have less desirable choices over the more established and seasoned drivers with years of seniority, but I've moved up the ranks over the last couple years and while I don't always get the golden routes, I do okay.  This last sign-up, I chose what I thought was the lesser of all evils when I signed it, but I've quickly learned that I was incorrect in that assessment and come next sign-up, I will not be taking this route again.

On paper, Route 60 is easy, but in reality, it is SO stressful.  Not the scheduling, but the riders.  I don't want to be flagged for insensitivity, but if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...you know.  Duck!  Many of these folks are of a questionable ethic.  Most are super-poor and super-duper-angry and will not hesitate to take their frustrations out on a driver.  It's very difficult to maintain a good attitude when constantly being bombarded by criticism.  It's like when I was a kid, being cornered in the kitchen and yelled at by my alcoholic father who would use every putdown he could concoct to fire at me and, at the time, I knew these accusations to be false, after constant hate-bombs being dropped on my head, false or not, a weakened mind will succumb to those accusations.  So in this instance, while constantly being called a racist, I know this to be untrue, yet it does wear a person down over time and sadly, this chipped away my defenses quick.

I am not a nice guy, over all, and yes, I hear those opposing voices in my head, but I'm a better actor.  I can successfully mask malcontent so those around me are blinded by what's really going on.  Hell.  I've been wearing a mask for decades.  Not a single person I know would confirm that I am depressed almost all of the time.  Saddened by my lot in life.  Bothered that I haven't achieved this or that.  I sometimes feel I don't contribute enough.  I am weakened by the idea that I am unable to take care of my mother in her golden years.  I hear her voicing her concerns about her life and burdens and I feel helpless, further spiraling my psyche.  I hide my shit really well.

I've found videos on YouTube that claim to fix this or enhance that quality about yourself.  They advise that the viewer simply get settled, relax in a comfortable position and play the video, whose sound and music is infused with subliminal messages of affirmation and goodness.  I'm guilty of trying several of these videos in a desperate attempt to cleanse myself of the hate and sadness that I feel pumping through my veins, replacing my shitty attitude with warmth and empathy.  I want to be nice, it's just so hard to do when I'm surrounded by idiocy.  It wears me down, dude!  The videos and subliminal messages are of some concern, however.  How do I know that the affirmations are factual and they're not actually convincing the thousands of desperate souls who have viewed the videos to give up their life savings and shit.  Or perhaps, because I'm entering the experience with a piss-poor attitude already and that attribute combined with the messaging all get twisted in a spaghetti ball of confusion.

I know not what the answer to this dilemma is.  The best I can do is identify when I'm having a dark moment, acknowledge it, find a splinter of positivity and hope it's enough to bring me into the light once again.  There is power in positivity.  I have felt it.  I have had periods where I was happy and joyful and the world was my oyster.  Waves of good fortune would come my way, leaving onlookers in the wake of disbelief.  It's just the question of HOW to maintain that attitude.  I don't know what that method is, yet, but when I do, I will share.  As for now, I only have another six weeks of driving that shitty route, then I will bale on it like rats off a sinking ship.  Sounds selfish, but it'll be someone else's problem and I hope they're able to deal with the negativity on that line better than I can.

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Window Into My Soul

It's existed for as long as humankind has drawn breath.  Poets and playwrights have printed pages upon pages about the concept of love.  Defined, it is described a plethora of different ways, all culminating in one general theme:  It is an emotion that trumps all else, an overwhelming feeling that pushes past superficial components.  It's that feeling that hits you like a sucker punch, that convinces you that life cannot be any better without that person sharing your life.

I realized I possessed that feeling this morning.  As I gazed into their loving eyes, I realized at that precise moment, that I was exactly where I needed to be and that I don't desire to be anywhere else.  I wanna scoop this person up and smother them with hugs and kisses.  I wanna shout from the highest rooftops.  Climb the highest mountain peak.  Hire a pilot to tow a banner declaring what is causing my heart to burst at it's seams.  I want to grab a ghetto blaster, like John Cusack in Say Anything, filling the air with "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel, a song also composed for a true love. 😍  I want to jump on a sofa, like a crazed Tom Cruise on the Oprah show, screaming with excitement.

I cannot fathom a single moment without this lovely personality in my life and have found myself soaring into complete despair and depression when I think of my life before they graced me with their existence.  This morning, as I was serving them their breakfast, it hit me.  I grabbed a hold of them and squeezed.  I was overwhelmed with emotion and failing to stand on a soap box in the middle of the town square, I will use this venue to declare my overwhelming true love for....  My cat, Monkey.  He is truly the greatest entity to enter my life.  I love that kid with every fibre of my being.

I love you, Monkey.
You're simply the best!

💘

 

This Is Us

When I bought my house, now fourteen years ago, my plan was to get myself a housemate almost immediately.  I went out to all the popular pet stores at the time and got everything I thought I'd need for the big day.  I got this nifty litter box that would eliminate the need to manually scoop, by sifting the sand through a series of mesh pans.  I got all the dishes and a place mat and the whole nine yards.  Then I procrastinated.  I never sought out a cat for a couple of years.  I don't know why, but perhaps it was fate.

I'd gone through some personal turmoil and finally in 2010, I thought, this is the right time and during a break at work, I visited the SPCA's website to look at the creatures they had onsite.  The first cat I saw, was a little guy named 'Sprout'.  He was adorable, so that night I set out to go to the SPCA to see Sprout.

Sprout was a cute energetic little fellow, but when we went to the isolation room to get acquainted, Sprout had no interest in me and lurked all about, ignoring me completely, as if I weren't even in the room.  So I took Sprout back to his cage and tried another cat, Perry.  Perry was an orange tabby and about three times the size of Sprout.  In his cage, he was lively and quite a character.  He reminded me of Norman, my sister's cat, who went to live with my mom after my sister's divorce.  Norman was a cool cat and Perry seemed to match that personality, but once more, in the isolation room, Perry had no interest in me, opting instead to search for a means of escape.  Back to the cage for him.

Next was a smoky grey cat.  I can't recall it's name, but when we got into the isolation room, it remained at my side and I got to play with him and have a nice little visit.  I thought this.  This little guy will be my cat and I returned him to his cage, informing the folks at the desk that I'd be back the next day, a Friday, to pick up my new cat.

All day Friday, at work, I kept going back to the SPCA website to look at the cats, but it was 'Sprout' who I continued to stare at.  Sprout had a unique face.  A black and grey tabby with a white patch on his face that mimicked a face mask that extended from just above his nose down under his chin.  Though he had completely ignored me when we were in the visitation room, I knew I could break through that tough exterior and we'd be best of friends.  So immediately after work, I raced to the SPCA and told them that I was there to adopt Sprout.  That's when they gave me the shattering news that he was already spoken for.  He was being adopted by two college girls who were coming later that day to pick him up.  I was shattered.  Even now, as I write this, I'm welling up.

Seeing how devastated I appeared to them, the lady behind the desk told me, that if they didn't pick him up by 7pm that night, that she'd give me a call and I could adopt him.  This news gave me hope.  'There's no way two college girls are going to pick up a kitten on a Friday night instead of going out to the bar to get drunk and stupid', I thought to myself, handing over my phone number.  Sure enough, at 7:30pm, I received a telephone call informing me that the original adopters failed to show up and if I still wanted Sprout, that he was mine.  I graciously said 'yes' and early the next morning, I raced across town to pick up my little guy.

We placed Sprout, now renamed "Monkey" into the newly purchased carrier and we departed.  Monkey was quite vocal all the way home.  Rightfully so, he was plucked from the safety of his own little apartment and was now riding in a new container that smelled rich with plastic and vinyl, destined for the unknown.

When we arrived at home, I placed the carrier in the front room and unzipped it.  I never attempted to retrieve the little kitten, leaving him, instead to get acclimated to his new environment.  I took the fast food that I'd purchased on our way home with me downstairs and clicked on the TV.

Throughout the next thirty minutes or so, I could hear some rustling upstairs and some little squeaky meows, but no sign of the cat.  Then at one point, there he was, at the top of the stairs staring down at me.  I said nothing and he'd disappear.  Returning he'd come a little closer, then turn and run.  He did this a number of times, growing more brave each time.  Then he'd get poofy.  The hair on his back rose and his tail was tremendously large for a cat so small.  He'd then turn sideways, making himself appear larger than he was and he'd charge at me, then turn and run.  He did this over and over for the next twenty minutes or so, before finally hopping up on the chair and giving me a few sniffs.  I think he felt like I was okay and that's when the trust first began.

I've mentioned a lot about my TBI and the loss of most of my memories.  I can't remember most of my childhood or the years since then.  One memory that I am so relieved that I can still recall, are these first moments with Monkey.  He had finally accepted me as his 'daddy' and he climbed up on my chest, as I sat back in the chair, and curled up, just under my chin and went to sleep.  We both had a nap at that time, as father and son.

I wish I had more pictures available of Monkey at this age, but sadly they're all on the various cellphones that I've had over the years and aren't available (at this time) until I find the right cables to transfer them onto my computer.  All I have are these three individual photos taken by my mom at her house.

The next while was a learning curve for us both, Monkey and I.  He'd constantly get into mischief as young cats tend to do.  I had to repeatedly scold him when he'd get behind the TV and chew on the cables.  He used to climb up under my bed and get stuck in the void between the box spring and the frame of the bed, forcing me to pull the bed apart to rescue him.  One night, he drove me completely insane, getting stuck in there a total of three, maybe four times.  This prompted me to place everything that could fit under my bed to block his attempts to get in there, and everything has remained there ever since.  He's now ten times bigger than he was when he came to live with me, but I know if given the opportunity, he'd wriggle himself up there again and call for me to rescue him.

For most of his years here, I've given him his own freedom to what he wanted.  My backyard presented some problems, though.  The fence was complete shit.  Rotted out 2x4s caused fence boards to fall out.  Gaps at the bottom lead into the neighbours yard, so allowing complete freedom meant Monkey had to don a harness then have a tether attached to him.  While he had "complete freedom" outside, that freedom was reduced to a small radius around a corkscrew spike in the yard, strategically placed so Monkey could hang out under one of the bushes in the backyard.  This was troublesome only in the fact that Monkey constantly got tangled up and I'd hear him wailing for help.  Later on, I would attach a couple eye screws into my deck and the shed in the corner of the yard and run a "clothesline" across and attach 12 feet of line for him.  Now Monkey could wander the width of the yard, just short of getting through the gap into the neighbours yard.

Finally, a couple years ago, after a decade of watching the fence continually deteriorate, the neighbour and I had a new fence installed and after so many years of dragging the leash around and getting tangled, Monkey had true freedom to roam the yard.  Nowadays, at least three times a day, like a diligent security guard, Monkey will walk the grounds and piss on everything to ensure that everyone knows that this is HIS yard!

I have no regrets about anything to do with Monkey except maybe introducing him to a small stream out of the bathroom sink as, to this day, he insists that I turn on the tap so he can drink.  He still has his dish, but he prefers it straight from the source.  Often times, he will nearly trip me going up the stairs, racing me to the bathroom so he'll be ready for me to turn on the tap.  Another bother that I regret is buying the weeble for him.  It's a toy that wobbles with treats inside. Ideally, a cat is supposed to knock the toy with his foot to knock out treats.  It's supposed to engage the cat and make them think, which it did for the first week or so, then Monkey got wise.  At first, he'd knock the shit out of it, forcing two or three treats to come tumbling out, but then he got lazy and for the last five years, he simply cocks his head to the side and scoops the treats out with his tongue.  I think this practice has caused some damage to his shoulders which will likely get arthritic in his old age.  Even now, he walks with some labour, but I can't take the toy away from him.  Whenever I've tried, he just whimpers and won't eat.

I remember the first time Monkey ever saw snow.  He raced from the front of the house to the back, as the snow fell.  He was like Chicken Little running about, yelling "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"  It was hilarious.  In later years, he'd accept the snow, and hate it as much as his daddy does.

A month later would be Christmas.  Normally, at the time, if I left any room, he'd accompany me, but on Christmas Eve, he remained in bed, while I snuck downstairs and into the garage, where I had this new addition to the household.  I placed it in the front room and returned to bed.  Christmas morning, we came downstairs and he glanced to the right, then turned left to head into the kitchen.  He stopped dead in his tracks, realizing that something was different, turned and went to investigate.  I raced back upstairs to grab a camera, but in the three seconds I was gone, he'd already managed to tear off the feather that hung below the apparatus and there were feather's strewn everywhere.  A huge mess, but this remains one of his favourite "toys" despite the base being void of its carpet and the wood severely carved up.

Forever, it seemed like we did everything together, which includes watching wrestling.  You may think it's only me watching while he sleeps beside me, which does happen, but he also enjoys watching the action unfold in the ring.  His favourite wrestler is A.J. Styles and if a match begins and Monkey isn't present, he gets audibly upset with me that I didn't tell him A.J. was wrestling.

He's a smart cat.  Very smart, except when he vomits.  I believe he thinks it's helpful if he avoids the linoleum, opting instead to toss up on the carpet.  Now the carpet looks like a faded Dalmatian.  Later in his years, he's come to realize that this bothers me, so he's taken it upon himself to hide the evidence.  He does this by either pulling a flyer over the spot or he'll pull a corner of a rug over the blemish or one time he removed a dish towel, normally slung through the handle of the oven and pulled it into the front room to cover his mess.  I can't be upset with a cat that is that intelligent.

Monkey is a very smart cat, that I can guarantee, but he does have his quirks.  He doesn't like having his picture taken.  I see photos on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram where cats are all posing nicely for photos, but Monkey's reaction is like that of a primitive tribe in the jungles of Peru, who believe their soul is being stolen with every click of the camera.  That's why a majority of my photographs are of Monkey while he's asleep.  Although, looking at these two gems, which are among my most favourite pics, he is quite animated when asleep.

This blog is really dragging on, but I can't gush over this little fella enough.  I've had some really tough goes of it in my shitty life.  Years ago, when I got fired from a job, I turned to the comedy of Christopher Titus, who remains one of my favourite comedians.  His life was tough too and he taught me to stick to my guns, so-to-speak, 

and weather the storm.  Another time, I had an accident at work that resulted in my breaking my back in three places.  The accident also caused me to break four and a half teeth in my mouth, all of which require extraction and I was horrendously ashamed, but a similar thing happened to Bert Kreischer when he was just a kid and he muscled his way through it, which gave me the courage to do the same.  Bert is one of my most favourite people on the planet and though he's been rude to me any time I've interacted with him on Twitter, I still love and respect the guy.  Everything else shitty in my life, I know I'll be alright because I have this fuzzy little face looking up at me, with nothing but love in his eyes.

Everyday, I look at Monkey and I tell him "I love you too much."  I believe this statement is accurate.  He's getting up in age.  He just celebrated his twelfth birthday yesterday and I realize that though he is still my baby boy, he's in the twilight stage of his life.  I may not have many more birthday's to celebrate with my little boy and the thought of coming home to an empty house, truly breaks my heart. 💔  During a recent bout of anxiety and depression, I seriously considered suicide for the first time.  Not today, but one day when Monkey is no longer here, I don't know how I will survive.  No comedians joke will be able to pull me through that funk.  But alas, there is some hope.  I've been seeing online, as of late, that there are cats out there that are living well beyond what was normally considered a normal lifetime.  Norman, who I mentioned earlier, lived to be eighteen years old.  Another cat I saw online, lived to be twenty-three years old.  Recently, I read of another cat who'd just passed away at the age of twenty-eight.  Can you believe that?  I'd happily clean up Monkey's vomit for another sixteen years.  By that time, it'd be both our time to die naturally.

When I had announced to the world that I'd gotten a cat, I said, "I call him my son and he calls me daddy."  I've never said that I owned him or really said that he's my cat.  I've always referred to him as "my boy" or "my son", both of which confused a former workmate, who assumed that my boy was a human child, whom I left at home alone while I worked the nightshift.  "Where's your sons mother?" he asked once, to which I replied, "I don't know.  I assume she's living on a farm somewhere."  I never did fess up that my boy was of the feline variety.

Monkey is a big dude.  Ten or twelve times the size he was that very first day when he curled up on my chest for a nap.  I love everything about this kid, especially that little pink nose. 🥰  This is us.  Two peas in a pod, never to part.  He will always be my number one.  He will always be my best friend.  He will always... Always, be my little boy.

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. 🤔

A Debilitated Heart

A young co-worker, just eighteen years in age, but wise beyond his years, approached me the other night.  He had a look of seriousness on his face, asking a serious question and not wanting one of my usual smart-ass quips.

L_____ is, as I said, wise beyond his eighteen years, and we've engaged in some inspiring subjects while restocking the coolers at work, but this subject, as it does with many, was stumping him and it was easy to understand why.

"How do you know when a girl is really into you?" he asked.  For a moment, I was sincerely touched, but remembering that my luck with the fairer sex has not been what anyone would categorize as, ideal.  Before I could answer his question, he added, "I asked this girl out for a coffee and she said, 'Hell yeah!'"  I confounded.  Even in my (extreme) few successes, I'd never gotten a 'hell yeah" as a response.

I paused for a moment, attempting to recall some fragment of useful information, but alas I had to confess that my knowledge wasn't up to par.  That no tidbit of information from me would bear any fruit of usefulness.  "I don't know," I explained, "Usually when I ask a girl out for a coffee, she somehow hears it as 'Can I have sex with you?', although I'm really talking about a warm refreshing beverage."

He thanked me for listening and continued on with his tasks, leaving me to dwindle on my past.  Silently I reminisced about the many rejections I've received over the years, concluding on two that I couldn't distinguish between as being the worse rejections.  Later on, I approached young L_____ and asked for his opinion.  Like I said, he's wise beyond his years.

"I asked one girl out for coffee and she answered with a resounding 'NOPE!!'  No hesitation.  No thoughts on the matter.  Not even so much as eye contact.  I barely got the question out and it was a 'nope' with a hard 'P' sound." I explained.

"Well that was harsh." he said.

"The other rejection," I continued, "The girl paused, scrunched up her face and uttered with disgust, "Eww. No."

L_____ was taken aback, then started to calculate in his head which rejection was truly the worse of the two.  He went with the latter, stating that the exclamation of disgust was definitely worse.  All these years, I'd always considered the first as worse, as no consideration was placed into the decision, but upon reexamination, I'm going to have to agree with my young friend.  Pausing to think about it, then shrieking with fear and disgust, does seem more offensive.  Damn.  My life sucks...!

I've always suffered from seasonal depression.  My sadness and loneliness seems to culminate during the winter months.  Professionals have explained it to me that it's the lack of sunlight and that the sky always seems so dull and grey.  I've always disagreed, stating that it's because all the shit that most couples enjoy together, happens during these months.  My spell usually begins just before Halloween and extends off into springtime.

I've gone on to explain that Halloween is a time that is most enjoyed with a partner.  Go out to a bar or a party and have some fun and laughs.  I'm usually a designated driver, instead, often looked over by party patrons.  Next is my birthday.  I've never had a girlfriend or significant other to share my birthday with.  Probably explains why I prefer to hide away and ignore everything when November 29th rolls around.  After that, it's Christmas.  Everyone around me is bragging and showing me what they got for their loved one and all I can do is fake a smile and feign interest, wishing I had someone special to share the holiday with.  I did have someone special many many years ago, but she died in a car accident days before Christmas, so the season has always been a little tarnished for me, though I don't dwell on the negativity as much anymore.

I've never had a New Year's kiss.  While everyone around me is smooching to Auld Lang Syne, I'm left looking at the floor, reminiscing about the one year that I did have a girlfriend on New Year's Eve, but because she didn't like public displays of affection, I was rejected.  A few years later, I'd be celebrating the New Year with some friends at a house party, one woman spoke up and said, I'll give everyone a New Year's kiss, but not Jeff.  Talk about a proverbial kick to the junk.

St. Valentine's Day is next.  I got a dancing gorilla with a top hat once from a friend at work.  I kinda had the hots for her, but nothing every grew from that.  (Ironically, she was the one who uttered - "Eww, No.")  I still have that dancing gorilla today and on St. Valentine's Day, I press the button and watch him dance for a few seconds.  It makes me smile and feel special for a moment... I've never had anyone special to buy flowers or chocolate for.  No one to take out on for a romantic dinner.

I have had a few successes with women.  I'm not a complete loser.  I'm mostly a loser, but not completely.  However, on closer examination of what worked to get those successes, I haven't got the foggiest idea.  One or two of them were alcohol-related, so anyone's guess is as good as any.  A couple successes more were the result of off-the-cuff smart-ass remarks.  Endeavours that have not been successfully repeated.

I'm often told that I'm a nice person, but beyond that, I don't know what is wrong with me.  I know I'm not interesting.  I don't do anything interesting.  I don't have any hobbies that I can share with people.  No extra-curricular activities that can strike interest.  I haven't any passions that anyone deems interesting.  I'm afraid I'm a lone wolf, destined to walk the world alone.

These days, life is especially tough.  I've not been able to secure gainful employment since being laid off from CNH in June of 2014.  I see many of my co-workers around and about and they've all found jobs to supplement their lifestyles, while I've been "lucky" enough to get hired onto a back-breaking minimum wage job that is slowly killing me from the inside out.  I've sent resumes to countless employers and even have an employment coach trying to help me out.  It seems like the more resumes that are sent out and the more rejections I get, the more useless I'm feeling about myself, every day.

I'm glad I have my cat, Monkey, otherwise I don't know where I'd be, if I were to be at all.

My birthday is on Tuesday.  I plan on staying home, with Monkey.  We're going to watch TV.  Share some laughs..., then I have to go to work that night. 😞
Damn!  My life sucks...!

My boy, Monkey.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter One: Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde

I was born into humble beginnings, growing up on a farm just west of the city.  I've written in the past that the farm was quite literally on the city limits of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, although when I was a tyke, the city seemed farther away.  Today, the city is practically on our doorstep, though no one has lived on the premises for over a decade.  Recently, I drove a friend out to show them a piece of my history, and I was astonished and even a little bit horrified at the sight I saw.  A decade of neglect has allowed the trees and shrubbery to grow over the lane way that leads into the yard.  We sold the property, my sister and I, a little over eight years ago, and I had only assumed that the new owners would've had someone care for the land.  It was, admittedly, a little heart-wrenching.

Being a kid plagued with a lot of allergies, it broke my father's heart when I couldn't follow in his footsteps and become a farmer like him, and his father before him and his granddad before him.  Many generation of farmers will cease to exist, because of me.  I'm not sure if my cousins partake in the livelihood, but it comes to mind that they do not.

In addition to farming, my dad also worked as a heavy duty mechanic in a number of mines, including a gold mine up north, but he concluded his career at the Allan Potash Mine, in Allan, Saskatchewan.  My dad was diagnosed with two types of cancer when he'd gone into the hospital to complain of low-energy.  He was not the type who would seek medical attention unless he felt it was serious.  It was serious and it was caught way too late, and a few months later, at the age of just 54, my dad was dead.

Just writing those words makes me want to break out in tears.  My dad was a good man.  He was a great man.  .... He was the best man, ever.   When he was sober.  When he was drunk, it was a completely different story.  When he was drunk, you did not want to be anywhere near him.  You wouldn't want to be in the same city or plain of reality.  At the time, I thought of him as a monster.  In the years since, I've identified it as "Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome".   When he was sober, he was "Dr. Jeckyll".  A free-spirited man, with love and happiness in his heart, generous to a fault, but when he was drunk, ie. "Mr. Hyde", he was a real son-of-a-bitch.  He was a monster.., truly.  He was angry.  He was violent. And like I said, you did not want to be around him, at all.

As a young fellow, I was not immune to his anger.  Many times I found myself on the wrong end of a swinging fist or two.  A couple of times I was tossed up against the wall, his grip tightly wound around my neck and told that I wasn't worth the bullet it would take to blow me to hell.  I was a little insulted as the cost of a .22 shell in those days, were literally pennies on the dollar.  An aptly placed .22 shell can bounce around the cranium and tear up the brain quite efficiently, unless my mafia movies have lead me astray.  But the one incident that weighs the most heavily on me and continued to do so for a number of years, likely because I would identify the occasion on it's anniversary every year, was what occurred just three days prior to my seventeenth birthday on November 26th at 7:02pm.

My sister and I had been arguing before my dad had gotten home.  My mom had left, attending a union meeting in the city, so we were at home when my dad arrived.  He was already three sheets to the wind.  My sister was in her room and I was in mine.  I don't know what exactly the conversation was between my sister and my dad, but at 7:02pm, while seated on my bed, I heard a light knock on my door, followed by a soft spoken request to come in.  I said yes, and my dad slowly stepped into the room.  Suddenly, in a burst of energy, he lunged at me.  The room grew dark, his eyes glowing sharply, as he drew down on me, grabbing me with his left and pummeling me with his right.  He got two hits in, before I broke free, going for a baseball bat leaning in the corner, but he grabbed a hold of me, throwing me back on the bed and proceeding to hit me few more times before nearly breaking my arm.  Then suddenly, the frenzy ended as quickly as it had begun.  Calmly he picked me up off the bed and led me into the bathroom, where he proceeded to explain to me about respect, for him and my sister, all the while I was cleaning the blood from my face.

In the end, I had a bruised clavicle, three or four broken teeth, my earring was ripped (backwards) through my ear, and my nose was smashed.  I sat at the table for an hour or two, listening to how it hurt him more to have to teach me this lesson than it did me for receiving said lesson.  My mom eventually came home, and was instructed to take me to the hospital.  That's where a doctor twisted my nose back into place, making it appear more presentable, although I wish closer attention was given to it, as it never healed properly and eventually gave me a lot of headaches in the years that followed.

Today, the nose barely gives me any grief, although during really cold weather, it does hurt some.  Not to mention if I so much as bump it the wrong way or someone jokingly plays that "I got your nose" game that people play with small children, that motherf*cker will bleed uncontrollably.  Some have told me, since, that I should get it re-broke and set correctly, but ask anyone who's actually had that procedure done, and it's no picnic.  I'd rather live with the discomfort and the possibility that I might piss someone off and have them break my nose instead.  It'd make for a better story.

Now....  I've painted a very grim picture of my father.  Something that I've shared with very few people.  Hell, even my family, don't know the intimate details of the violence that commenced that night.  They don't read my blog.  They don't have Facebook or Twitter.  Unless a family member who does have either of these social media outlets, reads these words, I'm sure the images will die with me.

My dad was a good man.  He would eventually sober up, putting his days of drunkenness behind him.  I remember on his one year anniversary of sobriety.  We were driving when he informed me that, "today is my one year anniversary of being sober."  I congratulated him and asked how he felt.

"I don't feel any different now than when I was drinking." he muttered, to which I quickly replied, "Then I guess there's really no point in drinking anymore, then."   He paused for a moment, visibly thinking about the words I'd just spoken, then realized, "No.  I guess not."

When my dad was drinking, there were many many opportunities where he could have and probably should have died as a result of his being drunk.  He survived every single one, without so much as a scratch.  After a few (beautiful) years of sobriety, he learned he had cancer and died.

Those decades of drunkenness never affected me in the negative way that people would suspect.  I'm sure there are people (albeit probably only two, maybe three) who will read about my dad and believe otherwise, but truly believe me.  His drinking never affected me, mentally, in the long run.  It was his sobriety that would eventually teach me that I should try new things.  He did new things, learned new skills and traveled to places he likely never would have attempted all the years he hid in those bottle of booze.  That's what I take from my dad.

And in retrospect, different people deal with mental disorders and depression in different ways.  Who's to say that my dad didn't suffer from some form of depression which he suppressed through alcohol?  It's possible.  Like I stated, unless he was feeling really terrible, he never sought medical attention.  I doubt feeling sad would have sufficed in the seeking of aid.