Broken

 

I am a broken man.  Broken in so many ways, physically and otherwise.  I've endured torn muscles and broken bones, the worst of which, came in 2014, when I broke three vertebrae in my back.  My T3, T4 and T5 all receiving compression fractures after a platform that I was standing on, dropped.  Up to that point, that was the worst pain I'd ever endured.  Mere walking, after that point, was painful and laboured.  I was forced to take soft slow and methodical steps as any harsh impact on the ground or floor would result in a xylophone effect, of sharp dagger-like pain, shooting up my spine to the base of my skull and down my legs.  It's not something I'd wish on anyone.  Eventually, through physiotherapy and exercise, I was able to walk... normal-ish and without most of the pain.  It's still something that I deal with on a day-by-day basis.  I was told that the injured vertebrae would never heal completely and any plans that I might have had for adventure, would have to be avoided for the rest of my life.  So no skydiving or bungee jumping for me and to be truthful, I'm quite fine with that.

Up to that point, that was the most severe pain and, might I say, injury, as years later I would take a nasty spill in a parking lot, which knocked my fat ass out, in the process.

On a cool March evening in 2018, I'd just returned back at the warehouse where I was a courier.  The man-door by the overhead was busted and we would have to walk to the next bay to enter via that door.  In the cool darkness, I was unable to see the ground clearly, which resulted in my taking a nasty fall, thus knocking myself out in the process.  I was unconscious for nearly twenty minutes.  I know because I was happy about returning early that night.  I had arrived at the warehouse a little past 7:30pm, my usual time was mostly closer to 10pm.  When I came to, I was shivering and cold.  I reached for my phone that was in my hand, but now laying on the ice.  I was shocked to see that the clock was reading nearly 8pm.  I don't remember a lot after that.  I recall texting my boss to give him shit about being so cheap and not buying any sidewalk salt, then nothing.  I don't remember going home, nor do I recall coming back to work the next day or most of my 1000-plus kilometer delivery route the next day.  In fact, I don't remember anything up until I found myself sitting in a lab waiting to give a blood test for an unrelated thing.  That's when fear overwhelmed me and I sought out medical attention.

Over the course of my life, I've probably had a grand total of (at least) 10-12 concussions, but by definition alone, I suspect that I many have had quite a few more.  The worst prior to this event, occurred following a snowmobile accident, where I slammed my head so hard that the helmet I was wearing, split in two pieces.  I never received any medical attention at that time, my family telling me to go lay down (before anyone says anything, I know now that this was a really bad idea).  The result of that injury was just a slurry of massive headaches and migraines.  The brain injury in 2018, was much much (MUCH) worse and the lasting effects are quite intrusive and bothersome.

At the time of the slip and fall, I was experiencing a loss of vision, loss of balance, both short-term and long-term memory loss, slurred speech, an inability to remember or form complex words, and a lack of attention.  Years earlier, I'd been diagnosed with ADD.  Back in high school it was called something else, daydreaming or as my dad called it back then, "stupid".  I've always had a problem with focusing on things, which includes a learning disability.  I can learn quickly how to do things when I see it done physically or visually, but I'm unable to read anything, comprehend it and put it to use.  This is probably why I was almost in tears when I met wrestling legend, Mick Foley.  His books were and remain, the only books I've been able to read and comprehend as I was reading them.  For those of you who take this ability for granted, will never know that magic of this feeling.

Keeping my attention has always been a challenge, but since that fateful day, my attention span has been greatly challenged.  Just yesterday, I was picking up some butter for my mother and had to call her three times to ask the same question.  That's the long-term result that frustrates me most about this injury.

Through physiotherapy, I was able to restore most of my mobility in that, I no longer have balance issues, although I remain somewhat clumsy to a degree.  The headaches aren't quite as extreme as they were in the weeks following the fall.  At that time, I was forced to wear sunglasses almost constantly, when I was outside of my house.  The glaring sun and indoor lights would create a vise-like grip on my frontal lobe that would almost bring me to tears.

My speech would return, also, although I've noticed a severe stutter that rears it's ugly head from time-to-time, which is added frustration, which in-turn causes more stuttering.  Then when I'm not stuttering, but attempting to engage in conversation, I find myself struggling to remember or form certain words.  Not even complex words or as my friend, Danny calls them, "$10 words", but simple vocabulary is almost non-existent. 

I was tested a number of years ago, kind of a aptitude test of sorts.  They tested my mathematical, mechanical, literary and vocalization skills.  I failed to do well on the reading, as per my ADD, but scored well on the (basic) math and mechanical tests, but the vocalization, which I was told referred to my conversational skills.  That my verbiage skills were in the top twenty-one percentile for my age group.  When pressed, they further explained it as me being "smarter" than seventy-nine percent of those in my age grouping.  If I were to take that test today, I doubt that I'd perform quite as well.

Physiotherapy managed to restore most of my abilities prior to my concussion and for that I'm eternally grateful, but something that hasn't been restored, is my memory.  Both short-term and long-term is going to be effected for the remainder of my life, I'm told.  I find this aspect of my recovery to be the most worrisome.  Everyday is a struggle to remember simple chores and responsibilities.  Remembering how to travel to destinations where I've been a thousand times before, is a struggle some days.  I feel shame and stupid when I fight to remember.  Then other times, when I remember something, I feel like I've won the lottery.  Even the most insignificant memory, to me, is an incredible feeling.

I was pushing snow off my driveway the other day, when I was reminded of the time, as a little kid, my mom bought me and my sister snow shovels.

I grew up on a farm.  We didn't have anything like a snow blower or a blade on the front of a truck or tractor.  Instead, my dad used a scoop shovel, that he'd normally used for shoveling grain in the storage bins* that lined the hill on our property.  My dad would clear the snow out of the yard and the lane that connected the yard to the highway.  For some reason, that day, my sister and I, convinced my mom to buy us a snow shovel each, to go help our dad.  I remember the look on my dads face as we proudly marched out to the yard to help shovel snow, and the look of disappointment when we gave up on that endeavour, because it wasn't as fun as he'd made it look.  That memory flooded my brain the other morning, bringing a smile to my frozen face. (*It took me quite a few minutes to remember the word "bins", in the construct of that sentence.)

My biggest frustration, more so than the ability to access memories, is convincing others, some friends, but mostly family members that I can't remember what they're talking about.  Just the other night, my mother was telling me something that (apparently) I was a part of, but when I revealed that I had no recollection of the incident, I was met with conflict and accusations of untruthfulness.  I was accused of lying because I couldn't remember any facts about a family dinner we'd all attended many years prior.  I hate that.  I f**king hate that.

When I broke my back, I was unable to do this or that, as such injuries often restrict those with the injury.  My sister refused to believe that my injury was as severe as it was, stating that "if your back was broken, you'd be paralyzed".  She's obviously misinformed.  My sister is also one of those who accuse me of deceit whenever I'm unable to recall certain facts or elements of a story.

I've been injury free, brain-wise, in the years since that fateful night when I knocked myself unconscious in a parking lot.  I have a little PTSD from it, nervously venturing outside in the winter, for fear of falling again and possibly further injuring my brain.  I've taken a few nasty falls during this time frame, but my head has not been effected.  My struggles to remember continue and I celebrate them when memories return.  I've been known to say the words, "Praise The Positive" which was a silly thing some friends used to say when making drink toasts, but rings truthful these days.  As bad as things get in my life, I choose to praise the positives whenever they appear.  It's like discovering life all over again.

The Magic of Christmas

 

I remember it was the last day of school, before the Christmas break.  I was riding the school bus, and it was snowing.  Lovely big poofy snowflakes, covering the street and the windshield.  I was so excited for the Season to commence.  There was a true feeling of magic that filled the air.  Intoxicating, in a way, as it filled my thoughts with what might become of things over the next week or two.

I cannot pinpoint the moment when I realized that the magic that comes with the Christmas season died for me.  When I stopped looking toward the end of December with wonderment in my soul.  That feeling of good will being expressed from one person to another, without any expecting anything in return.  Being nice, simply for the act of being nice.  I'm not sure when that all died for me, but it's gone.  Missing from my life and I think it's something that I'd like back.

I remember the week after my birthday (which is November 29th), our family would venture into the city, to purchase a Christmas tree.  This was the first step in creating happy Christmas memories.  The tree would come home with us and spend the night in the bathtub for all the snow to melt off.  The small restroom would be flooded with the smell of pine and spruce.  The next day, the tree would be raised in the corner of the living room and we'd all take turns placing our favourite decorations after my mother had strung the coloured lights.  Of course, I'd be pushed aside by my sister and my mother, as they've done my entire life in regards to everything, followed by the claim that "You're not doing it right!"  Once complete, the tree would be the sole source of light in the living room and whether I played a big part or not in it's decorating, I marveled in it's glow.

Next would come the colourfully wrapped gifts, but because we didn't have a lot of money, growing up, many of the gifts were wrapped in the very same paper, presenting in a somewhat monotone collection of gifts.

Many Christmas' were rung in with Christmas spirits, only it was never the ghosts of Christmas past, present or future, but more so of the alcoholic brand.  Many o' Christmas memories were speckled with arguments and fights, really instilling that Good Will vibe into people.  I don't think that growing up in an alcohol-infused family is what killed Christmas for me.

If I had to guess, it may have been in high school.  There was an event, shall we say, that split up our family.  I moved out of the house, because I no longer felt safe in that environment.  It's a long story and perhaps I'll share it one day, but not today.

I remember being at my aunt's house when I was given a gift from my sister.  It was a T-shirt which I was quite displeased with and threw it back, claiming it wasn't good enough.  The next gift came a week later and it was something else that flipped my switch and I threw that back, too.  It was then that I realized that I was being a supreme asshole.  That a gift is something that someone sees and hopes that the recipient will like.  Having it thrown back in a fit of rage, has to be heartbreaking and from that point on, I changed my tune, as it were.  I would come to accept that second gift, which was a cassette of Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet.  I wasn't a fan of Bon Jovi, but whatever.  It's the thought that counts, right?

In the years and decades since, I've treated the gift exchanges as just that.  I don't honestly care if I receive a gift or not.  The only real gift I get that warms the cockles of my heart, is when I am able to purchase a gift that the recipient shows genuine affection and appreciation for.

Nowadays, Christmas is an occasion for my nephews.  They're young and I don't know if they understand the true nature of what the Christmas season is supposed to be about, but when I'm able to give something that truly brings wonderment to their face, it's magical.  This isn't something that I've gotten from them in a few years now.  In an effort to not create jealousy between the two boys, I try to purchase similar gifts.  I believe that the younger of the two boys, emulates his older brother and by giving similar gifts, I'm avoiding any jealousy or unwanted tension.  Maybe I'm wrong.  We shall see, this year, but the strategy hasn't happened in the last couple.

Christmas is for the kids.  Maybe that's what happened to me.  I grew up too quick.  The magic was lost due to too many birthdays.

When my little boy, Monkey (*Monkey is a cat, for anyone who doesn't know), came to live with me, that first Christmas was the best.  He was asleep upstairs in bed, while I snuck downstairs and placed a cat tree in the corner of the front room.  I returned to bed and we slept the night away.  In the morning, we came downstairs and I acted all bewildered and confused, while he investigated the new item taking up space in the house.  I ran upstairs to grab my camera, to take a photo of him playing with the feather that hung underneath, but by the time I'd returned, Monkey had that feather ripped off the underside of the tree and pieces of feather was strewn all around the room.  The boy works fast, but seeing how much joy he was having with that cat tree, warmed my heart.  That was the magic that I'd lost so many years before.

Nowadays, Christmas is a struggle.  I can't find that magic that I so desperately crave.  I'm a single fella with just a cat at my side.  Maybe I need something else to fulfill my life.  Maybe a special someone who possesses that magic...  Or maybe, magic is just and illusion.

Fur Babies

As I flipped through my Facebook this afternoon, I came across a posting from Kevin Smith announcing the passing of his beloved pet, his "son", Mulder after 17 years of unconditional love and companionship.  My heart goes out to him in this time of sadness.  Not only because I'm a fan of Kevin's, but as an animal lover and a pet owner myself.  In the backs of our minds, as pet owners, we all know that we'll eventually have to bid farewell to our "fur babies", but somehow we tuck it away until it eventually comes to fruition, becoming overwhelmed with sadness, instead of preparing for it.

When I chose to adopt my boy, Monkey, I had to mentally prepare myself for that inevitable end.  I thought I could handle it, but since he came to live with me, nearly five years ago, I've come to realize that when that day comes, I'm going to be a complete wreck.  I love that cat more than I do anyone or anything else in the entire world.  I can only hope that he lives to be seventeen or eighteen years young, if not longer.

I recall as a young boy, my cousin getting himself an Irish Setter.  He named it "Sarge", which is a name he'd chosen years before and though (in my opinion) the name never suited the brownish red dog, his name was Sarge and that was that.  Sarge was "technically" my cousin's dog, but Sarge took to my uncle more.  All about the small town, my uncle could be seen driving his pick-up truck and there was Sarge, stoically riding shotgun.  That pick-up truck belonged to my uncle, but it also belonged to Sarge.  So much so, in fact, that no one could approach the truck when my uncle wasn't around.  No one including my cousin, the dog's rightful owner.

Eventually, my cousin grew older and left home, pursuing life's ambitions outside that small northern Saskatchewan town, leaving Sarge behind with my uncle.  They were virtually inseparable for his remaining years and eventually Sarge would pass away, leaving my uncle heartbroken.  The years since his passing, the subject of getting another dog has come up only to be stifled by my uncle, on the basis that he did not wish to go through the experience of losing another beloved pet.  I never fully understood that thought process until my boy came into my life.  Now I'm not sure I could ever replace him when he shuffles off this mortal coil.

My cat drives me nuts some days, from his nonsensical bawling to repeatedly leaving morsels of food scattered around the house or streams of projected vomit.  I've got an assortment of stains in my carpet that vaguely resemble the spots on a leopard's hide and deep scratches stretched across all my leather furniture and oak banisters, but truth be known, I would not trade a single annoyance for anything.  Every facet that drives me nuts, is also endearing to me.  Like I said before, I love that boy more than I do anything or anyone in my life.  Gun to my head, if I had to choose between my cat and the life of a (human) loved one, I can honestly say I don't know.  I'd probably choose my cat, as he's never deserted me, shunned me, judged me or given up on me.  The love of a pet is unconditional.  That means no matter what, they love you, where as I've found with my human counterparts, there's ALWAYS a condition.

For now, I'm going to enjoy every minute of every day of every week, month, year and (hopefully) decades of my time with that cat.  And if you're a pet owner, might I suggest you do the same.  I know that's what Kevin Smith has done with his pets and though his loss today seems insurmountable, he'll survive.  He's a strong fellow, who inspires me everyday in ways that I'm, consciously, not even fully aware of.  My heart goes out to him today.  CREDITS!

*The picture above is of Kevin Smith embracing Mulder.*
I dedicate this blog to them and to all pet owners who embrace the love of a pet.

Smoke & Mirrors - The Epilogue

Years ago, I had a blog on another site.  There I'd post on a daily basis, under the pseudonym of ToontownJuggalo.  I was lucky when I came up with that name.  I was the first one ever to be referred to by that name.  Numero uno.  On that site, I posted only as that persona and never divulged a single secret about who I was, although much of my personality did bleed into those posts.  I never shared any of those entries on Facebook or Twitter.  They all remained in-house, so to speak.  It was on that sight that I wrote about Chewbacca never having shit stuck in his fur.  That's where I first speculated on the the reason behind why Christ Benoit committed those horrific acts towards his family before committing suicide, which was a full six months before the science came back and YES, confirmed my theory ten-fold.  It was also on that site, where I would write out what was affecting me on that day.  Celebrations that I never got to share with anyone, as well as the sorrow and sadness of coping with whatever was bothering me.  There was a hand full of regular readers, none of which were directly affiliated with me, except when I was dealing with the loss of my friend Darcy.  That's when I needed to share with people and the stone wall that I had built around my "illness" began to crumble.

As the years have passed by, I've kept most of my walls up, guarding myself from being hurt.  It's easier for me to deal with my demons one-on-one, than it is to fight them off and worry about what everyone else is thinking.  I know that at the core of it all, the really important people in my life, will be there in a time of crisis, if needed.  I only hope that I have the courage necessary to extend a hand in hopes of getting that support.

I've said it before and I'll say it again.  I'm shy.  I'm painfully shy.  I'm like Robin Williams, in a way.  I could always see that insecurity that he possessed.  He acted out, all happy, goofy and comically in an effort to mask his insecurities, but those of us who know...  We knew.  I'm just like Robin, only instead of being jovial, I'm snide and snarky.  Kind of a dick, at times.  I like to joke, but my sense of humour is dark, just like my soul.

I'd like to be more popular.  I'd like people to want to have me around.  I'd like people to miss me, even.  I wish I could be like other people.  But I don't want to be other people.  I'd like to know how to be like them.  Confident and self-assured.  I don't know how to be like that.  I don't know how to make friends.  I have friends, but I honestly don't know when they transitioned from being acquaintances to being friends.

I remember when the towers came down on 9/11.  Sitting alone in my livingroom, eyes glued on the television set, and I never felt so alone.  I got news over a year ago about black spots found on my lung and I had to endure that alone.  Still have to.  I'm trying hard not to think about it, but I have to admit, it's getting increasingly difficult to do so.

I used to have a couple female friends who would happily give me a hug whenever I'd ask.  Trisha...  I miss Trisha's hugs.  She was a single mom and her hugs always felt so warm and genuine.  Taya was the same way.  My friend Sonia always offers up a hug when I see her.  That's always a highlight, but I wouldn't dare ask anyone I'm currently with, because I know I'd get that "are you f*cking serious" look.  I don't need that look.

Today, this is me.  The walls have all crumbled away.  This is who I am.  Take it or leave it.  I'm done.  I'm tired of hiding in the shadows.  It's time to step into the light, my faults and everything.  Sadly, my family will still not know who I am, but aah.  F*ck 'em..!

Now if you'll excuse me.  I've been sitting at this table on this hard-as-f*ck chair for over six hours, closing in on seven.  My ass hurts tremendously and I have a headache forming.  My cat is screaming like a banshee and won't use his words to explain.  I'm going to go smoke a bowl and have a good night.   See you on the flip-side.

A Brilliant Disguise

"We've found something on your scan.  It's an anomaly, of sorts." the doctor told me in a soothing tone.  "We're not certain what it is, exactly."

I was taken aback by the news. 

I'd been under the weather for sometime.  Stricken with pneumonia, to a degree that I'd not felt in a very long time.  So much that it actually hurt to breathe, not to mention the sharp pains, like shards of glass cutting into my chest whenever I'd hack and cough.  These pains are what had me concerned.  The "anomalies" discover in my CT Scan, were the likely cause of this discomfort.

"It might just be a result of your pneumonia.  We'll wait a couple weeks and do another test."  

A couple weeks later, I found myself back in the doctor's office, discussing the results of a second CT Scan.  "The black masses are still there.  They may be in relation to your pneumonia, but it might be beneficial to do a biopsy."

I opted, instead, to wait.  A biopsy would take me out of work for six to eight weeks, as there'd be a chance of infection during the recuperative stage.  This was a break that I would be unable to afford financially.  The doctor reassured me that we could wait eight weeks for another CT Scan, as it would be unlikely that the masses found in my chest scans would grow much further than what they were, which was described to me as roughly the size of a 25 cent piece.  She [my doctor] acted as if this wasn't very big, but holding a quarter up to my chest, this seems like a gargantuan size of anything foreign in one's lung.  Call me f*cking crazy. 

Eight weeks passed by in a flash, but the whole time I had this terrible weight on my mind, haunting my every thought.  I never bothered to share my news with anyone, except my employers, believing that if there was a chance that I'd suddenly be rushed into surgery of some sort, I didn't want it to come as a surprise to them.  I may have mentioned in passing to my mother, too, but without going into any depth or detail.  My family is the sort that would turn on me and give me that whole "I Told You So" speech.  I can hear my sister spouting off her motherly advice of "If you didn't drink so much pop, you wouldn't be in this situation."  As if drinking an extra bottle of diet soda is going to affect my breathing.

Of course, bearing such silence does weigh heavy on a person.  I envy anyone who has a partner or a friend that they can lean on for emotional support.  At the same time, I hate being a burden on people.  I did break down and tell one other friend, if my memory is correct.  He did express concern for my well being, which was nice, but I never shared the bitter details of what was racing through my mind.

I truly believe that possessing a positive outlook and good attitude can thwart any illness 90 percent of the time (or higher).  This is what I did.  On the outside, I continued to be as bright-eyed and smiley-faced as I could, despite the tirade that brewing inside my head.  I knew that I didn't have cancer, and believed as much then as I do now, that if I DID have cancer, that I'd beat it.  No sweat.  Hands down.  I'd look Death straight in the face, wag my finger at him and tell him to "F*ck off!!"   Just like a clown, though, what you see on the outside, doesn't always reflect what's on the inside.

It's been a few weeks since that CT Scan, at which time, I was scheduled for another CT this week.  I contacted the doctor early, about two weeks ago.  I was suffering tremendous pain when I breathed, let alone if I coughed.  My concerns grew ten fold.  My concerns were met in turn with the doctor who upped my appointment.  I went in for another scan and the next day I found myself in her office.

The anomalies or masses or whatever the hell is on my lung, is still there, to a degree, but have shrunk some.  They're suspected to be just scar tissue now, which lends to why I'm experiencing discomfort when I breathe.  Unfortunately, I think this is going to be an ongoing attribute for the remainder of my life.  Just like my knees hurting and the increase of migraines when it gets to cooler temperatures, so will my breathing begin to hurt.  As much as I rock, sometimes it sucks to be me.

So why do I choose to write this entry today?  It's something my sister told me on the weekend.  She told me: Some people have it rough, you should just be happy you have it so good.  I just shook my head.  Knowing what I know, she doesn't have a f*cking clue, what my life is like.

I remember watching some MTV show a few years back, where they'd showcase a celebrity.  The tagline to the show was "You think you know, but you have no idea."  So the next time you share a laugh with someone, take a moment to wonder.  Are they happy?  Or is that just a brilliant disguise.

T-Minus 21 And Counting

I worked this morning and as it does on most occasions, my mind wandered away from the monotonous task I was doing, to a subject a little more interesting.

Today is December 1st and if the Mayan calender is correct, we, as a collective, only have 21 days remaining in existence.  Pretty shitty, considering I just celebrated my birthday and Christmas is just around the corner, but the premise got me to thinking.  Not to mention, I have to work until the twenty-first of this month, before the seasonal shutdown at work.  It would definitely blow, if I have to work every day then my first day off marks..., nothing.  OBLIVION!!

IF the world actually does come to an end, how might one want to go out?  When asked, a majority of the consensus tends to lean toward "going out with a bang", and I don't mean a "shoot 'em up" kind of scenario, but more of the intimate variety.  A minority would opt for spending it with family.  I don't really have much for family.  My sister has her husband and kids and I believe that if the world were coming to a violent end, they'd rather spend it with themselves alone, and rightfully so.  

That leaves only one option left for me, and sadly I am without a "beneficial friend".  Although, with time quickly counting down, beggars may not be choosers and mutual copulation may be easier than initially thought...

It was at this point that I had the song "Sex & Candy" pop in my head, by the band Marcy's Playground.  A stupid name for a band, but no worse, I suppose, than Meat Curtains.  One of the lines of the song specifically states, "I smell sex and candy, here."  Disgusting!  Candy would be alright.  Every time I walk into the Pine & Fancy Candy Store at the mall, I'm mentally teleported to a far away fantasy land where everyone is happy and sweet.  As for sex though...  Yech.  Unless there's scented candles or lotions, the smell is anything but wonderful.  Or at the very least, not nearly as enjoyable as the act itself.  All musty and sweaty...  I don't know if I'd want to spend all of eternity with that reminder on my mind.  If the End of Days comes on December 21st of this month, and I do find a partner to spend my last fleeting moments with...  I hope she's wearing a Vanilla-based perfume.  Mmm.  Vanilla.

Frankly, I think it's a load of malarky.  Just like Y2K and those retards last year who thought a flying saucer was coming to pick up the human race.  A bunch of bullshit.  It is my belief, and I've been stating this for years and years, since first learning of the Mayan calendar and prediction of Armageddon.  I think the Mayans simply got to the end of the page or the stone tablet.  Whatever they were counting out the days on and never got a chance to carve out another tablet.

It's written that the Mayans existed between 250 and 900AD.  Nearly two thousand years ago.  Why the hell did they need to carve out a calendar so far into the future?  If they knew the world was going to end on December 21st, 2012, wouldn't it have just been easier to simply carve out a statement?  "Hey future people, as of December 21st of 2012, you guys are all f*cked!!"

It's just a scheme to get people into a panic.  The survivalist stores are all raking in the bundles of cash as scared desperate people spend what little money they have remaining from the recession, on rice, canned beans, gas generators and handguns.  Even I had hatched a scheme to make some cash from all the hype.  I wanted to fashion a 2012 calendar that showcased a different natural disaster in every month, then in December, I was going to number it up until the 21st, then leave the remaining days blank.  F*cking HILARIOUS!!!

Only The Good Die Young

At long last, I sat down tonight and viewed the movie "50/50", which stars Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Seth Rogen.  Levitt portrays a cancer patient who learns that he's got a rare form of cancer that has a survival rate of 50%.  The story shows how he deals with his own mortality, but more importantly, how even though he's able to bravely manage his condition, he is oblivious to how those around him are being affected.  The movie is loosely based on a friend of Seth Rogen's, so the subject matter hit pretty close to home for the Canadian actor.

My own father, passed away a little over thirteen years ago, succumbing to his own cancers (yes, cancers plural).  I can't recall which two types of cancer he had.  I believe one was in his esophagus, which is one that he'd battled (unknowingly) for a number of years.  There was another cancer two, which has spread from the first, but I can't recall what it was.  Needless to say, by the time medical help was sought, it was too late and he died a couple of months later.

That is pretty much my only experience with cancer directly.  Indirectly, I had a friend around the same time that was stricken with testicular cancer.  At the time, in a show of solidarity, a few of us friends all shaved our heads, bald, so he would not be the only one to stand out.  I thought it was a nice gesture, and I think he appreciated it.  I remember the night we all did it, the shaving of our heads, that is.  No one really knew what they were doing, but had some fun with it all the same.  I remember my friend, D_____, the fellow with the cancer, went first, opting for a mohawk, before finally taking it all off.  Next was T_____, his "toxic twin" (drinking pal), who instead, shaved the top of his head, leaving the sides and back, resembling himself as an old man, before finally taking off all his hair.  A couple more did it before it was finally my turn.  As I'd stated, no one really knew what they were doing at first, so there were a lot of nicks and cuts on those first few craniums, before everyone honed their craft.  By the time it was my turn, all hair was removed without incident or injury.

Watching the movie, tonight, though, I came to a conclusion.  A sort of theory, if you will.  Despite my outward appearance, I've always remained fairly healthy.  My family seem to all thing that I am destined for an early grave, but they're full of shit and should really worry about their own affairs and leave my shit alone. However, I truly believe that I can't (and likely won't) ever be stricken with anything major like cancer, and this is the reason why:  I don't have anyone to share it with.

By this I mean, the people that I've experienced cancer and serious shit with, have always had a strong family presence or a loved one like a girlfriend or alike to lean on in times of strife.  I don't have that.  I'm not particularly close (in that way) to my family, nor do I have anyone of significant importance in my life, like a girlfriend or anyone.  No one I would burden with trivial shit like cancer.  I haven't a soul, which I believe will ultimately save my life.  "You can't lose everything, if you don't have anything to lose."  The downside, of course, is the fact that I will probably continue to be lonely and miserable.  So it's not all sunshine and roses.

I do not have cancer, nor do I speculate that I will be stricken with it anytime soon.  I do, however, go into the hospital on June 29th, to be put under anesthesia for some sort of procedure to find out why I continue to choke on food, but I doubt that will be anything too terribly serious, and doubt very much that I would die from such a routine procedure.  I mean, f*ck!  I've had the same routine performed on me a half dozen times, while completely conscious, so the positive is that I'm going to be under some heavy duty narcotics, and drugs are ALWAYS fun.

Rocker Billy Joel has the song "Only The Good Die Young".  There are no worries by this cat, as I'm not as good as people think I am, so I won't be dying anytime soon.  Besides which.., I'm a Juggalo!  And wicked clowns, never NEVER DIE!!!

She Whistles When She Walks

"The only thing more pathetic than having 20 kids, is watching a television show about people having 20 kids." - Chelsea Handler

News broke last week about the Duggar family, who are showcased on TLC's "19 Kids and Counting", are expecting their 20th child. Holy f*ck! I can't help but reflect back on the days when my sister and brother-in-law's faces would light up with a sigh of relief when I'd step through the door. A break from their one and only child (at the time), who god bless him, was a ball of energy that would run them ragged for hours and hours. My appearance would give them the opportunity to rest and recharge their batteries. I can't fathom the idea of 19 little monsters running around wreaking havoc on a household. Insanity would soon follow, I'm almost certain.

I realize that every child that is born is a little miracle in and of itself, and having learned the history of miscarriages early on in the Duggar's family life, I understand that each and every child could be construed as a blessing. But Jesus Christ!!! When is enough, enough? Bringing just one child into a world that is already spinning out of control, is almost debateable in it's own right, but bringing nearly two dozen into it? What the hell?

They're quoted as saying "it's God's will". But even God himself has to be scratching his head with disbelief and confusion.

At least they appear to be able to afford such a large family, with the older kids able to venture out and earn some of their own spending money, and not having to rely on mom and dad. Unlike that Octo-mom bitch, who constantly has her hand out for monetary assistance.

Still... My head shakes with disbelief that people can be so irresponsible. Citing that it's "God's will". Maybe if God was wanting to form his own professional football team, but even then, the eldest children will be of retirement age by the time the youngsters will be eligible to suit up.

Using religion as an excuse for having so many kids, is irresponsible. Especially, when you consider most religions to be full of shit anyway. How many times has some radical used the bible as an excuse for their acts of terrorism or alike? Once more, there's God (if he truly exists) up there in the Heavens, leafing through his copy of the bible wondering "Where the f*ck did I say that?!?"

Grant you this, though. The creative process for making 20 plus pregnancies is fun. And if you look at any of the pictures of the Duggar family, they all look happy, especially the Michelle, the mom. Always bright and cheery. Always whistling... Not from her mouth, but when she walks...

[Insert joke here.]