Murder by suicide
Not in the news…yet
Stalking the stalker
On high Alert
Suicide by cop
Knives, guns and booze…
Stay tuned…I’m barely 2 hours in…it’s gonna be a stormy and bumpy night…
Murder by suicide
Not in the news…yet
Stalking the stalker
On high Alert
Suicide by cop
Knives, guns and booze…
Stay tuned…I’m barely 2 hours in…it’s gonna be a stormy and bumpy night…
So much has happened and this update will be disjointed….
Loss….we are still reeling from our losses…I know I am, some that took me by surprise…or rather the reactions to said losses shook me up. Friend, aunt, grandmother, father….we are still assimilating and will be for a good while, you think you close a chapter and finish that book…only to find a sequel to get you going again. I hate that my kids have to go through these upheavals…nothing has broken me in so long than not being able to comfort my son over such a devastating loss. I’m used to loss, it is one of the reasons I don’t form attachments….any who….yeah….that currently is the big one sucking big fat purple monkey balls….puts trivial shit into perspective…like some fucktard asshat getting all territorial about public places I should be thinking of venturing in….I could kick my ass for replying to a juvenile email regarding previously stated nonsense. (Yes, a good bitching and venting seems to be in order)
Another school year is also coming to an end, with that…another son leaving, but we will have a new face taking his place….changes, so many changes….soon it will be time to sell and move on….actually I’m still selling, by the time the last one leaves I want all my furniture gone, I don’t yet know where I am going but I do know I don’t need all the crap I have accumulated.
As I’m typing away I also find that while in my head I still have a lot to say, I have also lost my desire to write…..this may be the end….
Death fascinates me, truly it does. I have no fear of death or dying (that’s not to say I’m looking forward to it, though some days that may be debatable). Tomorrow I have an appointment with death (I’m leaving this one on the cryptic side) depending on how that goes I may be inclined to share with you…or not.
I would love to go base jumping, skydiving or parasailing….any of those sounds like a blast, but the thought of a hard landing (and stupid asshole doctor’s orders will prevent me from attempting).
I am not funny at all, but sometimes I do amuse myself…and others, though I can’t always be sure if they are laughing with me or at me. Either way is fine with me. Laughter is good, even if it is at my expense. (But it is better at someone else’s expense…well no, not really, that would be mean).
I crave a change…change of scenery, change of style (hair) even change in my purse would be good.
Things are looking up….I call them things, but in actuality they are just short people….or kids…and they have to look up when I’m talking to them. I am not really tall myself..
There’s tons more you don’t know about me…but I’d like to keep an air of mystery around me.
How could I possibly feel like I am near death? From doing what? Nothing, not a god damn thing…pisses the fuck out of me…yes, I’m bitching, ranting, raving….ughhhh
Okay, let’s be fair, went out to lunch…but fuck my ass…well…no don’t fuck my ass…how could that wear the shit out of me….it’s not like I went to a different country, or state or city…just here in town, a few miles down the road…and I get home and want to die, yeah really, the boys thankfully have a fucked up summer schedule so they are sleeping randomly, I got home, it was quiet so I said fuck it, and went to bed too. Have not cooked for them today, I don’t know what they’ve had to eat, I’m not terribly worried either, I’m sure they’ve managed….but deep down there is a pang of guilt.
I slept, got up and watched Funny People with Adam Sandler…man that was a long ass movie…enjoyed it…but still with potty breaks it was even longer…lol.
Got cookies baking. need cookies
Sure all the answers one could hope for will never come along to give any peace.
When the one person in my life that truly mattered died, along with the lowering of the over-priced satin lined casket into freshly dug earth went all those answers to questions yet unasked.
I know that when my time comes there will be many unanswered questions and that’s the way I want it to be. If I don’t give you the answers now, it is because there are no answers that matter. Meaning the outcome has already happened and nothing I may have to add will change anything. Besides I kinda like having that air of mystery.
My father never drove a car. Well, that’s not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car. He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.
“In those days,” he told me when he was in his 90s, “to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it.”
At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:
“Oh, bull—-!” she said. “He hit a horse.”
“Well,” my father said, “there was that, too.”
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars — the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford — but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we’d ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. “No one in the family drives,” my mother would explain, and that was that.
But, sometimes, my father would say, “But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we’ll get one.” It was as if he wasn’t sure which one of us would turn 16 first.
But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.
It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn’t drive, it more or less became my brother’s car.
Having a car but not being able to drive didn’t bother my father, but it didn’t make sense to my mother.
So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father’s idea. “Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?” I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps — though they seldom left the city limits — and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn’t seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.
(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin’s Church.
She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish’s two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.
If it was the assistant pastor, he’d take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests “Father Fast” and “Father Slow.”
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he’d sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I’d stop by, he’d explain: “The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored.”
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out — and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, “Do you want to know the secret of a long life?”
“I guess so,” I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
“No left turns,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“No left turns,” he repeated. “Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn.”
“What?” I said again.
“No left turns,” he said. “Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that’s a lot safer. So we always make three rights.”
“You’re kidding!” I said, and I turned to my mother for support.
“No,” she said, “your father is right. We make three rights. It works.”
But then she added: “Except when your father loses count.”
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.
“Loses count?” I asked.
“Yes,” my father admitted, “that sometimes happens. But it’s not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you’re okay again.”
I couldn’t resist. “Do you ever go for 11?” I asked.
“No,” he said ” If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can’t be put off another day or another week.”
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.
She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom — the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)
He continued to walk daily — he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he’d fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising — and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, “You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred.” At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, “You know, I’m probably not going to live much longer.”
“You’re probably right,” I said.
“Why would you say that?” He countered, somewhat irritated.
“Because you’re 102 years old,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, “you’re right.” He stayed in bed all the next day.
That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.
He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: “I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet.”
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words: “I want you to know,” he said, clearly and lucidly, “that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have.”
A short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I’ve wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can’t figure out if it was because he walked through life, or because he quit taking left turns.”
Life is too short to wake up with regrets.
So love the people who treat you right.
Forget about the ones who don’t.
Believe everything happens for a reason.
If you get a chance, take it & if it changes your life, let it.
Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it.”
Even for yours truly~
ENJOY LIFE NOW – IT HAS AN EXPIRATION DATE!
HELL EXPLAINED BY A CHEMISTRY STUDENT
The following is an actual question given on a University of Arizona chemistry mid term, and an actual answer turned in by a student. The answer by one student was so ‘profound’ that the professor shared it with colleagues, via the Internet, which is, of course, why we now have the pleasure of enjoying it as well : Bonus Question: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?
Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle’s Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant. One student, however, wrote the following: First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving, which is unlikely. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let’s look at the different religions that exist in the world today. Most of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially. Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle’s Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added.
This gives two possibilities: 1. If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose. 2. If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over. So which is it? If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, ‘It will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you,’ and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number two must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over. The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct….. …leaving only Heaven, thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting ‘Oh my God.’
THIS STUDENT RECEIVED AN A+. — Bill
Death by fan…and I don’t mean a fan like the world loves me and I have someone who has an intense, occasionally overwhelming liking and enthusiasm for me…I used to have a fan base and a fan club, back in the day when I was all hotness and whatnot, but that was before I became all crippled and old. I was 7 years old…I mean 17….
Death by fan…and I mean a ceiling fan, I’m sitting here at my desk and I have the ceiling fan overhead making these horrific noises, I can’t decide if the thing wants to fall on me or is mutating into an airplane propeller. It sounds loud enough to power a 747.
I’m hoping the thing doesn’t decide to quit working on me, I am an old menopausal women, I am currently unemployed not working due to being incapacitated and even incapable of earning a living on my back. I am no longer getting disability benefits either…and do not be mistaken, dear gentle reader, this is not me whining about life because it sucks, I’m just stating my reality. Life is good, after all I am here to suck up the air around me.
So anyhoo…I’ll be back tomorrow to let you know if my fan kills me or not, wait…duh, if my fan kills me (because my fan is directly over my body when I am in bed) then I won’t be back, and this could possibly be the last blog you read from me, oh the horror, well for your sake, actually for the sake of my children lets hope I wake up. Two of them would be complete bastards and I would hate to burden the oldest with his brothers.
I am tired, but not ready for bed, since getting back yesterday evening I have been on my back, my back is tired and sore, the areas that were jabbed are swollen and tender, I have not been able to put my brace on due to the pain….but aside from that I haven’t had much use for it, I’ve only been up to get water refills and to flush out my liquid intake (yes I mean getting up to go to the pisser, it’s a pisser because I live with boys, if I had a girl I’d call it the powder room).
Tomorrow I’m hoping I’ll have energy to get me to the grocery store, I highly doubt it but I can have hope….I probably should begin working on my grocery list so I can send the boys out…actually what I would love to do is just get out of the house and forget I am a damn crip (not a gang banger~ it’s my short hand for crippled ass). Just get out and have a lunch somewhere, have a menu brought to me, have my order taken and ***snap out of it….okay, I just slapped myself out of my momentary lapse into fantasy land….
My reality is more mundane, so much so that I am beginning to loathe the questions
I can summarize this really quick here:
My life is G~ How’s yours?