Warning: May Contain Content not Suitable for Some Readers

I have so much to read, I can’t believe I’m taking this time to write.

Seriously,… graduate school is a bitch,…. I’ve spent the last ten weeks going blind on history. U.S. History Since 1945 and Southern History Since 1865. The books are long and, usually, mind-numbingly boring. I do get a kick getting together with the rest of the class and talking about them, though. And it’s not like undergrad work at all. I went to school at Eckerd College,… good school, right? But every class I went to there – every one – I knew that I was the smartest cat in the room. My work made everybody else in that classroom look like Lennie Small, for christ’s sake. Grad school is an entirely different story. Bright people in every class,… and most of them are close to twenty years younger than me. (Yes, I know the correct grammar is “younger than I,” but this is a blog, so kiss my dick, grammar nazi.) There a couple of fucks my age – or even older – but not many. I was very intimidated when I started last semester. I mean, these kids were smart,… and,… they all seemed to know each other already. (Makes sense, John. They do go to the same school.) But here, I was the ultimate outsider. In walks this old, fat, unfortunate-looking douchebag. And whenever I’d open the door,… they’d all be looking at me…. They knew I was weird right away. I knew I was weird, too,… and out of place. I also knew what they were thinking: “What do you think you’re doing here, you old, fat, unfortunate-looking douchebag? Take your stupid bipolar ass outta here. You know where you are? You’re in the jungle, baby. You’re gonna die.” All of a sudden, I was in a room full of hyenas,…. And here I was, an aging zebra with a sprained ligament in my ankle and a bad case of heartburn. (It’s hard to run when you have heartburn, you know…. By the way, do zebras have ankles? I wasn’t sure if they did, but I don’t care enough about it to google “zebra ankles.” Now, if I were to google “zebra cocks,”… different story,…. I’d make time for that.)

Anyway, the point is, I do a lot of reading. Some weeks I feel like I’m on a Dostoevsky/Michener/Hugo bus ride through Dante’s third ring of hell sitting next to a drooling hobo who last showered in 1993. And I’m getting tired. If I fall asleep, slide over just a little bit, and my head starts to fall on his shoulder, I’m gonna get hobo slobber on me, and there’s gonna be a lot of violence and crying. (Mostly violence from the hobo, and mostly crying from me.) I know that “hobo” is probably not a nice word to use, but fuck it. I think people are way too bunged up over language. We talk about gendered language, and racist language, and exploitative class language in almost every seminar we’re in at the history department, and I get that. Yes, there were – and are – entire sets of people who use derogatory words (or even vocabularies) to insult and injure individuals and groups and to cement an ideology of hegemony in a relationship of power,… I get it!…. But sometimes,… words are just words. If I say to my friend sitting next to me, “shut up, faggot,” I’m not really insinuating that he is gay. Neither am I being homophobic or gay-bashing. I’m just trying to tell him to shut up more emphatically. Believe it or not, “whore” is a term of affection between my wife and I – it’s just a word. Words only have the power to offend if YOU give it that power. They’re only collections of letters placed in a particular order in order to convey meaning. We shouldn’t be concerned about words,… we should be concerned about the thoughts and motives of the racist, sexist, bigoted asshole using them…. Here’s a rule of thumb for you people when talking to me: if I’ve offended you by what I’ve said,… I’m kidding. If you look at me askance with raised eyebrows,… it’s a joke. I don’t really mean it when I say I’m going to punch a baby. I’m like Tony Montana talking to Elvira in “Scarface,”…. You know,… without the violence,… and the cocaine,… and the killing,… and the general meanness,…. Okay, maybe that’s a bad example. But I never trusted Omar, either.

Anyway, the point is, I do a lot of reading. And a lot of times, it’s somnambulistic,…. Seriously, I’m reading a book about the labor movement in the 1970s right now,… and I’m sleeping about 17 hours a day. Sleeping rules. I hear people say, “oh, I slept in until 10 am, and I feel like I wasted my whole day.”… Fuck you. If I DON’T sleep until 10 am, I want to shoot a puppy in its stupid little puppy face. Alarm clocks totally suck. I’ve gone through three alarm clocks this year alone by throwing them at the tile floor. I am never more angry than when my alarm clock snatches me out of a dream – unless it’s a bad dream. You know the one’s I mean? The dreams like when the cops are chasing you because you just stole a goat, took it across state lines, and brought it with you to break into a federal armory,… and then raped it. I hate those dreams. I had a dream the other night about an old high school friend of mine named David. He was fun. We used to hang out together all the time. And we’d make bets with one another,… about anything. We couldn’t find anything that we wouldn’t wager on…. And the funny thing is: we’d never actually bet money,…. We’d bet that whoever lost had to do something really embarrassing. One time, Dave lost a bet, and we had to go the gas station. I went inside to “browse around,” but what I was really doing was waiting for Dave to pump ten cents worth of gasoline, just so he’d have to walk in and say to the cashier, “uh, yeah,… I got a dime on pump number four.” Another time,… when I lost the bet, Dave went into the McDonald’s after school one day. I followed him in about a minute later and yelled “I GOT A BIIIIIIIG DICK!” Everybody in the fucking place stared at me for about four seconds, and I said, “Well, I do,” and walked out.

Anyway, the point is, I do a lot of reading. I didn’t write about it too much, but I do…. And I really should get back at it. 1970s labor history, here I come. Uhh,… good night.

Until the next chapter,… later, bitches!

If that offended you, I was kidding!

Next Time,… People Who Deserve a Heinous Beating, Volume II

I’ve Seen Blue Skies Through the Tears in my Eyes. And I Realize,….

I’m going home.

I didn’t dream at all that night.

There,… I followed my stupid literary device designed to grab you attention and make you feel some emotional attachment to my ass-kissing, tug-at-your-need-for-consistency, bullshit opening statement. I did it. We’re moving the fuck on. It’s been four months since I wrote my last episode, and in that installment we were still examining and covering last summer. I’m older now. I’m wiser. I’m a little less crazy. Oh,… I’m still bat-shit crazy,…. Just a little less so.

Like I said,… moving on.

Okay,… you wanna wrap up the psychotic episode in a neat little box? I can’t do it. If I could even try, I would. I take the medication religiously now. I have to convince myself that I have the power to control my anxiety. It takes a great deal of concentration, but I can normally talk myself through it. The problem there is when I’m driving. I have two things to concentrate on at the same time,… I have to drive,… I have to keep myself calm,….

This being the Tampa Bay area,… these two concentration requirements are completely diametrically opposed. I find myself literally white-knuckled on my steering wheel and speaking in some sort of evil tongue,… and I try to remind myself to be calm,…. And I forget about driving…. I have almost driven into the backs of slower-driving fucks just because I had to close my eyes ever-so-briefly to pray to the gods of road rage that I would not INTENTIONALLY drive into the backs of these slower-driving fucks. Driving rules. Driving in close proximity to really shitty drivers sucks assballs. You know this; I’m not telling you anything new.

But I know I have to catch you guys up on shit. At least those of you who might be reading this thing after four months of no updates at all. I just can’t write about last year’s issues anymore. Maybe with a little more perspective, as time allows, maybe I can get back into it…. I’m in a different place right now…. I don’t know that I even want to look at that “me” anymore. … So, maybe I’m not gonna catch you up,… maybe I’m just gonna try to interest you in what I have to say from here on out…. You know me,… I’m still the same guy.

You’ve read my stuff up until now,…. I was an asshole.

I’m still the same guy – an asshole,…. Just a slightly-less-crazy one.

So,… we’re gonna talk about new shit. New friendships,… New opportunities,… New difficulties (what, you weren’t expecting them?).

I’ve got ideas about where I wanna go,… but, if you wanna make a suggestion, I can try and do some requests,… (shit, I feel like a lousy 80s cover band.)

There’s more stories about baseball,…. There’s more stories about growing up as a kid and then growing up again as an adult (maybe more than once),…. There’s stories coming up about my grandfather,….

There’s just no more bipolar stories,…. For now,…. Be cool with that,…. I’m asking you.

I’m back, bitches. Thank me by leaving comments and spreading the word. We’ll be updating more often from now on,…. Go out and sell me, fucks!

Token literary device:

I have so much to read, I can’t believe I’m taking this time to write.