So let’s say your 80-year-old dad makes a snap decision one morning to jump in the car and make a beeline to the local Home Depot to purchase a new bathtub, intent on beginning a process of replacing the stand-up shower — and only bathing facility — in the house you’re currently residing in as a homeless, 46-year-old degenerate wanderer.
Let’s also say his health isn’t the greatest — his physical strength and mobility are similar to that of a crippled new-born giraffe, and his mental faculties are on par with an electroshock patient who just received a 400-volt hit of “therapy.”
And let’s say he’s going to the hospital in the next two days for knee surgery, leaving you and your mother — people sorely lacking in plumbing, tiling, and renovation skills — to sort out the mess.
Even though my opening lines got manipulated a bit, the full article is intact, linked here. I didn’t quite get that Depends joke/title right, but oh well…
That should make up for it…
New material for BonerFruit coming up shortly, inspired by being a whore, douchebag sellout.
I still want to hit “publish” on my last 2,000-word post, summarizing the final 2 days I spent in Mexico, but the piece came across as way too self-absorbed and lame, even though there were some mega-awesome DTG moments involved.
Me? Self-absorbed? Ridiculous…
Whatever. We’re moving forward, with new stories to share about installing tubs, shattering bathroom tiles, and scooping kitty-litter yet again.
Perhaps some insight into life as well.
No fucking promises, just making the game up as it happens.
Hope everyone’s well. This is mostly a one-sided conversation as always — my apologies.
You fuckers can always engage in the stupid forum link I always consider deleting. Dialogue is good.
Much better than Dying on a log.
I think that was a constipation joke/pun, I’m not sure.
No matter how hard you try in life to be an exemplary human, no matter how conscientious you are of others’ needs or desires, and no matter how diligent your attempts might be to save the world, shitty things will still happen to you.
Sorry chief, that’s just the nature of this reality.
It’s easy enough to get into a funk when things go wrong. Despite mega-postitive mindsets, and unwavering faith in other-wordly, supportive guides, there’s no predicting what circumstance might unfold one day to leave you stressed, grief-filled, or miserable.
But these are the moments that matter most — the ones that shouldn’t be relegated to the “that’s not fucking fair” pile, but accepted with open arms to glean new perspectives into self and reality.
How many times have we bemoaned a situation that later turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to us? How many times have we lain wake at night, tossing and turning in rhythm to possible horrific scenarios that failed to manifest upon the rising of a morning sun?
What we continually forget throughout this life journey is that our present moment always reflects each and every choice we’ve made in the past. There is nothing bad that can befall us, because we’ve been the architects of every construction. We made a decision at some point where the toilet should sit in our perfect home, so there’s no reason to fret when we realize the stink pipe was erroneously placed. We simply need to learn to make corrections when necessary, without lashing out at the nearest convenient scape-goat who may have suggested design ideas we knew weren’t right for us.
We’ve all worked with shitty blueprints at one time or another, but that doesn’t mean the building we’re currently residing in can’t be updated, modified, or torn to the ground, if necessary, to rethink grander designs.
The fun in life is to keep building, no matter how half-assed some of our earlier foundations may have been. Trial and error is our greatest teacher, and each iteration of our “happiness tower” provides invaluable insight on how to enhance the structure to provide maximum sunshine for the cherry tomatoes and pot-plants we have growing on the sill.
Setbacks are part of the learning curve. Without them, growth and evolution would be meaningless. We play our games because we have a passion for them, wondering just how good we may get if we remain focused and dedicated. If we were experts at everything we tried — sitting on our mountain tops effortlessly, to witness an endgame without the trials and tribulations that make summiting worthwhile — there would be no reason to play. The fun is always in climbing, with the peak becoming a realization newer heights need to be explored.
There are no shitty things that happen to us. Only a perspective that perhaps the game we’ve chosen to obsess over might not be our cup of tea. And that’s a good thing, because there’s far more out there than chamomile and cinnamon rooibus. I would recommend avoiding pumpkin chai, too, cuz it sucks ass.
Though this may come across as an “easier said than done” philosophy, the best thing you can do with an unfair assfucking is to let it go. Yeah, your sphincter might feel raw and tender for many days to follow, but the discomfort will pass — and always lead to a thought somewhere down the road declaring, “Sure, it fucking sucked, but it was just the thing I needed at the time — look at me now!”
This is more than just rolling with the punches — this is the realization that a shot or two below the belt provides invaluable insight to develop new strategies to challenge the deranged and intimidating semi-pro intent on splattering your grey-matter all over the boxing ring. There’s no reason to be intimidated by a Don King managed antagonist, as long as you remain true to your desire to wear a championship belt personalized to you.
So if an unwanted event happens, something that causes you to question your motivation to expend energy to rebalance the burden back to status quo, it might be time to make a connection that the path you’re desperately clearing with a machete might not be the right one for you.
And that’s fine, because the only limits to exploration are the ones you impose on yourself. Sure, gun-toting cocksuckers might await you at many gates, but there are always roads around them. They care more about paycheques and the size of their penises, than truly hindering your progress.
Forget beating yourself up when shit hits the fan, and focus on finding the best solution to patch the hole in your boat. A new archipelago always awaits in the distance. All you ever need to get moving again is a passion to see what’s over the horizon. Some repairs will take more time than others, but with a little creativity, elbow grease, and a whack of epoxy, (I hear sheep-dung works well at times for leaks, too), you’ll be on your way again before you know it — the islands of grief forgotten in lieu of exciting new ports.
Don’t stress the repair work — learn from it. And even if another tiger-shark rams its head through your hull, you’ll know how to deal with it, this time with greater amusement at the absurdity of the situation, with stress and grief relegated to your holding tank of waste, ready to be flushed into the ocean before the next dock is reached.
Always be ready to set your sails. It’s just a matter of time before the winds of life start blowing your way again.
That was probably the right segue for a blow-job joke, but focus on your other work first, and when you’re done, I’ll have the ultimate fellatio one-liner perfected to reward your dedication.
There’s nothing more frustrating in the world than trying to re-create a perfect moment. Well, maybe trying to remove the smell of cat pee from your carpet might come to mind as equally bedevilling, but that’s not the issue we’re concerned with today.
By definition, a moment exists for what it is (or was), and can’t ever be duplicated. The variables defining a slice of time are infinitely beyond control.
No matter how often you frequent a restaurant to re-live a “perfect” meal… no matter how much fastidiousness you invest in carbon-copy choices to manifest another perfect date, and without mentioning how well you repeat your hand-picked poetry and soothing tones that rewarded you with a blowjob one magical evening, those moments are gone forever — without possibility of being recaptured for the exact experience you’ve attached to bliss. Trying to emulate those unique instances will always leave a subtle element of disappointment in your heart.
As it should be.
The fun in life is to recognize those “best-ever” moments, revisit them in your mind as often as you feel necessary, but never fuck with them again. They can’t be duplicated — ever — despite your most sincere efforts.
Dumblittleman was a useful venue to explore the world of guest blogging, but after reading more of their articles, including straight-up ads written by corporate shills under the guise of blog-posts, and after their brutally inept editing of my own piece, I decided to find new stomping grounds to whore myself to. My 20-20 hindsight glasses never require a new prescription.
The situation worked out perfectly, as always, because I wrote new piece after new piece with frenzied inspiration, in order to test the waters of who had the balls to allow me an uncensored forum to share my stupidity.
After one slow-coming rejection email, and several unacknowledgments (is that even a word?), some from websites I should have realized were defunct, I received a note recently from a self-help blog interested in supporting my nonsense.
Though I hate getting my ego involved (no I don’t), hearing the words “you’re like a breath of fresh air, your articles are always welcome here,” was a definite perk to my day.
The best part is that each new essay I put together never gets constructed with compromise in mind. Basically, if websites declaring “Write for us!” aren’t interested in my shit, I have no fuck to give to modify a single word, being left with an abundance of material to share within my own pet project.
I also realize I have no limit to the amount of material I can produce. Doubling up writings, one for my site, one for another, fostered my greatest productivity to date — while still contributing to the kick-ass new book I have on the go.
Speaking of that work in progress, let’s just say, holy fuck, it’s so far beyond stupid I can’t wait to allow Amazon the chance to fuck me over on royalties yet again…
I’ve intentionally denied myself the fun of designing the new book cover and layout thus far, to keep me focussed on finishing the last few chapters, but I’m excited about this collection of madness — even if no-one buys a single damn copy. That’s what passion is about!
I’ll send out links to the new articles being posted on guest-sites as they appear, but I just wanted to do a non-Adventure Blog post to take a break from the 10,000 other thoughts begging to be typed into my trusty laptop.
Pointless side note: I’m not a big fan of corporate loyalty, but Apple makes a pretty kick-ass product. My 20-year-old Mac-tower was enough to convince me of that. I’m happy and grateful I invested the extra bucks and physical energy to lug this machine around with me in Central America (though the MacBook Air is probably the lightest and slimmest machine available in the marketplace right now — insert potential for big business kick-backs here).
That’s all for now. Just some rambling I felt like sharing.
The day is young, and I should probably get away from my introverted nature to make contact with humanity for a bit.
There’s got to be a refried black-bean vendor down the street somewhere here that has “Miguel” penciled on the side of a styrofoam take-out cup.
I’ll let you know what I find…
Some new stuff just got posted, check it out if you find yourself bored with Android Scrabble…
(The is the unedited essay as it should have appeared on dumblittleman.com)
Pretentious title, but far from a call to adopt a stance of apathy within this wondrous and dynamic reality we exist together in.
Fuck no, quite the opposite.
The insight I’d like to share with you today is the equivalent of an open-handed, movie-cliche slap to the face, regretfully but lovingly administered to pull a panicked comrade back from the brink of a full-blown meltdown catalyzed by a collapse of rational, critical thinking.