Wading Through the Quagmire

There is no one word to adequately express the behemoth that has been 2009.  Oh, well, I guess behemoth works nicely, now that I consider it.  Drunken suck monkey ass clown might work, but it’s more than one word.  It’s sort of a series of descriptive-type words, I suppose, all of which might only serve to qualify as vignettes of the overall piece of work that this year has been.  I’m not sure which word applies to what portion of 2009, but I’m quite confident there’s a fit there somewhere.  Then again, I’m not alone.  It’s been a bit of a bastard to a number of people, as well.  It’s been troubling at times to ME, for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which has been a lack of attentiveness to this blog, and to writing in general.  It seems–and I must feign shock at this, if only to seem suddenly abhorrent to the thought–that writing humorously is a tad difficult when stressed to unforseen limits.  I mean, sure, the entire point of humor, to ME, is to lampoon the very insanities that stress ME out and frustrate ME so, but it seems that, while immersed in them, I only sort of look at what I write, and want to punch the screen.  “That’s not very effin’ funny, you know?” I might shout, to no avail, at the blinking cursor.  “Damn tempter of insanity!  Mocker of the besieged!  Purveyor of heinous fuckery! (thanks to Chris Moore for that one)”

I’ve been going through journal entries from MY days of youth, of late.  Specifically the end of high school, and into MY early 20’s.  I’m going to attempt to be brave enough to share some of them, as I found that I was sufficient enough of a retard (a reh-tard, for those of you seeking an enunciation guide) to warrant sharing it with the world.  It’s almost unbelievable in its wanton silliness and juvenile hormonal lunacy, in the end, so therefore, you’re more likely to read it and decry, “Surely not!  This is simpleton garbage!  This is not the work of the great and amazing writer I know!” or something equally supportive.  For ME, it’s still somehow like reading someone else’s dirty secrets, and perusing their worst fears of loneliness, poor bowling scores, and life without pop-singing celebrities.  And also, it’s home to lines of such wonderment, and awe-inspired brilliance, that you might simply pass out from the sheer magnitude of their philosophical insight.  For example, an entry that begins, “Confusion is a state of mind.  I’d like to explain that, but I can’t.”  Brilliant!  From where does such genius arise?  I was destined for greatness from a young age, with such veritable wisdom in tow!

Honestly, it’s inane drivel, for the most part, but I have begun to realize something about MYSELF that I don’t think I could have realized otherwise.  I was never meant for normalcy.  No, really, I mean it.  Seriously.  I mean, I need to ask MY mother about the day I was born, and see if she can’t tell ME a little bit more about the doctor’s reaction to MY arrival.  Surely the words, “It’s a boy,” and, “Congratulations,” were uttered, but I’m suddenly quite curious as to the facial expressions, or the method in which these straightforward, and quite factual, bits of MY beginning were delivered.  True, I am in fact male, and, additionally, every woman should, in fact, be congratulated simply for surviving the process of bringing a screaming mass of belligerence into the world (not to mention for undertaking the sheer lunacy of raising said malevolent hob-knobler), but we lack some deeper subtext here.  Lip curled?  A slight tick to the eye, or cheek?  Possibly some stifled screams from the nurses?  Did the doctor hold on with every ounce of his reserve, begging, pleading within to avoid screaming, “DEAR GOD, WOMAN!  IT’S A MONSTER!  AND IT’S HUMMING SOME INSIPID POP-STAR QUALITY TUNE!  MAKE IT STOP!”  These are the questions that I hope will further define ME going forward.  Did I emerge with a pen in hand?  Was MY first act of defiance to pee on a Bible?  Did I point MY mini-wee at the nurses and profess MY love for them?  What happened?????

And so I am left to wonder.  Answers to these burning questions may indeed resolve lingering questions about MYSELF today.  Perhaps even unfold the great cheese mystery (not that there’s much mystery…I just reallyreallyreallyreally like cheese).  I asked MY mother recently if she had read anything to ME while I labored (ha!) in utero, or perhaps if she had gone on a secret Habanero binge that might explain MY off-kilter sense of normalcy.  She said, after only a few second’s thought, “No, your grandmother did like to sneak me donuts though.”  Yeah?  Well?  See MY point here?  Yeah?  Exactly.  “Well, that’s useless, mom.  No help at all.  Thanks for–oooh, hey Pumpkin Muffins are back at Dunkin Donuts!  Let’s go!  PUNKIN’ MUFFINS! (sometimes it helps to just scream this randomly to get out of sticky situations.  Nothing trips people out of an argument better than another person screaming their love for pumpkin muffins.)” 

So…that’s something to look forward to.  Not the Pumpkin Muffins, though they are rather delightful, but the senseless venturing into MY past via Journal Entries of the Normalcy Challenged.  I’ll round up a few of the worst, and see what further damage I can do to MY languishing reputation as a sane man.  In the meantime, I need to call MY mommy.

As I was prone to saying in MY journals: See ME later.

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