last thursday

This isn't a post I wanted to make. I knew Thanksgiving was going to be a depressing outing for me (that familiar sinking feeling that precedes a dark spell has recently been sneaking into my bones) and Lisa, which is why I brought along some spiked eggnog, but I had no idea just how depressing last Thursday would become.

Unfortunately this time of year, which I used to enjoy, has become something to avoid. Spending time with the family is very stressful. And depressing. So, instead of carolers and mistletoe filling me with holiday cheer, they remind me of crass commercialism and the wondrous oblivion of youth – an oblivion I attempt to regain by plying myself with holiday "spirits."

For many weeks now my mom has been battling (what I presume to be) an intestinal infection. This illness, which has mystified three doctors, causes her to regurgitate practically everything she ingests. I won't share her other symptoms, but the mystery has left her frustrated. So frustrated that she is reluctant to see a new doctor because she fears he or she will be unable to diagnose her condition. After spending some time with my dad, Lisa and I go to my mom and step dad's place for some Thanksgiving grub. At the table mom attempts to eat some of the food she has prepared (she consumes about five bites); an hour later she's in the bathroom, regurgitating the small amount of food she ingested. Mom's situation made me sad, but I was depressed further upon watching and listening to sister. She seemed off, as if she was under the influence of something (not alcohol), which was not surprising considering her history of prescription drug abuse.

The following day mom calls me: all the cash from her purse is missing. Sister is obviously using again, stealing again, and the nightmare is beginning – again. This episode is much worse than past incidents because SHE HAS A THREE-YEAR-OLD SON. As my mom tells me (through tears) about finding the missing money, my face – no, my entire body flushes with blood, angry blood because the afternoon prior sister appeared so concerned about mom's condition; so concerned that she took $50 from her sick mother's purse – on Thanksgiving.

I'm finished with sister. (Things have never been the same between me and her since summer of 2005, when the depths of her addiction became apparent; subsequent interactions have been forced and awkward.) I can't tell you how many times during the past 48 hours I have, seemingly spontaneously, found myself in the midst of an internal monologue; a monologue because, even though I'm speaking to another person, my sister is awash in chemicals and incapable of comprehending the gravity of my words. And I'm telling her that she's gone, she's no longer a part of my life. But she doesn't care. She's lost to her addiction.

(Footnote: Mom called sister and told her about the missing money. Sister, of course, denied everything, and when sister visited mom yesterday to drop off her son, she acted as if nothing had happened. Completely oblivious.)

The recurring monologue has made me consider my options. If I call her and tell her she's out of my life, I'm afraid the words might push her over the edge, and she may hurt herself – or worse. Or, she may not care, not because she truly doesn't care, but because she's incapable of caring – an addict is concerned about only one thing: the source of his or her addiction. I wonder what would be the ultimate purpose of making such a call; I mean, who really benefits? Do I benefit by simply getting something off my chest? How would sister benefit? Her lying and deceitfulness is pathological, and I don't know how one person can penetrate such dark, compulsive behavior. I'm inclined to believe that such a phone call would leave me nonplussed.

Happy holidays.

xx

(Good news: I'm no longer experiencing pain in my left side.)

awwww yeah!

Gimme dat Christian side-hug!

From The Huffington Post:

Christian youth groups finally have an alternative to normal, aka "front," hugs. As we all know, face to face embraces run the horrific risk of a clothed crotch graze. The Christian Side-Hug (or the CSH, as the kids call it) rids us of sin, as the only below the belt contact will be some good old-fashioned hip on hip action.

To help the side-hug fad sweep the nation, let us present this hardcore rap song. Yup, side-hugging has hit the streets. The group has as many emcees as the Wu-Tang Clan and as much power as a barbershop quartet.

Look out for the ominous sirens blasting on the track. Clearly, these are gangsters on the run from the law - probably from side-hugging up a storm! One emcee (wearing his bandanna 2pac-style no less) admits to taking part in the forbidden front-hug. But don't worry, God. He's married.

At the end, they all simulate getting shot and dying. We can only hope there are side-hugs in heaven.

WATCH:

canceled

I didn't go for my 1 o'clock appointment with the urologist. Canceled it this morning. Throughout the weekend the discomfort in my lower left back was manageable, maybe even somewhat diminished from the days prior. I'm going to continue taking the antibiotic and hope for the best. Maybe the ache will slowly go away. If it gets worse, however, I will have to see a urologist and simply deal with the inevitable debt.

I know some people are skeptical of the recent Harvard study that found 45,000 Americans die every year from lack of health insurance. Those skeptics probably have never had to balance pain, which, while minor at the time, could lead to a major – and potentially deadly – health problem, with the nightmare of catastrophic debt and its associated consequences.

Here's my situation: Given my medical history I am almost certain that the ache in my left side is kidney related, and although I am in some level of discomfort throughout most of the day, the discomfort has yet to trump my willingness to take on potentially thousands of dollars in medical debt.

Here's my question: As an American citizen, is that a choice – the choice of pain or debt – I should have to make?

The United States is the only industrialized country that does not offer universal health care, and the United States annually spends approximately $2.26 trillion on health care, more than any other country on the planet.

If AGGRESSIVE health-care reform doesn't happen now, then when?

xx

saturday night’s all right for blogging

A couple weeks ago I joined the rest of the world and "got on the Facebooks." I was compelled to join Facebook because I thought that by joining I would be able to stalk some old flames. This isn't the case. Unfortunately Facebook's default setting allows only those designated as friends to view the juicy stuff.

Of course I'm kidding. I would never stalk an old flame on Facebook. Cyber-stalking isn't as fun as actually physically stalking someone.

Seriously though, the discovery of old names from my high school days (I graduated Highland Senior High School in 1997) has stirred up many emotions. Shock never ceases to strike me when I see the name of some long-forgotten classmate and his or her accompanying profile photo. ("Oh my god, that's so-and-so!") And judging from those photos, all my former classmates are either happily married and/or have at least one child. And those who have neither are apparently having the time of their lives parasailing on some sun-soaked beach far away from here. It's quite depressing, actually. It feels like high school all over again: everyone except me has seemingly found a group of which to assimilate. They have made all the right choices, and I can't seem to get my shit together. Yes, I have finally collected myself, but fuck! the time that has forever slipped away is not something that leaves the memory so easily. Neither are the memories of the embarrassing carcass I occupied as a high school student.

I'm terrified of friending a classmate from those days of mortification because I feel as though my high school ghost clings to everything – and memory is impermeable. Yes, I realize we have all grown and matured into 30 year-old adults, but my metamorphosis was embarrassing and painful. I suppose I still haven't resolved the issues that were at the core of my self-imposed exile. I wanted to belong – I still want to belong – to something so badly that I accomplished the opposite of my intentions, and, in doing so, became a cardboard cutout. An imposter. An imitator. Embarrassing.

When I reconnect with someone I haven't seen for a while an inevitable question eventually arises: What have you been up to? See, my response to that question is never simple and eloquent. I feel as if, to answer the question sufficiently, I must crack open the dog-eared book of my inhibitions and neuroticism and impart every motive for every decision I've made since our last contact; however, history has told me that most people are not interested in the psychological underpinnings of choosing to wear a pair of black Chuck Taylors over a pair of red Sauconys. So, in lieu of answering those inevitable questions, I wonder about what happened during my high school days. And wonder why all my former classmates look so happy in those profile photos.

xx

friday night update

Unfortunately my blogging presence lately has been lacking. Time for an update:

As a young child I experienced excruciating stomach aches. These stomach aches always seemed to occur in the left part of my abdomen. Initially doctors were baffled; however, during a physical exam Dr. Behm noticed that the left part of my lower back was swollen. These stomach aches were actually a result of urine failing to exit my kidney in a timely manner, so, at the age of seven, I had major surgery performed on the left ureter. The ureter is the tube that transports urine from the kidney to the bladder, and my left ureter had developed a kink, which obstructed urine flow, thereby leading to significant and irreversible kidney damage. The kidneys are vital to body homeostasis, and because the kidney was still functional (well, somewhat functional – functionality of the kidney is about 15%) the kidney was not removed. My left kidney's state leaves me vulnerable to kidney infection, which is something that flares up every two or three years. So, when I developed a slight ache in my lower left back nearly four weeks ago I hit the cranberry juice. It didn't help. On Monday I went to the doctor only to discover that the ache was not a kidney infection. I was given an antibiotic anyway and four days later nothing has improved, so I called my urologist and will see him Monday. Normally none of this would be cause for alarm, because ten years ago I experienced a similar situation and underwent a procedure, which involved sending a scope up my urethra to the ureter, to clean up the scar tissue. I sense that that is indeed what I'm dealing with now.

But I lost my health insurance last July. And my kidney condition qualifies as a "pre-existing condition," which means no health-insurance company will offer me coverage. And that Monday trip to the doctor cost me over $200. And $200 is a chuck of change when you are a part-time college student and part-time worker. And that $200 looms even larger when you realize that more doctor visits are coming, along with expensive tests and a possible surgery/procedure.

And these circumstances led me to produce two handwritten letters addressed to Indiana's respective senators, Republican Richard Lugar and Democrat Evan Bayh, in an effort to convince them that aggressive health-care reform must happen now. I chose to manually write the letters because such documents are not as easy to disregard, like a phone call or e-mail. Also, my political hero Chris Matthews, who worked on the Hill during the '70s and '80s, always says that, even in this day and age, a handwritten letter to your senator still means something. Additionally, Senator Bayh is one of the Blue Dog Democrats who doesn't quite but just might support a public option. Senator Lugar is a lost cause, but I wanted him to know that those who suffer from "pre-existing conditions" are real people with real stories. And very expensive problems.

I'm sounding my voice.

I hope someone will hear me.

Because sometimes we don't choose to fight for a cause until we are personally affected by the spark that spurred the cause.

More update stuff coming soon… stay tuned.

xx

second thoughts?

It pains me to type this, but I've recently been having second thoughts about some of the anti-roommate rants that I have posted here. Pains me because this blog -- my blog -- is a space for, among other things, my unequivocally honest, and sometimes brutal, opinions. Perhaps some of the anti-roommate posts have been too harsh. But then, every night I lay my head here and awake the following morning I find this:



and I think, No, those posts haven't been harsh enough. FML.

xx

pics from anniversary weekend with panda bear

knives out

Midterm week is over and I survived – well, mostly. I bombed my PSYC 201 midterm; the score is too vulgar to display here. But that's OK. I'll easily redeem myself on the final, and I'm confident that I will ace the two written assignments. I anticipate ending the class with an A. My poor psych midterm performance can be blamed on the A&P 102 midterm, which was the obvious priority going into this crucial week. Obvious because finishing with an A in A&P 102 is an absolute must. To do this, my calculations require an 85% on the midterm and final; a 90% on exam three; a 100% on the six remaining discussion boards; and 90% on the five remaining lab quizzes. On Friday I pegged an 85% on the midterm, so goal accomplished on that end. Regarding my third class, ENGL 211, no worries there.

On Saturday Panda Bear and I saw Paranormal Activity. Going into the theater I held some high expectations for the film, thanks largely to the incessant hype churning through Twitter. The film provided a good scare (actually, quite of few); however, I was hugely disappointed that the film failed to meet my expectations, and, looking back, I'm not sure if any film could have satisfied such rabid anticipation. I'll keep the film's secrets away from this space, but I will say that, as I watched the flick, it was difficult to avoid unconsciously comparing it to The Blair Witch Project. Aside from the classic Blair Witch, here are five frightful flicks for October: Halloween; Halloween III: Season of the Witch (Season's
synth-tastic soundtrack is a personal fav as well); Poltergeist; Requiem for a Dream; and Jacob's Ladder.

Although I don't want to spend any unnecessary time or energy on "the roommate situation," I've got to get a few things off my chest. First, relations certainly haven't improved; in fact, they have deteriorated further. And that's OK, because I realized some weeks ago that any semblance of a friendship evaporated months prior. When a man realizes that the relationship with his girlfriend is progressing into something more serious, he changes, he matures. He realizes that living in a shit bachelor pad is neither cool nor attractive – especially when he is over 30 years of age. I don't expect my roommate to ever realize these things because his disgusting habits and inconsiderate behavior will prevent him from establishing a relationship with any respectable woman. And the sad thing is I don't think he realizes that his actions are objectionable. Or maybe he does and simply doesn't care. Honestly, I don't know where his head is. He is 34, 35 years old with no discernible goals, and while I utterly despise living with him now, I realize that when we part he will no longer be a figure of loathsomeness, but a figure of pity.

xx

friday’s blurb

I awoke this morning to discover that President Barack Obama had won the Nobel Peace Prize. The news shocked many, including his ardent supporters like myself. I believe this disbelief has arisen because the Right has contaminated this country's political atmosphere so badly that even the President's supporters have forgotten that the Commander In Chief is a source of admiration – and hope – the world over. Indeed, President Obama's vision has been obfuscated by the dreadfully slow machine that is Washington, D.C., but his signature is the sole source from which broad national and international change can come.

xx

is al qaeda hiring?

Lyrics for Toby Keith's "American Ride"

Winter gettin' colder, summer gettin' warmer
Tidal wave comin' 'cross the Mexican border
Why buy a gallon, when it's cheaper by the barrel
Just don't be busted singin' Christmas carols

That's us, That's right
Gotta love this American ride
Both ends of the ozone burnin'
Funny how the world keeps turnin'
Look ma, no hands
I love this American ride
Gotta love this American ride

Momma gets her rocks off watchin' Desperate Housewives
Daddy works his ass off payin' for the good life
Kids on the YouTube learnin' how to be cool
Livin' in a cruel world, pays to be a mean girl

That's us, That's right
Gotta love this American ride.
Both ends of the ozone burnin'
Funny how the world keeps turnin'
Look ma, no hands
I love this American ride
Gotta love this American ride

Poor little infamous America's town
She gained five pounds and lost her crown
Quick fix plastic surgical antidote
Got herself a record deal, can't even sing a note

Plasma gettin' bigger, Jesus gettin' smaller
Spill a cup of coffee, make a million dollars
Cousins caught a buzz with an aerosol can
If the shoe don't fit, the fit's gonna hit the shan

That's us, That's right
Gotta love this American ride
Both ends of the ozone burnin'
Funny how the world keeps turnin'
Hot dog, Hot damn
I love this American ride
Gotta love this American ride

short: death

Eleven days after I asked my psychiatrist about the dead animals I found myself staring at my mother, silent in her casket. Those eleven days prior, Dr Furrow asked me if I had had any personal encounters with death, such as losing a close friend or relative. No, I told her, I've never lost a relative or good friend to death. Dr Furrow proceeded to tell me that adults who lived a youth free of death usually develop a strange curiosity about death, which is why my highway eyes seem glued to road kill.

Gazing at her frozen face I chewed my lips until they bled, and as I heard all those stories and saw all those sad people and accepted the realization that my mother was gone forever, I realized I was no longer curious about death. I still catch myself staring at mangled road kill, however.

xx

a perfect song

Granted, Richard Ashcroft basically ripped off the instrumental version of The Rolling Stones' "The Last Time," but The Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony" is one of the great rock/pop songs of all time. And this performance from Glastonbury Festival 2008 is pure magic.

see the leaves

I just caught wind of "See the Leaves" from the upcoming double album Embryonic by The Flaming Lips. The song is very good, which is definitely a good thing because I was disappointed with 2006's At War with the Mystics. "See the Leaves" is vintage Lips -- eerily affecting, bombastic psychedelia.

admonished by a box of dayquil

I found this strangely-worded sentence on the box of DayQuil Cold and Flu medication that I purchased earlier today.

persuasion

I have a mercurial personality. As soon as I meet someone new or hang with friends I immediately make unconscious comprises with my personality. Like the chameleon I adapt to my surroundings. My mannerisms change; my vocabulary – even my speaking style – changes; the topics I mention for conversation differ; I'll even fabricate lies about myself. The shifts in personality are not subtle; they are vast and contrasting. For example, upon noticing my school textbooks, some coworkers have asked what it is I'm studying. Fearing that word will spread and I will be mocked by some of my male-chauvinist associates, I lie and tell them radiology. (I'm most naked and true to myself when I'm around my girlfriend, which is why I love her so much, but I do find myself occasionally hiding thoughts and desires from her.)

Have I developed this personality because of my private nature? Or is it a fear of rejection? Perhaps I never developed a strong sense of self, which is why I've struggled to belong to, or identify with, a group or scene. I was mocked and ridiculed early in my elementary school years because I wore generic jeans with elastic waists (OK, they weren't real jeans), I had big feet and wore Etonic shoes over those feet. I also constantly made the honor roll. During those years I had no desire to belong to a group. I was perfectly content with wearing dorky clothes and getting good grades. But not caring about those things came with a price, and I eventually focused more on integrating myself and less on school work.

Of course, I never fit in. Still don't. But the mechanisms of my mercurial personality won't be persuaded from trying.

xx