A Song for the Weary

This life is a wind that sweeps us into the next. And I will ride this torrent with you.

Because the hearts of men are ships at sea. The calm brings fleeting comfort and peace, but it is through the storm that conviction is proven: to be tossed asunder by the wind; to be cast into the deep by the torrent; or to have the courage to stay the course.

For you I stay the course.

My arms will be open, my hands grasp for yours until time gives way to eternity. My love buckles not beneath the weight. For this love requires no reciprocation.

Until the wind blows no more, my heart remains steadfast. Until the earth turns to dust, your rock I will be.

And when that day comes, when our knees bend before the Most High, you will witness a love that has no equal.

But the love I give you in this life shall not pale in comparison.

The Monster at the End of This Blog

Whaaat did that say?!

In the title...up at the top...does that say there's a monster at the end of this blog?!

I'm scared of monsters. Especially the kind that pop up out of nowhere. Like at the end of a normally pleasant read. Such as this one.

SO DON"T READ ANY FURTHER!

I get up to use the bathroom at least once every night. You don't realize how many mirrors you have in your house until you try to avoid looking into one on the way to the toilet at two o'clock in the morning. I'm terrified of seeing something standing behind me. Or catching a quick glimpse of something sinister as it crosses the room. It's stupid, I know...if there was something in my room, I doubt it would wait until I woke up to take a piss before it ate my soul.

WHY ARE YOU STILL READING!! Didn't you hear there's a monster at the end of this blog?!

Sometimes my son comes into my room at night and just stands beside my bed. To make matters worse, he drapes his blanket over his head and wraps up in it. I wake up from the sense that someone is watching me, and there he is, just hovering there like a phantom, his face blacked out by shadow. I inevitably teach him a new cuss word each time I'm freaked-out into consciousness. Last night I said, "Son-of-a-shit-balls." No idea what that means. Once I cried, "Mother-ghost-hell" into the night, and my son actually giggled. He's standing there, covered in his blanket, looking like a tiny murderer, laughing at me.

You're still here? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND? Get out while you still can!

My dog growls at invisible things at night. I've crept around the house more than once with my pistol point cocked...ready to lay shots non-stop until I see that monkey ass drop. And let their homies know who done it. But I digress...and yes, that rap song, like many rap songs, does have racial slurs.

WHAT ARE YOU DOING! Don't click that link! It takes you to the end of the blog! And there's creepy, scary monsters at the end of the blog with great big nasty teeth!


To the End of the Blog



















































MONSTERS

This Has Nothing To Do With Skinny Jeans

Well, I have been smoke free (mostly) for the past four months, and I gotta say I feel great! No more coughing, especially when I laugh really hard. No more sinus infections, until last week when I inhaled a butt-load of dirt and dust while mowing my lawn.

And I can breath! I ran three miles the other day without getting winded. Previously, I was lucky to make it a mile and a half before hyperventilating. My neighbors used to find me passed out in their ditch. Usually, it was because I'd been running. I won't get into those other instances that running wasn't involved.

"How?" you ask, did I accomplish this incredible feat?

Assuming you're inquiring about the quitting and not the running or passing out, I could lie and say that my Green Lantern-like willpower pulled me through. But I won't. Although, I did quit cold turkey once, which was an amazing display of will. I've also quit using nicotine patches. A few times.

"A few times?" you say. How many times have I quit smoking? A LOT. I honestly can't remember how many times I have deprived myself of this disgusting, yet immensely satisfying habit. But I always fall back into it.

I feel you smokers out there nodding your heads. Word.

See, I come from a long line of quitters. And sometimes I like to quit the same thing over and over again just because I'm not doing anything else that needs quitting. And then I start again...somehow completely forgetting/dismissing the HELL I went through to rid the delicious nicotine from my system. So this time's going to be different...at least that's what I'm shooting for.

But that isn't the real point in the post. The real point revolves around the earlier question that I pretended you asked me: How?

The answer is drugs. I started taking drugs. Regularly. At least once, most of the time twice a day.

Its called Chantix. I've taken it before, and the stuff really does work. Granted, last time didn't stick, but I didn't take the complete course last time either.

Now, that being said, here's my issue with the whole Chantix thing. So many of my friends and family members are against smoking because it isn't good for you. And then the Christian ones claim its a sin because it desecrates your body which is supposed to be God's temple. I happen to agree with both.

Then I got to thinking. Sure, smoking ruins your lungs, clogs your arteries, gives you cancer, changes your voice, etc... All of which darkens your temple. But the same people that are against all of these things pat me on the back and congratulate me when they find out I'm taking Chantix.

Like Chantix isn't a drug.

Like Chantix miraculously makes you quit smoking without any negative consequences.

Let me tell you how Chantix has effected my temple:

1. Frequent mild to severe upset stomach
2. Frequent mild to severe dizzy spells
3. Frequent waking up at night
4. Frequent insane nightmares involving clowns, vampire bunnies, and that kid from Paranormal Activity.
5. Significantly diminished sex drive
6. Inability to feel happy or excited about things

Chantix actually blocks nicotine from reaching certain receptors in your brain. Those receptors would normally cause a chemical called dopamine to be released. Dopamine causes you to feel pleasure. So basically, by restricting dopamine release, Chantix causes you to get no pleasure from nicotine. However, it also dampens pleasure in other things--like sex, or even life in general.

Is it any wonder it's recommended that people diagnosed with depression not take this drug? Can you imagine a depressed person being cut off from what little pleasure they still may experience? Have you heard the stories of people using Chantix committing suicide?

So which is better? Smoking or Chantix? I haven't heard anyone tell me I'm ruining my temple as a result of using Chantix. Even though it completely alters how your brain functions, and decreases natural (some may even say God-breathed) sensations that human beings are supposed to feel...need to feel.

But don't you dare smoke! Its a sin!

After all that, I continue to take Chantix. It makes me miserable at times, but so does smoking. I go back and forth on whether or not to quit taking it. Long line of quitters and all.

I think my point here is this: Just because something is socially acceptable, it doesn't make it good. More often than not, I find myself standing on the side opposite society, believing in the things the masses are against, disagreeing with the things they are for.

And more and more, I find that I am okay with that.

Because 10,000,000 emo kids wearing skinny jeans CAN be wrong.

We Are Aware...Of Everything

I know it's been a while since my last post, but I've been busy moving and working and raising children. For some of you, my words are an integral part of your lives; as essential as the air you breathe; as necessary as the pickle that accompanies your deli sandwich. I want you to know that I am aware of this.

So to observe those that have spent the last three months yearning for another blog post from yours truly, and to recognize the fact that I am aware of that yearning, I hereby deem the month of April to be Awareness Month Awareness Month from now henceforth until the end of time. We will forevermore use the month of April to celebrate, commemorate, and acknowledge all the other months that we are bombarded with things to celebrate, commemorate, and acknowledge.

Let's start with April. Besides being Awareness Month Awareness Month, April is also Mathematics Awareness Month, where we acknowledge that math exists, and Child Abuse Awareness and Prevention Month, where not only do we acknowledge the people that abuse children, but we also refrain from abusing our own children until May. Let us not forget it is Sexual Assault Awareness Month and Rape Prevention Month. These clearly go hand in hand. I heard recently that the most effective way to avoid being raped is to crap yourself. In April we are aware of Parkinson's Disease, Autism, Asperger's Syndrome, Diabetes, and recognize that some people have STD's, Developmental Disabilities, an Appreciation for Jazz, and my favorite, Drive While Distracted.

In May, we celebrate the heritages of South Asians (don't even think about North Asians in May), Haitians, Jews, and those from the Asian Pacific. Amongst other things, we celebrate bicycles, pets, and foster care; we are aware of ALS (only in the US, though; Canadians celebrate this in June), asthma, celiac disease, and neurofibromatosis.

June is for adopting cats, hip-hop and those of Caribbean descent. It is also LGBT Pride Month, where we celebrate and take pride in men that have sex with other men, women that have sex with other women, men and women that have sex with men and women, and men and women that identify themselves as women and men - I'm not sure who they have sex with though.

We eat tacos and hot dogs in July, and then dance it off.

August is kind of a downer. We give a special nod to people with amblyopia and cataracts, although they probably can't see it, and a pat on the back to those with spinal muscular atrophy and psoriasis. Also don't forget that there are millions of immunizations available, and you should get every single one of them. Enjoy August because you will likely have the flu in September.

In September, while suffering through whatever sickness you've come down with as a result of intentionally injecting yourselves with said sickness, we recognize National Preparedness Month. This is where FEMA encourages us to prepare ourselves for a catastrophic state of emergency because the government is incapable of responding to them. But I really don't feel we need to observe this every year. Every four years in November would be sufficient. Oh, and just about every Central American country celebrates their independence in September, which somehow lead to an influx of immigrants to the U.S. and the need to establish Hispanic Heritage Month.

October is a biggie. We feel sorry for battered women while simultaneously spending a lot of time talking about their breasts. We also strive to end bullying by making our sons whiny little girls, and we remember the struggles, strife, and civil rights violations that homosexual and transgender Americans have endured at the hands of whitey. Not to be outdone by the segregation, humiliation, beatings, and murders of blacks in the early- to mid-1900's, homosexuals have been called names...and...and have been called names...sometimes...by...mean people...

November is NaNoWriMo! The whole nation writes a novel! Right? I kind of just stare at the screen wondering why I thought anyone would waNT TO READ THIS CRAP! Then I rant and drink beer and yell at my kids and come back to what I was writing and think, hey, this isn't so bad, but then I sober up and read it again and wonder wHY I THOUGHT ANYONE WOULD WANT TO READ THIS CRAP! I love NaNoWriMo.

December is Political Correctness Awareness Month, when the retards in the media tell us what we are and aren't allowed to say, and I organize my annual Smear the Queer tournament. It's also Safe Toys and Gifts Awareness Month because every kid should wear a helmet inside while reading and doing puzzles.

January is Glaucoma Awareness Month, also known as "Smoke It If You Got It Month". We are made aware that there is poverty in America, while somewhere in the Middle East our charitable leaders are giving billions to countries that want to kill us. It's also Personal Self-Defense Awareness Month, unless you are at a school, university, courthouse, somewhere that serves alcohol, or serving in your neighborhood watch. Or really anywhere else the government decides they don't want you carrying the firearm you have every right to be carrying.

We all know what February is, and everything else falls to the wayside (though I still recommend you spay and neuter your animals). This is the time to celebrate our black brothers and sisters. They have endured more hardships than any other minority in our great nation, though only slightly more than the LGBT community. It's also Ethnic Equality Month, but who are we kidding. Everyone knows black guys make better athletes, and they are almost always showers, not growers.

And finally we get to March, and honestly, it's kind of a let down. I guess someone, somewhere gives a flying flip about celery, crafts, essential tremors (whatever those are), and peanuts. I do, however, enjoy frozen foods. I also think it's important to commemorate women's history, where we will inevitably hear about Hilary Clinton's achievements, all accomplished with absolutely zero help from her husband *Ahem*. The only thing that makes March bearable is the celebration of the Irish. I love Irish people. And I love drinking beers.

So I hope you'll all join me this year by taking part in Awareness Month Awareness Month. I see no reason why we can't celebrate, commemorate, contemplate, and commiserate any of the above each and every April. Just don't spend too much time pretending to be Irishmen with glaucoma.

I love you all, be excellent to each other, and all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things shall be well.

A Scientific Approach to Understanding Gender Differences

Problem: Communication between male and female counterparts appears strained and often times non-existent.

Hypothesis: Lack of communication is due to a difference in male and female thought processes.

Case Study: A random couple was given such-and-such-an-item as a Christmas gift. A picture of the item was presented in lieu of the actual item because it had yet to be ordered. About a week goes by and the husband asks his wife if such-and-such-an-item is being delivered to their house. She says, "Yes."

Two more weeks go by and the item has yet to arrive, so the husband inquires of his wife as to the item's whereabouts. She replies that she has not ordered it because she hadn't yet picked which style of such-and-such-an-item she wanted.

Results: The husband is at first confused. "You said it was on the way," he accuses his wife. "No, you asked if it was being delivered here, and I said it was," the wife says. "But it can't be delivered here unless you order it," the husband refutes. "You didn't ask if I ordered it," the wife says. And so on, until the man becomes angry and the woman begins to cry.

Analysis: The husband assumed that such-and-such-an-item had been ordered because if something is to be delivered somewhere, someone would have had to order it first. Not to mention the word "being", as in "is the item being delivered here", implies the present tense. The wife does not entertain such assumptions. She believes her answer implied that IF such-and-such-an-item were to be ordered, it would be delivered to the house. The fact that a picture of the item to be ordered was shown to the husband, along with the failure to mention the task of choosing the "style" of the item, has been utterly disregarded.

Conclusion One: Women are illogical. This may come as a shock to women, but that shouldn't be surprising. After all, crazy people don't think they're crazy. The ability to make a connection between two correlating subjects (e.g. order and delivery) is apparently not something that God endowed the female gender with.  So when asking a woman a question, a man may not assume anything. Regardless of how blatant or obvious an assumption may be to a man, it is very likely that the woman has not made, nor do they care to make, the same assumption. In addition, the woman does not need to be right in order to win an argument.

Conclusion Two: Men are assholes. This does not come as a shock to most women. Nor does this fact elude most men. This is why the man ends up apologizing to the woman after a fight. It's because he acted like a complete douche bag, even though he probably started off on the correct side of the issue. Furthermore, making the woman cry automatically disqualifies the man from any victory that may have been within his grasp.

Final Conclusion: The hypothesis seems correct. Lack of communication between male and female counterparts is indeed due to a difference in thought processes. It should also be noted that it is pointless for a man to enter into an argument with a woman who has the tendency to cry. Estrogen trumps testosterone every time...unless you're a wife-beater. And in that case, you'll likely end up in jail or missing a penis, so the woman still wins.

Life of Ryan

Ugh, 6:30 in the morning sucks, and doing it every day is worse. I literally roll off my bed onto my hands and knees and groan at the indecency of it all. I trudge to the bathroom, nearly tripping over my son who is passed out at the foot of the bed, and make it to the bathroom relatively unscathed. The shower heats up while I brush my teeth (I loathe brushing my teeth, but I know people appreciate it), then step into the spraying stench of well-water. I wash, I dry off, and quickly cover myself as my daughter traipses in to brush her teeth. Why she can't do this in her own bathroom is beyond me. And why she can't get it through her noggin that little girls aren't allowed to see their daddy naked is even more of a conundrum.

I comb Declan's hair, and then I brush my own. I figure more hair stays on the brush nowadays than remains on my head. I've made peace with it, though I'm not quite ready to buzz it. I'll leave it to my wife to tell me when I should make that leap.

My closet contains about twenty shirts, three of which I like, and two pairs of pants. It doesn't really matter which ones I grab because they all match. I only wear blue, grey, and black. I do, however, spend a second to decide on which belt and shoes to wear. Brown or black. Brown doesn't go with black, so if I'm wearing black I don't choose brown. Hey, that's a pretty good tongue twister...I bet Riley will like it.

I see my wife for 2.5 seconds while pouring coffee into my gigantic travel mug. Then I'm out the door with two of the three kids. I backtrack ten minutes to take Riley to school then drop Declan off at Preschool, which is a relief to my ears and head since he has yacked the entire way about God knows what. He reminds me of my brother. I remember taking a hunting trip to NC a few years back. He rambled incessantly for the first few hours until I fell asleep. When I woke up again my brother was still talking and I'm pretty sure it was about the same thing he was talking about before I passed out.

If you ask Riley what I do at work, she'll say, "Typie, typie."  She's really not that far off, so I'll leave it at that. I also smoke a lot and check my email. Whadaya know, another agent rejecting my manuscript. Oh well, I have dozens more feelers out there, maybe the next one will be different.

My mom's at the house with the kids when I get home, and I attempt to spend some quality time with them while simultaneously throwing dinner together (the first thing Reagan says when I walk in the door is, "I eat now?"). Kristin works til 9:00, and I says to myself, "Self, you're not nearly as good at this as your wife is."

Both Riley and Declan are supposed to read a book before going to bed, which is nearly impossible with a two-year-old running around the house and a hyper dog yelping at her heels. Then they need a drink of water, then Reagan has to poop, then Riley can't find her beebee (blanket), then Declan is crying because he somehow bonked his head on the bed rail while he was alone in his room, and on and on for about half an hour.

Finally, I have a much needed cigarette. Tonight I have a beer or two or three as well, and play Call of Duty until my wife gets home. We have time to watch one TV show together before going to bed, too tired for sex mind you, and we prepare to do it all over again tomorrow.

Why do I tell you all this? If you notice, every paragraph includes my kids except the last one, and that's because they're supposed to be sleeping. My world revolves around them, and although I'm tired and frustrated more often than not, the fact remains that they are the reason I roll off the bed every morning. They're why I go to sleep exhausted every night. It's not always fun, but it is always necessary. It took me a little while to realize that. And after I did, even the hard stuff, the I-want-to-blow-my-brains-out-right-now stuff, became endurable.

The Snatcher

Hi All. It's been a while since my last post, but I hesitate to apologize because I do this in my free time, which is growing more and more infrequent. So...I'm sorry...and I'm not...and I've now gone cross-eyed.

In the spirit of not having much time to update my blog lately, I have decided to dedicate this post to my most recent published work, titled The Snatcher. I think it is rather excellent, but then again I'm pretty biased when it comes to how awesome my stuff is.

So without further ado, in conjunction with the most esteemed e-mag Microhorror.com, I present my very short story The Snatcher.

Click here to read it.