A Realized Quantification

Over this last week, with all of the struggles, challenges and happenings I have constantly waded through for much of recent memory, I came to a realization, an epiphany of sorts.

Work related issues, training, reports, dealing with the state AND local government, with my lawyer, and the effects of nonsensical (and possibly illegal) actions taken by the soon to be ex-wife, asshole neighbors, blithering and dithering idjots on the roadways, bills and other personal obligations, have all been dog-piling me for the last week. Or rather pile-driving me. No lubricant.

At one point, while touching base with my mom, who despite her blind spots and shortcomings, I still love and trust very much, (moreso even since the passing of my father) that after catching her up with all of the absolutely out of my control shit (and the things that spin wildly out of my control) that I suddenly went from bored recounting, into full on, expletive laden, low rumbling, elevated volume ranting. A full venting of the spleen that took about ten minutes before a quiet settled over the line, and she said she was sorry, and wished she knew how she could better help me.

To which I said "Two weeks and two thousand dollars and no cell signal might just do it." and we laughed at that. I then sighed and started fighting off more laughter as I realized out loud to her, saying and I quote: "I'm fucking fraying end to end, I don't know how much longer I can keep this up, I feel literally fucking retarded and absolutely exhausted, I'm thirty fucking four, and I feel like I'm three hundred years old. I'm too god damned tired for thirty four, I've not had more than five hours sleep a day in almost a fucking year, I live like a vampire, and when I do sleep more than five or six hours, I feel like I'm hung over. Everything either feels strained, pulled sore or cramped, and if just one more decently sizable thing happens, I'm either going to shut down and just sit mute in the middle of the floor for a week, or the person physically closest to me in that moment is going to die and I'll be in jail for six to twenty years. I'm tapped out. I've been in full on fight or flight panic crisis superhero mode almost nonstop since fucking November of Twenty Eighteen, and any breaks or trips I've taken to cool off, relax or recharge, haven't actually worked because the stress just follows me like a starving fucking dog, and no sooner do I get back then it's all just worse. I have nothing left to give anymore. I want to sell everything, give away my cat, fix my car up, pack my sword, my gun and two bags, and just fucking vanish into the wilderness, and if anyone really wants my ass, they can bring a friend and some guns and just fucking try it, because you fuckers are not taking me back alive! I'm done with playing nice, playing by the rules, busting my ass trying to accommodate everyone, and then getting fucked in the ass over it, so everyone else can shit themselves and fuck themselves just fine without me. I'm not playing the game that any more. Maybe its time I played my way, by my rules for a change and we'll see how that works."

My mom then instead of counter ranting or reprimanding me (as she is wont to do) simply asked me if I felt better, and then if I really meant any of that, and then said she wished I was a bit more careful about saying such things, telling me that she fully understood the frustration, and the impulse behind it, but that she didn't want me to do anything that I couldn't bounce back from, overcome later, or undo if I wanted too.

I get it Mama... and thank you. I'm not planning anything too drastic yet. but hey, thanks to my insurance, therapy is almost as cheap as booze, and I can drive my car afterwards, and aside from the total morons they let out on the roads, driving soothes my heart.

Hell, only time I'm ever even halfway happy anymore is when I'm layin down scratch, grabbing gears carving corners, and rolling down the road in excess of 70 with some classic rock or synthwave playing in the background. Even in my old worn out "shit box" Camaro.

Only way it could be better is if I had a pretty girl in the seat next to me, but my first choice has gone now.

Oh well, car's faster (I drive more aggressively more like) with just me in it anyways.

Funny how it is, my first love is now the only place I can find solace... Not within the soft curves of a woman, but within the hard curves of a car.



But fuckit, give me ANYTHING with curves, and I'll make that bitch sing.