Sorry I’m So

 

Ugly.

Fat.

Bald.

My teeth aren’t perfectly white, they’re an off white, and nothing I do gets them super white. Hell no, I’m not competing with the tissue test. If my teeth were meant to look like heavily bleached wood pulp, they’d be heavily bleached wood pulp. Tissue test. Jesus. Fuck you, Crest 3D. Also, there’s a little bit of plaque on my bottom teeth that simply WILL NOT GO AWAY. I can’t afford dental cleanings, and I brush my teeth every day, being careful to brush properly, but I can’t make the little bits on the bottom front two teeth come off. I’m afraid to scrub too hard, lest I cause damage.

Onward.

My face has little specks (not freckles, just dark skin spots, though harmless) on it, and my skin is a bit rough on my arms and legs. I’ve had this issue all of my life. So there will be no baby soft skin to caress on my arms. My hands are rough, because I have worked mostly manual labor jobs. I have developed callouses, and my knuckles stay red from an event years ago when I protected a friend. It involved a bully, locker, a fist, some intimidation (that worked), and a hell of a lot of pain once the danger had passed. I also have a big nose, and my jawline isn’t sharp, it’s very much curved and undefined. I have a double chin, though it used to be much larger, so there’s that.

Next.

My belly hangs over my waist, and is a little puffy in places, because I take injections for my diabetes, and you can only inject so many places so many times before things look a little noticeable.  I try to lose weight there, but even after losing 80 pounds over 4 years, my belly still looks as big as it ever did. I think it’s some kind of cruel joke in life, that belly fat is often the last fat to disappear. Also, no, crunches don’t remove belly fat. Anyone who tells you that you can do targeted exercise to remove fat in specific locations on your body is lying their ass off or trying to sell you something you don’t need. Fat storage does not work that way!

Nanananananananananaaa.

I don’t have a muscled chest. I’m certain I have muscles, I can even make my pecs bounce, but they’re less chiseled, and more Dairy Queen pecs. No matter how hard I work them, I can’t make the fat disappear (see?! targeted exercise is a lie!). I have been self conscious about those my entire life. Kids used to make fun of me when I was in middle school, and we had to change in the locker room. Nothing like kids pointing and laughing at your boy boobies. Those never really went away, goddammit.

*sigh* On.

My legs are thick, and strong. I was told when I was a kid I had swimmer’s legs. Unfortunately, the rest of my body decided I had a baker’s physique. I have no real butt. I mean, I do have one, and I think it’s mighty cute, but it doesn’t compare to most butts, probably. Oh, and TMI warning, but for those of you who have read my posts before I haven’t shied away from it, I only have an average sized penis. So if you’re hoping that my poor looks are made up in the size department, well, no. Sorry.

A little further down.
I have long toes. I mean that I can pick things up with my feet. I can turn pages of books, pick up, adjust, and put down rugs. I can pick up a towel, and toss it to my hands, again, using my feet. It’s easy for me to do. That may be a plus for some of you, I don’t know.

Anyway, the point in all of this is that if you like my personality, and are hoping for a golden body to match, I’m very sorry, it doesn’t exist. Oh, in my mind’s eye, I have a nice body, average but fit, and there’s no diabetes, or high blood pressure to worry about, no glasses to wear, no thinning hair on my head that makes it possible for you to see right through my scalp to the person behind me. I miss my hair, but I will never wear any kind of hair piece. I will accept the hair loss with dignity, if not with optimism.

Still, I hate my body, and I’ve always hated my body. I talk to so many nice people, and they’ll tell me I’m such a nice person, and that I seem very sweet, and I think that’s wonderful, but I also dread ever meeting them, because I’m afraid that if they were wanting anything romantic, one look at my misshapen, potato, doughy body would make them run away screaming, and they’d probably be right to do so, I wouldn’t even be mad.

There was a point to all of this, and that is I’m sorry that I’m ugly. I’m sorry I’m fat, that I’m bald, that no matter what I do to try and remedy it things stay about the same.

I’m going to go eat a strawberry ice cream now.

 

 

The Last Joy

I felt it leave today. That cool, soft breeze has fluttered away. On day 9 of 4 1/2 hours of sleep with 11 interruptions, I felt it go. I tended to the reason for its disappearance, and took a shower. The water and I communed for a time, and I shared its breath as it shared mine.

Water has no memory, it has no direction beyond what is exerted upon it by outside influences. It neither loves, nor weeps, though we often use water to represent such notions. When a drop of water slams into the dirt, it is absorbed by the soil, and is no longer a drop of water, but somehow it retains its identity in other forms. When it cascades through my thin wisps of hair, running in rivulets down my skin, passing over the rough texture, down over my fat stomach, and legs that used to carry me mile upon mile without exhaustion, down past my feet, with their veins showing, the bumps and ridges from years of walking on concrete, and tile floors, it still somehow retains its own identity. Water is always water.

The heat remains after the water has washed everything else away.

My joy has left me. The last erg that manifested from my long-suffering  patience has sparked, and withered. It has not died, for joy doesn’t die, it just transformed, like all energy.

All that sits here, now, are embers. I don’t let them fool me, because I know full well that embers can be fanned into flames. No, these embers have always been here, they have always been the hot bed upon which the rest of my drive and motivation sits. No amount of fanning will cause these embers to roar back to life. They exist merely to catalyze.

I am so tired.

My Last Generation

I wonder at this point whether I will ever have children. What so many people take for granted, is something that has eluded me to this point, along with living a life, experiencing the world, enjoying freedom and liberty, securing my future. I take part in none of these things, and didn’t really get the chance before the mistakes and missteps of my own parents came crashing down on top of me.

Ever since I was in high school, I knew what I wanted out of life. I wanted a good career, something in a field that would benefit others in some way, I wanted a family, and a nice home. I wasn’t thinking anything ostentatious, rather something modest. I had no desire to be rich, or famous, I just wanted some security, freedom, and the familial love of people whom I invited into my life.

This life could not have turned out any more disastrous. I was able to cope with some of those issues, in my early 20s, because I was still a devout Christian, and my faith comforted me, told me that God was in control, that it would work out. Of course, as I grew older, and learned more, examined aspects of my life critically, I came to the eventual conclusion that God did not exist, and that death was the end. You can imagine what kind of panic that sent me into, and that even today I still deal with the fallout from the implosion of that faith.

I wouldn’t go back to it for all the world. I will not accept a comforting lie. I will face the truth, and I will look it right in the eye, by god. I, too, will stare death in the face, and I won’t cower before it. Death has already won, whether I cry or stay silent, so I will stay silent in its face, though there is no shame in crying.

What I weep for, however, what does cause me to break down in heart and in spirit, is the fact that my chances of having a wife, having children, finding a nice little modest home, getting involved in a fulfilling career, enjoying life, are close to nil. No longer am I the optimist who says that good things will come.

People tell me that there is still time, that I can still have a good life, but how true can that be, honestly? I’m 37 years old, and while some of you will eyeroll at that number, let me explain:

I am in no relationship, am a virgin, and haven’t dated in over 15 years.  I am a diabetic, overweight, balding man who lives with his parents, and has never left home. I have no social life. I do not go places to have fun, or to relax. I do not get to relax. I do not get proper rest by any stretch of the imagination. I haven’t had an uninterrupted meal, sleep, or bathroom break in decades.

I have worked and worked and worked my hands bloody and raw, quite literally. I have no credit. I have nothing more than a high school diploma, and my last job was in 2008. When I do go back out into the working world, I will have the same skill set as most 18-20 year olds, and will be competing with them for jobs in an economy where employees are an afterthought. I have a student loan payment from where I attempted to go to college online, which fell through on their end due to a technicality, but I still owe the money. So I don’t even get to start from a clean slate.

I was an overachiever. I excelled at almost everything I did as a child. What the hell is the point of going to school, studying, working hard to get good grades, to achieve academically, to build a foundation from hard work and dedication to the pursuits of learning, if any possible reward is cut off before I can ever arrive there? I had the potential to be so many things: a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer, there were so many things I wanted to do, so many that I could do. My intellect had unlocked almost every door. For someone like me, who came from a dirt poor family who had so little? That was a hell of a feat. Yet those doors were only going to stay open for so long. They have long since shut, and I am still poor.

I may have said this before, but I regret being born. I regret fighting for life when I was born premature. Why fight for life if this is the life that I am now a part of? Why experience the agony of knowing what I have lost? The pain of knowing what I will never have, who I will never be? I am 37 years old, and half of my life is over. It’s likely well over half, really. I have had this longtime suspicion that I will never see 50.

And while I know it’s not 100% her fault, I find myself getting upset at mom, because she still thinks things will work out. She already has a daughter-in-law and grandchildren, thanks to my brother being smart enough to get the hell out because I was holding things together, so what more does she need? She tells me that she’ll love *my* children just as much, but I know it’s such bullshit. My 7 year younger brother beat me to the punch, mom got what she wanted, I could die tomorrow and it would have absolutely no effect on our family’s bloodline continuing.

<this part redacted because holy shit, it got dark>

Still, what does it matter? I will be the first and last me. There will be nothing of me to pass on to someone else, to ensure my own little bit of legacy. Why should my thoughts and dreams matter? Just because other people get to live, get to be free, why should I simply for existing? That I’m human is just a matter of circumstance, and not something that entitles me to happiness, joy, or love. Why did I ever choose to fight? If I could do it over again, I’d have stopped breathing right in that incubator, and despite the cries and pleas of my parents, I wouldn’t have started again.

I would have been happier.

A Few Revisions

 

I made a few revisions to the site last night. I removed some of my favorite lists, and a few other personal details because I realized how easy it is to use those to forge someone’s identity. Fortunately, they were only up there for three years, so everything should be okay.

Anyway, so a bit of streamlining, and of course last week I changed the theme of the page to increase readability, makes everything look a bit cleaner. I like my websites like I prefer my underwear: clean lines, and soft edges.

 

Holy Fuck I’m Smart!

I’m not bragging on this one. I really am above average in terms of intelligence. It’s just that for the past 15 years, that intelligence, that ability to perceive concepts that might be out of reach of others, has waned significantly due to the fucking awful chemical imbalance that is depression.

Sometimes, though… sometimes it comes back, just for a short while. For a few minutes, everything is crystal clear, in full color, and ringing from the goddamn mountain tops. That happened this evening. Just a few minutes ago, in fact, and while that rainbow sunburst of elation is slowly dulling and returning to its customary gray shadowlight, for just a little while I felt like my old self again.

I’m smart. I’ve known this since I was a child and blew away every test given to me. There are people far greater when it comes to intelligence, I won’t pretend I’m the smartest, hell no. There are millions of people who stand head and shoulders above the summit of my knowledge, and make me appear to be an idiot child who eats playdough because it’s num nums (it was pretty good, I have to say).

Still, I’m not a person of average intelligence, and again I add the concession that there is nothing wrong being of average intelligence. 50% of the human population is of average intelligence and above. The only reason I make the point, however, is because there are often times where I doubt myself, where I wonder whether or not I could do what I remember doing as a child.

I was reading before I was 3, I took an immediate liking to science and technology (thanks, Star Trek!). I wrote my first musical composition at 8, which was written in music notation, an instrumental for two violins and a piano. I was a champion speller at the age of 10, and spelling vocabulary words used in AP college courses. I wrote my first novel at 12. It was never published, and it was only 78 pages, but it was a science fiction story (my first love). When it came to mathematics, science, language arts, history, I excelled above and beyond that of my classmates.

The only time I performed poorly in school was when I became bored, burned out, or distracted by issues in home life (my junior year in high school is still a sore point for me to this day). Even with my latter high school years embroiled in emotional, and academic upheaval, I still managed to get the attention of several universities. One of them was a college that dealt in advanced technologies, like robotics and artificial intelligence, and another was an engineering school whose graduates went on to places like NASA, Boeing, and other institutions known for work in aeronautics and space flight.

Unfortunately, a number of factors cut me off at the knees, and I never got the chance to follow those dreams. Not too long after that, depression began to set in, with the constant beating drum of obligation and struggle crashing around inside my skull. By the time I was 30, I could barely recognize the kid I knew in high school, and I knew then that he was my intellectual superior.

Still, every so often, it all comes rushing back. I’m not sure why. Sometimes I get angry, and assert myself, and when I do, the information reveals itself as if it had never left. There are other times when I am quiet, and by myself, and there is a torrent of electricity that crashes down like a waterfall, flooding me with thoughts and concepts I hadn’t considered in nearly two decades.

Today was one of those days. Now, I don’t pretend it will ever return full force, but it feels so good to have my brain open itself up to me once again, even for a short time. I try to write everything down before it fades, but can never get far before there isn’t enough of a mental image left to draw from, and the spark dies once more, and just leaves me with the impression that says, “holy fuck, I’m smart!”

All Work And No Play

Makes Jack a Dull Boy.

Poor Jack. A dull boy. He isn’t dull in the sense that he is boring, though I am certain he has become uninteresting. Rather, Jack is a dull boy because his senses are dull. His creativity has dulled. His mind is dull, his emotions are dull, everything about him speaks of a boy who no longer lives, but merely exists.

There was a time, I’m confident, when Jack was a bright, happy boy. There was an age, I am sure, where Jack loved to write, to read, to draw, paint, sing, dance, and imagine. There was a time, I am most assured, when Jack was a dreamer, when he looked to the stars and saw worlds the human eye could never discern on its own, but I am most positive he saw them dancing around their distant suns.

Jack works hard. He is by no means lazy, he is simply dull. He has no time for play, no time to slip free of his chains and float on the current, or even to simply shut down the constant whirring of the gears in his mind. Jack finds no rest, he finds no pleasure in the solace. Jack is lonely, though not alone. He is not evil, quite the contrary, Jack seeks to do good, but in doing good there is much work.

Should you encounter him in your travels, do not be alarmed when you meet him for though he appears dead, he is not. He is merely a dull boy.