“The attachment isn’t here…”
That was odd indeed. Read more
“The attachment isn’t here…”
“The attachment isn’t here…”
That was odd indeed. Read more
I had started volunteering with other creatives for this very reason. The drama and lack of respect for people who actually wanted to accomplish their daily work goals and ever growing lists made me crave the creative community again. The people who all worked towards the same goal. Who were passionate about that goal. Who built each other up and tried to better one another. People who could take creative criticism. None of this gossipy crap. None of this talking crap about each other. People who actually wanted to be there and be proud of their accomplishments. Real team work.
That’ll never happen though. There are places that feel like they become more and more poisonous every day. “This is a washed up place with washed up people.” An older friend of mine told me once. He was so right.
This morning, I haven’t slept for over 24 hours. Anxious and angry about it all. This morning I wish I was my cat. Bundled up in my down comfortor and sleeping another 3/4 of my life. I’m exhausted by it. I was never this angry. Never this gossipy. Now, I’m not sure of the monster I feel like becoming. On the sharp edges of my anger there is a bit of sadness. Sadness that things couldn’t be diffrent. This was such a nice town to grow up in. Such a great place to work when I started. Now look what things had become? So much brokenness and petty problems. So much exhausting drama over foolishness. So much tearing each other down. No one to build each other up anymore. The positivity had been sucked out of me, and I was drained to the point of destruction.
If I stay here, I will starve to death for positivity and authenticity.
I hadn’t pulled I to the driveway and opened the door for my guests before the call came in.
“There was a complication during the surgery. It isn’t too good.”
I tried very hard not to be super stressed out about it. I tried to be a good hostess. Get everyone settled in before my brother and I jumped in the car and sped to the hospital to meet my mother in the waiting area of the ICU.
“Don’t freak out.” She warned us lovingly.
Pulling back the curtain, my father lay on the bed. Tubes in his mouth and running into the veins in his arms. His color was a pale grey. His eyes fluttered and suddenly they had to pull out the tubes so he could cough. Even the blue of his eyes wasn’t quite right. Blood sputtered out of his mouth. “Sorry kids.” He apologized weakly. Letting his eyes rest again we spoke softly with mom for the update. I yelled at him internally. Apologizing for coughing up blood when he could very well be dying felt far too absurd for my taste, but his blood pressure was low and his heart rate was high. To mention my offense wouldn’t have been appropriate.
The surgery was supposed to be routine. A hernia caused by some heavy lifting at work, needed to be repaired. The surgery went fine. The repair was made and it went smoothly. But, for some reason (that even the doctor couldn’t explain) he stopped breathing in recovery, which caused fluid to fill in his lungs, and cardiac arrest to set in. So now, he had to stay overnight, and it wasn’t looking good. His completion wasn’t right. His breathing wasn’t right. His heart rate wasn’t right. After about an hour, mom told us to go home to be with the guests we had left there. It felt strange. Unfounded.
In the car I found myself pleading with God. I know my father and I hadn’t had the best relationship, but now, I realized how much work it needed. How much more we needed to talk about things. How if he didn’t act interested in my life, now I needed to find ways to be interested in his. Why did it take nearly dying for me to see the necessity of our relationship? Because you never quite know what you have until it is gone. That’s why.
I got a call a few hours later. He had taken a turn for the better and would be coming home after lunch the next day. No pulmonary embolism found. No other complications. We all were relieved. I couldn’t handle losing someone else so close to the loss of a few others.
My visitors and I stayed up until nearly one in the morning talking and joking and goofing off. I felt like I had to make up for the lost time when I had been stressing out. It was healing. We were all healing from the fear and concern we felt. I was so glad they had come when they did. They helped me when I needed to be refocused. They offered hugs and affection when They didn’t have words. They offered humor, knowing it was one of my greater coping skills. They have been with me in so much. I have a profound thankfulness and love for my friends.
I made anxious faces at my mom as he continued to speak. The dollar amount increased more and more. Tirods not doing well. New breaks. New back axle. You would have thought I had a car accident with all this, but originally I went in because my engine light went on. Usually that isn’t such a big deal, but my car felt like it had been getting louder and louder lately. So I took it in. A little under four grand later, it would be fixed. It was a unfortunate state of affairs. Necessary, but still unfortunate. The week was not going terribly well.
Unfortunately, this postpones my hunt for apartments to a later date. I vented to my brother in the car as we headed to Subway for diner (since out parents decided to finish a minor remodle in the hallway that night, and we didn’t want to get in their way by making diner in the kitchen which leads directly into that hallway. Besides they were running to the hardware store and were going to get something). He expressed his sympathy…then proceeded to turn up his music that he didn’t care to listen anymore about my anxiety. I was okay with that. I didn’t want to listen to it either. So we drowned our thoughts in some Relient K and spoke little.
I still was upset about it. I didn’t eat, because I wasn’t hungry. Too worried. I walked around the gas station convenience store. Thought about buying a soda. Then I saw the wall of BB Guns (yes, only in the hick country towns of Wisconsin can you purchase a BB Gun at the gas station) and thought of getting one to let off some steam at the beach…oh wait. Couldn’t drive to the beach. Because my car is in the shop. I sighed. It was something that kept drawing back to my mind.
I had driven that car to and from Chicago recently. I told my mechanic that. He whistled and told me he is surprised my wheel didn’t go flying off on the interstate. I knew he wasn’t exaggerating. He was a family friend. He told things as they were. I nodded, even more thankful that it didn’t happen…especially with the friends I found myself toting around. He told me I was lucky. That they were so badly deteriorated that he is surprised they didn’t break when he took it for a test run to listen to what I described. He would take care of it. It would be better. I could start fresh. A lot of money, but I could start fresh.
I have the money to pay for it. That isn’t so much the issue. What is the issue is the fear of not having enough at some point in my life to actually be able to take care of these things. I have been fortunate enough to have a wonderful family to float me cash, and been a pretty good saver much of my life. Yet, moments like these made my savings account look far too small and made my fears overwhelming. Not only that, but I was anxious because I had company coming to visit, and I wanted to make sure my car was going to be operational for their visit. My mom’ scar is available of course, but…it’s not my car. I don’t like hers. Not enough room. Didn’t drive like mine. Too low to the ground. Her little Honda minivan wasn’t my Chevy SUV.
I keep writing all this in past tense, but I still find myself anxious. I suppose that’s normal though. Aggravatingly normal. Whatever. I shouldn’t fear what I don’t know will happen. We all know I’m going to anyway.
They were just bombs
That destroyed houses
They were just houses
That destroyed families
They were just families
That were in conflict with each other
It was just each other
Overcome by death
And it was just death doing his job
That took them
I appreciate your honesty, even if it had little to no relevance to the post you attached your comment to, or even the slightest hint of knowledge beyond terms that cause me to suspect your comment was generically made.
Might I first say, I suspect you are not a real person, but instead a makeshift chatbot that some lazy troll from the underworld of the internet decided to make to inflict hate upon anyone who used certain key terms as a tag. Probably one that is supposed to make comments about how bad the site design is, and convince the user to upgrade. If this is not true, why not take ownership? Don’t be a coward. Proudly display your thoughts with a real username, and have an actual blog to prove you have the testicular fortitude to take what you dish out.
It is apparent to me, that you lack adequate skills to comment on blog posts. I hope in the rest of this letter, to help you make slight corrections to your user profile, as well as your comment thesis. The following paragraphs are a few minor corrections to help improve your commenting skills in the context of this comment.
Firstly, Very few call blogs “websites.” It has almost become an obsolete term. Most people call them “sites” now or even “posts” or “blogs” and in some cases “articles.” This quick lingo makes communicating well in soundbites, much more manageable. I am sorry you are an internet troll of the ancient sort, bitter about the internets lack of the terms “fuckwit” and “website” since your reign ended.
Your double use variation of the term “fuck” is a little redundant, and could make your comment hold less credibility. It also makes you seem as though you have a small vocabulary, and that you lack intelligence. Find more descriptive words.
Also, since you asked, the owner of the “website” is WordPress.com. I only inform you p, because I did not pay anything for this domain. If I had paid for this domain you would be able to figure out who owns this blog by reading the about section, reading a majority of the posts, or even looking at the username. Just thought I might point these out, since you seem to be struggling with that a little bit.
Also, to be blunt, your use of punctuation is atrocious. If you’re going to make a ghost account to troll with, at least use correct punctuation and objective grammar. Your work is your voice. Use it with dignity.
Might I introduce you also to the concept of the period? It’s. That. Thing. At. The. End. Of. Sentences. That. Has. Much. More. Finality. Than. The. Comma. Unless you do not value breathing or complete thoughts. Let me know if I need to explain what a complete thought is. I’d be more than happy to help you with that.
Also: user name jsmith? How original….and slightly historical. Almost as poetic and unique as Jon Doe. I’m curious, what does the “j” stand for? Jezebel? Jon? How dare your readers have to live in suspense wondering what that letter even means! Is it John or Jon? Is it Jo or Joe? They ought to know who it is they follow. It makes you more approachable as a user, and welcomes a following much more intimately. You want to be relatable, you’ll reach the largest amount of potential followers that way. We don’t want your adoring followers to be sleepless all night because of your shenanigans, wondering if you’re one of those cats who play with the internet while their owner is asleep, because “On the internet, they don’t know you’re a cat.”
I, on the other hand, will sleep soundly from laughing so hard at your mediocre work.
I don’t know who hurt you that made you not only a lazy troll, but I encourage you to take pride in your work. Own it. Be bold and offer your opinion, relevant or otherwise. Maybe I can contact your parents, so they can finally tell you they love you and are proud of your cutting words. The internet is full of people who probably shouldn’t speak….ever. So why shouldn’t your shrill cry of displeasure not carry volumes above all the other moans? Why not put up a real photo of yourself, use quality terminology, and credible citations with reasonable explanation to support your thesis.
Until these edits are made to your comment, I simply cannot accept and approve of your thesis. Your comment shall remain carefully and thoughtfully stored in my trash shaped “comments to be revised” folder, until further notice. I will also be sure to contact WordPress about this, and flag it, so the site Admins can further help you with any future issues with your comments.
Hope this was helpful. My Regards.