I am writing from a very dark place. Even though I spent last evening with my father and stepmother, having a couple of drinks and sharing a few jokes, it didn’t ease the oppressive blackness surrounding me. In fact, coming home to an empty house somewhat amplified it.
Today is my birthday. For that reason I am reflecting on the past year. The shittiest year I’ve ever endured.
I started last year full of hope. I know that because I went back and read my birthday post from last year. I wished for a wonderful year for my wife and I at the close of that post. For some reason I saw last year as one full of promise. A year where things would finally settle down and happiness would finally come and claim me. Oh how wrong I was.
Hola amigos. Today is Tuesday. That means it is time for me to force you into listening to my music. Ok, well I can’t actually force you into listening to it. You can choose not to play the songs that I pick. I just like to pretend I have some sort of power over you.
While I have your attention, you should go check out this awesome post by BrainRants. It’s all kinds of amazing. Onto the music!
My wife and I waited impatiently to be called back for her ultrasound. Our nerves were frazzled and we had been waiting seven long days for the upcoming moment…
My wife lay sprawled on the table while the nurse liberally splattered cold blue gel atop her exposed belly. The nurse then stuck the microphone into the innocuous pile of ooze, gently agitating it so that the gel covered the entire device.
Indistinct sounds emerged from the attached speaker, with intermittent glimpses of a heartbeat escaping. Mostly, all we heard was static. The nurse moved the microphone over the entirety of my wife’s abdomen several times, never settling the contraption in a particular spot.
“I knew you didn’t care about me,” Gabriel spat.
“Bullshit,” Christian screamed. “Because of what they did to you, I became something I never thought I’d be: a killer. I took the life of everyone in that place in grief of what they did.”
“You lie again, Father. Death killed those men as a sign of good faith towards me.”
“You’re as gullible as your mother if you think he did anything for you without gain for himself. Now, I’m going to send you to meet her in the Afterlife. Maybe she can talk some sense into you.”
Normality is subjective. Almost everybody considers the things they like and do to be normal. And anyone who likes or does something else is different. Most of us tolerate these differences with grace and understanding. Others of us, not so much. I know that not every person is the same, so the term normal really shouldn’t apply to people. After all, I’m unique. Just like everyone else.
I mentioned in a post the other day that my boys were going to become uncles soon. Fate has decided that day is today. Today the twins’ older sister, at the tender age of 18 years (and 3 months), the little girl I raised from the age of 2 to 11, gave birth to a healthy baby boy.
I’m still trying to come to grips with the fact that a child I helped raise is now a parent. I changed her diapers. I helped potty-train her. I helped her learn to talk. I cooked her dinners. I fed her. I cared for her when she was sick. I gave her a hug and a kiss before bed every night. I helped her with her homework. I played with her. And now she has her own child.
Everyone is excited about this. But me. The twins are excited. They can’t wait to get up to the hospital to see their nephew. My former step-daughter has been excited for months, oblivious to the mountain life has just placed before her on her life’s journey. Her mom, my first wife, has been excited, too. Even when she first found out her 17-year old daughter was pregnant.
Wait! Daily Prompt! Come back! I wasn’t neglecting you I just had other things to write! Geez, you’re a sensitive little topic, aren’t you? Well, I’ll do this prompt whether or not you’re here with me or not. So there!
Um, wait. If DP is gone who’s going to prompt me? This sucks. Um….I guess I can prompt myself. Here goes..
I have a dream. It’s not a an altruistic dream, like Martin Luther King, but it’s a dream nonetheless. It’s not some confusing and freaky dream, like Inception. I don’t wish for fortune and glory, à la Dr. Jones (my professional name). My dream is to have the custom-built car of my, uh, dreams.
For as far back as I can remember, I’ve wanted a car with special modifications and features very much similar to a James Bond car from the Q factory. Perhaps this is inspired by all of the modifications Han made to the Falcon. Who knows where the inspiration came from? The fact remains that it’s there.
So, without further ado (what would Jesus ado?), here are the components that would make a car my dream car.
Everywhere you go now, you will hear people talking about burping. They will talk about passing gas. It is now considered socially acceptable to talk about these bodily functions. I consider this progress, as it is important to talk about these things. After all, if you didn’t burp or fart, you’d explode from the gas build up.
There’s still something that is still considered inappropriate to talk about: