Yin-Yang
I have been having an off and on killer headache since Sunday. I would love to chalk it up to a sinus infection or a migraine… something that medically could be determined and treated. Unfortunately, I don’t think so. If it is, then I am walking and living proof that you absolutely can injure yourself from thinking too hard.
Most people would be asking, Well what are you thinking of? when in fact the question should be What aren’t you thinking of? It seems I’ve become consumed by pondering thoughts.
There are the regular “what if” dilemmas I usually think of such as, what if Superman had sex with Lois Lane??? When he ejaculated would he blow her head clear off with his super sperm??? Would he need a kryptonite condom??? What type of lube would Optimus Prime use if him and Arcee ever hit it??? Would it be petroleum based??? Does WD-40 work??? Would he just slip through Jiffy Lube for some quick masturbation during the week she’d be getting her transmission fluid flushed???
Then there are the not so regular “what if” dilemmas I’ve been thinking of lately such as, if I quit this business what will I do??? Is school even a worthwhile option for me??? Would it make me any happier??? What if I just walked away??? Where would I walk too??? Where can I find a happy place without the use of copious amounts of drugs, hookers, and chocolate??? Sometimes these would just be casual thoughts… but lately… they’ve been in my mind alot. I’ve been thinking this even though work has been really pretty good lately, I’ve been trying to be more social and go out more, and I continue to plan my road trip which means driving and not walking.
So my head really started to hurt Sunday. I popped some Tylenol and went to bed. It hurt again Monday… and I did the same thing which put me into mood swings between being hyper when the pain wasn’t there and very slothful when it was. It hurt again yesterday… but the Tylenol didn’t make it go away this time… which still made me both slothful and hyper actively agitated. I think I might need something stronger. Maybe I need a cat scan to make sure my cat is still alive up there. Maybe I need to ingest a serious quantity of under the counter drugs. Maybe I need to discover the mystery of life. Maybe I need a brain transplant.
Anyone got an extra?
So Poppy went all deep and introspective yesterday in this post about being someone’s favorite. So the Poppy question of the day was:
Do you believe you are anyone’s favorite person? If so, blog about it. Don’t have to say who, just talk about that person.
In the comments I replied with:
Ok… here’s my problem with this concept… can you ONLY HAVE ONE favorite??? Or can you have multiple??? Its hard for me to say, “Yeah, just this one is my favorite…”
So can you have multiples???
Poppy said:
Dawg, here’s my thought on that: Yes. Because I do. But also think of it like Best in Show. There’s your favorites in many categories, but who’s your ultimate overall favorite? The person who, if you could only take one person to an otherwise deserted island with you, you’d want tagging along?
I had to think pretty long and hard on this one… in fact it took all night. So now to answer the question… no. I do not believe I am anyone’s favorite in their “Best of Show” category.
I would like to think that I am someone’s favorite in the ”Best Fat Guy”, ”Best Partner”, ”Best Boss”, ”Best Ex-Husband”, and ”Best Guy Friend” categories. I’d also like to think I am someone’s favorite in the ”Best Blogger” and ”Best Vlogger” categories. I still do not know who would put me in the ”Best of Show” category… I know who I would WANT to consider me in that category… but I doubt I cross their minds once a week much less once a day.
The thing is… it really doesn’t bother me. Why? Because ultimately, I find I am unable to say who would be my “Best of Show” person. Saying that this one person is better than all the rest means that they are IT. Life would be meaningless without them (not that its very meaningful now… but that’s another story) and my existence would then need to revolve around them.
My existence currently revolves around me and THOSE around me. I stress THOSE because yes, there are multiple people who fit into all those other categories. There is no one IT person. That’s the way I prefer it right now.
So on my other post this week I received quite a few comments. Here is one of those comments…
What makes someone a not nice guy? And, do you have those not nice guy qualities? Dig deep, Dawg!
So to answer Poppy‘s question, I will now provide a list of qualities that relegate me out of the “nice guy” category.
Workaholic - No big secret here, my job comes first alot. There are times I hate it because of that, and other times I love it because of that. Although recently, I’ve found myself drifting out of the enchantment of the adrenalin rush, it still needs to come first most of the time. In that aspect, a bad day for most people is getting yelled at, losing an account, or losing a gazillion dollars… a bad day for me is someone losing their life. It takes a toll.
Affection Needy - I’m an affection needy person. I need to hold hands. I need to be hugged. I need to cuddle. If I can’t get that, then there’s really no hope because then I’ll just become detached.
Emotionally Detached - Because of a combination of my previous heartbreaks, my job and my PTSD, I become emotionally detached. It’s not right, nor pretty, nor pleasant. I don’t think there are warning signs. One minute I can be lovey dovey… and the next I’m disengaged and in (for lack of a better word) a zone where emotions are non-existent. This can commonly happen when I get (again, for lack of a better word) a scare of emotional attachment that will be potentially devastating or if I feel that I have given and not received the emotional or affectionate support I need back.
Eternally A Toys R Us Kid - I know there are adult things to do… like going out to adult parties, adult bars, adult restaurants, etc. The truth is, I’m a social hermit and would rather go to Toys R Us, McDonald’s, and spend the night watching a DVD or reading a book than doing adult things. Wanna go to a dance club? Ha! Have fun… I have white man’s rhythm (which is to say I have none) so I’m no use there. Of course, when forced to go, and you dance with someone who puts their hand on your ass… yeah… I’m going all immature and there’s gonna be a slugfest.
Understanding Frustrated - I get easily frustrated when someone doesn’t “get” me. My frustration leads to a shut down… meaning I’m not going to explain myself, I’ll shut my mouth, and look off into space with a screwy look on my face. Oddly, only one person has ever called me out on it… the girl who I gave my soul to and she gave me a lighter. On New Year’s Eve she came out with some crap about whether I wanted her to whisper “sweet nothings” in my ear. Instead of saying, “No, I want you to whisper sweet SOMETHINGS in my ear,” I got frustrated. After two minutes of silence, she called me an asshole and got out of the car. Oddly, I trace back to that as a moment where I actually began to ponder about myself, and I realized all the things above and that she was indeed, right. I was an asshole… and while I consciously have tried to stop being one… it still happens subconsciously.
No apologies. No regrets. - Is a philosophy I adopted back in the ‘90s. I still try to maintain it as best I can. It’s kinda the glue that binds everything else together. If I actually do apologize, it will most likely be a written apology or in the form of a dozen white roses. I’m pretty bad at saying “I’m sorry” in any situation other than work.
So all in all, am I a nice guy? Sure… I’ll go shopping and sit outside a dressing room, I’ll listen all about your douchebag boyfriend who is a jealous freak (which of course then I am totally going to antagonize him by sending you stuff), I’ll listen for hours on the phone while you let loose on what you perceive to be earth shattering stuff, I’ll hold the door for you, I’ll go to weddings and parties with you so you don’t go alone, and I’ll even get you a card from the drugstore to leave on your car in the middle of the night to make sure your day starts off better than the last one ended. It takes much more than that to be a “nice guy”.
Honestly, I know why I suck… and yet I find it harder than anything to change that. It’s me, and who I am. Accept me or don’t accept me… it doesn’t really matter… because that’s how I roll.
I’ve already accepted that.
Last weekend, while Miss Ann slaved away at restoring my blog (which I owe her BIG TIME for), I was in Atlantic City with The Steff, The Donkey, The Terrorist, and Beaner. This was actually a trip we had planned for July… but things just weren’t right so we postponed it as long as we could without losing the deposit for the rooms.
I don’t go to Atlantic City for the lights, the noise, or the people. I go for the food, the entertainment, and the poker tables where the House really doesn’t have an upper hand and it is you against another player. I’ve been playing poker for a good 8 years off and on, and I do it for the enjoyment. I like sitting down at the felt with my stack of chips, my Zippo lighter card holder, my MP3 player on my poker playlist, and the world around me dissolves away. Literally. I become lost in the cards, the sound of the music, and the looks on the faces of those sitting around me. This visit was really no different in my approach to play, but the experience was different.
I could not get a read on anyone’s tells. A “tell” is usually a subconscious action or habit that will signal if a player is bluffing or if they truly have the hand they are trying to represent. Normally I can get tells on three or four players and read them really well throughout the game. It didn’t come to me like it normally would. Then I found myself being read. The third pot I folded on after I raised and two seats down came over the top told me so. It’s not uncommon for someone to figure me out… but I felt he had done so very quickly. Three hands later and I then knew he wasn’t the only one. So after a short stay at the tables (well, 6 hours which for me is a short stay) I walked away a little befuddled.
I can chalk up the inability to get tells to the fact I haven’t sat at an actual table in a little more than a year. The fact that I gave them off, to me, is more worrisome. I’ve always been able to maintain my existence by keeping my emotions and feelings hidden beneath the surface. It has been my saving grace in sanity as well as keeping civility in certain situations. If I am giving off tells as badly as I think I am… relationships I have with people will in all likelihood be irrevocably changed… and not necessarily for the better.
Of course, on another note, my mother today has once again brought up the idea of a bereavement group and some couch time. Her reasoning is, “Your not talking about it.”
I came damn close to giving her the URL to the blog to prove that I am dealing with it in my own way… but then I would need to teach her how to use the Internet. I don’t think there is enough time before the apocalypse for all of that.
Here I am on the eve of my second week back to work. While last week was a relatively easy week, and I tend to think my bosses did that on purpose so I could regain my footing somewhat, there was something that started to get to me towards the end of the week. I really didn’t know how to describe it until I sat with Pudding Saturday night and talked about some things… one of which was how each of us was holding up.
Pudding has gotten two part-time jobs, with a third one scheduled for September. She told me she needs to do this to keep busy. The thing is, since she just moved and isn’t from the area, people are curious. They ask her about her family, and that leads to the question of “How many children do you have?” The answer she gives is true, but the dilemma in answering this question is that it leads to other questions, and then she finds herself trying to explain it. The thing is, once she explains it they tend to look at her the same way it seems everyone has been looking at me this past week.
They look at us as if we are irreparably damaged.
It comes from people not understanding how you could be standing there in front of them. They wonder why you aren’t curled up into a ball under the covers at home. They wonder how you are able to function and in the back of their minds are preparing themselves for your inability to do so… because really, just how well could you be? Especially with those looks…
I know that I’m damaged. The truth be told, I was damaged before what happened 32 days ago. I thought that perhaps I was getting the looks because it was somehow more obvious… as if there was a sign on my forehead. Then, after talking to Pudding about it, I noticed it myself. Sunday morning I went into Borders, got an ice coffee, whipped out a spiral notebook I’ve been jotting things down in, and looked around. Guess what? No looks. No one there was any wiser that I was different… or they just didn’t care. I was just the fat guy having an ice coffee with a monkey covered notebook on my lap.
No one knew I was damaged… or if they did then they didn’t know to what extent.
It was kinda nice to be honest. To be just another guy for a change in what seems to be an eternity even though its just over a month. Which is why I’m kind of dreading going back to work tomorrow… because they all know… and they’re all going to look.
