Nonsensical Musings

I love to read and I love to write.  The sad part is, I don’t get time to do either one.  Just like when I am masturbating in the shower (I know you wanted to know that I choke-the-chicken when I am washing), writing takes me to another place in my mind.  I close all the doors, and just concentrate.

I’ve tried the journal books.  And even though I still use them once in a while, they aren’t exactly foolproof against the prying eyes of a nosy wife.  I’ve tried the writing/journaling apps on my phone, but they don’t allow for the same level of intimacy with my writing.  Granted, blogs are still part of the public domain and at times I still censor myself, there is that level anonymity that is unparalleled.

With a blog, we can divulge our biggest fears, hopes and dreams, we can write about our lives, a subject of our passions, or, we can write porn.

When I started the original Grave Yard, some of you may remember it, I contemplated on what to call myself.  Then, it struck me!  Like a meteor, red hot and falling from the sky, it hit me!  Working security, at times, was boring and most of the time was as silent as the grave.  Given the fact that I worked third shift, hence my name!

In a moment of rash panic, I deleted that blog.  I regret it now.  Even then, it felt as if a part if me had died.  So many introspective musings, so many rants and fuck stories.  I don’t know if I have it left in me to recreate it.

I work with mostly women and the elderly now.  Despite the fact that it is a noble vocation, I miss the solitude of the guard shack; of pouring a hot cup of coffee and setting to leave my personal imprint on the information age.

It’s sad to see the old grow weary.  They are in their nineties and wonder what more could God want with them.  Those who are in their eighties and seventies, don’t want to reach ninety-much less a hundred.  It almost seems like an injustice when a dementia or Alzheimer’s patient can’t recall the date, time, year or who is even visiting them.  They grow depressed and frustrated, wondering what in the hell is happening to me?!

And that’s the thing about them-they may lose their minds, but they don’t lose their intelligence.  They know something ain’t right!  And like me, I imagine they wonder what happened to the dreams they once had.

It is said that the workforce in nursing homes is sorely needed.  However, I ponder on how long that will last.  With the way politicians try to swindle the American people out of money, while funding every Tom, Dick, and Harry and seeking out boogeymen to destroy, I can envision a day in this country when the elderly will be on the short list of life.

I think about the people I met during the Grave Yard’s tenure.  I think of the bisexual guy out in Montana-I think it was-who had the wife that liked to put him down.  I think of Mark and Nikki of Sluts and Soulmates and how their love affair came to an abrupt end.  I think I could have used Mark’s advice last year.  I wonder how they are doing?  Have they moved on?  Stayed in their own respective marriages?  Are they blogging again?

Remember the Dark Room?  It was written by a woman that had her own real-life personal blog and she stumbled upon my Revenge series, which sadly, never saw completion.  Stephanie, I think was her name.  It wasn’t long before she was writing on my blog and started her own erotica site.  After a while, I saw that she wasn’t writing anymore on mine.  Soon, I found out that not only had she deleted her personal site, but her erotica site, and each and every fuck story she wrote on my blog was gone!

I can hardly fault her for it.  After her, there was another woman that wrote on my blog.  She was a nurse and she told me in an email that guys “butts look awesome in scrubs.” Which leads me to wonder if any of my female counterparts have checked out my ass?! 

Like I said, I deleted The Grave Yard in a rush of panic.  I should have given that lady notice, but I didn’t.  She later thanked me for the opportunity I gave her.  Should either of these two ladies read this post, I hope to hear from them.  At least, to know that they are okay.

I don’t know I would be open to adding another writer or not.

Ever feel like the things that God has allowed to enter your life to bring you strength and discipline are the very things that feel like they are tearing you down?  You keep searching for a reason behind it all, but none can be found.

That’s the way I feel today.  I miss the guard shack.  The solitude.  I miss taking a brief break from writing, grabbing my hot cup of coffee and stepping outside for a cigarette.  Cold air meets my face and I am refreshed.

My mind is mired in the pit of depravity and despair.

-Graveyard Night

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Broken Mirrors

That’s what I see whenever I look in the mirror.

Broken mirrors.  Or, is it a broken man?

A man that for so long has tried to do things on his own.  Like a freight train, long since void of its fuel, I am stuck in the middle of nowhere.  Unable to move forward or backward.

People criticize me for the way that I feel.  But I can’t help it.  I’m playing the victim, I know.  I can only sense what I feel and not what others feel.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

Proverbs 13

How many times must a man be put down and hear “I’m sorry” and highly doubt it’s authenticity before he’s a locomotive stuck in the middle of a desolate wasteland?

Time and people move on.  Seasons change.  But the train erodes and decays.  Wheels rust and corrode and the smoke stacks no longer send out plumes of smoke.

The train sits and waits silently for help to arrive.  Waiting.  Waiting..  Waiting…

-Graveyard Night

Lost In Memory

Its a barren wasteland out here.  You can see for miles.  Something that resembles a coyote scampers off in the distance with a three-day dead rag in it’s mouth.  Vultures call behind me.  I wonder if they are coming for me.

I don’t give a fuck!

I am mired in my own self pity; a feeling that I will never go anyplace in my life.  It is exhausting living your life from one paycheck to another.  Old Man Poverty creeping in.

People say that I should go back to school.  I fear that will add even more frustrations to my already complicated life.  I am not confident that I will pass the classes and I am not confident that my wife will be my rock and support system.

I miss the solitude of the guard shack!  I miss the original Grave Yard.  Am I still Graveyard Night even if I am no longer a nightowl?

I should care more about money, school and life in general.  But right now: I don’t give a fuck!

Graveyard Night

I pulled a gun on my (Wife)

This happened several years ago.  Before kids.  Before adulthood really took full effect.  It was back when my wife was just my girlfriend; when we were shacking up.  Or, as some would say, living in sin. 

Back then, my wife had a terrible habit of getting a job one month and quitting it the next.  This was one those times when she was between jobs.  

We lived in a trailer that had walls as thin as cardboard and single pane windows.  A good western winter wind would tear through the park and have us freezing to the bone.  The landlords lived in the woods just behind the trailer court.  I’ve been in their house.  It’s a goddamn mansion.

To this day, I still have little respect for those people.  Living in your mansion on the hill, while you watched your tenants scurry around like ants, trying their best to make your tenement as livable as possible.  Kind of like, we’re here and you never will be! 

The American Dream, I guess.

Anyway, like I said, she was between jobs, it was the dead of winter, we only had enough gas for me to make it to work, and I had the flu.  All day long I listened to her bitch about how we were broke, of how hungry she was, of how she was horny and wanted fucked, of how I had the points to call in (even though I knew we couldn’t afford it), and the straw that broke the camel’s back was when she told me of how I made her feel like shit!

You see, since the day we got together, my wife and I have always been trying to change something about the other; I don’t like this, I don’t like that!  When two people get together, shouldn’t they love everything, if not, most things about one another?  Fast forward nearly twelve years later and its pretty much the same thing.

Hence the reason why I like to say another year older and not another day wiser.  That’s particularly true of birthdays!

So, hearing that I made her feel like shit (this would be a line I would hear numerous times down through the years; that, and you’ve already pissed me off today), I went down the hall, grabbed my nickle plated 38 Special, emptied the revolver, put one bullet back, spun the revolver and slapped back into the gun.

What can I say?  The bitch pissed me off!  There are a million different ways it could have gone wrong.  Okay, not a million.  But you get my drift?

“You say that I make you feel like shit,” I said, walking back into the living room, “then I would like to see you live without me.”

I raised the gun and placed the barrel up under my chin.  In the middle of a tussle, she was able to wrestle the gun from me.  In hindsight, since I had a few spare seconds to squeeze the trigger and didn’t, and since I only put one bullet in the gun, maybe I wasn’t so keen on killing myself, afterall.

-Graveyard Night

The Cube Test

This was so stupid.  I found it difficult to keep track of the cube, the ladder, the horse, the flower and the storm.  A complete waste of time.  I can already tell you that I am a guarded person.  Even with family, I keep them at a distance.  I feel like I am going nowhere in life.  Another year older and not another day wiser.  I have three kids and that’s enough!  And the storm is a fucking hurricaine!  I’d rather get profiled by an FBI agent!
Graveyard Night

Mirror

Looking myself in the mirror gets harder everyday.  Anxiety siezes my soul and suffocates my lungs.  It feels like an invisible python coiled around my chest.

It’s called lies and regrets; remorse and hatred; more love for others than for myself; its called wanting to walk until my feet are sore and blistered and I can walk no more.

The last fourteen years of my life have not been easy.  However, they are not void of good times.  But I figured I would have been further along in life than what I am.  Proportionate to my salary, I am in debt up to my eyeballs, and nothing to show for it.  I don’t own my own house, my marriage feels like it is in a perpetual state of purgatory, and my boys can’t speak a word-not even daddy, I love you! 

Some days, it feels damn near impossible to lift my chin off my chest.  I just want to be left alone.  People I work with don’t know my life’s struggles.  Working with a bunch of gosspis, I have learned to keep certain things private.  Being here, I don’t want to talk to anyone.

To them, I just want to be another shadow moving down the hall.

Graveyard Night

Men and Women

Working in a nursing home, a society dominated by women, I have learned a very fine process of keeping to myself.  Now, I am not saying that men don’t gossip or say things we shouldn’t, because we do.  However, men do it because we don’t think before we speak.  Women do it, as one aid told me, because women see other women as competition.

Why they see each other as competition, I have no i-fucking-dea!  I have seen women bitch about another woman and turn around and say, “I don’t gossip” or “if you have a problem with me, bring it to me”.  I have seen women blast other women, while at the same time, claiming that they are tired of the drama. 

I have had compliments on how calm, cool and collected I can be, of how I look like I am just taking a walk in the park; a storm can be raging and there I am, a stout oak tree in the midst of the wind.  I have seen women I work with, that I know for a fact have trash talked one another behind each other’s backs, but when they are face-to-face, they act like best friends.  It is sickening!!!

Like I told a male aid I sometimes work with, I don’t know what it is-maybe it’s because there are men around (roosters in the hen house), but the wome like to prop themselves up to be bigger and badder than what they are.  They don’t take no shit off anyone!  They always seem ready to whoop someone’s ass!  Oh, and they’re just a bitch! 

Really?  You’re just a bitch?  You’re proud of this?  You’re proud that you can go to work, jump someone’s ass for possibly no reason at all, not knowing what they have going on in their lives, and you’re proud of this?  Granted, I have had men tell me that they are an ass and I give them the same time of day I do these women:

NONE!!!

I have one nurse, in her sixties and an ass kisser, that will purposely try to get an aid in trouble.  I don’t talk to her.  I stay away from her.  She can kiss my ass!

And the communication in nursing homes is atrocious!  I think I have figured out why.  

When women are home with their men and they have a problem, they brood.  One wire is connected to another wire; one track drifts off to another track; one thought begets another.  Soon, men, you will find that you are facing charges of high treason for actions you can no longer recall!  

Women the longer you sit there and try to have a us figure it out, the less of a shit we give.  As Waylon Jennings once said: my shive-a-gitter’s broke!  And thus it goes in the medical field.  Women naturally assume that other women know what they are thinking!  Fucking wrong!

With that being said, there are some things that men can do better and some things that women can do better.  By and large, men are men, and women are women.  However, each person is their own individual.  Reason being, I guess, that I am not with the “norm” and don’t regard sex with the highest prority.

Be that as it may, there is something I want to get off my chest.

Women like to talk.  A lot.  They want to talk about their day, their feelings and emotions and they cannot understand why a man doesn’t want to talk about his.  Women like detail.

Whereas men, unless we are politicians, our statements are simple and to the point.  Men, you can ask your wife for a cup of coffee or for her to pass the butter, and get a thirty minute conversation out of it.  No, honey, I just want to melt it down so I can dip my hand into it and go to the bathroom and masturbate. 

One pastor illustrated it best when he said that men’s minds are segregated up into boxes.  And each box has it’s own function for everything in his life.  When a man wants to relax and shut down, he goes to the box that has absolutely nothing in it. This is why men don’t like discussing their feelings.  This is why we can sit and relax and clockout for the day.

However, with women’s brains, everything is interconnected, as I previously stated.  Women cannot fathom how we can sit there and think not a single solitary fucking thing!  Even when we are watching football or our favorite sport, our one-dimensional minds are trained on that game.  Reason being why, when women notice this, they try to distract us and gain our attention.

AND THEN THEY GET PISSED WHEN WE ARE WATCHING OUR FAVORITE FUCKING TEAM PLAY!!!

Women, if you are reading this, I wouldn’t feel so proud that your minds are multi-dimensional and you like to talk more.  It just means that you like to argue more.  Like I have told people at work, “experts” write more books about women than they do men (don’t fact check me on this), because they are hoping that by some miracle, they will be able comprehend even what they are writing.

Three times in the last two days, I have asked simple, basic things of my wife and gotten an argument.  When I first started out as a nurses aid, it was like pulling teeth just to get my wife to hang up my scrubs, rather than fold them, crumple them and let them get all wrinkled.

One time a few years ago, we were at my in-laws and we had taken along some of my boys’ favorite movies.  One of my boys had taken a DVD out and laid it playing side down.  I had our youngest-then a baby-fast asleep in my arms in a chair.  I asked my wife to pick up the DVD and put it in to play.  Right in front of her family, I got a fucking argument out of it!

Had it not been for a woman I absolutely detest, I was close to exploding.  Goddamn it!  Stop fucking arguing with me and pick up the goddamn DVD!!! 

And each and every time, I get “sorry”.  

Whatever.  You’re a woman.  You can’t help it!

Til we meet again,

Graveyard Night

Young Again

If only I was young again

I could see the places I have seen

I could be the places that I have been

I could hug the ones that have passed

I could hold onto those who are dear

If only I was young again

-Graveyard Night