I hate days like this. Broke, feeling restless and bored; bored and restless.
I hate days like this. Broke, feeling restless and bored; bored and restless.
As I walk through the Grave Yard and count the number of regrets I have, I am astounded at their number. Headstones have sunk into the earth, toppled over or stand as tall as a monolythic pillar-bodies laid to rest, but their ghosts still remain. Sinister markers that have turned black against the back-drop of the fading light.
He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts.
-Stephen King, It
So many things that I wish I could do over, or never had done in the first place. I lower the brim of my hat over my brow and turn the collar of my coat up to protect against the cold wind. I’m going home. Today, like so many days, I feel as though my life has been a waste.
Not long ago, a friend told me that he would check me into a mental health clinic if he had to. That may come sooner than I expected.
Welcome to the Grave Yard. Come take a walk with me.
It’s warmer today. In the fifties. The snow is melting, which is a good thing. Now I can read the date and the event on the headstones. So many memories-days dead and gone. You should hear the ghosts at night. Good ole Scrooge would be scared shitless.
Do you see that grove of trees over yonder? What? No. It isn’t that far. Oh, him? Don’t mind him. His bark is worse than his bite.
Anyway, do you see that grove of trees? I am planning on clearing it out to make more space. Ah, here we are! A fresh one. The veterans should have fun with the newbie. I don’t know what they do. Just that I am glad that they do when I am not here. For all I know, I might want to join in.
Fucked Up Merry Christmas
December 25, 2016
Hell‘s Engraving does nice work, huh? Yeah, yesterday wasn’t a fun day for me. You know how my boys are autistic, right? Well, for years we have struggled to get them to open Christmas gifts.
It’s kind of how they are in school-gotta do a lot of hand-over-hand with them, or open their gifts on your own. Kind of takes the wind out of your sails. At any rate, ever since my dad died, I have had a difficult time in finding that Christmas Spirit. It’s weird, actually. In a way, when he died and with all the pictures and CD’s we put in his coffin with him, he seemed to take his spirit of Christmas with him.
So, anyway, back to my boys. Over the years, I have come to regard wrapping my boys’ Christmas gifts as redundant. I mean, when you give a child a package wrapped in shiny, pretty paper, aren’t they suppose to tear it to shreds? My boys have no problem in tearing everything else to shreds. Why not wrapping paper.
I didn’t sleep well on Christmas Eve night and the presents didn’t get wrapped. Christmas morning came and I was passed out on the couch. The next thing I know, my wife is yelling and cussing at me for not wrapping the presents.
Excuse me. Aren’t there two of us here? Since when was the blame put off on me?
And the rest is history. It is amazing at how destructive a few minutes of arguing can be to a day. Especially, when one is asleep and can hardly understand what the fuck the other is talking about. To say the least, the day was gone after that. When she does that sort of shit (arguing about something petty or wakes me up in a nasty way, it makes me so angry, I could punch her). She wanted to have sex that night, but I cannot seperate hurt from sexual arousal.
What’s what? Oh, that headstone. Come on. Let’s go have a look.
A Thanksgiving Gone to Hell
Some asshole came out here one night when I wasn’t here and filed off the dates on some of the headstones. This is one of them. His tracks ended somewhere over there. I saw a missing persons flyer in town a few days later. Authorities found his body down by the creek that runs along the border to the Grave Yard shortly after that. He had been mutilated.
Who him? Well, judging by the dried blood I found around his mouth, I would say that he’s the one that did it. One hell of a good watch dog-or whatever he is. Don’t stare at him. Drives him nuts.
I had come home that morning from work a little snippy. And I will be honest, my apology wasn’t the most genuine sounding. After that, I went to bed. Got woke up later on the day to hearing the bedroom door bang open and the words wake the fuck up! Oh, I was awake after that alright. As you can imagine, a visious arguement followed.
I didn’t eat a single bite of that food. Because I am stubborn that way. Of course, she feels bad for it, but look at the graves. The days are dead and gone.
Well, its getting close to dark. I would be heading out, if I were you. He will follow you to the gates but that’s as far as he goes. Just a word of caution:
– Graveyard Night
As sure as I write these words, I know people are going to feel the sting of my death. Hours, days, weeks, months and years will be spent asking the basic question: what could I have done?
If I only I had known.
I’m not sure you could have known. I’m not sure that there was anything you could do. I did the best I could; put up with as much shit as what I could. I have held onto too many burdens; kept too many things secret, without having a way of shedding them.
I am not so naive as to believe that my death will have absolutely no effect on people. They will weep and mourn. Some will pick themselves up and carry on, and others-well, the pain may be too strong to bear.
I learned a long time ago that it does no good to talk things out. You either hurt someone’s feelings, or get hurt in the process. Talking doesn’t erase the pain; the torment.
I will miss you all-your smiles, your hugs. Tonight, I knelt down on the floor, and held each of my children close; one at a time. I laughed, they laughed. They are daddy’s pride and joy. I think they will miss me the most.
I do have one request. At my funeral, play Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven. It has always been one of my favorites and has gotten me through rough times in the past.
As much as you may not want to believe it, I love you all.
This would be my suicide note. If I was actually committing suicide. In a documentary years back, I saw where therapists had depression patients that were suicidal, write out a false suicide note to loved ones.
It ain’t as easy as it sounds.
Why is it everytime I go to post an ad on Craig’s List-whether it is for a woman to suck my pecker (by the way, I think that the word cock is best reserved for men that are truly well endowed), talk to someone on Kik, or if I am trying to find a couple willing to let me watch them have sex-all I get is spam!
It is incredibly frustrating! And they are all the same: a horny, lonely wife, emails rife with misspelling, etc.
In a city of about 10,000 people, you cannot tell me that there hasn’t been at least one woman that hasn’t seen an ad I have posted. And I am not necessarily looking for just sex. It’s the conversation, the learning and meeting new people, that I crave! I get a thrill of excitement when I see I have a new conversation request on Kik.
Last night, I was at the store after work looking to buy some wine, and wouldn’t you know it! They didn’t have the kind I buy! I am not exactly a wine connoisseur, so I walked away empty handed. In fact, I am pretty much a novice when it comes to wine.
Anyway, there was a nice looking woman there with me and we were talking about wine. I am almost certain she was flirting with me. But, hell! I am a guy and most men think that if a woman pays them just one minute of attention, the woman must be into them. Now, I try not to be a judgemental person, but this woman struck me as the type to be a little on the easy side.
I tell you, people, I was standing there, checking out this woman’s rounded, well-proportioned ass, and I was tempted to ask permission to grab it! Don’t scoff at me when you read that. I said that I was tempted to. And anyway, at least I would have done the gentlemanly thing and asked permission.
Have you ever seen an attractive couple and wondered if they have a spectacular, raunchy sex life? They walk and laugh together, hold hands. They seem so carefree in life.
Living in a town of about 10,000 people, I have often wondered how many couples were into swinging. Often times, I lay awake in bed at night and wonder how many men are sitting in a corner chair, stroking his pud while another man was busy pleasuring his wife.
Does the swinger’s lifestyle interest me because I have unresolved issues in my marriage? Does any other man feel the monotany of matrimony? Would finding another couple to have sex with actually make me feel better? Or, would it pull me down further the rabbit hole? Is it a combination of marital problems and the fact that my wife has virtually let herself go?
After spending years of watching porn, it is one of my darkest desires to see it play out before me. But such is the life of the Caretaker-a life of pipe dreams and fantasies.
The sun has risen and is shining it’s brilliant rays down on the snow. Headstones with faded markers protrude from the fine powder. God’s dandruff, I call it. I hear the wrought iron gates squeal. It seems I have some visitors.
I’ll see you around.
My depression, like my dependence upon porn, comes and goes in waves. For a time, I may be able to do well with myself. But all of a sudden, on any given day, I am like an idiot that is standing in the middle of a highway. The freight truck blares it’s horn, but my feet stay planted.
It always seems to be the worst this time of year. I guess there is a reason why more people commit suicide during the holiday season than any other month.
A few years ago, I read where the stress level of special needs parents is comparable to that of a soldier in combat. My sister, being an Army wife, wouldn’t hear of it. But, of course, this is the same person, whom along with her husband, has said that if they ever watched our autistic children, they would be drunk before we came back to get them.
Needless to say, it didn’t make us feel any better. So, is it stress or depression I feel? Or both? It doesn’t sit well with special needs parents, knowing that they have been ostracized due to the fact that others cannot accept their children’s handicap. But I can’t say anything, because I will be called an asshole.
My wife and I have never been good at planning for Christmas. However, our boys don’t really know the true meaning of Christmas. They don’t know of the intent of which it was created. They don’t unerstand Santa Claus and what he stands for. Hell, they don’t even understand the concept of tearing shiny, decorative paper from a package.
All they know is that some lights go up and for about a month, we have a big tree in our living room. And that is what my boys are attracted to: the lights. It can be ninety degrees outside and my children will pull the lights out of the closet, plug them in and just stare at them.
So, I ask the question: what’s the fucking point?!
My depression is like standing on the shoreline of a beach. The waves come in and lap at your ankles and knees. And every once in a while, a wave comes along and clobbers you in the back of the head and knocks you to your knees. Wave after wave pours over your head as you dig into the mushy sand. And before you know it, the water gets deeper and deeper; land seems so far away.
I have the post-holiday blues before they are even over. I wonder who will save me?
Have you ever had a day that wasn’t turning out quite right? Problems at home? Financial difficulties? Perhaps the spouse is bitching you up one side and down the other?
So, you plug in the ear buds, crank up some music; hoping to drown your sorrows in sweet, musical bliss. However, that song, that artist, doesn’t suffice. Another singer and another song. And before you know it, you’ve run through your whole fucking playlist!
Before long, you are left to silence and the static of your own thoughts.
That has been my problem for the last several days.
Today hasn’t started out well for the wife and I. Thank God I have to work today. Why do women not let an arguement die? The man walks away to gather his thoughts and temper his anger, and the wife follows-if for any other reason, than to continue the arguement. She wants an answer. The glory and adulation of having the last word.
Women, have you ever wondered why your man doesn’t open up to you or expresses his feeling? When men are angry or upset, we don’t want to talk about it. We don’t want a woman to psychoanalyze our emotions. If we are left alone to brood and stew on our emotions, we would rather be left alone. We aren’t like women where we sit and wait for the man to figure it out.
Besides that, men are not geared and hardwired to express what we are feeling. What does that mean, anyway? What we are feeling.
Honey, I am in a bad mood today. Steer clear. Fair warning!
We don’t express our feelings because we know that women have a fantastic way of turning our emotions against us. I will give you a good example.
My sister is a nice looking woman and her husband is a chick magnet. So, down through the years, my sister has grown just a tad bit insecure. In times that I have been to their house when she has “picked on” her husband about these women, I know an arguement is coming, and it would be best if I made myself scarce. He would have enough and say something to her in retaliation, she would get pissed at him (despite the fact that she started it and wanted to “pick” and all my brother-in-law wanted to do is let the subject die).
I use to like to read. But not now. I could read a 2,000 page novel from beginning to end. But not now. Whether it was ficiton or non-fiction, as soon as I would sit down to read, a guilt trip immediately followed.
I wasn’t sitting with her. I wasn’t talking to her. I wasn’t spending “quality time” with her. (Insert nagging, mocking voice when you read this)
But it was okay for her to sit and read a book, no problem. Guilt free!
Did I mention that men don’t express themselves to women because women have a fantastic way of turning a man’s emotions around on them?
A woman cannot be made happy. Oh, happiness comes every once in a while, but as soon as that happiness comes, it goes right out the door just as quick. Don’t feel indignant when you read this. It’s the truth.
Another thing before I go. Men don’t like telling their women when we are in a bad mood, because doing that begets a question. And that question begets another. Soon, we are having a conversation we never wanted to have.
I would tell you that marriage is a great and wonderous institution, but that would be a lie. If marriage is an institution, then where in fuck is my medication?!
There was a time
When I could go days
Without thinking of you
To me, you were almost like
A distant memory
A shadowy figure in my mind
Seeing you the other day
Your big blue eyes
Your easy smile and brown, curly hair
There is no way I can escape you
The sound of your voice
And the way that you laugh
I still recall
The sound of your moans in my ear
Your nails digging into my skin
As my fingers played between your legs
The sight of you bent over before me
Feeling your soft, warm skin against me
Sliding into you
Hearing obscenities and profanity
And then, just like that
It was over
You stole a piece of me
A piece I will never get back
I can hear you in the darkness
Your laugh, your voice
Even the way you said my name
They haunt me
Your lips from across a great chasm
I hear footsteps and dwindling laughter
And like the memory of my father
You leave me all alone
I hear nothing but silence
When I was with you
I felt like the carefree person
I had never been
Tell me, Erin
When will I get that feeling again
“You know,” my wife, Shayna, said as we were tossing beer cans and burnt joints into the trashcan, “when we were playing strip poker, I couldn’t help but notice the bulge in Brandon’s boxers.”
I chuckled as I tied the bag shut. Looking out the sliding glass window, I could see that Brandon was nearly finished with his cigarette.
“You and everyone else noticed, I think.”
“Does it make you jealous?” she asked, poking me in the ribs. For years, Shayna had tried, but in vain, to make me jealous. She would wear the tightest of clothing to the gym or the skimpiest of bathing suits.
Now, I have had my fair share of jealous girlfriends in the past, and all it did was leave me feeling hollow. People say that the jealous partner is at least showing that they care. But if they truely cared, why set out to make the other feel guilty for having a simple conversation with the opposite sex?
I then set my mind to believing that jealousy was my enemy, and I would endeavor to never make Shayna feel that way.
“No. Why? Do you want to see what his big black cock looks like?” I asked. I am sure that my grin looked mishcevious. After ten years of marriage and two kids, Shayna knows me better than anyone else. It’s scary.
Her lips spread into a wide grin and her cheeks turned to a bright pink. “No.”
“Uh huh. Maybe we can get you naked again and stick these back on your nipples,” I said, picking up a couple of old playing cards I had licked and stuck to her nipples when she lost her bra.
Shayna snatched them out of my hands and crumpled them before discarding them into the trashcan. Her face had taken on a more serious countenance, but the pink hue was still deep on her face.
“You had better not tell him,” she scolded me. Turning away, she busied herself at the sink. I knew that I was treading lightly. Everyone had had enough beer and pot in their systems to make Cheech and Chong proud. But when you’re in that inebriated state, the gates to inhibitions and common sense disappear. I knew that had Shayna been of sober mind, she never would have been one of the first volunteers to strip poker.
“Why not?” I said, walking up behind her and sliding my hands up under her shirt. Grasping her breasts in each hand, I began to squeeze and knead them like a ball of dough. Just feeling her pert nipples on the palms of my hands made me hard. “Brandon got to see your tits. I think it’s only fair that you get to see his cock.”
Shayna’s hands were white knuckling the edge of the countertop. She was breathing heavily, arching her back and pressing her ass against my hardness. Despite the fact that a friend of mine had travelled over five-hundred miles and was going to be spending the weekend with us, I wanted to be inside of her. I wanted to have an all night fuck fest. But more than that, I knew how big Brandon was and couldn’t help but imagine the look of surprise on Shayna’s face when he freed his monster.
Shayna was breathing heavier now and was moaning softly. She had spread her legs and arched her back so that my bulge was on her moist slit. Her tits had become firmer and swollen; her nipples were more rigud. I was kissing and licking her neck and shoulders as our dry-humping quickened. I was close to cumming.
“C’mon, baby,” I said softly in her ear. “You want to see his cock, don’t you?” Her pelvis hit the counter and glasses rattled. The crotch of my pants were damp and I hadn’t even blown my load. I abandoned the subtleties and pounded her like I was actually fucking her. “You want to see his cock, don’t you, baby?! Touch it, suck it-hell, even fuck it! Don’t you?!” I growled in her ear as I grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her head back. Shayna let out a startled cry.
“C’mon, baby! We’ve been living a clean, conservative life for far too long! ‘Fuck yes’ to what?! Say the magic words, baby!”
“Oh, god! I want to see his cock!” As soon as she said that, my cock erupted in my pants and my knees nearly buckled. I leaned over her for support as our bodies swayed and rocked in unison.
“I don’t know about the two of you,” came Brandon’s voice behind us, “but this has me rock hard!”
To be continued