What A Sorry-Assed Week...

My poor old ass is indeed in deep shit. Seems the VA wants to fuck with my meds again, and now I am totally fucked. Up and down, and up and down, ad nauseum. Jesus H. Christ, when will these asshats stop fucking with me? The ass wipe that claims to be my shrink and wants total control of my fuckin miserable life is giving me shit fits with his "I know what's best for you" shit, and the fucker don't even live inside my head! Can you tell I am pissed?

Last night I got zero sleep, which is the one thing that keeps me stable. Fine. I go to the VA clinic today to pick up a much needed script. Gee, old man, we forgot to tell ya! The doctor has the fucking day off! Sorry about your luck! Didn't he tell ya when you talked to him on Friday? (Fuck, no!) So, here I am, damn near comatose, being asked to drive 75 miles to pick up a fucking script that I finally managed to weasel out of them. And I can barely walk to the pickup. I went home, and Rosie told me she would take me to BC, but hey! Can't be until Wednesday!

So, I sit here at midnight with a little glass of Captain's and contemplate my navel. Serves me right to suffer...

Fuck it, don't mean nothin'...

Charlie~

Life And Times

I struggle with things. Indeedy, I do. I have always had a big thing about routine, and find that the older I get, the more important it becomes to me. A lot of people think I have no life - I work 7 days a week, and often never leave the house for literally days on end. Know what? It suits me...

I have found that routine keeps my shit together. Struggling with PTSD is no easy thing. I am long over the flashbacks and nervous reactions of 2 tours in the Nam, but cannot lose the strong feeling instilled in me by that experience. Nowadays, I only live with constant nightmares, and it has become such a part of my life that at times I struggle with the reality of them. I slept for many, many years with a .44 magnum under my pillow, and had some serious issues with sleepwalking a lot of years ago. Now, if I decide to walk in my sleep, I will surely walk off the roof and plant myself face down in the asphalt. Shit happens...

Now I find myself working for an internet company that pays me well, keeps me busy, and hey! I got beer money! Since working for DIY, I have gone through 3 editors, and am now at a place where I am without one altogether. Lauren, my last editor, flew the coop for something better. We had a decent relationship that I hope continues. She is a nice lady, and the same age as my daughter. Gee! I can relate! But Lauren was savvy, had a great management style, and will be sorely missed. We had great things planned for DIY. Now I gotta train another fuckin' editor...

I have found out that my blood sugar level is higher than it should be, so my doc has decided to shove more meds down my throat. I now spend time agonizing over what my sugar level will be throughout the course of the day, and hate being hassled with this shit. I have spent many years doing all the wrong things, and have self medicated for so long that nothing else ever makes any sense to me. But you end up paying for that lifestyle, and I am a victim of my own debauchery. Like I care.

Rosie does well in her store, but the stress is kicking her ass. She has been having problems with employees, and everyone she hires she thinks "will work out well." The quality of what I have seen begs a different opinion from me, but I let her run her own business, and she lets me run mine.

I have taken up 3D modeling, and am making progress. It is a very exacting thing, and has a steep learning curve. I am now capable of making a half-assed decent scene, and my focus has been on faeries and dragons. Always lived in that world, ya know? Love a fae woman! Rosie thinks I am foolish, and thinks I just want to spend time making naked women beautiful. Exactly...

So ends my New Year's rant for those who give a shit. I find the blog to be a good release for me when the writing gets too ho-hum, and I begin to feel I am making a whore of myself for writing articles on things I could care less about. But the money is good, and what the hell else can an old Coon spend time on?

Peace,

Charlie~

Coffee Mornings, Whiskey Nights

A long time ago, I wrote a poem (yah, I know, I'm a fuckin' poet, too) for a good friend that struggled with poetry and art work. She had talent, but her poetry was limited by her knowledge of the English language and her education. I have a very zen painting she did for me on an old piece of barn wood here in my office.

The poem was "Coffee Mornings, Cocaine Afternoons." It was pretty damn good, and has been published in a few places. It hearkened back to my days of dancing with the white lady, and was filled with bittersweet memories and rage at the machine.

Now I find it is coffee mornings and whiskey nights. I suppose my shrink would love to play with that one - trading one addiction for another. That is what we, as lowly human beings, do. My Rosie laughs at me when I tell her that dogs are smarter than we are. Ever see a dog with a hangover, or Jonesing for that next big fat line? Doubt it...

I grow older. I feel the effects of aging on my poor old bod every day. But with age comes wisdom, or so I am told. so I sit here, high in the tower of the Beechler building, and write away.

Fuck it, don't mean nothin'

Drive on...

Charlie~