THANK GOD I DON'T OWN A HANDGUN

"I'm not sad I'm just dumb

I'm the boy made of stone

Stupid guy yes I am

I'm the boy who's all alone"

-Apocalypse Hoboken

Ugh, this isn't easy to write, but I'm doing it, as I think it might relieve some of the internal bullshit going on in my mind. But I'll cut to the chase: if I owned a handgun, I probably would be fucking dead right now, a casualty of a self inflicted bullet entering and exiting alternate sides of my head.

I'm not kidding. And I actually thought I would be doing the world a favor - in that I'm just no good/worth nothing/a burden. Thankfully I have come to my senses, but GODDAMN, I don't know if I've ever been this "low".

Don't get me wrong, I'm not sharing this to exact sympathy, honestly. Shit is stacked so high right now, it's almost too REAL. I've realized I've been keeping a lot of shit in, to the point where I have recurring "dreams" about jumping in front of a "L" train (poetic justice!) as that is nearly a viable option to dealing with all the shit in my life.

I haven't really gone into much detail about losing my friend, and what the wake/funeral was like, but HOLYFUCKINGSHIT, it was the textbook definition of sad. 30 year old men should not drop dead of heart attacks - in front of their family no less, and people that knew Mikey more than I did, I had to support. Comforting 65 year old Irish Catholic men is not easy. And the Mass took place in the church my Mom and Dad got married in. I mean, come on!

Other bullshit includes almost losing my new job before it actually started, current Roomie announced he's moving out at the end of the month, my Aunt (the sole remaining relative in Chicago besides my brother) is dying of cancer, my dubious employment status, the fucking shit weather, my aching shoulder, I could go on, but I'll stop. You get the point.

I fully intend on living and functioning as much as I can, and the next person that tells me I should quit smoking is likely to get punched in the dick, and I can almost hear shares of Evan Williams rising; I'm fucking strong and would never, could never, take the "easy" way out, but UGHx10000! How much more shit do I have to eat before shit improves?

Oh, and another thing, the guy I'm dating might "dress up" from time to time, but he's easily more butch than I am. The other night we volleyed text messages explaining in details I won't go into here, on how we plan on making each other our bitches. He's so punk he doesn't even realize it, and I really like that.

So as you can see, I'm not paralyzed, although certainly slightly impaired by my neuroses', and believe me when I say I'm doing the best I can, and NOT feeling sorry for myself; I'm just so fucking stressed it's insane. Which would explain why I'm up at 8AM on a Monday morning, writing this, smoking and listening to Apocalypse Hoboken.

THE CONTINUING SAGA OF MY BROKEN CLAVICLE

Yeah, another one of these posts. I'm sure you're as sick of reading them as I am of writing them, but hey, fuck it! If you want fresh/sexy material, feel free to read Pierre Fitch's blog. His abuse of emoti-cons is borderline criminal. But if you can get past that, and his empty-headed prose, there are some NICE pictures on there of him and his ever changing array of companions.

SO! It's been just over 4 weeks and I'm still jerking off with my left hand. Fuck. Me. Yesterday I had my 2nd follow-up appointment, which I was lead to believe would include a consultation with an Orthopedic doctor who specifically specializes in shoulders. Off to Cook County Hospital I went...where I sat for 30 minutes, and then was told to go to the Radiology department, where I waited 2 hours before yours truly was called.

This might seem petty, but after I checked in there I purposely choose a corner where no one else was sitting, so I could read and writhe in agony in relative peace.

Minutes later, a vaguely Eastern European couple wandered over, soon followed by another Eastern European man on crutches. They thoughtfully sat on either side of me and continued TO FUCKING TALK AS LOUD AS THEY COULD in their native language. Jesus C. I thought I was going to have a panic attack. But a potential crisis was averted after I got up and moved as far, Far, FAR away from them as I could. Can't you assholes see I'm trying to read Entertainment Weekly? Pffffft.

Anywho, when my name was finally called I practically ran up to the person holding my papers, and swiftly followed him into a room outfitted with GE's finest Radiological equipment. 2 quick snaps and the technician said "ok, that's it". Really? Whatever, I sat down in a chair and waited for him to give me further instruction.

10 minutes later I'm still sitting there with my thumb up my ass, and so I went to look for him behind the wall partition...and HE'S GONE. WTF? I wandered out to the Radiology department's check-in desk, where no less than 5 people pretended I didn't exist.

Finally, a random doctor asked me if I needed anything. I explained I had just gotten some X-Rays and wasn't sure what to do next, especially since I thought I would be directed to see a proper doctor. NOPE! He told me to go home. In regards to my X-Ray results, he gave me the whole "don't call us, we'll call you" thing. Bitch please!

UGH, I'm so fucking frustrated, and in constant fucking pain.

CROWS ARE SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO MY WINDOW

*The title is a Widespread Panic lyric

I feel SO MUCH FUCKING better. Typing with both hands again, and have discarded my arm sling (temporarily) 2 hours ago. Tomorrow I go see an Orthopedic specialist, who will most likely make me wait hours only to be told to do random arm exercises, but I'm going anyway.

And taking the fucking bus, since I have developed a sincere, and urgent desire to do whatever I can for myself. I'm not a fan of being waited-on/hovered-over. Speaking of, my perhaps worst nightmare might have just come true: my MOM WANTS TO FLY IN to take "care" of me.

UGH.

Don't get me wrong, I love my Mom, really, but having her stay here? Giving up my bedroom for a week? Sleeping on the couch with a bum arm/shoulder? I don't see how that helps; in fact, I think it would make things worse. And that's not an easy thing to tell your Mom.

Know what else doesn't help? Yesterday I was at Target (thanks Ex-Roomie!) and my Step-Dad called me to check in. Somehow, in the course of our conversation, I mentioned that I was managing my pain with smoking a bit of weed. No big deal. Shit, he's given ME pot before, which I smoked in front of them both!

Well, like they say, "loose lips sink ships", Step-Dad said something to my Mom, and she's freaking-the-fuck-out. FUCKING SHIT. Unnecessary stress to say the least. So I smoke pot. Who cares? So what? [bonus points if you get that reference] I'm not injecting fucking heroin here.

Oh, and my Dad will be here this week for a wedding. He's staying here for at least 2 nights, maybe more. I love him too, really, but...I just want life to return to normal. I want to be able to do things for myself; with my right hand. Soon.

AN UNSETTLED MIND

Let's back up to last night when, despite my being exhausted at 11PM, I didn't go to bed until 3:45AM. Sleep did not arrive for some time though, as I tossed and turned for about 2 hours before falling asleep. Said sleep was not peaceful though, as I had several deeply unsettling "dreams" that caused me to wake up more than once, totally soaked in sweat.

One of said dreams involved fucking the son of my former boss (who, as it turns out, is becoming a regular character in my dream life). And that was the most normal dreams that I can remember. Most of which seem to revolve around money and sex, both of which I am deeply starved for as of late, so it makes a certain kind of sense, I suppose.

Around Noon I was woken up by a call from my father who informed that will be staying with me for a few days for Christmas. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE my Dad, very much, but his situation is even more precarious than mine and the last few times we spoke on the phone, I had to force myself to keep upbeat. More for him than for me, and GAWD, that is a fucked situation to be put in.

Still, I pulled my ass out of bed. Not only was I expecting to get news about a job offer, I was also planning on a going on a "unofficial" date of sorts tonight. Little things like that have been pulling through as of late, but not one, but both fell through, and I'm left really fucking depressed.

FUCK.

I could go on and on with bitching and moaning, but I'll spare anyone reading this, and retire to the TV room and play a game called "let's drink enough whiskey to black out or puke".

Cheers...

A RAY OF SUNSHINE

As is the case in many other parts of the Midwest (jeez God - what did we do?) Chicago got fucking hammered this weekend with batshit-crazy storms. This morning was dark and the dreary looking streets were adorned with windswept foliage. And it was Monday morning - easily my least favorite time of any given week.

Thankfully work went by strangely fast. Upon returning home I had a nice little present waiting for me in my mailbox...the July edition of Automobile magazine. I still get all giddy and shit when I get car mags in the mail, and this one did not disappoint. The "cover model" was the new BMW M1 Homage prototype. This shit is sick!

That is one fine piece of car porn right there! It's so good looking it's almost ugly (sorta like Channing Tatum). Faithful to the original hotness, I think BMW did a fantastic job by updating the original late-70's Miami/Coke/Disco-ish version. Love the rims too. Please, if anyone in Munich is reading this, make it happen! Bitte build it!