Friday and working at home. I have a team meeting at ten on-line this morning along with other various work-at-home duties; I also have errands to run later on when everything is finished. I feel rested this morning, despite getting up so damned early (Sparky was very insistent this morning), and so while I swill my coffee and wake up, I can hopefully do some things around here, too, before I get to work. The kitchen isn’t nearly as bad as it usually is on Friday mornings, so I don’t have to start there this weekend to straighten up the house, which is very exciting. I’m going to try very hard this weekend not to succumb to the temptations of doing little to nothing. The boil water advisory was lifted yesterday, and today’s heat index will max out at 109. I was able to come straight home after work yesterday, which was really nice, and I spent the evening getting caught up on the day’s news before switching over to the Olympics. I always hate when they come to an end, and they really are uplifting and fun to watch; inspiring. (I bet there will be a lot of Olympic romances published next year.)
I do have that figure skating short story…it’s kind of noirish. Maybe I should revisit it?
The next Olympics will be in Los Angeles, just like in 1984. I lived in California then, and to this day I regret not applying to work at the games. But…it was a different time and a different world, too.
I came to the conclusion last night that part of the problem I am/was having with writing Never Kiss a Stranger was that old one-two punch of writer’s brain: fear that I’d fuck up telling the story, and fear that it won’t be the book that I want it to be. Which is absurd on its face; and haven’t I felt that way about every book I’ve written more than once during the process of creating the story? Maybe it’s different for the big names, but I am never fearless when I am writing something. I’ve never heard any of my friends who are writers I deeply admire and respect ever feel a lack of confidence in their work, or in their ability to tell the story they want to tell. I think that is definitely something I need to work on, and I don’t feel afraid about writing the book now, so hopefully that is progress. I think taking this Olympic break from writing was perhaps one of the smartest things I’ve done as an adult. I am itching to get back to it, I let my mind rest and heal, and my body had settled into my routine at long last. Likewise, I have to get back to reading every day, so I can get caught up on my reading, at least from this year. I am so far behind on so many of my friends’ and favorite authors’ books; but at least I know that I have some great books to read through the end of the year. And yes, I think I am going to do some reading this weekend.
I kind of feel good about things. I like that I am establishing boundaries, and enforcing them. I like that I am digging out of the hole and rut and everything else of the last few years. I like my life now that I have time to kick back and enjoy it, and relax without guilt. I like my job, I love writing, I am finally getting the apartment into a nice, comfortable living space by clearing out the clutter so no one will have to after I depart this world. I am back learning how to cook new recipes, and having quite a good time doing so. The heat is tiring, of course, and that also affects how I get things done after I get home, but the summer will be ending fairly soon and then I can get back into the swing of some other things, like regular workouts and things of that nature. I am making progress on my debt, which is also pretty great.
So, on that cheerful and hopeful note, I am going to head into the spice mines. You go on and have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll probably be back later on.
Thursday morning and last day in the office this week. I think I have a prescription to pick up; I neede to call and see if it’s ready or not during the day today. I was tired yesterday–I’ve been mentally weary all week for some reason–and was very happy to come straight home from work. I resisted Sparky and finished the dishes, which need to be put away tonight. It was very nice to come down to a clean kitchen with nothing on the counters and the sink empty. This kind of also puts me ahead on the weekend, too. Huzzah! I still have some filing and straightening and organizing to do around the house. The Olympics end this weekend, which means technically I can start writing again this weekend–I mean, ending a few days early on the embargo isn’t going to be the end of the world or anything, and I am kind of itching to get back to writing again. That, by the way, feels good.
I feel decent this morning, too. I’ll probably get tired at some point during the morning, and I am sure my butt will be dragging come this afternoon. I also need to get the mail today–maybe tomorrow; it depends on timing–and I do have some errands to run tomorrow. Maybe the mail can wait? Who knows? I do have a meeting tomorrow in the morning, and I made an appointment to get my labs drawn next Friday (fasting labs, and no way am I fasting all morning and not having coffee; there was nothing available for tomorrow until the time of my meeting). I feel very good about getting back on top of my health stuff, and my insurance issues are all ironed out. I have one more leftover issue from the surgery, and I hope to get that taken care of this weekend. Thank God.
In other big news, I deleted my Twitter account yesterday. I just bit the bullet, went in, and deactivated my account. I don’t care if someone else uses it because I don’t think I will ever go back there. I know, I know, I should have done it a long time ago. Being there only helps as another user to count towards advertising revenue, and I don’t want any part of that on my soul and conscience anymore. I went back and forth over the morality of being there still (friends who are only there, etc. v. being complicit with that vile company) and pondered the hypocrisy of that, while keeping my newsletter on Substack1 and actively working to build an audience there. It wound up not being that difficult of a decision, really; I realized that the only times this week I’ve been tense or irritated has been because of Twitter and morally bankrupt people there, so it’s clearly not good for my mental health. I deleted it for my own well-being in the end, but making it about ‘taking an ethical stand’ is verifiably false. I don’t like getting credit for something I don’t deserve, and there was nothing noble about deleting my account other than self-preservation. I don’t even know why I went there in the first place, to be honest. I’ve never really gotten much joy out of being there, and what joy I managed to find there didn’t make up for the absolute horror of being there. I was never targeted or swarmed, it was never anything like that…but what is allowed there under the guise of “free speech” (and they decide what is protected and what is not, with a heavy thumb down on the scale on the side of being fascist or enabling it) is horrific and shameful and disgusting.
I did enjoy removing the app from my phone, though. It was almost as satisfying as slamming down the phone receiver used to be.
We’re also still in a boil water advisory, and today’s “feels like” is going to be 110. Woo-hoo! But it’s August, what can I expect or what more can I want? This weekend is also the Red Dress Run (which is how Garden District Gothic opens, or was it a different Scotty? Sigh), and there are some other things going on around town as always–Dirty Linen in the Quarter (it’s the Quarter’s version of White Linen Night, and I really should write about both) and there’s a Drew Brees pickleball tournament (I’m not really sure what pickleball is, to be honest, and not sure that I want to, either), too. Sounds like a good weekend to stay home to me, doesn’t it? It’s going to also be horrifically and horribly hot, too.
And on that note, I am heading down into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, Constant Reader, and I’ll most likely be back at some point later.
Greg Louganis, seen here in his Olympic debut in Montreal as a teenager, winning the silver medal. I was enchanted by his incredible physical beauty.
Two people I really respect in this business are still at Substack, and since they have better ethics than me and are, in general, much better humans than I am, I will defer to their judgment in this case. ↩︎
Wednesday morning and we’ve made it to the middle of the week. Yesterday was somewhat better than the day before–I felt rested, but my brain was still off-track a bit, and a little scattered. That may be because I forgot to take my medications before I left for work yesterday, and that always makes my brain chemistry a bit more foggy than it needed to be. But in other great news, yesterday I was able to get a prescription fight I’ve been having with my insurance company won yesterday; they finally authorized a daily med I’ve not taken since January, and this time the approval from my insurance is good through 2029–and who knows if I will live that long? But that hassle is finally over, and I am very pleased to say that now I know how to deal with my insurance, it’s not going to be a problem anymore. There are a couple of more things I need to take care of with my insurance, and then I can just settle in with it and everything should be smooth sailing from now on.
We’re in a boil water advisory here in New Orleans today; almost the entire east bank is in this. Yay. Will make showering interesting this morning, and I had already rinsed my mouth out this morning and cleaned my teeth, etc. So…if the water is unsafe I’ve already ingested some. Hopefully I will make it through to the weekend. The heat index will be about 110, so that’s not quite as bad as it has been. Yay? I get to come home straight from work tonight, which is lovely; I have a ZOOM meeting at six and I need to seriously clean up my kitchen; it’s an absolute disaster area and since it’s the only place I can do it…sigh. Maybe I can hide everything out of camera range? This is what happens when you get lazy once you get home from work. But just walking from the car to the apartment door is draining; the hazy lazy heat and humidity just sucks energy right out of you, and I hate that feeling of sweat about to breakthrough my scalp and try to get in before it starts and soaks me completely. I took a shower when I got home last night because I felt so miserable, but the rest of the evening was pretty nice as I caught up on the news and let Sparky sleep in my lap (he’s a very bad influence that way; just like Scooter, and I can never resist their feline wiles).
I did swing by the post office, and my preordered books had arrived, which was lovely. Again, too many good books piling up in my TBR pile, and I really need to stop bringing more books into the house before I get rid of some more, or at least read more of the ones on hand. The new Donna Andrews looks delightful, and I know Gabino’s new one is going to be very well written and very dark in tone and theme and style; he’s really very original and a one of a kind, which isn’t easy to do (trust me, I know all too well how hard it is to be original and a one of a kind, and I have not even remotely succeeded on the level he has with his work), and that’s probably one I will sit down with and read all the way through in one sitting–which means taking it on my next trip. If I can wait that long…
I’ve also been thinking a lot about my book and my writing lately; the enforced “no writing during the Olympics” is kind of making me want the Olympics to end! Given how much I love the Olympics, that is saying a lot. Football season is also on its way, which is always a fun time of the year for me. But ever since I started looking back, I’m starting to understand things more, things about myself and lessons I missed along the way because I was so busy moving forward. It isn’t painful to look back, really; my childhood and my teens were a long time ago, and I am trying to stop telling myself lies and/or gaslighting myself. I always say I won’t write a memoir because I don’t trust my memory and would be an unreliable narrator (which I have considered as a title for said memoir)…but the truth is no two people remember anything in the same way. Our memories of events and situations and things are all colored by our own experiences, confirmation biases, and values. I suppose, though, that those kinds of mistakes and remembering things through my perspective is always going to be different from other people’s…and let’s face it, nobody from back then is going to read anything I write anyway.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely middle of the week, Constant Reader, and I may be back later. You never know with me–I’m tricky that way.
Tuesday morning and for whatever reason, I feel much more rested and awake this morning than I did yesterday. I felt off all day yesterday, partly because I was sleepy still for most of the morning, and never felt like I ever completely woke up. This morning I feel like a new person, which is very cool. I like when I feel rested.
So yeah, I felt off most of the day yesterday. I started getting my work done and got most of it done–I’m still behind–and ran my errands after work. It didn’t rain on me on the way home, which was a lovely change, and so I got the mail (and a copy of Jericho Brown’s The Tradition). I also started reading, of all things, The Iliad last night. I’ve never read it or the Aeneid or the Odyssey–lyric poetry–even though I was very aware of the story and everything about it. (I had a Trojan War/Greek mythology era in my childhood.) I was actually enjoying myself as I read it while glancing up at the Olympics (I am really going to miss the Olympics when they are over.) So I did manage to get some reading done last night, which was incredibly cool. Maybe this weekend I’ll spend some time reading poetry and trying to learn about it. I was thinking about that last night as I drove around town, that the extra time I have now can be spent either relaxing or studying poetry or teaching myself something. I am going to definitely schedule in some German on Duolingo; and of course I want to keep studying Louisiana and Alabama history.1
I should have cleaned the kitchen when I got home last night. Sigh. I’ll have to do it tonight, and get the house a bit under control. It won’t take long–wouldn’t have taken long yesterday, either, but I gave in to Sparky’s cuddle needs and so I came down to a dirty kitchen again this morning. And before I knew it, the Olympics were on and I was sucked into the excitement of sport again. It was great seeing Louisiana’s own Mondo Duplantis win the pole vault and set a new world record competing for Sweden, the floor exercise was amazing–I can’t believe they didn’t air the medal ceremony, well done, NBC. The pictures of Simone Biles and Jordan Chiles bowing to gold medalist Rebeca Andrade was epic, and went viral, so why would viewers want to see it? I love the Olympics, and getting Snoop to go as our official ambassador was genius, but so much of the coverage in prime time–when they’ve had all day to stitch together the show–isn’t good. (Although my favorite was the woman griping about ‘why do they have a quarterback commenting on gymnastics?’ to get the reply “John Roethlisberger was a four time all around US champion and Olympian. You’re thinking about Ben Roethlisberger who quarterbacks the Steelers.’ I laughed for a good few minutes there, because her post had actually confused me and I didn’t know what she was talking about…for good reason.)
It’s funny because yesterday I was talking about not getting more books, only to get up to notifications that the new Gabino Iglesias and the new Donna Andrews are on their way to me now, which is marvelous. Maybe spending some time with The Iliad last night has reopened the flood gates to reading again….I guess we’ll find out this weekend, or maybe even tonight.
You know what’s really funny? This forced “Olympics break” from writing was the smartest thing I could have ever done. Sometimes you just need to trick your brain. By going from I should write every day and then feeling like a loser who can’t take part in his passion anymore, to I am not going to write for two weeks has absolutely worked. All I’ve really wanted to do these last ten days or so (however long it’s been) is actually write. I allow myself to hand write in my journal, but actually typing out fiction or non-fiction, and immersing myself in it? Not allowed. Maybe, just maybe, this means when the Olympics are over I’ll be eager to get back into the swing of writing every day.
And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, and I may be back later; stranger things have happened.
Monday morning and back to the office with me. I feel rested this morning–it took me a minute to wake up–and good, like this is going to be a very good week for one Gregalicious. It’s also my birthday month, which is kind of fun; I’ll be sixty-three in a few weeks (note to self: take birthday and day before off for a four day weekend), and that’s not nearly as traumatizing as it could be, you know? I don’t mind getting older; I never really have and I also don’t care about being old. I joke about it, but it’s never serious. A gay man who was in his twenties during the 1980s and made it to sixty-three? There aren’t as many of us as there should be, and that’s not something I will ever get over, I don’t think. A quick glance at the weather lets me know that it will “feel like” 112 today; Debby is battering the Florida coast; and we won’t be getting any rain today. We didn’t have any this weekend, I don’t think. I went out into the heat yesterday to make groceries, and retreated home as quickly as I could. (The cost of groceries is insane–I cannot believe how much I spent for so little…thanks, corporate greed!)
I’ve been listening to a podcast in the car the last few days, and I am really enjoying it. I’ve never gotten into podcasts–I have never been known as an early adapter; sometimes I don’t adapt at all. I’ve never really understood podcasts, how to find them, or even how to listen to them. I did figure it out last summer (I did find some great ones about hauntings and legends of the South; i listened to one about Julia Brown and the destruction of Frenier, Louisiana, for my unfinished story “When I Die”), but again–when I am in town I am rarely in the car long enough to listen to something all the way through, which totally sucks for audiobooks; you can’t listen to a ten hour book in twenty minute segments. At least I can’t; I don’t remember things anymore so it’s hard for me to pick back up if I go a few days without getting back into the book. Memory is necessary for reading, alas, which is why I am having so much trouble reading these days. Maybe if I commit to a chapter per night? I’ve either got to start reading regularly again or I have to stop compulsively buying books. Anyway, I asked my supervisor last week what audiobook she was going to listen to on her long drive this past weekend and she replied, “I don’t listen to books because I worry I’ll go to sleep. I listen to podcasts.” I of course then expressed my geriatric usual response to the word “podcast” and she recommended one to me, which I started listening to on the way home from work Thursday. It’s hilarious. It’s called “My Dad Wrote a Porno”, features three Brits (two men, one women) and that is what it’s about. One man’s dad wrote a porn novel, and each episode is his son reading one aloud and the three reacting to it. It is amazingly hilarious because…well, because the writing of the book, Belinda Blinked, is hilariously campy and bad. (It’s also a real book, for sale on Amazon.) I’ve been listening in the car non-stop, and we’re only up to chapter three. Apparently, there are eight seasons, so this should entertain me in the car for quite some time!
I really didn’t do much of anything yesterday other than the grocery run, finishing the final season of Elite (the first three seasons remain the best), which was a bit satisfying but…they did leave some of the characters with dangling stories, so it’s entire possible they could do spin-offs, but the only spin-off I want to see is one with Carla (Ester Exposito), but that ship has sailed, alas. Tonight we’ll watch more Olympics (we did last night, too); it is unbelievable how much of a good mood the Olympics puts me into. These games also seem a bit more special this time around; the 2020 ones were kind of messed up, taking place in 2021 with no crowds, so we’ve really not had an Olympics like usual since 2016. The athletes seem to really be grateful to be there; losing gold and settling for either silver or bronze isn’t coming across as “disappointing” or “losing.” Gold medals are rare, and fluky things happen at the Olympics; which is part of the excitement. You never know who’s going to become a star during the games (if someone had told me that a nerdy pommel horse specialist from Worcester, MA would capture the hearts of the American public, I would have laughed). So many amazing stories in so many different sporting disciplines…so inspiring, and the athletes are just wonderful. Just being there is a win, let alone getting a medal. I would just be so thrilled to be there I don’t think any disappointment would stick for long. I will be sorry when it ends, but am very excited the next games will be in Los Angeles! Woo-hoo! Our time zones so we can watch live!
I really do feel bad for the people who’d rather be angry than enjoy the spirit of sport and athletic excellence from young people who’ve trained their whole lives for this moment and celebrate healthy competition, but those people tend to find no joy in life and just want to make everyone else as miserable as they are. Misery loves company indeed.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, and I may be back later; one can never be certain.
I’ve always been weird, even when I was a little boy. I was different from other kids. I didn’t want to play outside, I wanted to read or play with my toys and make up stories. My parents were always urging me to go outside to play, so I’d just take a book and go sit on the back stairs of that little apartment on Komensky in Chicago. When I started school, I remember it being a bit of a shock to me. There were other kids in our neighborhood, but I didn’t really play with them much; they were mostly girls and friends of my sister’s, and while she let me tag along a lot (a running theme of her unfortunate childhood–always being saddled with her weird younger brother), I preferred my solitude and a book. School was strange for me; thrust into a world where I was surrounded by kids I didn’t know, and I didn’t understand how they all seemed to know each other and be friends already. I stayed by myself for the most part until someone asked me to join a game or something, and entertained myself for the most part. No one picked on me, no one said anything hateful to me or called me names, and for the most part I got on with my classmates. I got up in the morning, went to school, went to Mrs. Harris our babysitter’s house for lunch, back to school and then finally home. We only lived a block away from my elementary school, which made life ever so much easier for my parents; they didn’t have to worry about us coming and going to school safely. We only had to cross two streets to get there–down one block and across to the other side–and there were crossing guards. I knew instinctively that somehow I was different from the other kids; no one liked to read as much as me1, and only as an adult did I find other people who read as much, if not more so, than I do.
But reading–and watching television and movies–began defining “normal” to me; and I couldn’t understand in my childish brain (so advanced in so many ways but lacking in just as many) why the real world was so different from the fictional realities I lost myself in while consuming media. Riverdale in Archie comics seemed like such a nice place, but that was definitely not my high school experience. Whenever I took a chance on reading something age-appropriate (ah, those Scholastic book fairs!) I generally didn’t like it unless it was a mystery. I read so many of the kids’ series books for many different reasons; ironically liking the two most popular (Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys) the least (Ken Holt, Judy Bolton, and the Three Investigators were much better).
It was when we moved to the suburbs that I began to realize that I was not only different but I was weird. I was a boy who didn’t care that much about sports, didn’t want to play them, and there was all kinds of stuff messing with my brain. Sixth grade wasn’t too bad, but that was also the first time that other kids began to wonder about my masculinity, but the worst it got was being taunted by other boys as a “sissy,” and then the next day the group of boys in the neighborhood I met through school acted like nothing had happened the day before–which was when I first learned that you couldn’t really trust other people; they would be your friend one day and cruel the next; and then back to being your friend again. (That group did turn on me completely in junior high school one day; it was weirdly coordinated with other kids at school who weren’t in our neighborhood.)
I hated being shamed more than anything else, for something I couldn’t control. It was in junior high also that I began to understand my sexuality at the same time so many kids began understanding mine and laughing and mocking me for it. I was always in fear of violence, and the kids in my middle-class mostly white desegregation-refugee suburb weren’t above ganging up on one person and beating them. (The suburbs, where we moved for “more stability” and “to have our own house” was far more dangerous for me than living in the city.) I ignored it all, but inside I burned with shame and embarrassment because I also knew the other kids were right about me; I did like boys, and how on earth did I ever learn, in a world that in which homosexuality was erased from public view, what men did together sexually? How did I know? I don’t remember reading about it anywhere, and whenever a gay person appeared in any media it was very negative. But there we were.
The irony lies in the fact that I never really cared that much about having friends or being popular–but media convinced me otherwise; that it was important to be liked and popular and have lots of friends. So I would always allow myself to try to imagine what that would be like. So, I kind of made myself miserable as a teenager, more so than I should have been, because it had been made very clear to me that no one could ever find out. I felt like a pariah, and I also felt like the few actual friends I had weren’t really my friends, because if they knew I was gay they wouldn’t like me anymore. It wasn’t even that I really wanted to be popular, but I thought if I was, the cruelty would go away and no one would question my sexuality.
High school and college was more of the same, really. Lonely and wishing I had friends, forgetting that I didn’t need any. I even joined a fraternity, but even that wasn’t enough; some of the brothers were homophobic trash who loved making fun of me and laughing at me behind my back–which is where I also learned the valuable lesson that men are bigger gossips and much crueler about it than women. Such fraternal love, right? But it was in the fraternity that the seeds of not giving a fuck were beginning to be sown. It was a very bad decade, and it was the last decade of darkness controlling my life.
I was tired of being afraid all the time, you know?
I decided, when I was thirty, to leave that closet behind and get on with my life. It took another three years before I started the long reboot of my life, and when I found Paul I realized I don’t need anyone else, do I? I had long thought, for any variety of reasons, I would always be alone for the rest of my life, and once I’d accepted that (also, part of the shame PTSD went along with believing that I wasn’t deserving of someone’s love) I decided to embrace being weird and different from everyone else. The one piece that was still missing was being a writer…and once that really got started, I didn’t need anyone else. I had Paul, and I had my characters, and devoting myself to a writing career made things a lot easier. I mean, I still prefer being liked–who doesn’t–but if people don’t like me, it’s not my problem.
I’m weird that way. I think everyone who is a creative is weird. You have to be disconnected from the main fabric of society in some way to create; I don’t believe you have to suffer in order to create, either; but I’ve done my fair share of suffering over the years. I am always startled to hear how other people view me and my work; I prefer being liked, as I said, but it’s really not essential for me. It makes writing conferences a lot more fun to have friends to hang out with, but I always have my guard rails up.
Being weird, to me, is a good thing. It’s who I am and I don’t want to fight it anymore. I’m not going to worry if people like me or not; and I don’t owe any apologies to anyone. As Bette Davis once said, “other’s people’s opinions of me are none of my business.” I don’t mind being disliked; no one is liked by everyone and there certainly are a lot of people I wouldn’t cross the street for if they were on fire unless I’m carrying a can of gasoline (you know who you are, but you wouldn’t be reading this anyway because you’re sewage).
And people who dismiss me because I’m gay–or whatever surface reasons they may have–aren’t people I want to know in the first place because homophobes are never good people. Homophobia is usually the first step on the ladder to a soul full of bigotry and prejudice, and rarely if ever do homophobes stop with hating queer people.
Who wants to be normal? I saw that as a horrific existence when I was young, and part of my own misery for the first thirty years of my life was from being gaslit so constantly into what I knew would be a hellish adulthood that would most likely end in suicide.
One of the reasons that the MAGAts hate being called weird so much is because their entire identity is vested in being “normal”–it’s everyone else who is weird, strange, and different. But it’s not normal to want to check everyone’s genitals. It’s not normal to interfere in other people’s lives and tell them how they should live. It’s not normal to think you and your fellow believers are the only ones who have it right and everyone else is going to hell. It’s not normal to think skin tone makes a difference to intelligence, ability, and work ethic. It’s not normal to fetishize Israel because of your apocalyptic religious fantasies. It’s not normal to worship guns over other people’s lives. It’s not normal to see attacks on your faith when no one is even thinking about you. It’s not normal to want to regulate and track women’s menstrual cycles and fertility. It’s not normal to prioritize the unborn over the living. It’s not normal to hate your country unless your golden calf is elected. It’s not normal to claim to be religious but not follow the teachings of your holy book.
They’ve never been normal. Never. But they think they are, and it’s really all PTSD from NOT being popular in high school. They weren’t homecoming queens or cheerleaders or football players; and if they were, they peaked then and are still bitter that their personal glory days are far behind them. (Also: not normal.) Being called “weird” in a dismissive, you don’t matter way gets under their skin because they are not used to be questioned. They claimed to be the normal ones, the correct ones, the true American patriots–and we just let them without challenge. They aren’t used to being challenged, and when they are, it just causes them to melt down completely. They wore their hates and prejudices proudly–embracing being racists and homophobes and TERFs and misogynists3—but challenging their normality hits them hard because they know they aren’t really normal deep down inside.
The best way to deal with bullies? Withering scorn and contempt and outright mockery, as well as constant reminders that they aren’t normal and actually have sociopathic tendencies.
And it’s working. They have no response other than “no, you’re weird!” That doesn’t work on me because I am weird and I’ve embraced my individuality rather than being bullied into being like everyone else. I have no desire to go back to some fantasy halcyon past for straight cisgender white men, where everyone else is merely here to be used for their convenience. I’ve lived in that world and I have no desire to go back to it, in any way.
And wanting to? Is very fucking weird.
I also recently realized that the reason I loved to read and watch movies/television is because that was the only time I could get my brain to calm down and focus. So…my bad mental health as a child set me on the path to being a writer, which is also why getting the anxiety under control–which also has helped dramatically with mood swings–has me worried about being able to write again. But again–anxiety. ↩︎
Sunday morning after a completely wasted day, in which I just really relaxed and didn’t do much of anything. It was unusual, and I didn’t feel bad for just sitting around and just, you know, having a day off from everything and just wasting it. I still don’t feel bad about it, either. I had a very rough year last year, and while my body is getting healed from everything my brain still feels a little bit off. Taking care of my mental health really is, and has to be, a priority for me. And let’s face it, life keeps coming at me (everyone, really) so fast and there’s so much to worry about and be concerned about and it sucks that every morning I have to wake up worried about what went on yesterday that I’ll find out about that I wasn’t aware of when I went to bed the night before.
I do have to do some things today, and once I am finished with this I’ll have to figure some things out for the week, make a grocery list and all of those fun things, and run that errand during yet another heat advisory (will only feel like 114 today, so woo-hoo!) before coming home for more Olympics. One of the coolest things that happened this year so far was the election turnaround happened just as the Olympics (another patriotic high) started–and the right’s divisive and borderline hateful reactions to the Olympics–has only served to make them look even more weird. Imagine your “patriotism” requires you to hate on our Olympic athletes, or not be supportive of them. That’s how deep the rot and sickness on the Right in this country goes; they aren’t patriotic, and they never have been. (Pro tip: if you have to constantly call yourself a patriot while you’re shitting on other Americans or boycotting the Olympics because of some weirdo freaks on Twitter, you’re not a patriot no matter how much flag paraphernalia you are wearing to bolster your claim, which will always be weird to me.)
I don’t have to advertise my patriotism because I know I love my country despite its flaws, and why I have always held it to a much higher standard–the same one the Founders did–critique and fix, never think everything’s just fine when there are still things to fix, in order to live up to the original principles the country was founded upon. The Founders didn’t think they were gods, and that the Constitution couldn’t be changed. They made it hard to do deliberately–not because they didn’t want the document amended or changed in any way, but to ensure that such a thing was necessary and needed.
And you know, life is hard enough without trying to make it harder for others, which is something I’ll never understand–why do some people insist on trying to make others as miserable as they are? Misery loves company, I guess, which is the really sad thing about humanity. I’m not perfect and I never claim to be, but I like to think I don’t spread misery around–unless it’s deserved. I’m not a turn the other cheek kind of person, I’m afraid. I try not to ever start drama–but if you try to create some I will end that very quickly and you will not try it again. People who cause and create unnecessary drama are people I cut out of my life, because I ain’t got time for your shit, and the older I get the less fucks I have; the field in which I grow my fucks has been barren for quite some time, and shall remain fallow for as long as I live.
My brain has always been a mess; I was talking to Dad about that the last time I saw him, as we talked about my childhood and when he and Mom were married and struggling, and I tried to make him understand how fuzzy my brain had been when I was a child. I had generalized anxiety disorder and ADD as a kid, plus the genetic legacy of the wild mood swings, going from happy to over-the-top hysteria on the turn of a dime. I knew the hysteria was not good, so I started trying to control it when I was young. I also always had a buzzing sound in my head when I was a kid; I really can’t describe it better than that. I also was very stubborn (a family trait on both sides) and willful. I wanted to please my parents, who adored me (I always knew this, even though I always was certain they were disappointed in me–anxiety again), and spoiled me as much as they could afford. I can remember talking to my mom a few years ago–it was probably longer ago than I remember, because she was herself in this memory and not the fading woman she’d been since her first stroke, and I said something about not being an easy kid to raise and she scoffed dismissively. “You were no trouble at all,” she replied, which gave me another insight into my family–they remember things differently. I was always certain I was a disappointment to my parents and failed them all the time growing up; I remember making Mom cry and Dad being disappointed or angry with me.
Probably the most insightful thing I’ve ever said to my parents–not realizing how true this was–that it was a “good thing I didn’t have children, because you two would have spoiled them rotten”–and they would have. They would have spared no expense with my kids, but I never trusted myself enough to be a parent or to want kids. I don’t think I’m up to having them or being a parent, as I second-guess myself with my cat all the time, but knowing how I am…I would have spoiled them myself.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Sunday, and I may be back later; one never really knows, does one?
Good morning and happy Saturday everywhere and to everyone! I slept really great last night, and had a pretty decent day overall for a work-at-home Friday. I got my work done, and then went to the doctor. I’m healthy; good blood pressure, heart rate, all of the vitals were perfectly fine. I was also proud of myself; I had done some of my own research into my insurance, found the answers we both needed to get a prescription of mine potentially approved, and had a nice visit with him. I really like him; he seems to be genuinely concerned about my health and welfare–always a plus to not feel like another person to check off the list for the day–and he’s very personable. I highly encourage those of you not happy with your medical care to find a new one. It makes all the difference in the world.
I need to remember to always advocate for myself, and doing all that research also made me feel like I was vested in my health. I highly recommend it. Ask questions. Get second opinions. And remember you might have other options. There’s no rule that says you can’t fire your doctor if you don’t think they are listening to you or taking you seriously; maybe if enough patients dump them they might wonder what they are doing wrong?
Things you realize when you’re in your sixties. Oy.
Sigh.
But today is going to be a lazy one around here. I have some chores to do, and I’d like to get some reading done. Maybe I’ll try writing, or editing, or something this afternoon. I don’t know, I guess we can see how everything goes. I did end up making a to-do list yesterday for the weekend, and I can slowly make my way down that list today (nothing on it requires writing or editing or revising) before making a new one for next week after the weekend is finished. I did write in my journal last night while we were watching the Olympics, and I can also do some more of that this weekend, too. I think I am going to read some more of Mary Oliver’s poetry; I ordered Jericho Brown’s Pulitzer Prize winning collection yesterday, too. I was thinking last night about how I’ve been marveling about my free time and how I should be making more of an attempt to utilize the free time; I think I may start trying to learn Italian again through Duolingo–but maybe instead I’ll try to get my German back? I mean, hidden deep within the recesses of my mind lies my memories of taking and learning it when I was a teenager. Paul and I have also talked about a German vacation; so being able to fumble my way through German interactions is better than not even trying.
I think the locals enjoy it when I try rather than not–in Mexico the phrase I speak all the time is “No hablo español soy un estúpido americano”. They always smile and laugh and are very kind and helpful.
I do feel good this morning.
I think I’m starting to get a handle back on my life again after dog-paddling for about eight years. I do worry sometimes, when that occurs to me, that it’s like post-Katrina, where I’d have a good couple of days and think it was all over, only to discover that it wasn’t. But I do think I am more clear-headed now than I have been, and I don’t feel like I have that gauze over my brain that makes me not see everything as clearly as I should. Sometimes I get into my head too much, and overthink things. That’s from the anxiety–and despite the change in medications, I still will do that from time to time before recognizing what is causing it–depression, PTSD, anxiety, whatever–but it’s also not as frequent as before and it’s so much milder than it used to be that I’ll happily take it and deal with it now. I am sure you are tired of me saying this, but this medication change has so dramatically improved my quality of life that I will say it again: you have to advocate for yourself with your doctor. Had I done this ten or twelve years ago–no regrets, Greg, no regrets. I am grateful we figured this out, and that’s the name of that tune.
And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again later, no doubt.
The adorable British diving team, with out multi-Olympic medalist Tom Daley
I slept really well last night, and even slept a little later this morning than I was expecting to, but I am not going to berate myself over sleeping later than I want/”should”; the new Greg mentality is you slept late because your body needed the sleep and let myself off the hook. Being kinder to myself, along with the new medications, seems to be working. I am not anxious anymore, I don’t get angry–even when I’m driving–and I feel more centered than I have in a very long time. I’m sleeping soundly every night, and while I do tend to get tired in the afternoons at the office, I’m not groggy in the mornings anymore.
A quick look around the news this morning has let me know that the current system being watched by the Hurricane Center will most likely become a tropical depression in the Gulf this weekend, with the cone covering most of the northern Gulf Coast. It will feel like 115 today outside–the dog days of summer are truly upon us now. Football season is rapidly approaching (huzzah!), and soon after the weather will finally start to ease up here. Sha’carri Richardson competes today, and of course, last night the Women’s Gymnastics All Around was quite marvelous, with Simone Biles capturing gold and Suni Lee getting bronze; Rebeca Andrade of Brazil got silver, and the entire competition was exciting down to the last routine. I was also amazed by Andrade’s skills and abilities, and what a beautiful smile she has! Seeing the top three supporting each other and cheering each other one was also fantastic to see; the change in mentality in women’s gymnastics was long overdue. I was so happy and thrilled for them–and I also enjoyed Snoop’s private tour of the Louvre1.
Sigh. I love the Olympics, and become obsessed with them every four years.
I was also, oddly enough, thinking about how cool an Olympic gay rom-com would be last night as I watched, and it occurred to me that maybe I should try writing one? Because, of course, I don’t have a million other things to write when I get the chance, but it’s a fun idea. I really need to work on the book some more, or writing of some kind, any kind, really. I’m getting ideas again– my brain producing characters and stories and scenes and things without, apparently, any rhyme or reason to them. But it feels good to have creative thoughts again, and I need to start turning things into words on the page again. (Hilariously, now that I’ve relieved myself of pressure to write during the Olympics, all I want to do is write. Oy.)
I also need to start reading again. I think I’ll dip my way in again by reading short stories, and since I have some I want to write, perhaps that will inspire me to get back to work on the short stories again. I also need to get better organized (still have NOT made that to-do list). I have a doctor’s appointment after work today, and I might stop at the Fresh Market since I will be right there on the way back. Since it’s going to be so hot outside today, most likely I will not be doing a lot out of the house today. It’s also supposed to rain this afternoon (it’s literally rained every day for weeks), so hopefully I’m not going to get caught up in that, either. Lots of our regular shows have dropped new seasons, also, and we still haven’t finished Evil, and we’re behind on any number of shows airing currently, so once the Olympics are over our entertainment needs will be contained…although we’ll probably watch the games during the day this weekend and watch other stuff at night. We need to finish Evil, too.
Well, sorry for being so tedious this morning! But I am enjoying my coffee, I feel good and awake, and look forward to a productive day. Have a great Friday, I may be back later, and if not, till the morrow, Constant Reader!
Have been a fan of Rafa since he was a teenager. It’s going to be weird not seeing him on the tour anymore. Thanks and best wishes to you for the future, Rafa!
It occurred to me this morning that of course the Right is trying to ruin the Olympics; every single sport shows that white supremacy is a fucking myth. How much do they hate that we have so many racialized athletes that are amongst the best in the world, if not the best? How much do they hate that Snoop and Flavor Flav have become not only national treasures but are winning hearts every time they appear on the television screen? Where are the right wing “celebrities” who are sponsoring athletes or teams? The Olympics rub their faces in their own mediocrity, so of course they have to politicize everything. ↩︎
Thursday morning and I slept really well last night. I feel good this morning, not bad for Thursday and my last day in the office. I was kind of loopy and tired all day yesterday, which was weird, and so I didn’t run any errands after work. I just came home and got caught up on the news, and then once again got sucked into the Olympics and did nothing around the house, which is a mess. Tonight I have to do those errands, and the chores when I get home because I’m a bad lazy person who will always put off anything he can until the next day. Ah, well. I never learn, do I? Isn’t that the definition of insanity: doing the same thing repeatedly but expecting a different outcome?
Guess we all know what that means.
But the weekend looms, and I have all kinds of things I need to do to get caught up for the week. Sigh, I always promised myself every weekend that I am going to be better about chores and things every night, but between the excessive heat (“feels like 112 today”), being tired, and the Olympics…well, yes, you can see how I let everything slide. Sparky isn’t any help, either; he always wants me to play with him and go to sleep in my lap and just like with Scooter, I always think okay I’ll sit for a while but then I have to do some things and then I started getting caught up on the news (and yesterday was quite the news day, wasn’t it?), but I don’t think I am going to keep talking about politics on here, even though this perhaps final season of United States is full of surprises, twists and turns, isn’t it?
One of the great ironies of these times struck me last night–the timing of the Democratic July surprise right before we head into the Olympics provides us a lovely contrast, does it not? The entire point of the Olympics is to be welcoming and inclusive for all countries of the world, to bring us all together in an appreciation of sport and young athletes. Our own athletes train hard for years, giving up any sense of normal life and pretty much their childhoods and their teens for the honor of representing their country in a celebration. Making the Olympics is a herculean task; winning a medal is so rare in the world of sport that those who do definitely should be celebrated–but everyone there should be, and should be having a wonderful experience, like all the people who are in attendance. People who walked through an airport anonymously just a week ago are now international stars and celebrities, recognized everywhere they go, and I love that for them. Watching the Olympics always makes me burst with pride for these athletes, and while I always root for every US athlete (because it’s my team), I also am happy for the other athletes too and want to see them have their moment. So, look at what is going on with our political parties re: the Olympics. The entire country is coming together in the spirit of sport…and the Christo-fascists misunderstood something, decided to get offended (and the French do not give two shits what Debbie from Salina, Kansas thinks, and laugh at the notion they’d even care), and BOYCOTT the games and not support our athletes.
Interesting. You admit your country comes second to your faith. So if you’re going to put your faith first ahead of the Constitution, why should we vote for you? That isn’t patriotism. That isn’t supporting and defending the Constitution. Historically, Christians have been responsible for some of the worst genocides in history. I was actually thinking this morning that the Paris Olympic committee should have replied to the evangelical hysteria by saying, “We are Catholics in France and do not care if we offend heretics. Be happy we didn’t reenact the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, or the Albigensian Crusade, weirdos.”
I will also say that those who want to integrate religion into government are not patriots. A true patriot always puts country first, you know, like President Biden refusing to accept the party’s nomination. Your reward is not of this earth.
And doesn’t Matthew 6:5 read “When you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on street corners so that others may see them. Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward“.
Sounds to me like Jesus was saying performative religion is unholy and gets you nothing in the afterlife.
But why listen to the words of your Lord and Savior? That’s not what modern American Christianity is–and miss me with the #notallChristians bullshit. If you’re not calling out the false prophets in your midst whose only God is Mammon, well…you’re complicit. Miss me with the hurt feelings, too. I’ve never seen such a profound lack of faith as I see in hypocrites like the evangelicals and apostates like Candace Cameron Bure, whose faith isn’t about acceptance and love but judgment. God doesn’t need you to defend him or speak out on his behalf, ravening wolf in sheep’s clothing. He’d prefer you be taking care of the poor and the sick rather than living it up in your mansion while children starve.
What was that Jesus quote about rich people, camels, and the eye of the needle? Maybe you need to take a long hard look at yourself and your toxic beliefs and values–and she has also never distanced herself from her nutjob weirdo brother, either…so it stands to reason the hateful bitch who starred in two shows set in San Francisco is just as big a freaky weirdo as her weird brother. Have fun in hell, Candace–I’m sure God will be thrilled you got rich making shows telling other people how to live and did nothing for charity and no good works.
Bitch.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Thursday, and remember, the women’s all around gymnastics is today!1
And how much do I love that Simone Biles dragged MacKeighlah (or however her stupid parents thought you spell Michaela) Skinner for the fucking racist abuse condoning filth she is. Simone ended your tired ass, bitch–welcome to being a cancelled pariah in your sport. ↩︎
Queer and Loathing in America 