I just finished up a one of a pair of classes that could best be described as two Acme anvils dropping out of the clear, blue sky upon my happy roadrunner ass. I had developed a routine that was completely destroyed in September, and today I can finally relax, but only just a little.
The worst part is the toll it has taken on my non-Academic writing. My nose has been firmly lodged up the ass of books, leaving me unable to compose anything more than the endless assignments. I know the end is nigh, but fuck this shit is killing me. The entire college experience has been a trip, most likely because of my age; however, no way in hell I would have stuck it out had I attempted it before now. And if I had, I would have certainly picked a discipline that offered no ROI.
I have less than 100 days left of this nonsense, and it cannot come quickly enough for my liking. I have been in limbo for years now, and I fear that I have a terminal case of Senioritis.
I suck. I cannot write for shit. I have academic papers down, APA format is my forte. What can I say? I am a cheap date.
What the fuck am I doing? I ask myself that all the time now. Not that I ever had any direction in life or big plans. I didn’t. I had nothing. Just like most of my generation, if we were to be honest. We are Generation X. Slackers. We inherited an earth ravaged by the plague that is the generations that came before us, and short sighted, quick fixes. A world that was irradiated with atmospherically tested nuclear weapons to save humanity. A world of shit. That is what we inherited, and the fact that it has been repackaged and virally marketed by the cocksuckers who destroyed it doesn’t change the fact that it is fucked.
Globalization hasn’t helped matters, and I would like to scream that from the rooftops with an AK-47 at my side. Yes, I said it. And fuck you if you don’t like it. I am an American; guns are a part of our culture that globalization and homogeneity will never change. This country was founded on blood and the fucking over of the indigenous people, just like most European colonies were. Fuck you, read your history and get back to me if you doubt it.
We didn’t get the Nuclear family and the 2.5 kids. We got broken homes and became known as Latchkey Kids. We raised ourselves, along with cable TV. Lucky for us, our parents were taught to be self-centered and did not notice our plight, and mostly left us to our own devices. We always knew they were ultimately incapable of being parents and completely incompetent with every fucking thing they attempted. Very little thought or planning was put into our future, unlike theirs, so the fact that they were confused by our implosion is not surprising. We collectively sort of understood this simple fact.
Hell, even now they want us to keep on contributing to their future. Let us pick up the tab for their Social Security and medical benefits. Let us pick up the tab for every fucking person that wants to move to the country, legally or not. And why-the-fuck-not? Their parents invested in their futures and had plans; it is only naturally that we should figure out the future too, right?
Personally? I want off of this capitalistic, fucking nightmare, train wreck. I want out. And fuck you if you don’t like it.
I am knackered and should probably not be writing…probably. Yet, here I am, fingers pounding away on a keyboard, which is how I blog. When I write, I use pen and paper, but that is a lengthy process, and not something my lack of sleep is willing to tolerate at the moment.
Earlier today I heard a story that I wanted to share because I like to share shit that is morbid and bizarre. Call it a tic, if you like. I am a blurter; if I have had a sexual dream about you, I will more than likely tell you about it, and in the most socially awkward of ways. I am special like that, but I digress. Recently a coworker was in a car accident, but not just any car accident, it is one of those odd ones that are worthy of retelling.
His version of the events area as follows: He was driving along the freeway at approximately 40 miles-per-hour when he was rear-ended. In the inevitable chaos and confusion of such an event, he was somewhat disoriented, but managed to begin to slow his car down. It was then that he heard a disembodied voice from within his car say, “bro, stop.”
Then, and only then, did he realize that that rear window of his car was shattered and that he had picked up a wayward passenger. He stated that he slowly applied the breaks while coming to grips with the fact that a motorcycle must have been the vehicle that had impacted his car, and that the driver was now firmly lodged in his rear seat
To hear him recount the moment of impact and realization that a human had been thrown headlong into his car was rather amusing. He and I sat around making jokes about the situation because it is hard to ignore the humor and absurdity of that moment. In the end it turns out he had merged into a lane at exactly the same time a motorcyclist had decided to change lanes. The driver of the bike admitted that he had looked behind him to merge, and when he looked forward, he saw the car, too late to stop.
The fact that the car was driving 40 mph and that the bike was going 60 mph is probably the only thing that saved the motorcyclist’s life. Had the car been going much slower, the rider would have likely would have gone over the top of the car and been run over before my pal could have stopped. From the pictures my friend and I deduced that the style of the bike also saved the rider’s life. It was a crotch rocket, so the fact that it impacted and end-overed, and thus sent the driver into the window, rather than over the top of the car was apparent.
My dad is a life-long motorcyclist and E.M.T. He and I both agree that the cyclist was lucky to be wearing a helmet because without it, he likely would have broken his neck, or worse, not shattered the window and gone over the top of the vehicle and squarely landed in front of it. Still, I am left with the amusement factor of my friend slowing down his car because he heard a very calm voice say, “bro, stop.”
I took my son to the gym with me today because I want him to know our bodies are things that we must care for. What better way than to show him exactly how that is done than in a gym environment?
As we were parking I noticed a gentleman with a small child parking directly in front of us. This is not a common site at the gym and I found it odd that someone else had brought a child at exactly the same time I had brought mine. As we walked into the gym I explained the ground rules along the way: don’t touch anything, no running, don’t bother people, etc. I took him into the women’s locker room with me, put my things away, and then proceeded to the aerobics room. When there are no classes scheduled the room is free to use by the members, and provides a semi-private, contained area. Perfect for today, I thought.
One of the benefits of using the room is the sound system. I plugged in my device and started one of the workout playlists. My son did quite well and wanted to bounce on one of the stability balls, which I agreed with. Not more than one song had played before I noticed the same gentleman from the parking lot opening the door to the room. Not unusual because as I had previously mentioned, the area was semi-private and free for all members to use. What happened next was rather odd. He looked directly at my son and said, “You must want someone to play with.” And then he left his daughter in the room with us, and went on his way. Never once did this person ask me if I minded watching his child, or speak to me at all for that matter.
I pondered this transaction during my entire workout, some of which was spent ensuring the unknown child did not hurt herself on the various workout implements lying about. I am sure my son enjoyed the playmate, but I was rather perturbed by the imposition. The music on my playlist is not what most people would classify as G-rated material. I am fine with exposing my child to it, but didn’t feel comfortable with the other child in the room; however, I did not change it because I had not been asked permission to watch said child.
The little girl left the room several times and other members came and went, but the booming sounds of my music remained the same. Eventually what I presume to be her mother opened the door, spoke to the child and then left. It was curious that the song playing loudly had the chorus of “suck my rock!” and the woman was perfectly fine to leave the child in my care. I believe this had everything to do with the fact that I am a woman, and possibly a mother. There was no way to ensure that the child in the room with me was mine, but the gentleman had obviously felt secure enough to drop his child off with us.
Was this an act of sexism? I believe that it was because had it been a man in the room with a child, the gentleman would have likely asked permission before leaving his daughter. That is Guy Code 101. So today I got to play unwilling babysitter, and expose a child to The Devil’s music, which is a total win in my book. And fuck that guy.