Picking scabs.

So, in pondering whether this blog thing is my coloring book or just a piece of crap within the confines of which I yammer on endlessly, I realize it doesn't much matter.

Now, before the muscle relaxer kicks in (been having fucked up back issues for like 3 months - feeling slightly mad about it, in the English sense of the word, though I suppose I am also angry about it, to some degree), there was something I wanted to relate to you, but I'm not sure I remember exactly what it was.

It has something to do with picking scabs. And how much it sucks when something enters your cleverly-constructed defense mechanism, strikes a direct hit and sends you reeling. I have a deep-rooted belief in a half-baked, probably retarded supposition that somehow, if we listen closely enough, or are otherwise in tune to it enough, we secretly know something about what's going to inevitably going to take us out in the end. And let me tell you, it scares the absolute SHIT out of me - there, I said it.

Monsieur Absurd and I were watching some movie tonight, or rather, he was watching the movie and I was diddling with my digital music playback device, my laptop, my blog, other folks' blogs, and of course, the requisite Legendary Thread(tm) on Fark. Like an asshole, I manage to shift my attention from my diddling to the movie at exactly the moment Adam Sandler describes the last conversation he had with his wife before the aircraft that she (and their children) are travelling on, slam into one of the World Trade Center towers on...yeah, that day. Can't remember the title of the movie, but that awesome dude from the Ocean's XX movies is in there as well - he and Sandler are dentists and Sandler's character's whole fucking family dies on one of The Planes.

Within, oh, I'd say 18 to 35 seconds, I'm fucking crying and I'm outenzie. Fwwwwoosh! Out of the room, nab the computer and the comforter, put the half-finished bowl of ice cream back in the freezer, take a muscle relaxer and here I am, telling you my greatest fucking fear. That secretly, I know I'm going out like that -- not in a terrorist attack, jesus H. christ, but fast. Suddenly. And I will regret all of the ways I fucked up in this life, and all of the people I wish I had been better to, closer with, more giving towards. I'll regret that I was never, ever able to be what I thought I was supposed to be to my unbelievably, ridiculously, psychotically AWESOME babies; that I was never able to leave behind a cohesive work - a piece of me that was quintessential and resonating and whole for both them and for myself, selfishly. I'll regret that somehow I always knew that the stupid shit I did would fuckin' pay off accordingly - although for shits and giggles, despite the fact that I'm opting for the oven-crisped method of disposal when the time comes, I just might have "I wish I'd Smoked More!" inscribed on my tombstone, because that's how I roll.

So there. There you have it. You lucky sons of bitches. You, the anonymous reader who ended up here accidentally. Now you know something about that little black hole that I think we all have, but we never, ever speak of.

That fuckin' movie. Don't watch it. It sucked. I think. Stupid feelings.

We now return you to our regularly scheduled political / societal / fromage-from-under screed, already in progress.