September 25, 2018


I have a twisted way of enjoying campaign season because my cell phone constantly rings and shows a number from some area code a thousand miles or more away, or sometimes a suspicious local mobile number, and I should probably feel bad because one of the callers might be someone from the Save the Diabetic Puppies Foundation thanking me for a donation, but that doesn't keep me from answering every single time by sliding the phone symbol thingie up, waiting two seconds for the call to connect, slowly and emphatically saying, "FUCK OFF AND DIE IN A FIRE," and sliding it back down to hang up.

Huh.  Maybe that's why I still haven't sold that computer on Craigslist.  I have a nice gaming computer I'm selling, if anyone is interested.  But don't call me about it.

I haven't seen the lawn guy lately, either.

I should also feel bad because it's just someone volunteering or doing their job on the other end, but I don't care because they're invading my life.

Invading is things coming in that you don't want there.  Like those phone calls.  Like suicidal thoughts.

Sometimes, things come in that you didn't expect, but that you do want there.  Like your therapist's hands unexpectedly cupping your own hands cupped around a tissue, symbolically holding you and bracing you up when you can't hold yourself together, far more than the longest, warmest hug could ever hope to do.  Like caring that cuts through your wall of pain like a machete through butter.  Not soft, pink caring.  Caring that looks like a shiny, black metal weapon out of one of my son's video games.  Caring that cannot and will not be denied, or ignored, or cast aside.

I had to look him in the eye, and one of the lies went away.

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